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All That Potential

Surprise, meat. I’m baaaaack!

I have to say, terrorizing you is not the worst part of my day. It’s recreational, injecting a little misery into your mortal lives.

Seeing as you are forced to sit in this rotunda, by orders of your overprotective host – the history of the Asylum and those within, forced down your throat, without the opportunity to see and experience things first hand – I will clue you in to a bit of juicy gossip that has made its way to my perfect ears.

Let me start by telling you about an inmate by the name of Alberto Salazar, who died on August 15th, 1975 in the city of Armenia (an enormous coffee region) in the mostly rural country of Colombia. Salazar saw his life lacking excitement, a sense of unbridled adventure. To remedy this, he proceeded to go on a killing spree that would take countless lives, mostly women and children.

Seems this mortal felt that a sharpened knife, a shadowed alley or darkened corner of a building, and a lot of patience were just the thing to get his heart racing and much-needed movement in his loins. Each kill was unique in that he would carve his initials “AS” into his victims’ flesh. Sometimes those letters would appear on a toe, on the tongue, while some he boldly sliced into the forehead.

As serious killers go, he had one weakness: his children. The man had 12 in all and each saw their father as a conscientious provider, a faithful husband to their (I’m sure exceptionally sore) mother, Marta, and a consummate churchgoer (of course he was, HAH).

It was his oldest that ended up putting a few bullets in Salazar’s chest after Salazar, fueled with the need to continue his killing ways, turned the knife on his own wife, and young Alberto Jr. walked in to witness the deed. The teen grabbed a rifle from the nearby closet and a few squeezes later...

Processed and sentenced.

The only thing, THE ONLY THING, that has kept Salazar out of The Pit up until now, is that, a few years prior, he gave up a kidney to save his seventh oldest, Camila, who would have died if not for his intervention. So, our useless Asylum rules and regulations flag such a thing as a pure act of love and, blah blah blah, red tape, the man is shoved in an Asylum cell, wasting resources. He deserves a hero’s welcome in The Pit, having purged your world of whining innocents who most definitely didn’t deserve the lives they were given.

None of you do. You are all a waste of celestial energy.

Don’t give me that look. It is what it is.

Now, because Salazar’s taint-count on his soul is so egregious, his cell sits dangerously close to The Pit’s entrance, tucked deep inside Southeast Wing #6 (Malifecium territory). In said cell, Salazar has, for the last four mortal decades or so, entered the kitchen of his home in Armenia, knife in hand, to see his wife, Marta, lovingly stirring a pot of chicken broth and singing to their three year-old-daughter on the floor at her feet. This is where things get interesting. Salazar switches off between two reactions: The first, he rushes her, grabs the back of her hair and plunges the blade into her midsection, watching the blood choke out of the wound. Every other time, he places the knife on the counter, lovingly kisses his wife on the neck and hefts his daughter in the air with a wide-eyed grin.

I find my own wide-eyed grin over this level of sadism. Gives me chills, folks.

For that reason, I’ve come to grow quite fond of Salazar. Who wouldn’t? We talk about death and the soul escaping and how amazing it was for the man to see life escape his victims. He is obsessed with that transitional state where the soul escapes the body -- sees it as a glorious miracle. The man is an artist after all.

Salazar is also one of the most ambitious mortals I have ever met. Over our many conversations, in which I would bring with me bottles of mortal rum for Salazar to imbibe (his favorite apparently) and at times would toast over the body of his dead wife and bawling little brat, I learned the true reason he has kept his actions regarding the recreated killing of his wife so erratic.

Salazar has attempted to cheat the system. By switching from an act of pure violence to an act of all-out, disgusting affection, Salazar confuses the rehabilitation board of Malifecium agents who track his progress. If he had simply repeated the knifing of the woman, time after time, thousands upon thousands of bloody strokes, he’d be happily strolling through the riot-riddled seventh region of the Pit, taking part in endless murder and mayhem.

But that isn’t his aim...

Here is my gossip, a juicy secret really.

Salazar wants to return to earth. He feels he has unfinished business on the mortal plane – so many innocent lives yet to be taken. In his time here, he has learned about possession of a mortal soul – I may have even instructed him further on the art myself recently.

Here is where things get good. Maggie mentioned to you that our resources have run thin within the Asylum -- that many prison wings are understaffed and cell upkeep and security is severely lacking. Well, Southwest Wing 6 is the worst of the bunch.

A large portion of the cells have gone dark, the celestial energy reserves having been overtaxed because cooperation of resources between the Light and the Dark is pathetic at best. Recently, one of those cells was Salazar’s and he feels it finally gives him the perfect opportunity he needs...

To escape.

You see, he has learned – from a little birdie – that not only is the chamber that holds Southwest Wing 6’s celestial energy at a dangerous low, but the coils that pump the magic through its halls and run its cells are dangerously overheated. All it would take would be an overtaxing of those coils – say, if a riot were to break out – and BOOM, the walls come crumbling down.

Salazar just needed the right Malifecium agent to help him spread the word amongst the 29 other souls that hold residence in that wing.

I wonder if he was successful? Like I said, the man is incredibly resourceful.

Hmm. I guess it’s not a secret anymore, because I’ve told you.


You hear that? Sounded like an explosion. Or, the beginning of the end.

Good luck, cattle.



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