Meanwhile, our remaining t-shirts are available at Convention Special Price, for $12 each plus $3.00 for shipping & handling.
Plotted by Joseph Braband and Cecil Disharoon Scripted by Cecil Disharoon
"The Mind of the Father riding on the subtle guiders
which glitter with the inflexible tracings
of relentless fire." ---Zoroaster
two poor boys, dark hair, eyes, skin, one a head taller than the other, play soccer in a muddy lot outside in moonlight beside warehouse. The smaller boy turns his back to kick the ball up on his heel,
then tries a bicycle kick pass.
The kick sends the ball over the other boy’s head, but the bicycle-kicking boy vanishes, for no reason we can see;
his playmate chases the ball, and dribbles it back towards where his friend should be---where is he?
A man appears, spreads his cape in the silhouette, and the boy hears “don’t be afraid” in his head. He sees a grim pair of brown eyes,
the cloak folds over them both, whipping with a life of its own,
and the boy suddenly appears four blocks away, beside his startled friend.
They watch in wonder as a man in a purple body suit says “Vamos a casa!” spins his orange cloak around himself,
and in an instant, it whips, twists into the thin air---vanishing!
“Rafael! Rafael!”cries the tallest one, pulling vigorously on the smaller one’s sleeve, who says "El Diablo..."
Devil-Slayer steps out of his cloak from the shadows of a warehouse, where eight men gather around several crates, opened to reveal machine gun parts.
As he watches them closely, thoughts from their heads sound off in his mind; he hears plans, names, cities, times---that these guns were laundered by the American Tabacco and Firearms agency, betrayed by one of the men standing before the rest.
“His mind...too opaque to read clearly” thinks Devil-Slayer.
Suddenly (in extreme close up) he thinks, “sixth sense!”
and pictures an image, as though through infra-red, for a flash: an enormous man, hefting a massive crate above his head.
Devil-Slayer rolls out of the way, and directly where he had crouched comes a shattering wooden crate.
He senses the sound calls the attention of the gangsters in his direction. Now he draws his cloak about himself, to again vanish...
...reappearing behind the vigilant gangsters. Without a sound, he spins and kicks one in the head, drops,
---and from his cloak, he suddenly possesses a jo ( a four foot wooden pole), which he uses with two hands to whack one gangster in the head,
then drill its flat point into his face.
Before the armed thug nearest him (bald, with a tear drop tattoo on his eyelid, a two inch scar on his cheek) can open fire,
the shadow cloak, as though alive, envelopes the gun, which then vanishes. This, the thugs cannot believe.
Now the one he does not believe is human draws a pistol; Devil Slayer rolls to bring himself close to this false official, grabs his arm as though he is about to smash him, but with the other hand pulls the closest gangster, freshly disarmed, forward.
With a tug of his cape, they vanish along with him, leaving the other five standing there, dumbfounded.
One of them attempts to flee, but one of his fellows, a goateed biker in denim, shoots him in the leg.
As that man cries out, the biker tells them, in Spanish, to fan out.
On another plane of existence, the displaced men float a few yards from Devil-Slayer.
They pass through seemingly solid floating stones, without gravity, while Devil-Slayer, a tall, physically-fit man (possibly resembling Michael Fassbender) clad in deep purple, shadow cloak wafting without gravity, walks towards them upside down across an orange beam of energy that makes a curving path.
Perpendicular lines create a yellow grid as far as the eye can see, across a navy blue atmosphere, sporadically populated with geometric shapes, tiny monsters on asteroids, and an eye of Horus type of thing floating beneath them, watching dispassionately, eternally on. Devil-Slayer speaks.
Now you are outside of human existence as you know it, he says. If you ever want to return, you will cooperate...and you will tell the rest that Devil Slayer is coming...”
He pulls the khaki-clad man with the pistol towards him with his mind. “Reveal to me...”
The “man” takes on a hideous face, reptilian, red, scaly, full of malevolence. “Curse you.”
The other gangster is terrified, praying for all of the saints to save him, quietly.
With his cloak, Devil-Slayer pulls him through the gravity-free void, turns him upside down, and says, “on your neck. Where did you get this six-fingered tattoo?”
The shadow-cloak enfolds them all, growing to surreal size, then they are back in the warehouse, in the rafters. “Digalo,” says Devil-Slayer to the tattooed gangster.
The seemingly-caucasian man in khakis attempts to flee. Below them, the gangster who was shot squirms to his feet, bleeding. He lofts his AK-47 machine gun in an effort to finish off Devil-Slayer.
Devil-Slayer grins, reaches into his cloak, and aims a Tek-9 machine gun. “Guns come cheap,” he says. “Is this how you want to end your life?”
Suddenly, the enormous man from before, now with small horns grown through his scalp, comes rushing into Devil-Slayer, who opens fire at close range.
The tackle carries Devil-Slayer through one of the support studs,
before he is dumped unceremoniously amidst smashed boxes.
The giant’s temples begin to pulse, as though he is transforming horribly; he picks up another crate, to break as many of his foes’ bones as possible.
“Well, screw you, too,” Devil-Slayer says, while gesturing with out-stretched hand.
The crate breaks open, flooding the demon’s face with wholesale screws and washers.
Now Devil-Slayer reaches into his cape and produces a six-foot pike.
He slams the blade directly into the demon’s face with a bellow,
then leaps into the staggering body while blocking a blow with the handle.
He then smashes its blade into his head twice more in the darkness;
the head rolls along the floor.
A helicopter sound above grabs his attention; “the roof,” he thinks, heaving, sweating. Its searchlight is the only illumination, pale.
Upon the roof, Devil-Slayer’s cape unfurls, and he crouches dramatically, making out the form of his fleeing enemy as he climbs onto a lowered rope ladder.
“I remember when I won this dagger,” DS thinks. “The demon I fought had found purchase within my doubts...my hidden fear that, however many demons I destroy, I will never know peace, this war, never know an end. I have learned these battles begin and end with the soul, my soul, and the souls of man, who disguise the nature of this life in lies too kind.”
He flips the dagger like a missile towards the rising enemy.
We see his eyes, narrow. The dagger climbs impossibly higher, lifted by the force of his mind...
guided inexorably between the eyes of the mortally-clad demon.
Stunned by his predicament, the disbelieving demon reverts to his true form,
as he falls to the roof from forty feet above. The helicopter drifts away into the night.
“By this dagger, I found in my heart the belief...the hope...the knowing...someday, this war must end. But first, its battlefield, hidden in the world we know, must be discovered...by the innocents who walk blindly through.”
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While we prepare demos to go gig-shopping again, we have numerous other ideas in the works. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Integr8d-Soul/108962196641
We offer online home concerts, through Ustream (which is free; please tip through Pay Pal!) and Stageit.com We'd love to play for you, personally, or for your party. If you are NOT on the Pacific coast, adjust for time !! We are three hours behind the East Coast, for example.
http://www.stageit.com/coast_to_coast_integr8d_soul/integr8d_sound/4531 copy and paste this to see tickets! Welcome to our concert site! It's easier than visiting all four hundred or so houses we invited but it's almost as fun!!!
our welcome video, for new people on Stageit.com, for example