Logs:Vignette - Revelation 6:3-4

Vignette - Revelation 6:3-4
Dramatis Personae Robbie
In Absentia	2019-06-01 And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say: Come and see. (CW: Violence, racism, horrible death)
Location
The chop-shop is one of those dead-end hole-in-the-walls where not even Trouble dares to show its face. As the nightly meeting for the Purifiers concludes, multiple men in varying states of inebriation make their way out of the front door -- and begin the trek back to their day-jobs throughout New York City. Four figures emerge from the back. Two are of note: Jakob and Eli Morrow. The first is a pale, muscular man with a head shaved as smooth as glass; his white tank top exposes thick, tattoo'd arms. The second is an elderly white man restrained to his wheel-chair, clad in a suit and tie. His scowl is so deep it may very well be carved into the bone. The other two are muscle; protection for Eli. Together, the four make their way through the back alley behind the bar, toward the parking lot. Jakob pushes Eli's wheelchair while the other two follow close behind. Eli's fingers tighten like boney claws, gripping the wheelchair's arms. "I can't believe you let that little Mexican shit in." Jakob rolls his eyes. "I'm thinkin' it's about time we found you a place to stay, yeah? Somewhere you can relax and grab nurses by their fat asses." This gets a guffaw out of one of the men behind him. "I did not hand over my operation so you fucks could roll over and bare your belly to the first --" "For fuck's sake, old man. It ain't like I'm letting him fuck my sister. Times are changing. You gotta adapt, improvise -- evolve. Sometimes that means workin' with the Devil you know." Eli opens his mouth to respond. He is cut off by a bright flash and a mechanical growl. The flash comes from a set of headlights at the end of the alleyway; the growl from a V-6 engine. The alleyway ahead is blocked by a car. "The fuck?" Jakob lifts his hand to block the bright light. The two men behind him stiffen, stepping forward. One is already reaching for the pistol beneath his coat. "The fuck is that?" "That's --" Eli's eyes squint. His breath catches in his throat. He could recognize that grill anywhere: "1969 Dodge Charger. Super 225 Slant Six engine." Black as midnight. Absolutely gorgeous; mint condition. It's packed tight in the alleyway, with no space along the sides. No space to get out of the -- Oh shit. "Jakob, it's --" The engine roars. All four wheels ignite, becoming a pinwheel of flames. As the vehicle lurches forward, its rear belches out a fireball that carries the scent of sulphur and brimstone. It's soon accompanied by the steady pop pop of gunfire. Bullets ping off the headlights, off the windshield; the driver doesn't seem to notice. Fire rushes out from under the body. Fire surrounds it; fire fills the alley. A moment before impact, Eli hears men screaming, feels the fire filling his lungs, and then -- When Eli awakens, he's only mildly surprised to find he's inside his own chop shop. He is marginally more surprised to find Jakob writhing on the ground in front of him. Wisps of smoke curl up from his boy's face. Jakob claws at his own throat and chest slowly, as if he's moving underwater. Long threads of soot emerge from his lips, nostrils, and eyes. His torso heaves as he tries to breathe. He is on fire, silently burning from the inside out. "-- you, you fucking mother of a whore, you fucking -- you'll burn in Hell, you'll --" Eli's words stop when he feels a hand touch his shoulder. It is clad in leather, and feverishly hot. He turns his head. The man behind him wears a black leather race-track suit; his head is enclosed in a full-face motor helmet as pale as bone. Rows of exterior 'teeth' extend out into a narrowing 'jaw' that resembles a sharpened beak. An orange glow smolders behind the two eye slits -- with wisps of fire rising up from his collar to lick across the helm's surface. When he speaks, his voice is a deafening murmur: "Jorge Leoz waits for you, Eli Morrow." "-- die, you'll die and I'll fucking -- I'll -- I'll --" Eli stops struggling. He now stares up at the man, arms extended, his expression shifting from rage and fear to shock and confusion. "-- I'll... Jorge?" "He was your first. You didn't know how to do it properly, then. Not yet. The wire kept slipping through your fingers; your hands were greasy with sweat. It should have been quick, but it was twenty minutes before he stopped breathing." Eli's hands slide back down to his wheelchair. "How -- how could you --" "You and your friends weighted his corpse down with rocks and threw him into the water. You all thought no one would care. You all thought no one would remember. But Jorge remembered, Eli Morrow. For sixty years, he has been waiting patiently. Waiting and praying for you to remember him. Waiting and praying for you to come back home." Eli's eyes are as wide as saucers. His hands tremble like a child's. "-- n -- no. No, this isn't -- no. What -- what -- what are you?" The burning skull's voice drops to a whisper: "Let's not keep him waiting any longer." The sun is rising; orange blades of light wash across the alleyway behind the chop-shop. They illuminate the edges of the building, where smoke from a steadily building fire has started to grow. Inside, there are three corpses in total -- all burnt beyond recognition. Just outside the shop, at the end of an alleyway, an empty wheel-chair rests on its side -- its wheel lazily spinning in the morning glow. The chair is wet, and currently laying in a large puddle of salt water. At the edge of that puddle — poking out from a seam between two slabs of concrete, like a persistent weed — is a single human fingernail. It has been freshly torn from its root.