Chapter 5.1: Book Blog: Mayhem, Gore, And A Child's Play

Wow, it's been forever since I made a post. Unfortunately, the end of the quarter combined with wanting to finish NaNoWriMo for the third year in a row made it nigh impossible to be updating as well. But the holidays have come and next quarter shall be filled with less craziness. So hopefully soon there will be an actual post of writing, rather than a video. But though it is rather short, please enjoy this video.



And here is a fanfiction to go with the book Monstrumologist. I did it for class and am rather proud of it and of course, it's about Kearns. I do not own any of the characters or plot, all of which belong to Rick Yancey. And profit is not the aim here, pure entertainment is (you need a disclaimer when posting fanfiction or it's illegal). Also, the name is a play on all the names he gives throughout the novel. Enjoy.

Before The Hunt

Dr. John J.J. Jack Richard Dick Kearns Cory Schmidt of Whitecastle whistled as he strolled through the slums of Baltimore. His cheery disposition was not the only thing that set him apart from the rest of the inhabitants in this part of the city. Over six feet tall and boyishly handsome, this man looked as though he would be comfortable in the company of kings.

His stride was open and easy as though the man had not a care in the world, as though he were simply of a mind to stretch his legs for a bit. He paced through the streets like he belonged to them. His homburg hat perched jauntily upon his stylishly mussed flaxen hair. Everything about him screamed a lack of concern for the world he walked through. But if you chanced to look into his gray eyes, you would see a giddy anticipation for the events he was about to commit.

Tomorrow, he would leave for New Jerusalem at the behest of his old colleague Pellinore Warthrop. A rather naïve fellow as far as those in his profession went, but the circumstances which drove Warthrop to call upon his particular area of expertise intrigued the man, as well as the promise of “all expenses paid.” He didn’t particularly care for wealth, but a man of his peculiar interests and tastes needed the funds to pursue them.

He had everything he believed he needed to hunt the beasts, but there was one task left to him. A task he couldn’t trust Warthrop to complete on his own, given his belief in a set moral code; Warthrop, poor soul, still believed there to be an absolute right and an absolute wrong no matter the circumstances. He however, knew the only morality that mattered was the morality of the moment; there is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

Shame they had to exterminate the beasts, though. There was a simple beauty and elegance in an animal adapted to most effectively secure its prey, and after all, they were only trying to survive the same as their hunters were, or as any other creature of the wild. He could appreciate a beast like that.

A woman under a lamp called out to him, “Hey sweet stuff, are you feeling lonely tonight?” He looked her over, as though he roamed an appreciative eye simply to see whether she was worth the cost. Instead he was fingering the glass cylinder in his pocket and taking stock. He noted the calm, calculation in her eyes, limbs devoid of tremors, and the awareness of her surroundings. This woman would not serve his purposes; she was too in control. He shook his head and moved on.

He paced the streets carefully, not wanting to be hasty with his selection. Half the thrill was in the hunt and he knew that as well as any beast. He bemoaned the woes of marriage with men almost too drunk to walk and tossed dice with a pair of beggars. He himself did not know exactly what he was searching for, what one attribute would distinguish his prey from the rest. But as the saying goes, he’d know it when he found it.

And then of course, he found it, or rather her, though that label seemed almost too generous to apply. She lay, huddled on the side of the road, literally the gutter-ridden dreg of humanity for which he had spent the night searching. Her skin was riddled with pockmarks and scars, skin sagging. Her bulbous nose was the telltale red of an abuser of alcohol and her eyes seemed unable to focus, staring off into the distance when they were even open at all. He feared for a moment that she might be dead, but a shallow breath reassured him: he had found his quarry.

He knelt next to the woman, lifting glazed eyes to his, smiling at her and pulling out the syringe in his pocket. “Hello, dove,” he said quietly, in a refined British accent. “I’m Jack.”