Wounds Still Fresh

[Joseph Goebbels]

Joseph stirred around his drink irritably. He was in a foul mood. Alcohol was doing very little to numb the ever-present throbbing in his foot, and even the assistance of a cane was doing little to appease it today. So he made his liver suffer for his foot's trespasses, downing scotch upon scotch upon scotch. Even some of the local jungle juice if they let him have it. He was known around town as a drunk who consistently started fights among the local populace...despite the fact he'd been warned to keep a low profile.

He'd come to Brazil after the second World War with a man named Josef Mengele. The Angel of Death, people called him. A strict, emotionless creature that seemed to exist for his own scientific experiments. After being relatively successful creating a town deep in South America with blue eyes and fair hair, he died trying to save a child from drowning. An uncharacteristic move for him. Joseph had stayed in Rio de Janeiro, avoiding tourists and keeping his head low....well...except for the occasional bar fight.

Here he was on April 20th, the old birthday of a friend. His tired brown eyes looked into the bottom of his glass, shifting the dregs of the amber liquid there. "Happy birthday." he muttered in German against the rim, lifting the end of the glass and consuming the rest of the alcohol. He didn't even want to think about the irony of toasting a man who had spoken strongly against his alcoholism. It was a good excuse to drink anyhow.
Joseph let his hand trail down and grasp his knee, his fingertips brushing the top of the steel brace that caged most of his calf muscle, ankle, and ran under his foot. It made him move with a limp that caused pain whenever he walked. Dealing with it for over a hundred years was making him very, very tempted to call the local witchdoctor over and just cut the damn thing off.

That would be a wonderful idea. Not just a short werebeast, a werebeast without one foot.

He snorted and rested his chin in one hand, listening idly to a small altercation that was going on at one end of the bar. Stupid tourists. The only thing about living here was the endless stream of camera-wielding, english-spouting morons toddling around in their khaki shorts and oversized hawaiian shirts. How did we ever lose a war to these fat idiots? We must have been more drunk than I thought we were. Joseph thought to himself, his eyes roving over the tourists to the left of him, whining something about Carnivale.

Of course, he could always eat them.

Joseph stood up unsteadily, grasping his olivewood cane for support. Ah well, time to start something. It was traditional back when he was younger, when toasting the Fuhrer to break the glass so no one could wish him ill with the same receptacle used to toast him. Joseph had a brilliant idea as to where his scotch glass was landing. He picked it up, swayed slightly, cocked his arm back and threw the glass straight at the group of tourists. It struck the sweating forehead of one, bounced off, and shattered on the floor. Glass spread everywhere.

"Get on your fucking plane and get out of Rio, you scummy Ami." he snarled in thickly accented English. "Your fat carcass has no business here, and you're only annoying people. Most of all me. I want to get even more pissed than I already am, and your voice is spoiling it for me."

[Locutus Ferox]

A tall man who appeared to be in his late twenties or possibly into his thirties, sat in the far corner within the small establishment. He was out of direct sight of most of the patrons within the bar. Though even as far as being in the corner, he still eluded people more than he should have. His head was cast in shadows within the hood he wore, and his body was covered almost completely in black clothing. His getup was far too heavy to be comfortable in. It was a miracle he didn't stifle in the heat. Yet through it all he seemed fine.

Upon the table next to his leg was a short blade that had been stuck between two of the wooden planks that made up the table. Though short was a perspective. The blade itself was easily a foot and a half long, undeniably a short sword. Unless one were an idiot they would never mistake it for anything but a weapon used to carve up a man in a fight. It bore an almost mixed euro-Asian elegance with a flair of fantasy... only a flair. Another twirled slowly in his hand as he sat in utter silence.

He was somewhat amused. "Joseph Goebbels." A faint chuckle escaped him as he said the name within his head. Here was a man who seemed so bent out of shape over his own issues, that he took them out, quite frequently.... and violently on anyone who got in his way. It was a curious sight. His eyes followed, his ears perked. "Happy birthday". It had been said in German, but he understood it clearly. His eyes then slowly rotated left, then right. He was unsurprised when he saw no one Joseph could be talking to. Honoring a dead friend. It was another thing he was not unfamiliar with. After all how many times had his memories drawn back to those he had developed one form of bond or another with.

One couldn't quite tell it from a glance by looking towards the man, but if they looked hard enough they would see the wood and flora around him becoming a faint shade greener as the man thought. His eyes then turned to that brace upon Mister Goebbels leg. Slowly within his mind he gathered thoughts, contemplated actions. A wound that still bugs him, lost friends. A story of pain. Pain spent drowned away by the poison humans had developed. The world hadn't changed as much as he first thought it would seem.

Finally a smirk dawned upon his lips, not that the general populace could see it. His eyes watched the glass leave the man's hand, already he knew where it was going. He watched it smash against the man's forehead. "Temper temper...." he chuckled as the thought echoed into the distance within his mind. Then his words came out and Locutus couldn't help but shake his head. So the war was still his scape goat after all these years? He would have thought by now the man would come up with some better excuse. But then people had a hard time letting things go....

Finally after he was done with his little speech Locutus couldn't help but to let out a short audible laugh. The voice carried across the little establishment easily. It was a that deep full voice one would expect from anyone who looked like him. Then in perfect, fluid, American accented English, he spoke. "Not very nice, now are we? Mister Goebbels." It was now that attention might be drawn his way from various patrons, which indeed it was. People here and there finally took notice of the armed man within the corner, twirling a weapon within his hand.

The bartender made a move as if he planned on calling some form of security, but a sharp gaze towards him from that deep hooded face caused the man to stop and back away to where he had been prior. He then continued to address the previous "problem causer." "You'll draw a lot of attention to yourself, Mister Goebbels, if you keep making huge scenes. Especially, if you keep it centered around hating Americans, and especially...with that leg of yours in that condition. Unless... you learned how to soar above your....shortcomings?" The emphasis he put on soar and shortcomings was unmistakable, and suggested he may know something.

Now he simply waited to see how the man would react. If it was anything like he predicted, the man would not take kindly to an "American" chiding him...

[Joseph Goebbels]

Joseph registered the other man talking to him, but his eyes were on the Americans. They slunk off with muttered comments as to his rudeness, embarrassed by the whole situation. When they left Joseph turned to look at him. He would have mistaken him for a very strong, tall local at first, what with the darker skin and eyes. But no, from his accent he was clearly American. What the hell was with Rio these days? Was it now the it spot to be for these mouthbreathers? Clearly, he had to move to some less civilized part of the country to get some peace. Perhaps to Chile or something, where he could drink himself to death on the beach and be done with it.

In the meantime, he had this one to deal with. When the man spoke of soaring, of shortcomings...his heart froze a bit in his chest and he thought of running. Well, as best as he was able to. A hunter? Nazi hunters were deplorable, evil things. Hunting down old men who wanted to retire and drink away their pain, then locking them up to die alone...mocked by the media. He had no desire to be the latest 'find'. He slunk to Locutus' table and sat down, eyeing him across the small, round, abused piece of furniture. "Listen. If you're planning on dragging me up to America to face my...'Crimes Against Humanity'... you can forget it. You obviously know my name, thus you know who I am. Anyone with a phone and Google could figure that one out. But I swear, cuff me and I'll find some way to kill myself over the six thousand miles you have to drag my sorry carcass." he warned, pointing a long, skinny finger at the man's face.

He was putting on a brave face...this man looked like he could twist him in two like a sailor with a length of rope, and he could certainly pull him around like a sack of grain. "I thought your kind had something better to do than run across the globe because of your guilt." he muttered, and signalled to the bartender to give him another drink. He was feeling that drunken buzz, the one that drove away the pain in his leg and made him much less likely to tolerate people he disliked.

"You've had enough, senor. You broke my glass, that's the sixth one this month and you've got a tab that's been snowballing." the slightly rattled man told him sourly.

"Look, Escobar, you could give a man a break." Joseph said in an odd, German-infused Spanish tongue. The bartender shook his head and ignored his pleas for drink. Joseph sighed and ran his hand down his thin face, looking at Locutus. Alright, so he had to deal with this without a drink. "You are a hunter aren't you?" he asked. If not, then my drunk ass might have made a huge mistake mentioning that to an Ami, he thought.

[Locutus Ferox]

The man chuckles in that deep accent of his as Joseph made his way over to the table. Still he did not adjust his pose. He kept his feet up upon that table and watched his approach. That vicious looking blade still twirled ever so slowly within his hand as he idly played with it. The look on Joseph's face was another amusing factor. Even if he tried to hide it, the short, brief instant that reaction was caught.

He then bowed his head slightly as Joseph took a seat. His gaze turning solely upon the man in front of him now. At this distance the other man might notice that despite all his clothing, no air of sweat came of the man, in fact, his nose might have trouble picking up any scent at all, save for that of the wilderness around them.

It wasn't a moment between sitting down when Joseph started to go off about his past crimes. It was all Locutus could do to keep from bursting into another chuckle. Phones and google, it was all rather amusing. He thought the deity needed a human device to know about him? To be honest, for a moment, the deity felt....almost slightly insulted. Almost. "But I swear, cuff me and I'll find some way to kill myself over the six thousand miles you have to drag my sorry carcass." This brought a grin to Loctutus's face, and then a raise of his brow at the pointing.

After he was sure the man was finished, at least long enough to take a breather, the dark clad man leaned forward slightly enough to enter a slight whisper as he spoke with the man. His eyes wondered off as if watching the crowd as he did. "And what makes you think I would let you, Mister Goebbels? What makes you think you would have the chance?"

He let those questions hang in the air, ignoring the last inquiry all together, as the bartender came to the table. He looked up at the man as he would inevitably turn his attention to him after finishing with Goebbels. Locutus would give a slight nod to the man, who would take the glass that was sitting on the far edge of the table, and take it up to the bar to refill it. Not that it should be a surprise to any, but the glass would have been returned filled with water.... would, if it were not for the sudden event that happened as the bartender turned to leave.

Perhaps the man had gotten cocky, or perhaps he found the bartender's presence would prove to be enough of a distraction, however, either way, the result proved that it was a mistake. Locutus didn't bother looking over, but he could already feel it. In the far corner, one of the "locals" had gotten nervous between the sudden outburst from Goebbels and the suddenly announced presence of a man he had never seen in the corner, who appeared to be armed. He reached to his waist and drew out a small hold-out pistol.

At the same time Locutus's blade was finishing it's rounding sweep as it was twirled. When it finished it's arc his fingers grasped around it tightly the muscles on his arms visibly flexing as he did so. Then as the man was leveling his pistol out for a sudden shot, Locutus brought the blade in towards his chest.

The entire situation may have lasted all of but a few seconds. To most of the people in the room, they would never know what happened till it was all over. In a single instant a man drew a pistol and fired it straight at Locutus's chest. Not many knew it, but the man had a record on him, he was an expert shot, ex-military, but then again, who around here wasn't. His aim was perfect, dead on. All the locals knew however, was that suddenly a shot rang out in the small establishment.

When everyone turned to look. All they saw was a man standing amidst them wide eyed. It was then that they would notice the oddity. Above the man's eyes stood the hilt of a blade sunk impossibly all the way in. Those who had seen the blade before knew how long it was, and those behind the man could see the end of it sticking out the far side. In the next instant the man would drop to the floor in a crumple, gun included. Strike one.

Their gaze would then follow what had previously been the now deceased man's line of sight. There they would see the two men. Joseph Goebbels and Locutus. However the two men, or at least Locutus, seemed focused on their own conversation. Locutus's hand and arm however, were now extended outward towards where the dead man had been standing.

Joseph Goebbels and perhaps any other extremely keen eyed people who may have been paying attention to Locutus, however, would have seen it all. In that brief instant, they would have seen the blade stop and pull back to his chest. That's when it became weird. Goebbels would perhaps be the only one to see it, but that bullet didn't miss. It's aim had been dead on, and should have killed the man sitting next to him. But suddenly, Locutus's arm, and by extension the blade in his hand, started to move again. In mid swing the blade caught the bullet right smack center. It cut through the high speed, molting lead round at a slight angle from horizontal. The blade's path cause enough of a disturbance, that the, now two, projectiles arced off to either side of the man by an extremely narrow margin. The skin of your teeth kind.

The blade however, kept moving, to where it would eventually lodge itself, hilt deep, within the assailants head. All of that occurred in a single instant. Most never would have heard the second clack of the split round striking an object behind him. To most, one man had utterly defied death, and brought an unimaginable death upon another inexplicably.

Locutus however did not seem the least bit interrupted or disturbed about the sudden attempt on his life. He instead kept his attention upon Goebbels, as he finished his little rambling. Then Goebbel's asked the question "You are a hunter aren't you?" At the very same time, before he could finish, Locutus provided an answer. "No, I am not a hunter. Though I don't know whether or not I should be flattered that you would think so." The fact that he had an answer before the question was asked however, proved that he did know something. Exactly what that was, or who he was, was left to question.

[Joseph Goebbels]

Joseph's eyes flew to the dead man. It took a few seconds to register in his head exactly what had happened, especially as alcohol was fogging his brain. This strong gentleman in front of him had just killed a man with a sword to the skull...from across the room. He swore he'd seen and heard a gunshot. It must've missed, otherwise his conversational companion would have been dead.

Wouldn't he?

Either way, this was his cue. The sight of a dead man was enough to make the other bar patrons reinact that odd ballet of chaos. It usually involved everyone running like hell for the exit, and the bartender taking off into the back. Joseph knew better than to think that Escobar was going for a phone. No, he'd be long gone out the back door and down the street. Joseph's own heart was pounding. If this man wanted him dead, and it certainly seemed that he'd be the type to try and kill him...he'd have to see how good he was at moving targets. He briefly considered the threat Locutus had given him...he'd not even have the chance.

Well, this man didn't know he was dealing with something a bit more unusual than just a crippled old refugee. The panic in his heart and adrenaline in his veins was giving him a peculiar, familiar itch along his fingers and upper arms. It would only take a few seconds, then this crazy fucker would never be able to track him down again. At least, Joseph hoped he had that bit of anonymity. Joseph tensed for a few seconds, then scrambled out of the chair. He'd done this a few times, practiced alone by himself...but had only really performed it once.

There was an unusual crackling sound filling the air, like several flashbulbs going off at once. A small flash of light, and a large falcon flew out of the bar, flapping broad, barred wings. It was an orange-breasted hawk, something quite unusual in South America as it was endemic to colder parts of North America. The only upshot being...it would blend in nicely with all the brick buildings, being reddish with a small body. His broad wings were suited to soaring through forests, and narrow spaces were his speciality. He was, however, weighed down by a steel brace he clutched in both claws, something he wasn't able to transform with.

Joseph could feel his intelligence...numbed. Not quite animalistic, but more as if his true self was sitting on a chair in the back of his mind, observing the bird guiding him up through the powerlines of Rio. The brace felt like a cement block, but he didn't dare drop it. It was the only thing that allowed him to move around somewhat normally. His falcon body let out a large keen, confused, panicked, unsure of the heat and unfamiliar territory. This was nothing like Germany, and Joseph had a horrid knack for throwing the beast part of himself into horrid situations.
Come to think of it, the last time he'd done this, he'd been fleeing the Russians.

The olivewood cane stood on its end for a moment, then clattered to the floor before Locutus in the empty bar.

[Locutus Ferox]

Locutus sat unmoving after the man had fallen. The time between the gunshot and the sudden scramble of the natives and tourists was short, but it was amusing. Silence filled that quick gap as their human minds struggled to comprehend what had just occurred, but when they did, they wasted no time becoming disorganized. The disorganized flight of terror only served to slow them down in their attempt to escape the perceived threat. Eventually however, they would all escape out their relative exits, leaving just Goebbels and Locutus in the empty bar, even if that didn't last.

But that panic he had caused only occupied the furthest back portion of his mind. He kept his attention on Goebbels, for he was the deity's current point of interest. Not these lowlife humans who had no clue what they were dealing with. A part of him, a very small part, was a bit disappointed he had to kill the foolish, jumpy man. But that part quickly disappeared. The man had been foolish enough to attempt to take the life of a god. Even if it was doomed from the start, between the ignorant arrogance and the annoyance caused by the act, the man couldn't be allowed to live.

It, however, seemed that Goebbels too was caught unaware of what he faced, for it was not but seconds between the last of the humans departing, and Goebbels sudden transformation. But, like with the reaction of the others, Locutus showed no surprise. With the sudden departure of the man he had been talking to, Locutus was left looking at empty air. His eyes turned to the cane as it fell to the floor. As the proverbial dust settled he looked back up to where he had been. Then his gaze swept left, and then right.

His eyes then fell upon a curious sight. Hidden along the side of the room near the wall, was a man, hiding underneath the table. Locutus wasn't sure if the man thought he couldn't see him (or at least had thought the deity couldn't see him, till the two met eye to eye), but the man clearly had decided to take shelter under a table, as if that would save him. Locutus nodded his head towards the nearest door, and the man took the signal without question. He suddenly clamored up, knocking the table flying as he ran in terror out the indicated exit.

Now that he was alone, the Deity leaned back into his chair once more, pushing it back off it's front legs, so that he could lean against the wall. It was then that he reached out to the adjacent wall with his now empty right hand, and grasped a glass half-full of water that no one had taken the time to notice. He picked it up and brought it up to his lips for a sip, as if he had not just caused an entire room of people to clear out.

At length he finally emptied the glass, taking his sweet time. He then slid his boots off the table and gently set the glass upon the table. He then pushed himself to his feet, grabbing the other blade he had wedged in between the planks of the table, and made his way over to the fallen man. He looked at the small weapon in his hand with a look of disapproval, and then leaned down to casually withdraw the sword from his skull. It slid cleanly out without him having to hold the body down. He then wiped it down on the clothing the man had worn. After he finished cleaning the blade he would slide both into their sheaths.

At this point he took another look around the empty bar and then reached down to pat the man's pockets. When he found what he was looking for he dug into the pocket and withdrew the man's wallet. He opened it up and rifled through it quite carelessly. He withdrew the entire count of bills the man had brought with him and folded them up.

he stood back up and made his way to the front counter. Without stopping, he placed his hand upon the old wooden surface and hopped over it, clearing it easily. He then placed the folded up money within one of the back shelves. He may have only been recently returned, but he estimated the money present would be more than enough to pay for any of the damages caused in the scene, including Goebbels outburst. He placed it so that while the common looter, should he show up, wouldn't catch it at a glance, but the bartender would certainly find it in a day to day activity. He then folded the wallet up and slid it into his own pocket. No point in giving away the source of his "generosity" after all.

After he had "Squared away the bill" he hopped back over the counter in much the same fashion. He spared one last glance around the establishment, as if making sure he didn't miss anything, and then he turned towards the nearest exit. He set off towards the selected exit, to leave the establishment when he came to a halt by the door. He slowly turned and looked to the floor in front of where he had been sitting, to where the cane now sat upon the floor. He took in a deep breath and at length walked over to the cane at that slow pace he had set, and picked it up. He then looked at his near trench coat get up and sighed.

After a moment he turned back towards the exit, walking out now, with cane in tow, or rather in arm. Sat upon the chair he had been leaning in was his his coat, cloak and chain-mail shirt. Well rather just a set of them. He was a deity and could spawn such things at will, but he chose to go with the lighter (Even if still black) tank top he had on underneath. It did him no harm of course, to leave those articles behind. No level of forensics, paranormal or otherwise, would ever uncover anything about them other than the fact they were indeed real, and were indeed made out of what they looked to be made from. For all intents and purposes it was as if they had just come off the assembly-line with no DNA. The only difference was they visually appeared to have been worn.

Locutus thought about shifting into another bird to give chase to the man, but instead he decided he wanted to have a bit of fun with him first. At the edges of his mind he sensed the bird still flying high up in the air, dodging this way and that, looking for something, perhaps a place of refuge. While the bird-man flew up in the skies above, Locutus wandered around upon the ground at his leisurely pace, going no where specifically and waiting for the bird to land, for the next part of his game to start. It was certain that those who had been in the bar were now scattered through the city, and he was sure his likeness would be passed around to just about everyone. But, just what was his likeness? What was it the locals thought they had saw? After all he had been hooded and heavily dressed, but he was also a deity, able to distort the minds of others, even in such numbers, without too much difficulty. Granted he didn't enjoy doing such, but the man had left him with little alternative.

So Locutus meandered through town, watching as locals and tourists alike darted around in this semi-chaos, undoubtedly attempting to come up with some form of resolution to this latest, unlikely turn of events. If anyone found it odd that he was casually walking, and in the opposite direction, without an apparent care in the world, they didn't voice it, or even give him a second glance. They were far too busy in a world of their own.

He would continue this slow gait through town, enjoying the sights and the sounds, waiting like a shark... or perhaps a wolf, for his prey to come within his grasp. Not that he couldn't do all sorts of things to that flying hawk. A bolt of lighting... a blast of fire... hell even a meteor. But now what fun would that be? Locutus had all the time in the world to wait for this man to come down on his own terms, and then Locutus would make his move.

[Joseph Goebbels]

Joseph steered the hawk to a small, cramped apartment overlooking the main thoroughfare. He settled on the small balcony and dropped the brace, fluttering down onto the cracked concrete. He transformed back, breathing hard, his arms burning. He grabbed the brace and slid it back onto his foot, growling in pain. He avoided doing that whenever possible...now he'd have to get a new cane. He could walk without it, but it meant he could walk around longer if he had the olivewood in hand. He slid the sliding door to the left and stumbled into his home. It was a modest apartment, but he had quite a bit of money.

Even though he had left Deutschland with nothing, he had returned to the ruined, chaotic country to scavenge. A good medal or flag sold for hundreds or even thousands of dollars. He'd sold his diaries for even more. But that was all being drained away in a bottle...the rent was covered for the next year, cash, no questions asked. He sat down heavily in a chair, running his hand over his face. He gazed around the room. A painting of the Fuhrer, a flag in the corner...photos of his family, of events that had long since been forgotten by history. He got up slowly, favouring his leg, and headed toward the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge. It wasn't particularly surprising to see that most of his meals were planned to be liquid this month. He pulled out a bottle of scotch and twisted off the cap.

He drained the neck of the bottle, closing his eyes. He'd narrowly escaped, and now...what? Did the man know where he lived? His lifestyle? Well, that wasn't too hard to figure out. Drinking, sleeping and crying was the cycle he lived his life by. Could he pack and get away in time? Hell, he could barely carry an armful of books on a good day, much less a suitcase. He had to hope he'd lost the man, and lock his door for good measure. He limped to the door and slammed the deadbolt into place, his eyes flicking back to the portrait. "Don't look at me like that." he grumbled. "You took the easy way out."

[Locutus Ferox]

Locutus kept his attention turned upward, waiting for that bird of prey to land. Meanwhile he watched the denizens scramble about either finding weapons and hunkering down, or trying to find a good place to watch what they seemed to expect to be a brawl. It all reminded Locutus of what they called a western shootout.

That brought on another thought which caused the man to chuckle. "Don't bring a knife to a gunfight," was a saying he had heard. Well, he had disproved that theory hadn't he? Or at least, one might consider as much, considering the man still clutching the gun was lying on the floor of that establishment, quite dead.

Finally his gaze flicked to the side to gaze off into the distance. The bird had landed. It appeared to be some sort of apartment complex. Like everything else in the area it was fairly run down. No surprise given the local environment. He gave a sigh and looked about. He would have to finish looking about later. For now---

-- He leaned upon one of the far corners of the small apartment as Joseph made his way to the door, locking the deadbolt. A smile dawned on his features for only a short moment. His eyes darted around the room, taking it all in at a quick glance before his eyes settled upon the portrait on one side of the room. Joseph also turned to face, and even speak to the portrait. He was obviously trying to comfort himself. Locutus had unsettled him. It was good to know the man was taking seriously. Well as seriously as he believed the situation to be.

Locutus would then chuckle softly, enough to be heard by the apartment owner's ears. "Did you know you blame others for your own problems? Especially when your drunk. It would be a bitter irony if you let that get you killed on the anniversary of your old friend's birthday."

The tall man looked to the side. "You also left your refrigerator open....." Locutus's eyes then turned back to the man he had been talking to. Now Joseph would be able to see his face having left the hood back at the bar, he was revealed to be a tall man with a clean-shaven head. His sharp eyes boring into the only other person within the room.

[Joseph Goebbels]

Joseph froze when he heard the voice. He'd locked the door. There wasn't any human way the man had beat a flying falcon, on foot, to this location. It was physically impossible! He screwed the lid on the bottle of liquor, eyeing the apartment. It wasn't crazy to think that the man might've planted something in here to torment him...which also meant he knew exactly where he was and how to get in. Even worse, that he would make a beeline for this location. "I blame myself. And I could give a shit if the liquor gets warm, it's the only damned thing in there." he snapped irritably, turning around in a slow circle until he saw Locutus. His face visibly drained of colour.

No human could have gotten in here so quickly. If someone had sent a supernatural after him...he'd have no choice but to run again, and pray to God someone gave him sanctuary. "Look, you." he set the bottle down on a side table. "Let's settle this like men. Tell me who you are, what exactly you want with me. If you wanted to kill me outright you would have done it when I was sitting across from you. That other man...tried to shoot you...gah...I can't think straight when I'm drunk, but you're clearly not human. Americans try not to hire non-humans, they're more paranoid than I am." He had a plan to get out, but Locutus was near the sliding door, and he'd deadbolted the only other door. It would involve the mystery man shifting from his spot, and a very swift transformation. He could get to another man he knew, a friend. A psychotic friend, but a friend.

But did he really want to run again? What was really the point? Locutus had shown he could easily catch up with him whenever he stopped to rest somwhere.

Joseph stumbled around to the couch and sat down heavily on it, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Just...the room's spinning, you're spinning, I need you to sit down and explain this whole torment-the-old-man thing." he gestured vaguely to a rather tatty old chair across from the couch. "And if it's all the same to you, I'd rather die sober. Something I promised someone." he opened one large, brown eye to look at Locutus. Why did the blurry, bald visage look so familiar? It was hard to fight through the liquor fog in his brain that was catching up to him. The adrenaline gone, alcohol rushed to take its place with a vengeance.

The room was still for a few moments, enough to get his brain calmed down at working. This man showed up, knew who he was, wasn't human at all, and was predisposed to violence. Not a good combination of factors any way he sliced it. If worst came to worst, he'd die from a bullet and not drowning or a plane crash...something at least halfway dignified.

[Locutus Ferox]

Locutus chuckled at the man's reply and even more so when he watched the man's face drain of color. He lifted himself off the wall, producing that cane the man had dropped in his flight, and began to toy with it, smacking the end lightly on the ground and twirling it. He then paced in front of that window, not quite ready to move away from it yet, as he listened to Joseph question and accuse.

Finally he tilted his head and nodded. "You are right a bout a few things mister Goebbels. One, I'm not your average every day human. But then again, I'd thought that was pretty clear back at the bar. Also yes. The man back there tried to kill me. Lucky it was me who drew his attention and not you, or I assure you, in your drunken state, you would be quite dead." He was taking his time, attending to the already known and inconsequential topics before getting to the questions Goebbels really wanted answered.

"Thirdly, yes, you correctly guessed that I was not hired by an American, but I will go a step further. I was not hired at all. The reasons I am here are mine alone." For a moment he stopped pacing looking to the side out the window, but not taking the other man out of his physical sight. He then looked back to the man on the couch. "And lastly, if I wanted to kill you publicly, yes I could have easily done so." He worded it in a way as to not quite assuage the man that he had no intention of killing him, but to assert the answer within the man's head that, yes, had he wanted to at the time, he likely could have killed him right then and there.

So now Locutus finally started over to the gestured chair, though he wasn't quite ready to sit. "Lets assume for a moment that I'm not here to kill you....yet. That I, for all intents and purposes want you alive. Then what? Would you still fly out that window in a vain attempt to escape? But, then you assumed I wanted to bring you harm in the first place. Either you have a guilty conscience or you like to assume a lot. I had not raised a hand against you. Why, mister Goebbels are you so jumpy?"

[Joseph Goebbels]

Goebbels could feel his blood pressure lowering with each sentance. So this man didn't want to kill him. Not yet at least. That was a relief...he'd had so many people, whole countries even, that were furious with him. He knew a great many people would love to see him skinned publicly like some sort of prized rabbit. Americans, Brits, Poles, French, hell even their own allies like Spain, Italy and Austria. Germany itself would be the most likely to string him up and cut him apart. Ironic how his own people had turned on his kind like vicious dogs, tearing apart their own.

Hadn't he heard a parable once about a man who had saved a snake from starvation, only to be bit and killed when he moved to pet it? Some situation like that.

The point was, nearly every human on the planet wanted him dead, and with most of the high ranking members of his party either dead from suicide or hung...he was the last one to be hunted down and shot. It only contributed to the extreme sense of paranoia he'd been nursing all of his life, and made it worse. Here he thought he was safe, people here had accepted himself and Mengele without too much issue, and they had disappeared. He looked up at Locutus when the man asked why he was so jumpy.

"I've had three houses burned down, seen all my friends shot, including my family...I've seen shit you can't imagine in your worst nightmares. And it's all because a list of countries longer than my forearm want to drag me back, string me up, and give me a very long painful death. Or at the very least talk me to death in court." he said. "So when someone appears out of the blue, calls you by name, in English no less...wouldn't you jump a bit out of your skin? Besides, out of two living high rankers I'm the easy target. The other one is ninety years old, lives out in the middle of god knows where, and is a confirmed psychopath I avoided even when he was on my own side. So, you can see why I'd be the easy target. Additionally, I can't exactly run a marathon." he lifted his brace a moment then set it down with a heavy clink on the floor.

He dug in his pockets for another cigarette and lit it, taking a deep breath and blowing black smoke into the air. "Assuming you're not going to strip me naked and parade me through the streets with a sign on my back...what else do you want with me, hm? I'm useless. The only two gifts I have are writing and music...and whatever you saw there on the balcony." he said, chewing the end of the cigarette nervously. "Sit down dammit, you're making me nervous. It's like having some wierd muscular tree standing in front of me."

[Locutus Ferox]

The man tilted his head as her watched the old former Nazi slowly come to a calm. The cane twisted in flight and began to spin the other direction as he patiently listened to Goebbels explain his paranoia. Finally it set back down upon the ground as Goebbels' finished the first part.

"You claim you have lost everything, and yet, you fear for your life? What is it Mister Goebbels that makes living so worth it to you? You spend most of your days drunk or numbed on toxins that should by all rights kill you. You lost your family, your friends. Now you claim to be alone, and yet, you fear death. Most men in your situation would approach things from the angle that they have nothing to lose, unless, perhaps you do have something. In which case that makes your paranoia argument incorrect, no?"

"Additionally you live with regrets. Otherwise again you would not fear death. You're obviously denying it at some level..." As he says that he looks over to the portrait on the wall. "Otherwise you'd face the firing squads openly. What better way than to die for a cause? Unless you didn't fully believe in it. But that, in itself, raises other questions Mister Goebbels. Why then, if you have regrets, did you do it? Did they threaten you and your family with death if you refused? Did you not realize what it was you were getting into? Or did you simply not say anything at all, and let it become what you feared?"

He grilled the man giving him not a moment of peace as he dissected his life. The questions themselves were, mostly, inconsequential, at worst they were an attempt to keep him on his toes, at best, their answers would at least give him a slight insight into the man's skull without having to dig....too deeply.He rattled the cage before letting Goebbels continue.

"Why am I here? Well, Mister Goebbels, you see that is a very good question. I do hope that transformation of yours didn't scramble your brains too much, or did you forget what I asked you at the bar? Just because you're not dead yet doesn't mean you are out of the woods by any means." With that the tall muscular man chuckled, his grip on the cane tightened and the muscles in his arms visibly flexed. It wasn't a threat in itself, but rather perhaps another move to keep him on edge, that's where Locutus liked him for the moment. It would also help the self-pitying old man concentrate through his intoxication.

Finally he was asked...rather demanded, to sit once again. He turned his gaze back to the chair, and then back towards Joseph. "I won't have to get up again if I sit down, will I?" Without waiting for an answer he simply sat down upon the chair, which protested slightly under his muscled weight. The question however did not appear to be rhetorical given the way he looked at Goebbels as he waited for a reply.

"One thing Mister Goebbels, you presume too much. Your first mistake was that I needed outside help to know what I do about you. Your second was that I was a hunter. Your third was that you could get away with some cheap parlor trick. Your fourth was that your door would stop me. Then your fifth, that you think you've seen the worst this world has to offer. You may be somewhat more educated than the majority of people. But I am here to tell you, out of all of those presumptions? They're all wrong." With that he sat back and let the man retort. He knew there was a retort coming, the man was too stubbornly proud of what abilities he did have, not to.

[Joseph Goebbels]

"Maybe I fear what happens to me after I die, alright? Maybe I like sitting around and drinking myself to death, maybe I deserve to sit in limbo and drown in liquor." Joseph growled. "I have something to lose. If I kill myself, if I submit and drown myself, then those cowards win. They win. I'm not going to lose everything just to admit to myself that they've won." he settled back on the couch. '"I did what I wanted to do all my life. I did my job, I did it well, I did it for people who wanted nothing more than to string us up. You haven't half the information about my life." he said sharply, puffing out smoke. "I did lose everything. But that doesn't mean I give up. I started with nothing, god damn it, we all did! Doesn't mean I just give up. No, I keep on living to be a thorn in the side of those who hate me." he sneered. "Because I have no other purpose to live. When I age and die, finally, then they can crow over my corpse...when they find it. But they're going to have to live with the fact that no matter how many people they shot, questioned, beat up...they couldn't find my skinny crippled ass. I'm not giving them the satisfaction of burying me under a landfill or something. I fear death, I admit it! But I'm not a fucking soldier. I'm a musician, I'm a writer, I'm a politician. None of those things require bravery."

Joseph knew it was petty, staying alive just to annoy someone else, but he liked it. He was a sarcastic, cynical, sanctimonious bastard and he loved the idea of someone getting frustrated over catching him. "So, will you stop telling me what I'm assuming wrong and tell me the actual reason? Hm? The mysterious stranger thing is getting old quickly." he grumbled around the cigarette. He eyed Locutus. "Look, I'm too god damn drunk to deal with this right now. Either shoot me, or let me go to bed so I can talk to you in the morning." he stood up slowly, grabbing the arm of the couch. "You're welcome to sleep on the couch. It's unlikely I can shove you out of my house anway, you're built stronger than my icebox. Don't steal anything, this stuff's worthless. Just memories. You can tell me why you're torturing me over my morning drink." he grumbled, heading down a small hallway to a bedroom.

It was humble, just a mattress on the floor with blankets. He kept it neat and clean despite the frameless sleeping arrangement, with a lamp setting by it and a few pictures of his family in place of a nightstand. He stripped off his coat and shirt, tossing it in a corner and laying down on his back. He sighed and blew smoke at the cieling, looking over to a picture of Magda. He missed her, so badly. They hadn't had a perfect life together, but they had loved each other dearly. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, cigarette between his thin lips.

Frankly, he hoped Locutus would just leave him alone to drink. But he was curious as to why this man was wandering around tormenting him. Might be an interesting break from throwing up and enjoying hangovers every morning.

[Locutus Ferox]

So the man did fear death. Least he admitted it. Most flat out denied it, tried to rationalize their problems and blame it off on something else. Either he was honest, too drunk, or too tired. Perhaps a bit of all three. Amusingly enough the man jumped to another conclusion in his little rant.

Locutus was about to open his mouth to address that when Joseph started off again. He closed his mouth and waited till the man seemed to be finished a second time. Then the deity opened his mouth to speak again, nope. Now the man began talk of sleep. What had Locutus just asked about having to get back up..... and here he was talking about going to sleep. The god shook his head as the man got up but said nothing. He watched Joseph wander off, rambling more and more about Morning drinks or sleeping here, doing that. At this point the deity had stopped paying attention. He began to idly look around the room again until finally the man trailed off, apparently having finally shut up and having gone to sleep. Normally Locutus wasn't the type to simply stop listening, but the man was drunk and obviously just going off about inconsequential things that really didn't interest him, and he had no intention of keeping the man up.

After awhile he'd stand up, walking over in the same direction that Goebbels had gone. He walked down the hall quietly till he reached that doorway. There he'd place the cane upon the frame of the door before wandering back into the main room. He slowly circled around the room, looking at everything the man had left on display. Photos, portraits, all of it had a story to tell.

When he had finished browsing what was left of the man's life, or at least what he displayed of it, the statuesque man walked out to the balcony where he gazed off into the distance. He of course contemplated leaving and coming back in the morning, but knowing Goebbels, he'd likely attempt to slip away sometime in the night. That's likely why he suggested sleeping on the couch. He probably incorrectly thought he'd be able to slip away.

Locutus spent the night standing there, watching the view for most of the evening. On occasion various creatures happened his way and stayed with him for awhile, communicating in their own way. However, he mostly spent it gazing distantly into the sky, especially when the stars came out.

If Goebbels made no attempt to flee into the night then he would remain there until morning too. Locutus took morning literally too, much like Goebbels friends likely did. Before the sun even came up he turned back into the apartment and went towards the kitchen. He pieced together a cold meal, one that, while still far more than just edible, would not produce a very noticeable smell for the sleeping man, but still be there when he woke up. The ingredients he'd either find or have to produce himself, but the meal was quickly made. Next he found a glass, making sure it was clean, and filled it with sweet water. Goebbels likely wouldn't care for it, but that was his problem. He left the breakfast there and set about towards the balcony again to where he would wait for Goebbels to crawl out of bed. He considered waking him up... but then that would ruin the surprise wouldn't it?

[Joseph Goebbels]

Joseph slept the entire night, only waking to throw up or drag himself down the short hallway to the bathroom. It was restless sleep, fitful, turning from side to back. When he finally woke the sun was streaming through a covered window in his room, blades of light striking the shades. He rubbed his eyes and through his hair, his eyes slowly going to the hallway. Hopefully Locutus had actually left, so his curiosity could die off on its own. He sat up, looking around the dingy room, then got up to scavenge some halfway clean clothes from around the room. God, he missed waking up to six children bouncing on him demanding breakfast.
He pulled a ratty shirt on and buttoned it up, grabbing his pants.

He was slightly shocked to see breakfast on the counter when he wandered into the kitchen. Bread and fruit? More than his stomach had eaten in a while. Even at a good weight his under-five-foot frame was only above a hundred pounds, 115 was his average. Now he was slipping down to under a hundred due to his horrific diet of liquor. His stomach smelled the fruit and reminded him of how god damn hungry he was. He eyed Locutus, standing there at the balcony, then tucked into the food.
The minute it hit his mouth hunger hit him for full force. He shoveled it down his throat, finishing the plate off quickly. There was liklihood of him being sick later, but he didn't particularly care at the moment.

He lit a cigarette and wandered outside to join Locutus, leaning his arms on the balcony. "Thank you." he told him, blowing smoke into the air. "I needed that." He gave Locutus a small smile. He was sober, with food in his belly. "So...tell me the whole story. Why you came here, et cetera...have you been out here on the balcony all night? This place has too many big fucking spiders for me to even think about doing that." he said, offering Locutus a cigarette. His mood was vastly improved by the food and sleep, and he was ready for a good long bit of conversation. "Listen, sorry about my attitude last night. Too much drink, not enough common sense."

Joseph stood there and smoked, nicotine rushing into his system. It perked him up in the morning, since he'd had to give up on coffee for the moment.