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[Guitar] Billy Corgan. I almost don't need any more title than that.

Hopefully the previous post did something to set the stage for this and give an idea what passes for "normal" pedal drama. This is some next-level shit.
Our Players.
Devi Ever - Guitar effects pedal builder. Came to no small prominence in the early 2000's boutique pedal scene for creating a range of devices that absolutely skullfuck a guitar's tone in the loveliest way possible. In other words, they're not polite overdrive pedals. They're bits of mangled silicon screaming for you to please kill them while nine volts of wrong-impedanced, bi-amped, diode-wrenched electricity pump through their veins. Yes, I'm a fan. Can you tell?
Billy Corgan - Yep, that one. Smashing Pumpkins. You know him. So does Devi. See, Corgan had purchased a few of Ever's pedals and absolutely loved them. He's a bit of a distortion nerd, you see, and at the time tended to swallow entire Guitar Center display cases full of pedals whole. He's also a known egotistical asshole, even before this took place.

The Windup.
Lo, it came to pass around 2010-2011 or so that Billy got in contact with Devi about building some pedals for him. Devi, like most people of a similar age that like rock music, is a HUGE Billy Corgan fan and the chance to collaborate with one of your heroes... yeah, you're going to do it. She set about putting together a pedal basically designed for him and the kind of tones that he usually goes for. This eventually became her Silver Rose pedal. She boxes it up, sends it off...
...and never hears anything back from him. Nothing positive. Nothing negative. Just nothing. Weeks go by. Months go by. She tries to get in contact but nothing works. Finally, in frustration, she posts on a tiny Smashing Pumpkins messageboard that's frequented by less than 50 people. The original post was deleted but luckily (or unluckily) someone quoted it in another thread and that lived on.

Here's my three-strikes-he's out for Billy and the pedals.
1) I gave him a Shoe Gazer and Rocket a long time ago, and when I met him in person and mentioned the Shoe Gazer, he said something along the lines of "It's a great fuzz, but you can't use that live... you know?" ... No, I don't know Billy. Tell me why you're too afraid to do anything interesting with your live sound anymore. Oh right, everything has to be pristine and perfect these days or vintage and unprogressive... just like you.
2) The Rocket diss in the "Stompland" video. The Rocket was not designed to emulate the sound from Rocket. The pedal is a nod to the song, and a love letter of sorts to Siamese Dream... but anyone who's actually spent good time with it knows that it goes WAY beyond that... so his obvious misunderstanding (through undoubted little use) of the pedal was kind of annoying. What made it pretty fucking infuriating though was that I was in the middle of developing the pedal which I -thought- I was working with him on (the Silver Rose) to make a fuzz that would fit his "modern yet vintage" fuzz needs.... and to have him publicly (metaphorically and literally) toss the Rocket aside was a real shit move in relation... to well EVERYTHING going on that point. Fortunately no one gives much a shit about Billy anymore in regards to such things, so any business lost because of his off hand comment isn't business I'm worried about. It was just a dick move. I like what a good friend of mine in the industry said "When it comes to fuzz, you're bigger than Billy Corgan... fuck him."
It's true... I'm selling Silver Roses like crazy... not because of anything Billy did... but because people like what I do, and could give two shits at the end of the day who uses my pedals... but still... I don't do well with idiots and assholes, and Billy fits the bill (lol) of both these days.
3) The Silver Rose. I spent well over three grand developing the Rose for that ungrateful asshole. I listened to what he wanted, developed something that was far beyond what my business usually does, went through a costly research and development process, and ultimately sent him around $1k worth of gear on top of all the R&D costs during the SR time... and what came of his use, or thanks, or anything for that time spent?
Nothing. The guy didn't say shit in response to all that hard work. As a matter of fact, just for shits, I decided to toss the name of a fellow pedal builder his way who was building a pedal he might like, just as a last... we'll see what happens. So what happens? The fucker writes back the next day saying he'd love one of those!
lol
The guy has the attention span of a carrot.
Seriously though. I'm unapologetic in any of this, and glad to finally just cut ties with the guy. He is definitely the epitome of the fallen hero story that seems to eventually play out to anyone and at least some of their heroes over time.
So yeah... this is the pedal side of things... but beyond that, once again... there is so much about Billy Corgan beyond the music and gear that I just don't vibe with... actually ALL OF IT.... and the music isn't there anymore... so fuck him.
The general reaction to this post in that forum was basically "Kind of harsh, but I'd probably be pissed too." Even super dedicated fans on a small Smashing Pumpkins forum 15 years after SP released a good album thought Corgan was the asshole in this scenario, and it was about to get worse.

And the Pitch.
Devi is a trans woman. I didn't mention that before because it hasn't mattered in any way. In the hellaciously overdramatic boutique/DIY guitar pedal scenes (trust me, I have more stories) the revelation that this pedal builder everyone was geeking out over was a trans woman was met with a horrific and violent shrug of who gives a shit? Wendy Carlos, Wayne County, Fran Blanche... just make things loud and nobody cares about anything else, except the assholes nobody cares about. Weird how that works. Speaking of assholes nobody cares about...
Billy Corgan sees this post and takes offense. Rather than replying on this tiny-ass forum full of a few dozen die-hard Pumpkins fans he jumps on his 155,000 (at the time, from what I have read) follower Twitter account and unleashes a torrent of putrid transphobic bullshit.

"Devi Ever is a fucking asshole. His/her pedals suck. He/she sucks. Never associate my name and his/hers ever again. Pig. Ugly pig."

"Asking someone to build you a pedal in emulation of another pedal you like, and them sending you a piece a shit back is not creativity"

"And in fact he/she STOLE his/her pedal idea from another Portalnd pedal maker, which is far superior. Ugliness masking as blind ambition"
If you'll remember from the last post, the concept of "stealing" a circuit is not something that exists on any real level. Circuits manipulate electricity and there is a finite number of ways to do so in a musically pleasing manner, so most distortion circuits end up incorporating bits and pieces of other circuits simply because that's how electronics works. I digress...

He then followed up with this on Facebook:
you ugly piece of shit…if i ever run into you, anywhere, at anytime, for as long as i live, i will knock your fucking lights out. don’t ever come near me, and if i hear even one more peep out of you in public about me, or the band, or the members of the band, i am gonna sue you for so much you’ll never be able to afford so much as to even make a fucking guitar cable.
you fucked up, you know it, so eat shit, shut the fuck up and accept you’ve attacked someone who tried to HELP YOU. but addicts and self-destructive people like you who HATE THEMSELVES must turn their hate out. if this is what you have to do to not kill your unhappy self, well then i’d say it was a wise decision. beyond that, you are fucking lame, dumb, and so so ugly.
While Corgan had long since disconnected from reality, sailed a ship powered by his own smugness across the Seas of Fartsniff, and into a VH-1 Where Are They Now segment (Wow, I'm fucking old.) this was met with an absolutely unholy hellstorm of blowback from every conceivable side. On this obscure-ass forum all but the most dedicated of trolls united to shit on him. When word of this got out, the pedal community banded together to mutter a muffled "fuck that guy" before bowing their heads in reverence towards Holy Germanium for their second of the thrice-daily prayers (The Riff is Thy Shepherd, I Shall Not Want... Unless the Batteries Die, Which is Why We Wall Wart. Amen). The story made its way around various news outlets, Perez Hilton (remember Perez Hilton, kiddos?), even horror website bloody-disgusting.com got in on it in an article titled "Billy Corgan Is A Complete Waste Of Space." It certainly was raining shit on Billy Corgan and who could really argue?
"But hold on... maybe he just overreacted to her overreaction! Maybe he later backtracked and apologized and you're just posting the bad stuff to make him look bad! Maybe he isn't a massive transphobic piece of shit and was just lashing out like a child at someone that hurt him!" I can understand the hesitance with which one would approach this story. It sounds outlandish. But no, he never backtracked or apologized. As far as I know the topic's never really been broached with him again. And as far as him simply saying things out of anger...

Strike Three, YER A CUNT!
From a 2005 livejournal (hey kids, you remember livejournal?) entry Corgan wrote.
One cool evening, I run into someone I see regularly out and about…we get to talking, and one thing leads to another, and she invites me back to her apartment…she makes me some soup, and after I am fed full, pulls me into her bed…the lights are turned off, and we start kissing…each time I try to touch her ‘down there’, she moves away from me and tenses up…this goes on for about 10 minutes until I finally ask if there is a problem…she says “there is something I have to tell you”, and proceeds to tell me that she is a he…I jump up and flip on the light…she/he says “look, it’s not a big deal, I won’t tell anyone, please stay, I’ll do anything you want me to do”…I beg off politely, saying it’s not really my trip, and I’m *boom* out the door, on the street laughing to myself (how could I not know! Oops…) it occurs to me that I always thought she was a kind of weird looking girl anyway…I walked the 20 minutes home in the middle of the night, and was relieved to get back safe…I go inside, walk to the bathroom and throw on the light, and gasp when I see the massive hickie on my neck…of course, the next day the band is rehearsing, and when they see the mark, ask who I had ended up with…I lie and say it was a tourist type girl who had already left town…after a few weeks, friends start coming up and asking me if I had slept with the he/she…I feign ignorance at the whole matter, but I start to get angry because I felt I had been duped innocently, acted honorably, and now some sort of revenge was being played out…after a couple more weeks of this, I finally pulled “her” aside and said not so politely that if he didn’t stop telling people what had happened, that I would break both his arms and his legs…and that was the end of that…
Corgan is such a manly man so manly in his mannish mansculinity that he has to break arms and legs to show how manly menmanman he is, man.

The Aftermath
It was... not good. I do not know Devi Ever personally but in the early 2000's we frequented the same pedal builder forums and later were Facebook friends. Her success was part of the reason I started building pedals back then so she's someone I have a good deal of respect for. She's always been a pretty open book but still I don't want to come across as throwing her under the bus. This is what subsequently happened FROM MY PERSPECTIVE. As we all know there are lies, damn lies, and shit on the internet so just take this all with several grains of alcohol. From this point on it seemed like Devi got a bit more erratic and started collecting drama like that friend that always says they don't like drama. I can't blame anyone for being rattled by getting shit on by a personal hero. Fuck's sake, if Eric Johnson walked through my front door and called me an asshole I'd probably just put a pencil through my eye and end it all whether he was right or not. There were accusations of designs being stolen by and from this person and that person and I'm not even touching that in this fucking thesis (JHS is left as an exercise for the reader) then Devi just kind of... disappeared... for a while. She sold off the Devi Ever FX name and fell off the map. She popped back up in 2016 or so, bought the name back, and started pumping out pedals. Then... sold the name again, apparently, and around 2018 there's just nothing. I can't even find evidence of a "Fuck you, I'm out." post. Just someone else taking over building pedals and all of her social media has been scrapped. When I started writing this I'd hoped there would have been more to follow up with than that but apparently there isn't.
Billy Corgan is still a fucking tool. The "SJW's are as bad as the KKK" kind of fucking tool. The kind that has tens of millions of dollars in the bank, has no reason to give a shit about anything, but still manages to somehow be a victim all day every day. The kind that frequents Alex Jones. He's basically spent the last fifteen years shitting away all of the goodwill that a handful of albums can bring.
submitted by gaporpaporpjones to HobbyDrama

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Salvation, North Dakota
1878
The Sheriff smiled behind his desk as Mitch Shelley walked in, his messy black hair covering his eyes from beneath his hat. “Well, look who’s finally made it,” he chuckled. “Been waitin’ a good hour or two.”
“I work on my own time,” Mitch said coldly. “Find someone else if being late’s a dealbreaker.”
The Sheriff turned to look up at Mitch Shelley, who was nervously fiddling with his belt. “Now, now, I didn’t mean that, I’m sure you know. It’s just… well, it’s just that I’ve been here for a while, but trust me, I still--I still want you’re assistance with--”
“You’re desperate.”
Mitch took a seat across from the Sheriff in an old wooden chair, stretching his arms out. The Sheriff turned to look at him, wide-eyed.
Mitch cleared his throat and continued. “You have a perfectly well-oiled police force in your town, and you still turn to me, a mercenary. That means you’re desperate, and that means you’re operating under my conditions. If you refuse, the criminals can have this city for all I care. It’s not like I’m much different from them in the first place.”
“Ye--yeah,” the Sheriff said. “I guess I’m desperate.” He shuffled through a series of papers from under his desk, searching for some sort of file. He pulled out a rickety folder, a pencil-sketch of a handsome man in a domino mask and hat on the front.
“This man,” the Sheriff continued, “is the man I need you to get rid of. Name’s Lazarus Lane. Now, he’s run this town for a good time and a half, and my guys, well, they don’t really know what to do. The longer this man terrorizes the poor townsfolk the more faith they lose in us to protect them. They know him by another name: El Diablo.” He scratched the side of his neck as the mercenary began to examine the contents of the file.
“Common nickname,” Mitch snorted. “I swear, I’ve taken out 3 El Diablos in the next state over. Something about the Devil himself that entices these people, tempts them. And yet, if any of them were to meet true evil, they’d run away scared like the rest of us.”
The Sheriff nodded. “So I got a spy in his little criminal gang. Says he’s gonna show up at our town’s Museum come Sunday night, steal some valuable artifacts. Now, I know your specialty. Line up a bunch of men, set a few traps, kill ‘em. The spy says El Diablo’s hoping to get all of his men on the job, se we can take out a good chunk of his artillery right there. The spy’s skipped town, by the way, so don’t worry about sparing anyone. Just don’t hurt the exhibits and you’ll be in my good graces.”
Mitch nodded. “I see. I’ll get to work then, as soon as I can.”
The Sheriff laughed as Mitch left his office. “That’s the spirit.”
This was always Mitch’s favorite part: designing the traps. Unlike a lot of the mercenaries that dotted the Old West, he was much more of an intellectual type, even if he knew his way around a gun when he needed to use one. His career allowed him to use his cunning while still helping out the good citizens of the towns he visited; it let him travel from place to place and get new experiences in each location. Mitch was very glad that this is what became of his life.
He did not know that he would live it forever.
Radiance, PA
Now
June McCarthy walked up the grand front staircase to the mansion. It was imposing; she had never been to a house this big. The gardens out front were neatly manicured into uniform rectangular bushes; as she walked onto the porch, she took in the clean marble facade of the mansion. Slowly, cautiously, she rang the doorbell on the front. A sweet “ding” noise rang out as she stood in front of the door, which was almost twice as tall as she was.
A nonchalant voice came from a speaker nearby. ”It’s unlocked, just walk in.”
June obliged, entering the grand front hall of the mansion. Everything around her was still seemingly made of marble, even as she entered. A single lamp hung from a chain above her. She walked into the living room, where three leather couches surrounded some sort of fountain. The man she assumed to be Mitch Shelley lounged on one of the couches, watching a Metropolis Meteors game. He did not look like the type of man who would own such a house; he was disheveled, wearing a torn brown jacket with messy white hair and stubble. His eyes were a piercing blue; they appeared to see straight into June’s soul. June thought she recognized him, but she couldn’t immediately place where she had seen him.
“So,” the man said. “You must be June, I assume?” He stood up and walked toward her, shaking her hand and smiling. “Mitch Shelley. I take it that I'm going to be your boss for a while, huh?”
June nodded silently.
“Don’t worry, June,” Mitch cackled, “I don’t bite. I just need some folks to take care of a few chores around the mansion: water the plants, vacuum the floors, all that stuff. If you need any help, I’m always around. Here, let me give you the grand tour.” Mitch walked her out of the living room and back into the foyer, where they began going through the house.
“So,” June said, “how did you get all this money?” She knew that this was an inappropriate question, but she felt like she could trust Mitch not to take it the wrong way. He seemed like a relatable guy; as relatable as someone living in this type of house could be, at least.
Mitch chuckled heartily as the two entered a grand dining room. “Oh, this? This isn’t mine. I’m just borrowing this place for a while, keeping a low profile. Don’t worry; the owner of the house knows all about it. But I’m definitely not here because I like this type of place. The luxury makes me sick.”
“Honestly,” June muttered, “me too.” As they walked from the dining room into the kitchen, though, June had to wonder about Mitch. It was possible, she realized, that she was taking care of the mansion for a wanted criminal. She didn’t know why else he would have to keep a “low profile.” June’s cordial feeling about Mitch slowly vanished as the two walked through the other rooms of the house, replaced with a slight unease. She didn’t dare ask him anything, but she knew at this point that she had seen him somewhere. If he was a criminal, he was definitely a big deal.
Mitch led June into the second floor of the mansion, not noticing that June wasn’t fully listening to what he had to say anymore. They entered the first room on their left, which was significantly messier than any of the other luxurious rooms in the house. Newspapers dotted the floor, alongside old pizza boxes, wrappers of candy and paper plates. On one side of the room was a couch; on the other, a desk with an old computer monitor on it, seemingly loaded up to a Viewtube page. June turned her nose as she entered; the musk was distinctive, although faint.
“Now, this,” Mitch laughed. “This is my element. This is where I hang out most days. It’s not pretty, but there’s a professional cleanup crew that’ll show up when I’m done with this place, so I don’t really care right now.”
“Okay,” June said, nodding. Suddenly, she heard some sort of rustling sound in the bushes. Her heart dropped. “You hear that?”
“Yeah,” Mitch said. "Probably just some raccoon scurrying about. We have nothing short of an infestation of these things here in Radiance, although I’m sure you know about that.”
Before June had the chance to say anything, the window in the side of the room burst open and a man jumped through, with brown skin and long black hair. He wore a black cowboy hat with a dark red domino mask, with a black suit and red vest covered in ornate white designs. In one hand, he carried a curved knife that glowed a brilliant orange. Mitch fell backwards onto the couch as he jumped through; June ran into the far corner of the room, unsure quite what to do.
“Lazarus,” Mitch coughed. “I thought I’d be lucky enough to get another few years without seeing your face. Guess I was wrong.”
“Shut your mouth and die,” the man who was supposedly named Lazarus said. He charged at Mitch with the knife, Mitch quickly dodging. June stared at the scene in front of her, petrified.
“You’re a dog, Lazarus,” Mitch said. “Always have been. You could do so much more with your immortal life, but you always end up back here, with me.” Mitch hopped up to his feet. The room seemed to get several degrees colder to June, as she noticed a flurry of snowflakes materialize around Mitch’s hand. “Leave her out of this,” he commanded. He shot a blast of cold air directly at Lazarus’ chest. Lazarus flinched and laughed a little to himself, darting forward with his blade.
Lazarus slashed open Mitch’s chest, smiling. “See you in ten years, Mitchell.” He ran out of the window where he had just jumped through. June took a few deep breaths, avoiding the shards of glass and droplets of blood on the floor as she walked.
“Mitch,” she said, panicked, as she went to his side. “What happened? Who was that?”
“Listen, June,” Mitch said, his wound glowing the same orange color as the blade that had caused it. “Listen to my instructions very carefully. Open the top drawer on the left side of the computer desk. There should be a syringe inside it. I need you to inject that syringe right here”--he gestured to a vein on his left wrist--”and do it fast. And this is important: do not spill any of the contents of the syringe on the floor, if you care about your own well-being.”
Flustered, June stared at him for a solid five seconds. ”Do it,” Mitch snarled, coughing up blood. “Now.”
June stumbled towards the desk, opening the compartment Mitch had directed her to. Sure enough, inside was a singular syringe, resting on what looked like a standard name-brand paper towel. Inside the syringe was an opaque, viscous liquid that seemed to have a grey tinge to it. Carefully, she walked back across the warzone that was the floor of this room, stepping over a discarded yogurt cup and a few shards of broken glass.
Mitch brought his right hand up for June to see. “Now, June,” he said weakly.
Without any idea what she was doing, June grabbed Mitch’s arm with one hand, plunging the needle into his exposed vein with the other. She watched as he coughed up what looked like a mouthful of black bile, convulsing violently, and slowly ceased moving.
After gagging for a few seconds at the smell, June quickly realized that she had just killed a man. She had no idea what to do; her first thought was to call the police, but she wondered if she would be seen as the perpetrator. After all, she was, in her own way. So the next step would have to be to--
The wound around Mitch’s chest stopped glowing. Slowly, but surely, June watched it get smaller until the only evidence there was a wound was the rip in his shirt. The skin on Mitch’s arm started to bubble up, turning a sickly green color. Covered in blood and vomit, Mitch slowly stood up once again, leaving June frozen on the ground where his corpse once was.
“Thank you, dear,” he coughed as he hobbled to the front window. In that moment, June realized where she recognized him. He was that one hero that she hadn’t heard of, who was suddenly on every Soder Cola bottle. She always thought that was a bit weird; a major billion-dollar company picking a tiny small-town hero to represent them instead of someone who was a bigger deal. Now, she was in the same house as him, too scared to say anything. She forgot his name… it was something like ‘The Immortal Man’ or ‘The Revival Man’ or something.
“June,” Mitch gasped. “Leave the house, right now. Clean yourself up, find your mother or father, tell them that I didn’t give you the job. My wallet should be on the table next to you; take as much money as you need to get a change of clothes and a shower. I had no idea he would be here so soon; I’m sorry for endangering you.”
With those last words, Mitch dived out the open window, his hand secreting some strange green goop as he chased after Lazarus. June could just barely hear his voice calling out as she walked once again towards the dresser. “Alright, motherfucker, ready for round 2?”
June took a $20 bill from the wallet and stuffed it in her jean pocket. This was truly the most bizarre day she had ever had, the most terrifying experience she had known in her young life. But somewhere, she also felt more alive than she had ever been.
The small museum in the center of Salvation, North Dakota was a quaint, one-room wooden building, pretty much exactly the size Mitch had expected it to be. Inside the room were various oddities: artifacts from the local Native American tribe, details about the town’s history, and a few other neat exhibits. In the center was what one settler called “the Tektite.” This rock glimmered a brilliant blue; it seemed to glow if you looked at it the right way. Apparently, it was some sort of meteor that crashed on one of the ranches nearby. It would sell for thousands of dollars, and that was why Lazarus Lane was planning to steal it for himself.
Mitch Shelley was there to stop that from happening. He crouched on the flat roof of the museum, watching Lazarus and around 10 men slowly approach the building’s back door. He stood next to a box containing a series of levers and pulleys; this was how Lazarus would fall. The man known as “El Diablo” wore a black coat and hat and a red mask underneath it, but Mitch could still clearly see his face underneath. It was the face of a merciless man, one who has already crossed every line. Lazarus scouted along the walls of the museum, checking for security guards and finding none--Mitch had ordered that the guards leave their post for the night to avoid casualties.
Lazarus walked back to the back door with his men following. Mitch pulled a lever on the trap he had set up on the roof, sending a net down and capturing three of his men. He fidgeted with another lever, sending a bolt into each of their chests. Quickly, he loosened the net and let the three men’s limp corpses drop onto the road.
Lazarus looked around, confused. “What in the hell--Who is behind this? I demand you show your face.”
Mitch fidgeted with the bolt traps, shooting them at the oncoming bandits rapidly. Several of them missed, but at least one of the bolts connected and knocked a robber out. Quickly, he reached for a third button, detonating an explosive underneath the road to trap them in the rubble. It worked, sending the remaining criminals into the air and covering them under a sheet of rocky debris. Lazarus staggered back up onto his feet and reached for his gun.
“You think you’re so funny, huh?” Lazarus fired several warning shots in the air. “Come down here and fight me like a real man!” Turning his eyes upwards, Lazarus noticed Mitch’s silhouette in on the roof and took aim.
“Well then,” Lazarus chuckled. “I suppose I got you now, you dumb fucker.”
Before Mitch could dodge, Lazarus shot a bullet straight into Mitch’s heart, knocking him down onto the roof. The force of his body broke through the wooden ceiling; as Mitch lay dying, he noticed that he was next to the glimmering blue Tektite. It made a strange clicking sound, seemingly responding to him…
In a half-dreaming state of death, one he would soon experience several hundred more times, Mitch could tell that Lazarus threw a match into the museum building; it appeared that he now cared less about the treasures inside and more about finishing the mercenary off.
As the flames engulfed him, Mitch drifted off into a deep, deadly sleep… until, a few minutes later, he wasn’t.
Mitch woke up, surrounded by the ashes of Salvation’s museum. It was the middle of the day now; some time appeared to have passed. Next to him was what Mitch presumed to be the Tektite, although it looked different. The surface of the rock was now completely smooth and dark grey in color, as if the rough blue surface was merely an exterior of some sort. Inside this oblong dark pearl, Mitch caught a glimpse of his reflection. His hair had seemingly been bleached bone-white.
As Mitch stumbled out of the wreckage of a failed job, he couldn’t help but notice that the last few sparks of the fire seemed to bend towards his arm. Something was happening to him, something that he could not seem to explain.
Lazarus stumbled across the vast forests of North Dakota, more tired than he had ever been. He didn’t look back as he trudged forward; he didn’t know where Mitch was, but he couldn’t be too far behind. He hoped that there would be a town nearby, preferably one with a train station. He was strong, but Mitch was stronger; he had to get as far away from him as possible.
It had been three years since Lazarus pulled off his last stunt in Salvation; since then, something had happened in that museum. Lazarus did not know what force caused Mitch to possess his extraordinary abilities, but he could only assume that the Lord himself wanted Lazarus dead. As terrified as he was of Mitch, he dreaded even more what would await him when he was caught and killed. Lazarus had always laughed off the Bible and Christianity, but having seen Mitch die and be resurrected several times now, he couldn’t find any other explanation.
Lazarus came upon an old church, a shoddily-built wooden structure that was clearly abandoned. Next to it was a small graveyard. Lazarus paused; this was precisely the place he needed to catch his breath. Heaving, as thirsty as he had ever been, he pounded on the latched wooden door until it collapsed inward. He quickly collapsed on one of the pews, exhausted. He knew Mitch was coming, and he couldn’t fall asleep now, but surely a short rest couldn’t hurt, right?
Lazarus awoke to a brilliant purple light. Fog filled the rows of the church as he got back onto his feet. How long had he been out? And more importantly, how could Mitch have died that gave him the power that Lazarus was witnessing now?
”Fear not,” the voice said. ”I am not the one who is hunting you.”
Lazarus’ vision became clearer as he saw a silhouette within the purple smoke. It was a slender creature with clawed arms. On the top of its head, Lazarus thought he could make out a pair of horns.
Lazarus snarled. “If the Lord wants me, he can finally have me. I no longer have anything to live for.”
”The people of this church were not men of the Lord,” the voice continued. ”And you are safe with me, Lazarus Lane. In fact, I believe you are one of those who have used my name.”
“El Diablo,” Lazarus muttered under his breath. “You’re… you’re the Devil.”
”One of many,” the voice continued. ”I am not the one you would be most familiar with, the one every good Christian fears. I am far less powerful than he. But I can still save you. Mitchell Shelley cannot be killed; each time you may try, he returns with a new strength.” The demon beckoned Lazarus closer with a single clawed finger. ”Come forward,” it continued, ”and you will receive the gift you need to be free of your tormentor.”
Lazarus walked deeper and deeper into the purple fog. The church had seemed relatively small when he entered, but the hallway in front of him now appeared to stretch on and on as he walked forward. Lazarus felt the air get hotter, stinging his skin. Finally, he noticed a small object on the floor, a knife that glowed a brilliant orange. He picked it up.
”This is my blade,” the demon said. ”Kill Mitch Shelley with that blade, and he shall slumber for ten years before resurrecting. When he does, he will no longer have any power, either.”
“Thank you,” Lazarus said. “But he will still awaken one day, right?”
”Yes, of course. There would be no fun in letting this end.” The demon let out a loud, boisterous cackle, and Lazarus could see his silhouette contort into a weird and grotesque coil. ”With my gift, you will also be resurrected. Each time Mitchell Shelley kills you, you will reawaken on the other side of the world. You will become his hunter, just as he is yours, and the two of you will carry this on forever, into eternity. Only through the other’s death will either of you be able to live your lives.”
Before Lazarus could say anything more, the fog disappeared, the demon’s visage vanishing with it. He could hear the footsteps of a man running in the distance.
Mitch Shelley was here.
Lazarus drew his blade, ready to fight. Mitch stood still in the open doorway to the church, lifting his hands up. Last Lazarus had seen him, he had been caught in a freak storm. The winds picked up, rocking the old building back and forth. The church pews started flying around the building rapidly with the wind.
This was the moment Lazarus needed.
In almost an instant, Lazarus charged towards the former mercenary, holding the demon’s knife firmly in the grip of his right hand. As the church collapsed behind him, Lazarus impaled Mitch with the blade’s searing edge, knocking him back down.
Lazarus turned to the graveyard next to the church; on a small portion of the church’s wall that was still standing, there was an old shovel that was seemingly left there. He walked over to a plot next to one of the family graves, and began digging.
When June had finally gotten herself out the door of the mansion, she quickly realized that avoiding the fight would be all but impossible.
Throughout the vast gardens of the mansion, the Resurrection Man was fighting his enemy. The formerly-perfect hedges were now mostly dead, turned completely brown during the fight. Sporadic fires lit the battleground. Lazarus held two guns in his hands, standing in the far corner of the gardens and shooting at Mitch, who was rapidly dodging his attacks.
A pool of pale green liquid began to well up in one of Mitch’s hands, which he quickly flung towards Lazarus. Before it could hit him, Lazarus’ body went up in flames, disappearing, before quickly reappearing behind Mitch. He drew his glowing blade. Mitch noticed and swiftly backhanded him, leaving a bit of the toxic ooze on Lazarus’ cheek. June stared at the carnage from the mansion’s porch as Lazarus set the rest of the garden alight with his power. Sidney lost sight of Mitch as the flames rose higher.
Lazarus teleported away from the scene. June looked around, wondering where he would show up next. Instead of seeing anything, she felt a blistering heat emerge from behind her. Lazarus covered her mouth as she tried to scream for help.
Lazarus laughed heartily to himself. “Now, Mitchell. Once you finally rise up outta there, you’re gonna wanna find me somewhere in this big ole house of yours. When you do, come quietly, or the girl dies.”
The sensation of being teleported by Lazarus was very alien: a bright light, a heat, and a feeling of intense dizziness she couldn’t shake. As she and the mysterious man appeared at their destination, June felt as if she was in a trance, groggily looking around. They seemed to be in a wine cellar; the elegance of the rest of the mansion was replaced by a cold stone room, with bottles and barrels of wine dotting the scenery. Lazarus walked over to one of the bottles and took a swig of wine from it.
“Man,” he said. “These rich people always have the most pretentious hobbies, don’tcha think? You want some?” Lazarus tilted the bottle in June’s direction. “I know you’re a little young for the stuff, but I won’t tell?”
June slowly backed away from Lazarus and shook her head, too scared to say anything.
“It’s actually kinda funny: a guy who runs one of the biggest non-alcoholic drink companies, and this is what he likes to kick back with.” Lazarus shook his head. “You know, this is the most famous Mitchell’s been in a long while. But he knew what he was doing, taking that marketing deal. The man’s been moving from town to town, living in all the mansions and summer homes that the board of directors can offer. I gotta say, it’s a new strategy, and a sound one.”
June looked around; the only exit to the room was the one she presumed was up a set of wooden stairs, but her path to that exit was blocked by Lazarus’ body. “Who… who are you, anyway?”
“Ah,” Lazarus smiled. “Simple. I’m Mitchell’s other half. His Moriarty, you could say, although we came first. We’re closer than any two people have ever been, although he doesn’t like to admit that. Immortal life can get boring at times; I of all people know that. I’m the one that makes Mitch’s worth living.”
“If your problem is with him,” June muttered meekly, summoning the tiniest bit of courage she had left, “then--then why bring me into it?”
Lazarus chuckled. “Simple,” he said. “It makes Mitch care.”
The room started to shake around them; June could hear a pounding on the door next to the stairs. “And now,” Lazarus continued, “he’s here.”
The wooden door flew open, its edge singed slightly. Mitch stepped in, although his body was very different. His left arm, and the left side of his face, seemed to be made of wood, with plants and leaves sprouting along his skin. His right arm was normal until his wrist, where it began to glow bright orange like Lazarus’ blade. “Now,” he rasped. “Let the girl go.”
Lazarus drew his blade, and in one swift maneuver it was wrapped around June’s throat, pressing against the edge of her neck. The pain was excruciating and unbearable, a searing jolt of heat and agony; June flailed her arms and legs, screaming. “What are you gonna do about this, huh?” He laughed to himself. “Just come here and everything will be okay.”
“No,” Mitch muttered. “I have another idea.”
Mitch’s left arm quickly extended forward, grabbing Lazarus’ arm and knocking the blade out of his hand. The knife flew across the room, hitting one of the barrels of wine. A torrent of red wine began to flow across the floor. Mitch charged forward, grabbing June and moving her away from Lazarus. He followed up by shooting a blast of fire at Lazarus with his right hand.
Lazarus dodged, grabbing him and knocking him into another barrel of wine. Lazarus held Mitch’s head under the flow of the wine for a few seconds, until June could see the wooden part of his flesh vanishing and being replaced with regular skin. As Lazarus stumbled to grab his blade, Mitch stood up. The wine around the cellar stopped flowing. Mitch raised his arms up and the wine followed, quickly flowing into a torrential pillar that Mitch launched at Lazarus. As he was knocked down, June ran towards Lazarus’ blade. Without thinking, she raised it up, running towards Lazarus and plunging it into his chest just as he had done to Mitch.
Lazarus coughed before his body erupted into flames, just as it tended to do when he teleported. The blade followed, singing June’s hand as it vanished. All that was left of Lazarus was a burnt skeleton and two guns.
June turned to Mitch. “Is he--is he coming back?”
“Someday, yes,” Mitch said. “But hopefully not for a while. He reincarnates too, but right now he could be anywhere in the world. Either way, I have to leave soon. He knows where I am, and I was really fucking tired of this town anyway.”
June looked at Mitch, unsure what to say. “That was terrifying,” she finally said. “But… almost fun. Like, in an exhilarating way. I’m not sure exactly if I’m allowed to say that, but--”
“No, it’s fine,” Mitch laughed. “Just promise me you won’t seek out a situation like this. You’re too young and important to put yourself in harm’s way. I feel guilty enough that I did that to you already.”
June nodded. “Of course.”
“Great,” Mitch laughed. He picked up one of Lazarus’ guns and held it to his temple. “Now,” he said. “If you excuse me, I’m gonna try to pick a new power. Wine control is… a little limiting. Stay back; this might get a bit graphic.” Sidney began walking up the stairs, hearing a stray gunshot from below her. As she walked onto the main floor, she thought she could hear Mitch begin to wake up again.
Lazarus looked around at his new surroundings. This had probably happened hundreds of times by now; he knew the drill. He was on the side of a black asphalt road; along the road were miles upon miles of blindingly white snow. Loose pine trees dotted the horizon.
He began walking forward, leaving footprints in the snow. A truck passed him; the message on the side of the truck was Cyrillic. Most likely, he was somewhere in remote Russia, but he couldn’t quite be sure.
Lazarus smiled, muttering to himself under his breath. “See you next year, Mitchell.”
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