Test
II
“Test”
-------------------
“Stupid fucking git! AGHH!” Roared Creever as he navigated his way subconsciously through the secret tunnels found through the subway station of Lexington Avenue. His withdrawals were becoming more and more debilitating, with every second that passed making him all the more erratic.
Creever was alert and everything but docile. The heroin that was missing from his body was causing it to fall apart slowly, bringing back the hole that was left by Tinkin.
With each march of his legs, Creever’s trauma attacked, making his panic, one which he could never begin to understand himself, grow, causing him to cry out to the air for its protection.
But no protection came… any protection that he had ended when Tinkin died. Now, he was forced to live in the subway stations and tunnels of New York.
He needed heroin.
Rocks from the railroad track cut into his dirty, uncovered feet. Glass, old cigarettes, and litter covered, lacerated, and coated Creever’s feet. The hobo bag he carried everywhere, holding the mysterious note he had, dragged across the differing textures and floors as he journeyed to find his new master.
Jeremy…
A stocky-built man sat at a crown made of heroin packages. His large, white, Santa-like beard could be seen from a mile away in the abandoned train station where he sat. He was blind in his left eye, causing it to go grey.
Every time Creever looked into the old man’s eyes, he was reminded of how much meaning he lost within his own life… cause just like his eyes, his life, too, had greyed, only being colored with the shades of his addiction. On his forehead, he wore a blood red bandana… one that enraged Creever each time he saw it… sparking feelings of envy and jealousy.
The man bellowed a large laugh. Around him were other homeless men and women, all scattered about. Three broken-looking men against one of the walls of the subway station were snorting cocaine, as well as shooting heroin. The group was laughing, sleeping, and panicking.
There were two more homeless people, a strong-looking, tall man talking to a smaller, much younger-looking homeless boy… He couldn’t be older than 19.
“I’ll let you have some of my stash…” said the taller man to the skinny, tiny college student, “Only if you lick my cock clean! If you let me throat-pie your barely-legal mouth, you can have all the ‘H’ I have.” The older man held up a black bag that most likely held the drugs.
The young boy looked devastated, but was clearly struggling. He wore only an oversized tank top, revealing nude parts underneath his belt line. He was scratching his arms violently, which, along with his legs, had many scars, open wounds, bumps, pimples, and infected-looking veins.
The young boy nodded, reaching his hand out to the bag, but before he could grab the drugs, the older man grabbed the boy by the shoulder, pushed him down to his knees, and unbuckled his pants.
“Start sucking, whore!” He yelled. The rest of the homeless people whooped and cheered before getting back to their drugs.
Surrounding the old man’s throne were two sickly-looking women dressed in scantily clad clothing, showing their withering and skinny bodies. The old man was chatting with both of them, grabbing one of the girls and sitting them on his lap, fondling her breasts and spreading her legs.
“You want some H, bitch?” The old man said, unbuckling his pants. “Then come take it! Come have it! But you’re gonna have to pay.” The skeleton of a woman began whining, her voice becoming high-pitched.
“Hey man, wait!” Said the woman. “Come on, baby, just love me!” she demanded, begging for patience from the old man as he took his member out and pressed it up against the woman’s crotch. “Please, just give me a hit… I don’t want this, J–Jeremy… please, be nice to me.”
“You’re either gonna take this cock or go the entire day jonesing!” He slipped the woman’s panties to the side, with her friend turning away in fear and crying. “I’m the God of this Subway! So shut the fuck—”
“JEREMY!” screamed an angry, disgruntled, and aching Creever. He dropped his hobo sack on the floor. All the people in ’King Jeremy’s” court now turned their heads up. The woman in his lap, who was in tears, got up quickly and ran. Creever turned to see the tall man and young boy, and in turn, too, screamed at them to stop.
“Well, well, well… if it isn’t Tinkin’s little lap dog. How is the old man?” Asked Jeremy.
“Shut the FUCK UP. AGH!” Barked Creever. “YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SAY HIS NAME.”
“Actually, I do, since I’m the one he trusted his operation to.” Spoke Jeremy. “Do you really think it… or in this case, ‘TinkInt’, a good idea to go against his legacy?” Jeremy now looked at Creever with malicious eyes of success. He was gloating in front of Creever… taunting him.
Creever banged his own head, stomping his foot on the ground. His hysteria was becoming more and more prominent by the second, and Jeremy was not helping. He took large breaths as his shaking body tried to find solace in the smells and vapors of the paraphernalia being used in the subway.
“I need—I need some dope. Give it.” Creever said, trying to calm his voice again. Jeremy smiled and looked at him like a dog.
“Heh. Didn’t the old man tell you not to take your own product?” Jeremy scoffed. “You shitty amateur. No wonder your real daddy saw you as weak… him fucking you didn’t help get the bitch out of you, huh?” Jeremy laughed.
Creever’s anger rose again… how many more times could his body handle the rise and fall of dopamine spikes, preparing himself for battle, then ebbing for relaxation, completely dysregulating him? Flashes of his real dad came into his mind now.
“JEREMY, I NEED A HIT! I’M LOSING MY MIND! JUST GIVE ME SOME.”
…
“You know what’s funny?” Jeremy began, “If I don’t give you this H, who knows what things you will do to get it?” He began examining his nails, then pulled the other girl, still by his throne, onto his lap, removing the tiny, tattered bra she had, revealing her assets to everyone in the slum society they had, violating any sanctity she held. “Hey. What do you think, Jeremy? We’re gonna fuck this one today. All of us.”
“What? Fuck no, you cunt ass—” The woman began, but was cut off by Jeremy, who shook her violently on his lap.
“Tasha, what did I say about speaking?” Jeremy asked, “That mouth has one use only.”
Tasha began crying as a small crowd, circling Creever, formed around him and Jeremy’s throne. Tasha was wriggling around in Jeremy’s arms, but she could not get away.
“See? Women… tsk. Never able to control themselves.”
“Man, I don’t care, just give me some fucking H!” Creever yelled before people that looked just like him came in closer. His feral nature heightened at every disgusting smell of urine, unwashed armpits, and lack of oral hygiene that surrounded him.
He was better than this.
He used to be better than this.
Jeremy laughed again, playing with Tasha’s nipples. Tasha began yelling for help, but as she did, Jeremy stuck his hairy knuckled fingers into her mouth.
“Heh… I have an idea. You want your heroin so badly, Creever? Then fuck this bitch right in front of us.” Jeremy’s goons began hooting and hollering. The tall man approached, looking deeply satisfied, buckling his pants… the young boy on the floor, clenching his jaw, dripping in a foreign liquid with the black bag next to him.
Creever’s anger was boiling. In front of him lay the riches that he was supposed to have with Tinkin, but it was sullied and usurped by this adversary.
Whether it was his fight-or-flight or his general discomfort with life, Creever began panting heavily.
“I don’t care about her… I just want some—” Creever began, but was quickly cut off by Tasha being thrown to the floor in front of him. Creever looked up to see Jeremy’s crotch exposed. The men around Tasha began unzipping their pants.
The girl looked up at Creever, eyes tearful, begging for help as she scraped at the ground. Jeremy remained seated.
“I don’t think you understand, Creever…” said Jeremy, “you fuck her, or you die. You want your H so bad? Then take it. What? What else are you gonna do?”
Creever was running out of options. Even in his drug-crazed state, he wouldn’t dare try to kill Jeremy. He would lose… just like he lost back then.
With these thoughts, a slip of morality had reappeared in Creever’s mind… one that prohibited him from ever violating a woman. One he learned from his mentor.
On top of that, Jeremy’s goons would have no problem ripping him to shreds.
In his intensified haze of emotions, he found a pen on the floor of the subway, right next to the girl…
The book.
Creever didn’t believe it would work, but it was his only option… and he was crazy enough to do it.
Defiling this woman made no sense. Creever was vile with his mouth, yes, but Tinkin taught him to never put his hands on a lady, no matter the situation.
And Creever, even if he was crazy without Tinkin, would never go against the teachings his mentor gave him.
Creever reached for the pen.
To the side of it, he found a dusting of leftover heroin, which he snorted.
Instantly, his brain began to relax, and the blood that pumped harshly in his body, torturing him for a hit, had finally been put to rest. Creever could think, and with it, returned a fraction of the brain he had when Tinkin was alive.
But it was enough to stop his hands from shaking.
“No! Please, Creever! Don’t…” Said Tasha, covering her head with her hands and arms.
“Yes… yes… whip your little hobo cock out and fuck her.”
Fuck you. Creever thought.
He picked up the pen, and, backing up, grabbed the mysterious black notebook he found earlier, flipping it open to the rules.
“What?” Asked Jeremy, “Are you gonna write me a harsh letter? Go on… it won’t matter once you’re dead.”
The sounds of slime being pumped, squashed, and stretched sounded and surrounded the area in a disgusting, hedonistic, and lustful way. This was their pleasure… so far gone from a basic level of humanity.
Ugh, what the fuck am I doing? Thought Creever, finally coming to his senses. He proceeded to read the rules.
DEATH NOTE
How to use it:
I
The human whose name is written in this note shall die.
This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person’s face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected.
II
If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds of writing the person’s name, it will happen.
If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack.
After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.
“You gonna read me a bedtime story?” Asked Jeremy. “Come on! Hurry up and get started! Or what? You thinking of your daddy fucking you raw, huh?”
I hate you. You stupid cunt. You couldn’t even hold a candle to Tinkin.
Creever, with full confidence in his homeless haste, wrote the name down.
“Jeremy Protek. Heroin overdose.”
It’s worth a shot… Creever thought as the sounds of squelching slime began to run rampant, along with the coughing of the young man still on his knees.
…
2 seconds had passed.
“What did you write?” Jeremy prodded, “Journal entry about your daddy’s disgusting dick?”
But Creever didn’t respond. His brain had calmed down. He was still scared and just as terrified as before the sniff, just like Tasha was, but he was calmed by the heroin, and the idea of, if he failed, meeting Tinkin again.
…
4 seconds had passed.
Jeremy looks questioningly at Creever. They were once business partners under Tinkin, and even he, though mocking Creever, knew when Creever was up to something.
“What did you do?!” Jeremy asked, becoming impatient. Tasha also looked up to Creever, wondering what he was doing. Creever stared at Jeremy.
The men surrounding the damsel lying on the ground eyed her, planning to move in slowly as their hands pumped their members.
…
8 seconds had passed.
Fuck… Why did I do this? I could have run.
“Ha… HA! In awe, aren’t we? That must be it… You’re just stalling.” Jeremy laughed. “Well… I’m sure Tinkin would love to see you on the other side… we can’t have a cock block ruining our fun, can we guys?”
The crowd, now moaning and grunting, cheered in affirmation.
“Welp…” Jeremy stood up, “Say hi to the old man—” Jeremy stopped speaking.
His eyes opened wide enough to swallow the sun. His mouth stood agape. In their pleasure, the onlookers slowed down in their activity, looking to their drug lord. A moment’s silence followed.
…
Then it was broken.
Jeremy turned quickly to his throne, grabbing a packet of his dope frantically. He was screaming oh so loudly, trying to break open the seals of duct-taped packages.
Tasha turned around to look at her abuser.
“Look!” She announced as Jeremy began sniffing the heroin in the package. Creever thought he himself was addicted, but it looked like Jeremy was just the same, if not worse, than he was.
Jeremy snorted the heroin through a pen that was broken down to just the casing. After a snort, he raised his head to the ceiling, completely and utterly chaotic in speech, laughing loudly and crazily.
The eyes that were turned on Tasha now turned to Jeremy… they moved to join him in enjoying his product.
But Jeremy didn’t just stop there… he kept snorting. A snort, then a wail… a snort, then a wail. He breathed and heaved heavily as his biological clock began ticking faster and faster with every snort.
He finished an entire bag in 10 seconds.
Then he moved on to another.
And another.
His disciples were now afraid, scared of the sight that they were witnessing. His breathing was failing as the heroin turned his brain off, making his lungs follow their commander.
Jeremy? Creever thought. Don’t tell me.
Jeremy continued his chaos, and finally, after 4 bags of heroin, he turned to face Creever, bloodshot eyes and all, with his grey one looking particularly creepy. His posture was hunched and broken, as he was shaking with an overload
“F—FAHHHH—” He laughed, looking at Creever through his reddened eyes, appearing demon-like. “RAHAHRHAHRHARHA.” Jeremy knelt in preparation to pounce on Creever. Creever, with notebook in hand, closed his eyes and shielded himself. “RAH—”
Plop.
…
There was silence. Creever was terrified but was fully accepting of his death. When he opened his eyes, he expected to see a burning hell, covered in dark red and maroons… lava falling everywhere, with a never-ending sky that faded to mystical greys and whites. One that held Tinkin.
But instead, he opened his eyes to the same subway he was in 40 seconds ago, with Jeremy on the floor on top of Tasha.
…
“AGHHHH!” Screamed Tasha, rolling Jeremy’s thick body, with his exposed crotch, off of her. He landed on his back, with his arm rolling out to the side, and his blood red bandana facing the ceiling. His eyes had rolled back, and his lips had gone blue, making his white beard look more Christmas-themed.
His body shook and twitched a few times before finally coming to a stop completely.
Everyone had fallen silent, staring at their previous God and master’s corpse. They turned their heads to Creever, backing away from him slowly.
Creever stood in silence, with a new feeling that overtook his withdrawals… one that he hadn’t felt in decades… one that died with the brain of his mentor. One that he forgot felt and tasted so good.
That feeling… was power.
Afterthoughts!
Gutenmorgen, everyone! (Sorry for my horrific German.)
I want to say thank you for reading CH2 of my Death Note fanfiction “God of the New York!”
Your support and viewership help a lot. As always, this story is updated every week on Saturdays.
Stick around for CH3 next week!
Find me on Ko-Fi @Percyossidy.
Thank you!
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