Memoirs of a Liar

Guest

twenty-two. self-proclaimed hero. silly. different. misunderstood. liar. cross-dresser. feminine.

LIEV ALEKSANDR EHRLICHMANN

"HONEST"

wannabe. corrupt. haunted. mad. euphoric. irrational. lost. immature. passionate. vivacious. sad.

ENTRY I. 12.31.2010

My mind is reeling with enigmatic emotions today more than any other. It's telling me that killing my own brother, Kaiser, was the right and necessary thing to do, but I feel I only shot him because I didn’t want the reaper Necati to have the glory that came with the deed––no, I know that was the reason. Kaiser has been after me ever since we were born. He wanted to kill me because I am a disgrace, because I’m a liar, but I needed to feel the satisfaction of beating him at his own game, to prove him wrong! ...yet now that Kaiser’s dead, I wish nothing more than for him to be back.

I am a living contradiction, being an honest liar who can’t decide if he can trust a man who says he lies... or if he is being truthful under his disguise. And that man is me, and that man is Kaiser. We cannot live without lying about our lives; that’s the way it had always been, so how can I judge him if I’m guilty of the same crimes? I haven’t murdered anyone––unlike Kaiser––but I detect my own responsibility in my mother, Brigitte's, death. If only I could but show my face without failure in opening up, instead succeeding in disgrace! That would make be better than Kaiser. That would earn my family’s respect and the honor of upholding the Ehrlichmann family name! And what a better place this world would truly be if it wasn’t full of lies––the ones that conquer me.

The criminal act of salvation haunts me without retreat... it’s as if I can hear the bells, too.

*****

More laughter, now screams. "HAHAHA! RING, RING, RING!"

Ring! Ring! Ring!
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Ring! Ring! Ring!

BANG!
Kaiser Adal Ehrlichmann fell to the floor. Beautiful, glistening, ruby-colored liquid leaked from his mouth as his shocked, wide-open eyes grew still. Blood poured from the back of his head, where a shining, silver bullet had entered.

Ring... ring... ring.
The bells stopped ringing as Fake's heart did the same.

*****

They ring, unfaltering and blatant. I still wonder if Kaiser is hearing them, too.

Guest

ENTRY II. 11.18.2011

I met someone who changed my life, and my way of thinking. I don’t want to be “a part of the team,” anymore. Evan’s dead. Primarch’s dead. Jenny’s dead. The Zack I know has died. I’m too old for this job, and I don’t want to be a part of the corruption anymore, the bad names. I’ve dealt with many in my life and expect more to come, but I’m not ready to face being a Titan anymore. There’s too many, and my powers do not exceed these limitations.

I hate them, and they pretend to like the part of me that I show. You know, I’m just a raven who paints itself white to look like a dove... a beautiful analogy for a beautiful mind, but how much longer can beauty survive under a crippling, festering mass of superheroes, ones who take pleasure in killing and use grunts and masses of henchmen as nothing trivial or mundane.

I’ve killed one man in my entire life. But the truth was... he was me.

Guest

ENTRY III. 12.28.2011

"I HATE YOU, SIDOH! I HATE YOU!

You ask about death as if it’s some trivial thing! One of the patients here just committed suicide! My friend died of cancer! The one and only person I have ever trusted and openly shared my secrets with was murdered by an ex-Titan, for God’s sake! How do you think I feel? Why do you and your henchmen even bother to ask me how I am when I’m obviously not okay? How do you suppose that just because you say you can help me and that you understand my mind, even feel pity for me, a superhuman liar that twists truths and people’s securities to my own benefit, would make me trust you any more or any less? Trust is something that people have to earn, Sidoh. I don’t trust anyone until they give me a reason to trust them. So many have died around me, they’ve left me in this world all alone with the piling question of: ‘Why? Why did they leave this earth so soon, why did God decide to pull them from mortality to ‘bring them back into the savior’s fold?’ So many have promised me that I will learn the answer to that question if I make it to heaven and live by God’s side––that is when all the answers that cannot be answered now will be answered. But do you know what, doctor Sidoh? I of all people have the most pressing trial of impatience, for I have tried patience so many times just to have others let me down, or I to them. I didn’t know Emilé very well at all, but somehow I believe that I know him the most after he chose death over life, even if it meant selfishly leaving people behind, those people who loved him dearly. I knew Florence for only about a year, when we traveled together as circus entertainers before she was diagnosed with brain and spinal cancer and then––of all things able to make the situation more dire––was told that she was expecting a child. Chemotherapy would kill her baby, but if she ceased chemotherapy she would die instead. Flo taught me such a great thing through such a serious and dramatic example; she gave her life for her unborn child in order and told the nurse, ‘I’m done. I brought this baby into this world, and I’m done.’ My colleague and best friend whilst I was stationed as a Teen Titans, a robot who understood me better than myself, was killed by another Titans no less, seeking to silence anyone who knew anything about why she betrayed us all. When I let myself come here and be subject to your whimsy, I betrayed myself. I betrayed my conscience and beliefs, rules and regulations. I became a submitter while so many before me had fought so hard against subjugating themselves to some higher power, something like fate or God or ‘just the way things happen’. I have no right to express my feelings on feats never fathomed than I already have, I [i]do not trust you, nor do I trust anyone living including myself. I will not wait for fantasies to perhaps one day become a reality. I make no promises I cannot keep. A man can trust another who says he lies, a man can and will be truthful even when disguised. It all depends on who is asking, who is receiving, and whose lives will be dragged down with the lies. I was wrong to come here. You were wrong to lend your ear, you were wrong to receive me. I was wrong to deceive me.”

Dr. Sidoh clicked his pen and began writing what he had gathered from his patient’s melodramatic spiel, but he honestly could not give any more apt description than:

“He has improved. He realizes now the importance of improving one’s image, even if he already knows that I know it is a lie.”

The doctor then posed a question purposefully intended to catch the superhuman called “Honest” off guard:

“Have you killed anyone?”

Honest paused, his golden eyes wide and questioning like a confused hoard of honeybees facing an onslaught of showering mud.

“Excuse me?” he queried flatly.

“Have you murdered anyone, Liev?” Sidoh repeated the question, using Honest’s birth name to make the inquiry more intimate.

Honest paused before answering this question; it was one that brought up many a gut-churning miseries. Finally, he formed the words to roll off his tongue just like it genuinely appeared to him.

“Only one,” he said, expecting Sidoh to follow by asking ‘who?’ But the doctor did not. In turn and in contrast, he was the one caught off guard and extremely surprised.

“Really?” he said disbelievingly.

“Yes,” Liev replied apathetically.

Sidoh just shook his head. Liev was telling the truth. The lie detector that had been previously pronouncing the falsity to every statement thus far, although which ones among so much furious verbosity was hard to discern, confirmed it. The readings Sidoh had deduced personally all blared, “TRUTH! TRUTH! HE’S ACTUALLY TELLING THE TRUTH! YIPPEE! IMPROVEMENT! PROGRESS! PRAISE THE HEAVENS AND THE GOOD LORD, ALMIGHTY!”

“I see your machines have finally caught up with my psychological discrepancies. I indeed murdered someone, but I’m afraid it’s not that simple, not as simple as Emilé or Florence or even Model Eleven. If I tell you who, it will only lead to more questions and undo all the work you have labored, including the results of your lie detector. Are you sure you’re willing to take up that gambit?”

Doctor Sidoh thought of it for a moment, but started with trying to figure out if Honest was just trying to lead him astray or play more mind games, but had no choice in the matter when his work, answers, knowledge, facts, truths, and reassurances were completely hurled into the air and back down the rabbit-hole, just as the passage of time when this peculiar case arrived at the doorsteps of Greyhound Hospital of Psychiatry and Specialized Practices had rolled over.

“It was me. The man I killed... he was me.”

The lie detector seemed to freeze in an extreme withdrawal of the progression of time, but however stagnant its progress was, it matched none whatsoever the confusion of the raven-haired, rectangular spectacle-wearing, telepathic and all-knowing Doctor James D. Sidoh, M.D., the Dean of Medicine at one of the most respected mental rehabilitation facilities in the world and most galaxies when he read the lie detector’s answer.

True: this statement is false.

Honest gave a wicked grin.

“Told ya.”

Guest

ENTRY IV. 04.27.2012

Dear Evan,

I killed Kaiser.

Well, not really—not directly. I just feel responsible, and I love it. My brother, albeit a disgusting notion, finally, really, truly died. I know this, Evan, because L.A.W. killed him, they hunted him down. His own organisation murdered him and silenced his heretics for the rest of all time. Those crimson eyes will never feast upon blood again or indulge in the sight of death. The many souls he has wrongfully reaped, especially the girl named “Anna,” have been avenged, although I am sure they’re still doomed to haunt his remains forever. Kaiser… Kaiser… he’s dead, Evan! He’s dead! I saw it with my own to lies, and this was no deceit or spectacular fantasy. I know, because my son saw him, too. He thought it was me for a few seconds, but he turned away and saw that I was standing beside him… that I was there. We were attending an Easter Mass with Serendipity’s parents… with my wife’s family! Can you believe that I am married? It’s so strange, and so beautiful. Like her, it’s so beautiful.

I’m getting off-track again. Sorry—but you know how I am. Unpredictable.

Just like finding Kaiser Adal Ehrlichmann—Fake—in the tidy back-street behind my parents-in-laws’ house. He was sprawled across the smooth pavement, palms up, heads-up, and in the strangest pose: Evan, he was positioned as Christ upon the Cross had been. His legs were ever-so-carefully placed together, and his arms were extended outwards like an angel about to take wing. I just thanked God over and over and over that his palms and feet weren’t nailed or pierced with them at least, or that a spear wound was defecating his side. I still have mixed emotions even though it has been nineteen days since Easter, already.

Time flies when you’re married and responsible for two human souls. She’s helped me so much… Kady has. Isn’t that a beautiful name? “Kady.” Pure, innocent, child-like and sweet to say. I love this beautiful woman, I love her so much, and I love her child… well, our child in theory. Calvin is already five, from Serendipity’s previous boyfriend. He’s still tolerating my strangeness and the idea that he has a new patriarchal figure in his home, but I think he’ll be okay. I think he’ll be find in the end if he doesn’t take on too much of my bad habits… like cross-dressing, for example. Serendipity made me promise to never do that again, but I did it because I thought it would make her laugh! Ah, well. I won’t do that anymore. I’m just barely starting to realise how ridiculous I look.

Life… well, life seems to be worth living. I’m free of the Titans. I’m free to be my own type of hero… and that, my friend, is being no hero at all. No more lies, no more “Honest.” I’ve burned all my costumes, I’ve burned all my masks, even my vaudeville photos and newspaper articles.

I’m in love, Evan, and Kaiser is dead.

He’s dead, and I’m alive.

That’s all that matters...

It’s all that matters...

All that matters...

...right?

Guest

ENTRY V, 06.23.2012

Shall I be a coward, or shall I be a Titan? Shall I be a falsehood, or shall I be a hero? Shall I join a group of strangers when I am the most strange of all? Shall I continue serving my adopted country, or trace back to my roots in Germany and stare at the statue that was created in your image, way across the Sea in the mountains of Munich? Should I wait 'til Kingdom Come, or let the Kingdom come to me? Is it too late to grow up and turn out to be who I really am, Is it never too late to be what I might have been? Does the death of my wife and child confirm the notion that death is never far behind me? Do the deaths of all my friends serve a greater, noble purpose or are they just a mockery of how jovial I pretend to be? Once is a coincidence. Twice is a pattern. I can only remain baffled that one death has turned into two, two has grown to three, now three to five deaths.

...I guess I shouldn't be all-too baffled at what the odds, now quintupled against my favour, are for my death-to-be.

Guest

ENTRY VI, 06.24.2012

Time stopped, paradoxes flowed. Like a cyclonic drunk, Silent Night ripped through me. He hurled all fabrications of nature against L.A.W.’s little white walls that needed to be broken down anyway. In the spare shards of vertigo sustained between us two brothers, I hoped to grind the fact that flesh does not simply sew itself together into my friend’s understanding. I wanted to prevent molding his brother’s sanity into some keystone hope that entailed the notion that time heals all wounds and the blood that Honest, a man, bled was just the same as the blood that Silent Night, a monster, bled, too.

As I had measured Silent Night’s actions to be the human body’s equivalent to the speed of sound, he executed his own actions to surpass the speed of light. The result was, as was always, a paradox. Blackness filled any promising sunshine, just as planned. The perfume of cherry blossoms pervaded my nostrils, just as orchestrated. Three shades of red painted what would be one of the most colourful memories that Silent Night would have, just as planned;

Pale Ruby Red, the colour of exploding cherry blossoms.
Sanguinary Red, the colour of violence.
Crimson, the colour of blood.

If only, if only I could tell him now:

“Zack... give up your search on L.A.W. It’s eating you alive, like a parasite inside your brain. You will gain no benefit from murdering the men who taught you to murder; you would have just taught them that they had taught you well. Don’t you see? This is the point, Zack! This is their purpose, their aim! It’s you! You! Your whole self, your whole being, you are their greatest success and achievement. If L.A.W. didn’t still think that was still the truth, they would not be hounding after you day after day, night after night, nor would they shackle those ghosts to your dreams or place memories to haunt your present thoughts. They wouldn’t have Nightwing tailing you at every shadow till the last shadow is the one cast by your very own gravestone. If only you realised just how vital you are to them, you would realise how irrelevant they are, Zack! You are the ‘Great Zack Wylder!’ You are the one who got away, the one who gave them the slip. With you beyond L.A.W.’s guarded borders, their entire operation might as well be printed in the next day’s paper and it still is.”

But Earth’s submissive orbit around the great and mighty Sun presses on, and even the most Silent and darkest of Nights must give way to a new dawn... to a new day.

Last edited by Honest on Tue Feb 04, 2014 12:07 am; edited 6 times in total

Guest

ENTRY VII. 08.30.2012

What happens to a creation when its Creator’s life hangs in the balance? What happens to my Creator’s work, my Creator’s creations, my Creator’s soul and imagination is muddied and dulled to only remnants of what was once such a beautiful yet dangerous method? Why does my Creator’s own Creator twist an already unraveled past and manifests a weed to destroy a flower?

Dearest Creator, you have created me as an enigma. You left my past vague and undocumented, you made sure that my story had blank pages so that I may grow, change, and prosper as time wore on, just as a human’s own precious days. By leaving my fate, destiny, and origins incomplete, you’ve allowed me to morph in more ways than simply literally. You begged the question through me, “Can you really trust a man who says he lies?” Persnickety paradoxes, intricate ironies, and ravish rhymes enraptured my words, my thoughts, my deeds. But not only did you pay such close attention to the stories you’ve composed, but you gave your creations purpose, meanings, and hidden messages.

The “Ehrlichmann,” twins, the brothers who were anything but honest men.

“Liev,” the cowardly lion.

“Kaiser,” the ruthless and blood-drunk emperor.

“Katarzyna,” the misguided traitor who wished her status as a super-being remain human and pure.

“Anna,” the only love of the conflicted Kaiser, who to that monster shared her love, the only soul who, to that heinous monster, was merciful.

“‘Ravi,” the short-lived, entombed volcano whose eyes, although sightless, shone glowed like remnants of a dying sun.

“Lucretia,” the doomed Valkyrie who knew that her goal of returning to Heaven would never succeed.

But oh, blessed Creator... why must your heart fail the mind it belongs to? Why, oh cursed Creator, does your mind wander, why does it misinterpret facts from fantasy? Why, oh ye of little faith, do you yearn for an escape to reality?

Please, Creator. Live through us if you doubt your own odds of living. You are our Creator. If a Creator ceases to exist, its creations become only mere skeletons strung and stored in the eternal limbo of writings.

Last edited by Honest on Wed Jan 29, 2014 2:12 am; edited 14 times in total

Guest

ENTRY VIII, 01.25.14

I've always wondered what the world would be like after it ended.

Just never imagined that I'd be granted the rare opportunity to get my answers. And here I am, after it happened. After Armageddon ensued. After Earth was destroyed. After––of all things––aliens ended most of our lives. After all that pain I felt, the stab of death, the sting of betrayal, the loss of friendship. Kaiser is gone. Kady is gone. Calvin is gone. My entire family, gone. I didn't even get to hold a proper funeral for them, for any of them. Nothing like the one for my dearest and only friend, Model Eleven, nothing so somber and fulfilling and needed. There were no bodies to bury, no pictures to play in a quaint little slideshow. No place to hold it. Everything––and I mean everything––was ash. No remains. No chunks of brick or severely burned dolls or cracked photo frames like you see in the movies... just ash. But in a way, all those trials that I went through seem obsolete now. The ash is in the wind, now. And what do I have to show for it? Why does it even matter, now that I know something greater was in store, something that would kill off those whom I loved anyway? Would I have acted different, knowing that the end was nigh? What about other people? How about the murderers? Would Backlash had murdered Evan? How about Fake, who killed his own lover? What about me, who took the life of my own flesh and blood, only to have him return nastier and hungrier than ever? These questions, these few questions of the endless ones I have, won't be answered, I'm afraid. I'm not a time traveler, I'm not a spinner of Fate nor can I change my own destiny, let alone understand those which belong to others.

My secret for living?

Cowardice. Hide so that the world can't get to you and you can't get to the world, mask yourself so no-one will recognise you, so no-one will care if you are gone. I've always been good at that, and over these years, I've perfected the craft. Some would be surprised in what forms I chose to take during the end of the world, but those close to me would understand. I've always been a sucker for nostalgia, so there's been quite a few masks that re-created in their predecessor's exact image. Of course, they're not the originals; those were all burned to hell along with every other possession of mine. But that circumstance forced me to forge new identities that were more practical, more useful. For example, one of those aliens. It wasn't hard at all to get it right––I had so many examples to work off of––but the key was to learn their language and mannerisms, to catch one without getting caught when I first began my self-transformation. During that period of time when I walked amongst the reasons why everyone who survived has to start over, I witnessed innocents being murdered, heroes being mutilated, people I had known or known about have their indestructible flesh ripped clean from their bones, and then their bones ground to nothingness. And I, too, became a murderer. Unlike these invaders from outer space, I had a conscience. I had to kill to stay alive, so I killed those who had killed others. Murderers, rapists, serial killers, kidnappers, blackmailers––the kinds of human scum who should have been killed long ago but were saved by Life, Liberty, and The Pursuit of Happiness. People like Marlo Suda, the dictator that JaK Sage and I took down, once upon a time. People like Kaiser. I've never forgotten each person I killed just to blend in, just as I've never forgotten the people who changed my life. Captain Cab, William Hauge, Dr. Lukyanov. Model Eleven. Silent Night. Apache, Simca. Emblem the Great.

What am I without those who shaped me, who made me feel human, who touched my heart and made it bleed? Why did I not let one of those alien freaks kill me? I've always wanted to know if there was an afterlife, but I guess I wanted to know what the world would be like after it ended. But when it did, it ended me. Yes, I'm alive, and yes, one of the few Titans who survived the Apocalypse. But now... I'm just wrecked. A fragment of the already fragmented self I used to be. I thought solitude would do me a great deal of good, thought that settling for domesticity would be the answer to the dark that plagues my heart. But I soon learned that you can't pick up the pieces of something so broken that it couldn't be repaired to start with?

I like to be alone, but I don't like being lonely.

And I am alone. I'm alone, and I'm afraid, and I'm a coward. People today have either been decimated or forced to move on. Some have done so better than others. But I have not. I've never moved on, and the ghosts of my past seem more real than the shadows of those few who survived. I heard rumors, whispers about new Titans rising from the ashes, and I am so jealous of them. If only, if only, I was one of them. If only, if only, I hadn't left on such negative, such nasty terms. I could have been recognised as a hero, but the relationships I had were ruined by miscommunications and the fact that I said what I thought. I left, and new Titans moved in. The world was rebooted. And now I, Liev Aleksandr Ehrlilchmann, must build myself again, must prove to everyone that I am worthy of positive recognition, of going down as a hero; not a villain.

But such wishes are only that: wishes. About as probable as seeing Jesus fly into the horizon on a Unicorn, as realistic as a giant, eight-legged horse trotting across America. As likely to happen as a soul that had been tainted by bad blood and broken spirits becoming pure and whole. I don't regret my actions, but I the reality that leaving the Titans seemed the only way I could live in peace.

Live in peace... heh, what a silly notion, what a stupid lyric in a child's rhyme. I am the type of person who wears his heart and his past on his sleeve. I am the one whom my friends and even my enemies used to believe. I was a knight, but when I put up a fight, I warred against wrong subjugation and led myself to sure damnation.

I am Honest, and I am a liar, but I've been nothing but truthful in personal dealings. Never have I betrayed the trust of those who knew the inner workings of my mind. Never, ever have I forgiven myself nor the villains in my life for who I am now. But above all, I still live on. And there's nothing to kill me now.

Last edited by Honest on Wed Mar 19, 2014 11:49 pm; edited 3 times in total

Guest

ENTRY IX, 01.29.14

I am honestly a liar,
Causing great amounts of strife;
It's infecting my own soul
And has been my whole life.

So easily I deceive
Behind many masks I hide
But what I really want
Is buried deep inside.

Beneath the endless falsehoods
Is the true form I do seek
But the journey there is hard,
And my black heart is meek.

But oh, how wonderful
It would be to show my face
Yet when I open up,
I only feel disgrace.

And what a better place
This world would truly be
If it wasn't full of lies––
The ones that conquer me.

But can you really trust
A man who says he lies
Or is he being truthful
Under his disguise?

Guest

ENTRY X, 02.03.14

I heard once––or read once, I don’t remember––a quote that has really stuck with me, despite its cheesiness. It was... let’s see, I think it went something like this:

  “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

Cheesy, right? But true, I think. Superman never became a megalomaniacal psychopath or some terrible crap like that, but then again, no-one knows where he is. I met Batman once, back in the days of when the Teen Titans really meant something, when I meant something, and we were receiving honours after saving the city from... well, I don’t remember why, but I do remember the Batman. He was cold and looked awfully bored and unhappy to be at the celebration, ( I don’t blame him ) but I went up to him anyway and said something really stupid. Like, Grade-A embarrassing material, and that’s saying a LOT because I have an uncanny obliviousness to embarrassment. But anyway, I wonder that if the saying is really true, if Batman would have become a villain, you know, if he was still around. But I think that people like him, who walk in the greyness of moral ambiguity, are impervious to heroism or villainy.

I bring this up, in this journal of mine, because I’m not sure whether you could call me a hero anymore. I used to be one, I used to be a pretty efficient one, but not anymore. Heroes don’t stand by and let the bad guys kill everyone. Heroes aren’t supposed to lose. And heroes are definitely not supposed to be perfectly content with being busy doing absolutely nothing expect hiding out in the ruins of nostalgic buildings even though there’s no longer the threat of becoming alien cannon fodder. So why am I not back to where I was before? Why am I not taking up my role as a superhero now, when superheroes are desperately needed? Sure, there are new Titans and new heroes all around, but they don’t know what war is. They don’t know the difference between dying a hero or living long enough to see yourself become the villain, and dying a villain or living long enough to fancy yourself a hero.

It’s ridiculous, these set ideals of what heroism and villainy and good and evil are. They’re outdated terms, exaggerated labels that are overused and abused. I should know––I used to use them all the time, in rhyme and in reason. Heroes were heroes because they fought villains. Villains were villains because they fought the heroes. Good people did good things, bad people do bad things. But if you believe that, you are so wrong. I do bad things all the time. Does that make me a bad person, or will society take into account all the lives I saved before the end of the world?

And now, I just can’t help but wonder if I was ever a hero at all, or if I was just a pretty German boy with a superiority complex. But as for who I am now? I know the answer to that riddle: I am neither a hero nor villain, good nor bad. I am not even morally ambiguous.

I am Honest, and I am alone.

Last edited by Honest on Wed Mar 19, 2014 11:49 pm; edited 2 times in total

Guest

ENTRY XI, 04.17.14

Poetry. So I write poems, some for specific people,
some not so much. Might as well write them down,
and whom they are for. I don't know what else to do.

For my late wife, Kady:
you touched my heart,
you made it bleed,
and it'll always bleed for you

With my dearest dead brother, Fake, in mind:
humans remind me
there's no such thing as monsters
there's only mankind

For me:
cut my heart into little strips,
hang them on my wall
show my friends and family
that i've got one, after all

To everyone:
open up my mind
thinking you can fix it, you
stir up what's inside

God, I’m going crazy. I am going, going crazy.
Reduced to scrawling little haikus and quatrains
on this pitiful stack of paper I call my diary.
Maybe it's time I revisit some old friends,
even if it means opening old wounds.

Last edited by Honest on Wed Mar 19, 2014 11:50 pm; edited 1 time in total

Guest

ENTRY XII, 04.21.14

Yes! There is a god, and he came to me in the form of a young
boy with jet-black hair, pale-moon skin, and eyes so green,
you can't help but stare and get lost in their alluring grip. He
is accompanied by a raven and wears clothing that is not too
dissimilar to the garb of vikings, only his more aesthetically
pleasing, smooth, and refined. He is known my many names,
but urges me to record only one: Serrure. "Honest," he told me
in an accent that even I couldn't pinpoint, "you're an impressive
liar." His raven puffed his feathers up at that, as if jealous of the
compliment. "I think I like it here. Your heroes are... interesting.
New and wide-eyed and greedy to fight and earn their own
glory. I've already got mine, but I want to join them." I asked
him what he'd do if they won't let him, to which he replied:

"I do what I want."

We lie and laugh together. This fellow trickster will do
well in, as he calls Earth, 'Asgard.' I'm going to miss him
when he takes off; he reminds me a lot of when I was
young, a little reckless, still full of life. But I can't really
complain; I've met a god, and that god likes me. He told
me that liars have more in common than husbands and
wives, best friends and colleagues. I can't agree more;
after all, I'm one of them. That, and he promised me
he'd come to visit some time, but I knew it was a lie.
I don't blame him, though; too many secrets are not
good company, and not being able to trick each other
proves to be quite boring, tedious. I proved myself
worthy of his company when I was able to distinguish
whether he was bluffing or not in a game of cards.

And as much as I loathe to admit it, I'll even miss that
prissy little raven of his. It's unfortunate that I can't re-
member his name, but to be fair, Serrure was speaking
to him in a language I had no knowledge of. Maybe the
bird's name was something like... Koli? Olki? Ikol? Loki?
Loki. That's what the bird's name was! And a fitting name,
I'd say; Serrure might as well be the Prince of Lies, him-
self! But alas, the fabled "Loki, God of Mischief," if even
real, is neither a child nor one to dwell amongst such
plebeians such as myself, no matter how dashing I am
and how charming my smile and words are. Now that I
think of it... who was he? I feel as if... it feels as if he's
just an image in my memory that I can't quite visualise
properly enough to make out any key details, other than
those emerald-coloured eyes of his. Now that's a thought:
green and gold. We could have formed quite the pair if
there were a reason for us to team up and start taking
down bad guys. The two tricksters, the amiable actors,
the duo of deceit. But now I'm just getting silly. He's gone,
whoever he is or wasn't, but I have a feeling that he won't
stay under-the-radar for much longer. Like he said:
he does what he wants!

Guest

ENTRY XIII, 03.20.14

You can't get rid of me that easily.

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