The Swift Anomaly

Sixth Pulse: Ghoul Gang Glory

Still the Hallway of Intersecting Portals

10:00 P.M.

"I'm slightly concerned about this side business of yours!" Typhon shouts in a hoarse, ragged tone. Theresa smacks him in the face with the back of her hand. She then pops a wad of sticky red gum into his mouth. He winces at the taste, a salty taste of partially chewed gum: it still has some artificial cherry left, but it is molded in the shape of someone else's teeth. Typhon blanches, but notices that tiny stitches run across his previously ripped-up skin on his arms and legs.

"Don't you dare utter those words again. I run a respectable transfer service that your father designed and orchestrated" Theresa drawls in a warning tone. Her smug smile remains, but shuddering wolves with pointed fangs appear in her bright eyes.

The shrapnel bounces off of the tiny girl, as if she repels it with her sheer force of will. Yet, Typhon lacks such power. Instead, he rips the animal bone mask off of his shadowed face and uses it to deflect the majority of the deadly debris. Theresa notes that his facial features remain coated in dusk and unreadable. This is the true appearance of Death's children: the masks are meant to conceal their lack of humanness, their expressionlessness. Even demons and ghouls sob over lost love and crave nourishment (humans make for quite the mouthwatering barbecue). Death's children, however, neither crave nor love as the ghouls and demons do.

Speaking of ghouls, eight of them crash through a nearby medium-size portal situated right above Typhon. They giggle and gossip as they plummet through the air currents. Each ghoul flaunts layers of clay-molded Play Dough flesh- of a greenish-white tone. Their eyes are arranged lopsidedly on their faces and their arms measure approximately three inches shorter than those of a human. Each has curly ringlets of golden hair and is clothed in a trendy crop top and cut off denim shorts.

"Like, no, uh-uh-there is no way that Jeremy and Chloe are a thing" sasses the driver, a pastel pink flip phone sinking into her doughy flesh. The cheery ghoul lounging in the passenger seat props her mangled legs up on the dashboard and plunges her face further into her Teen Scene magazine. The six ghouls jammed into the back are engaged in some serious mani-pedi business.

"Ry, if you don't start to eat right Jay will definitely, absolutely never notice you" warns a ghoul decked out in purple jewelry: plum chunky bracelets, magenta hoop earrings, and a dark purple choker. She slouches in the backseat of the furthermost right hand side of the glossy black Porsche. Theresa tries to avoid visualizing what a ghoul's meal might consist of.

Meanwhile, Typhon ducks just in time as the gang crashes into a nearby portal carved into the ground next to his feet. The ghouls' Porsche melts into the jagged edges, leaving behind only a cacophony of girlish laughter and the clicks of frantic fingers pounding on phone buttons.

"Damn-we should have caught those stuck-up losers while we had the chance!" curses Theresa as she rolls her aching eyes. Her muscles burn in a human way, as much as she hates to admit to such a dangerous weakness. Then, she stumbles and realizes: it's my sixth pulse of the day.

With a yawn that racks her whole body, Theresa pulls an aged Typhon onto the ground. He attempts to jerk away, suddenly embarrassed. Yet, she remains the ever-strong mentor of the duo and wins. He curls up next to her, still on edge. Strangely, he suspects that this portal entrance is some kind of safe haven, despite the ghoul intruders. While the ghouls may recklessly smash through the place, they know better than to mess with its creator. Typhon attempts to dredge up his questions, his suspicions. He arms himself, ready to do battle with this potential harpy-friend of the family-human hater. She clings to him and presses the soft pads of her fingers against his dry, cracked lips.

Then, Theresa vulnerably and hazily drifts off, her daily energy quota drained for the day. Typhon, incapable of human rest, leans against the girl. One of his age-spot specked arms rests on her shoulder, the other rests on a small dagger that he shoved into his robe pocket early that morning. Sighing, he notices that Theresa is almost unbearably frigid: much like his own father.

 Typhon relishes in the chill, but maintains his wariness well into the night. He sinks into a pleasant reverie and checks his arsenal: an array of ruby daggers, hunting knives, and even a nunchaku he stashes in the folds of his cloak. Theresa spent the late hours mumbling to herself, then briefed Typhon on their first taxi job that they would take on tomorrow before collapsing in a heap. He realizes that he ought to meditate and prepare himself, yet he cannot shake the feeling...

SMASH! A solid, heavy sphere smacks into Typhon's already aching skull. And, with a start, Typhon recognizes the disembodied head: that of a young man hell-bent on revenge.