The Black Dragon - Black Dragon R3 - Bad Company

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Description: A mysterious Szamet, a sinister Zabel Zarock. The agent of the Podiebrad Manor makes a false flag offering to the rock star, to begin attacking the city of Southtown. But the Bastard gets more than he bargained for, when he annoys the zombie metalhead...

Zabel Zarock is a man that should be dead. A man who sold his soul to rock and roll and cheated death instead. While the music industry has done well to try to sweep that tragic events that lead up to his death under the rug they could never get rid of Zabel himself. Those who still wish to here his tunes just have to do a bit of searching and there are always rumors of a small club here and there claiming Zabel will be playing a very special show.

One of those shoes was earlier in the night in a rather small club in the middle of nowhere. A shadey little place with the only entrance found down some steps in the back alley. There isn't even much of a stage and just a small bar as well. Not a lot of people can fit in here and right now there is maybe half a dozen still around at the late hour.

Each person looks in a daze with a glazed look in their eyes. Fans caught in the thrall of the zombie rocker who sits there on a touch with a woman on each side and one of arms draped over them. A grin plays across his lips as he remains in his relatively human form. Even then there is the fact his skin is an unhealthy shade and his eyes are stark white. "Fine dining tonight." he laughs to himself. By the morning those still here will be nothing more than husks. Undeath comes with a price and sacraficing a few fans to keep himself up and running is a small price to pay.

To be honest, Szemet was one of those old fans.

Ever since he was a boy hiding in the halls of Podiebrad Manor, he liked the edgiest, most hardcore acts out there. Whether music, or film, or acting, or comic. The edgier, the better. He wanted to read about dead babies bathing in the sea of blood; he wanted to hear about murder, kill, rape. The more offensive, the better. When Zabel made his big finale, it was the coolest damn thing. Even when he grew up, and the questions of his usefulness became more and more aggressive, he would always be quick to share a dark insight about how long it took for a body to rot, or whatever macabre factoid he had learned. The Patriarch soon needed him to be useful.

And he found the kind of work a Bastard like himself would appreciate.

The man wasn't glazed over. Well, not -that- glazed over. He was five spritzers in; the asshole refusing to touch beer or liquor at a dive like this. He was a reedy scarecrow of a man, if a scarecrow could pass for five feet tall. The man practically needed a booster seat. He had long teeth; almost too big for his mouth, which made his lips too tight and stretched. He always had this forced smile, like his teeth were about to jump out. And his orange eyes were too small; they kept darting back and forth from the audience, to Zabel, and then, the floor. He was just so -nervous-. He least wore the right outfit, in a very euro-trashy manner of leather, metal, and collars. In normal situations, you -would- have the occasional attendee that didn't get drawn in to the music, didn't fall under the spell. Those folks who gradually realize what's happening to the audience; who make their desperate attempt to escape the show. You can guess what happens to those types out back. But the guy wasn't leaving. He was sticking out like a sore thumb.

And he just naturally -harshed- buzzes.

It was easy to ignore at first. Not all fell under Zabel's sway and even sometimes he let the person run away thinking they were safe. Something they soon found out to be very wrong about when the zombie rocker decided to pay a visit later. It was rare one did escape and was left alive to talk about what they saw. Afterall tales of that make people curious and perhaps continues to create new fans for Zabel to prey upon.

It is extremely rare that someone doesn't fall under his sway and willingly stays for what is to come. Zabel let the man drink. He wasn't causing problems and he figured once it grew late enough he would go away eventually. As time passed Zabel was starting to finally get a bit annoyed by it all.

"Hey, bugger off and find a drink elsewhere, mate. It is closing time and I got some work to do." Zabel finally says with his eyes glowing red only for a moment before he regains his composure. That is a man the zombie is willing to let go and pass out in a ditch somewhere. As a whole Zabel was in a good mood and really doesn't feel like wasting his time right now.

Szemet's eyes go wide, when Zabel shouts out him.

He had imagined this, in his fantasies. Out in a stadium, the music growling, and Zabel Za Rock calling him up. He didn't know how to play guitar; well he tried but he wasn't good at it. But when he shows those red eyes, the creep locks eyes with Zabel, and you could see the mixture of joy and horror. He imagined something like that. It was time to get up on stage. He wanted him out though. He needed to leave? He was either dead, or useful though. That was the right of Bastards. And in his panic, he sputters the two words, that would assure what would need to get done in the worst of circumstances.

"Lord Dohma."

He finally spits it out, as he musters the courage. And then, not sure of what else to do, He turns around, looking for the bartender, like he didn't just say the words that would probably get him wasted in time. "I need- I need to pay up the tab. I'm sorry, I should have waited till after the show." He was rambling out loud. He- he didn't even know if Zabel was listening. "I' m a really, really big fan, Zabel Za Rock. I- I had Oral Dead on cassette; and I wore out the tape." He rattles off, trying to get his head on straight. "I didn't- I didn't want to mess up the show, and-" There is a crack, as he straightens his back out. His voice drops an octave, almost a growl, as his back rises up, his head lowering down.

"The boss wants you to fuck things up."

Zabel was trying to do his best to ignore the rambling. If anything he has a bit of a mixture of both annoyed and bored. Did he hear those first two words? If he did he might be giving Szemet a pass because the zombie still remains lounging with the two ladies at his side. "Whatcha want, shorty. An autograph so you can go bugger off and tell your friends?"

His mood seems to completely change when that last bit is said to him. 'The Boss'. Zabel has worked with Jedah, but it wasn't exactly on his own terms and there is still a bit of a sore spot each time he is reminded of him. "Does he now?" His eyes begin to glow again. His temper must be acting up because right now having a hard time holding onto the more humanoid look. "Is that an order is it, mate? I would be very careful what you say unless you want to be part of the upcoming buffet."

When that glow comes, Szemet could feel the terror. The bartender was far away, and so was the tab. As it would be. Everyone was marked for death right now. Even him. Especially him. He liked this stuff, but he was just so obnoxious. Not even Zsa Zsa would tolerate him; whenever she caught him peeking on people or leaving dead rats around, she would beat him within an inch of his life, and send him rolling down the stairs naked in a barrel of wine. Again and again. He would sometimes leave rats for her. Sometimes they would end up inside him.

At least he kept things clean in the pantries.

"It's not an order! It's a- it's an invitation!" Szemet tightens up, and suddenly, he's reaching in his leather mesh shirt, then his pants. He slips something out from the front. "Sorry, its- they don't have pockets." He was trembling. "It's... you..." He tries to make the words. And then, he straightens up, a crack is heard, and he finally drops from the barstool. Running quickly, with his eyes cast low, he dares to approach the relaxing Zabel, holding the fine envelope sealed with crimson wax. The seal was the style of Lord Dohma. But the wax... was wrong. It was almost like a forgery. But a forgery? An invitation? The twitching Szemet extends his arm, trying to hand it to the undead lord of metal.

Almost expecting that the man would take his arm off with it.

Not an order? An invitation. That doesn't exactly sound like Jedah, but it seems Szemet managed to say enough to spare his life for the time being. Zabel is calming once more as he sits up and lets the ladies go for a moment so he can reach and pluck the letter away and he looks it over.

Something here isn't right in the zombie's mind. Just little things are standing out and he tchs lightly. He flicks off the seal so he can open the letter to open it up and let his eyes scan over things. It looks like Szemet is forgotten about at the moment. Or at least he is as long as he keeps his trap shut as the zombie reads over the contents.

He neatly folds it back up after done and lightly tosses it back to Szement. "I didn't read it, mate. I just wanted you to shut up for a few moments. I'll cause chaos when -I- want to. If there is a problem with that...." he lets the words hang there for a bit. "I don't mind folding you in half and stuffing you in a mailbox."

The order was... also atypical of Jedah.

The outline was that Zabel was to unleash chaos, mayhem, and misery into Southtown, and to do it under the banner of Kira and her Dragoons. There was a lack of detail, a lack of direction, and more importantly, a great deal of freedom given to Zabel on the creative execution of said disorder. It was very much un-Jedah like. There were no... nos. Yet the seal was there, and the signing in blood.

Szemet, for his purposes, wasn't providing much confidence either.

When Zabel responds, throwing the letter, the creep actually laughs as he catches it. In the annals of bad laughs, it was a paragon example of miserable laughter. A stilted, stiff laugh, with bared teeth. He smothers it with his hand. "Ha ha, then, then you'll do it? Because there isn't a problem." He quickly adds. "But you'll..."

"... You'll do it?"

"Not because he asked me to, mate. I do what I feel like."

It might be the best response Szemet gets. Zabel has always been a bit of the unpredictable type, but in the end if someone wants chaos to ensure there is hardly a better person to ask such things from. "But that is for another day. For now I got some feeding to do and you are still here."

The zombie casually snaps his fingers and Szemet would feel something looming behind him. Turning around he would find one giant eye staring back at him. A giant eye with a rather large mouth under it as it opens wide. Looks like the bartender didn't get far when he ran because of of his shoes pops out of La Malta's maw as he leans in and swallows Szemet whole then turns about to lumber away and give Zabel privacy. "Sorry about that, ladies. Now where was I..." he gets a wicked grin as his true form starts to show and his long tongue slips out of his mouth. "Oh yes, feeding time."

Szemet might lose track of time, but he doesn't seem in danger of suffocation and it is oddly quite roomy where he is. He might almost be comfortable by the time he is coughed up into some remote ditch a bit outside of town along with someone's luggage and a half eaten bartender. Who knows if he got the job done, but he has the rare story to tell of surviving a meeting with Zabel Zarock


"Oh no." He squeaks, looking over his shoulder. "Not like this." He had imagined being eaten by horrible monsters before. And in one, refreshing, hallway encounter with Zsa Zsa, he was! A lot of the root of his misbehavior can be attributed to that encounter. But as the monster lurches in, it is a cold memory. His last words, before he is devoured?

"This is NOT like my animes at all!"

He doesn't even understand what was happening, getting spat out. He was half-naked, as he does when he usually sleeps. He felt... alive? He was wet with -stuff- and in a heap. Palming blindly for the luggage, he pulls out some loose undergarments, and a... and a corpse? He stares around, still in a daze, still in a confusion. He -did- feel great. But in a bad way. Like again, that hallway encounter. "But this?" He sighs, sitting in the filth in the ditch.

"Is exactly like them."

Log created on 10:48:05 05/11/2020 by Daniel, and last modified on 14:14:10 05/12/2020.