The Death of JoN dOe (In more ways than one) by JoN dOe Part One: My Valentine Has Hollow Eyes. Disclaimer: Stuff in this story is based on actual events, metaphorically speaking of course. No names have been changed, you know who you are, this is what happened, I should be allowed to shoot my mouth off. See you in Hell. Montreal City. A city held by the Sabbat since its early history. The streets are decorated with colored lights and big old fat guys dressed in Red. It must be Christmas, what else could explain this brown slush in the streets, or the white stuff covering the city. Snow falls slowly and steadily here, in the park; like some heavenly dust falling from above. It seeps through the tree's dead branches, it breezes through the bars of the sewer lid and falls inside the murky tunnel, finally vanishing when it reaches the flowing "water" below. The tide of filth carries us under a pumping station beneath the park. The tide slams against a wall that should not be there and eventually flows back into the river. The wall has been put up for a reason. This is where JoN lives; if one can call his existence living. A small room, cold brick walls, a dangling lamp, several decaying corpses, some human, old, young, male and female. Some not so human. A stash of weapons is stock-pilled in a corner. JoN, is standing in the middle of the place. Arms folded against a blonde woman. Her body limp in his embrace, blood slowly trickling down her neck. Upon JoNs lips and cheeks, spots of blood reveal he is the one who killed her. But why? Beneath his 3D glasses, a tear rolls down his face. He tightens his hold against the now cold woman, her hair waving back and forth, a look of amazement in her now hollow eyes. JoN looks up to the sky and opens his mouth to screambut cannot, and falls to the floor holding still in his arms the one he loves. The tears flow freely now. She would have hated that. She would have told JoN to be a man and move on. They probably would have fight over that. It matters little now, not much seems to matter anymore. He looks at her face. Eyes that once seemed so alive are now so empty, hair that he used to love to smell is now drenched in crimson. Lips that used to make him come alive with but a touch are now so pale and blue. He hates himself, not for what he has done to her now, but what he has done to her 7 months ago. He finally decides to stand, leaving her sprawled across the damp and dirty floor. He folds her arms together and curls her up in a fetal position. As he raises he lashes out at the dangling lamp. The bulb blows sending a shower of sparks down on JoNs broad shoulders. Then all is dark, only silhouettes can speak now, they reveal JoN picking up a gas can, picking up a shotgun, flinging it over his shoulder. He sprays everything in the room, the weapons, the corpses, his Daughter, JaNe. "Im sorry JaNe. Im sorry." He says before letting a lit match fall to the floor. It sparks a sea of flames as JoN leaves the room. A few seconds later, his keen senses can smell his daughters burning hairand he weeps. The winds are sharp now, howling their chilly hatred of all that dare oppose it. In Montreal, when you dare go out during a Night like this, it means one of two things. You are either hopelessly mad, or have lost the will to live. JoN is both and neither in a way. He walks along the snowy park and crosses a demolished bridge. On the other side, they lies a small Chalet. The access way to JoNs part time retainers. His coat snapping in the wind, his eyes disoriented from the snow, he opens a side door and follows the long cement stair case to the basement, where 4 giant wolf men lie asleep like a pack of real wolves, each nuzzled against each other, huddled to keep warm. JoN pumps a round into the mass of fur. The thunder clap awakens the Beasts and they begin their now trade-mark action of standing up and running around frantically around the room until they all ram into each other and fall to the floor. One of them, the thinnest one, is bleeding from his side where JoN shot him. "Listen up mutts. This is it, what Ive told you about for the last year." "De end VoN? Dein Deaff? Sputters out one of the Dancers. "Yes, now gokill all that have escaped mego! Redemption will be mine if I have to die for it." As JoN barks out the orders the Black Spiral Dancers are already foaming at the mouth, they scamper out of sight and leave JoN standing in the middle of the room. Me looks to the walls, where pentacles and runes have been carved dedicated to dark gods that once used JoN to their own ends. They too will learn that JoN cannot be controlled. They will all pay. The will pay for their sins. JoN will make them pay. All of them, including himself. He turns around and wipes the last tear from his cheek and walks back up the stairs into the cold wailing winds...