The Lord and the Tree Walker

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy lord who dwelt in a beautiful manor in the middle of a great forest. The manor had been in his family for nine generations and each generation had always added to it, making it greater in one aspect or another; some had improved its beauty, some had improved its comfort but one, just one, the hero of our tale, decided to improve its security.

The lord, you see, had long ago encountered a monstrous creature of a faraway forest called the Tree Walker and become entrenched in a war with it. The Tree Walker had, over time, systematically taken away everything the lord ever loved and broken and humiliated the lord by making a cripple of him. Since then, it had been laying siege to the lord’s house, walking amongst the trees that encircled it, though never crossing the wall of thistle and weeds that had, somehow, at some point, become the barrier between the lord’s domain and that of the Tree Walker.

Although it seemed that the Tree Walker was content to wait and allow the lord to waste away in his manor, turning the beautiful home into a living mausoleum, the lord decided it would be naive to not prepare the manor for an attack from the creature. It may be prudent at this point to note the lord’s intent; to prepare the manor for an attack, not himself, because, you see, the lord knew, and had known for some time, that if the Tree Walker truly wanted to kill him, it could, and would, kill him with little-to-no effort on its part and that the only reason for his survival was that the Tree Walker was not devoting its full energies to destroying him, in much the same way that even the most enterprising of humans rarely make a concerted effort to kill a certain ant. The lord wanted to protect the manor so that even if he perished, and his entire bloodline with him, the manor would stand as the last remains of their legacy, ready to shelter someone else, if they so chose.

To ensure the manor’s survival, the lord called up what the moronic might call wizards, what the mundane might call engineers and what the mad might call gods, but what he referred to as magicians, for they knew all the tricks of their trade, all manner of traps and illusions with which to ensnare any who might trespass against them or their clientele. These magicians turned the ancient manor into what could only be described as a fortress, equipped with magical eyes that gave those who dwelt within the ability to see the entire forest outside the manor, a complex series of layered alarms that would alert the manor’s residents, the police and the magicians themselves and multiple less-than-lethal security measures designed to incapaciate potential intruders, from electrified windows and doors to concussive sonic weaponry concealed in the garden. The magicians had, quite simply, turned the manor into a castle.

And so it was that, some weeks later, the lord sat in his library, reading a book written by the late lady of the manor. He was just reaching the climax of the tale when his eyes, keenly honed by paranoid decades searching for the creature in every treeline, beheld the Tree Walker, truly beheld its form for the first time in over four years. On this occasion, it did not attempt to trick the lord, as it had on so many occasions, by switching places with a nearby tree. It simply stood, defiant and watching, staring without eyes at the lord. It simply stood, faceless and excessively real, as the lord smiled back at it, grimly forming his hand into a pistol shape, which he aimed at the creature who had tormented him for so long. The lord chuckled.

“Welcome back, old friend. We have a lot to catch up on.”

Back In Action

Aaaaaaaaaaand we’re back with Radio Free Marcus, all day, every day, straight from The Middle of Nowhere, VT!

How has everyone been for the past fortnight? Feel free to call in with your news and views in the comments section of the offical Radio Free Marcus website, Little Lion Man! Speaking of which, here’s our first song of the new season, Mumford & Sons’ “Little Lion Man”!

Weep for yourself my man, you’ll never be what is in your heart…

Ah, isn’t that just a beautiful song? How about we go for the three greatest love songs ever, back-to-back? Let’s!

You’re telling me I should forget you…

Just have a little patience…

I don’t believe in an interventionist god…

Oh dear, doesn’t that just move you to tears? It certainly does me anyway, it certainly does me. But we mustn’t lurk down in the dumps! We have to think positive! We have to get active, we have to get moving and shaking! So, now it’s time for what is indisputedly the greatest dance song ever; Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”!

It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark…

Wow, well, after that I’m sure you’re all exhausted. How about we wind things down a bit? Here’s The Swell Season with “Falling Slowly”!

I don’t know you, but I want you all the more for that…

Ah, how relaxing and yet, at the same time, amazing. Well, I’m afraid we only have time for one more song, so how about we go out on a high note? Here’s “Good Day” by The Dresden Dolls.

So you don’t want to hear about my good song…

Well, I’m afraid that’s the end of the show, but don’t worry, there’ll be more to come in the near future.

Uncle Marcus is back, kiddos.

In Securitate

I’m going to be off the grid for just under a fortnight. I’m having the security in my home upgraded and it requires that all the cables be ripped up and replaced. I should be back online by the 18th.

In the meantime, don’t worry too much about me, if something really serious happens, I have ways of getting the news out. Besides, I have alcohol to keep me company. So, for now, I bid you all adieu and wish you good luck as always. Stay strong.

The Water of Life

Today is the 18th anniversary of the death of Hans Schlueter and the 4th anniversary of the death of Laura Prendergast neé Espinosa.

I’m sitting (as ever) in my library, sharing a large bottle of the finest Irish whiskey with Mr. Winston Ramsey. He flew out this morning, according to his time, and arrived in what is, technically speaking, yesterday for him. Fascinating, eh? The way the world works on oil is almost comparable to the way the brain works on alcohol.

Winston is a stocky man in his 60s, with a rather fine, grey beard and scarred eyes (both physically and emotionally). He wears a rather regal and worn-looking jacket vaguely in the style of formal military dress, though I cannot for the life of me think of an army whose formal dress consists of red with gold trim and tasseled shoulders.

He’s rambling on about the latest barely legal girl he’s been sleeping with. I personally don’t see what to brag about, since she’s a glorified prostitute (aka a “gold digger”), but I’d rather hear Winston brag about this than allow my mind to wander, as it has just now, on to the memory of the occasion on which I found child pornography among Winston’s possessions.

Now, I want to hit him, but I can’t. As much as the whiskey key and fiery hammer within me try to break our blood bond, it cannot be broken. We were both betrayed by Benjamin and neither of us is prepared to turn on the other, or, at least, that’s what I think.

Rest in peace, my love. Do not let the Tree Walker trouble you any further.

Hans, you were a good man. I’m sorry.