The Last Will and Testament of Nic "Moral" Way

Yeah, I debated putting my full name in the post title, but you know what?  It really doesn't matter at this point.  I'm sitting in a very sparse, windowless, concrete-walled room with a single, spastic fluorescent light above my head and a laptop on top of a cardboard box while a Proxy wearing a hand-made papier-mache plague mask watches from the doorway.  Clearly, I'm no longer in Kansas anymore.

Honestly, I agree with Nathan Umbra:  I am a fucking moron.  How did I not see this little 'plot twist' coming?  I mean, I'm a writer, for fuck's sake!  The whole 'cry-for-help-is-really-the-killer' technique is like making the victim's jealous girlfriend the killer; rookie stuff at best.  I really fell for the whole 'no sweat bro, I just got half-hollowed'.  I do need a Darwin Award.

I guess I was just too eager to help, you know?  I felt kind of helpless, like I wasn't doing anyone any good.  Shit was happening all around me (people dying, people being abducted, people getting mindfucked six ways to Sunday), and what was I doing?  I was sitting in my house, worried about what color tablecloths I should have for my graduation party.  So when Whitecrow contacted me and said he was in trouble, I really didn't think much about it.  I jumped right into action, which I guess is exactly what he wanted.

His blog isn't hidden from me anymore.  I can see everything on it.  Honestly, some of it pisses me off.  Hell, most of it pisses me off.  This bastard - no, this fuckwhistle (if I can borrow some creative swears) - had the audacity to blog about his plans.  Blatantly.  He knew that the friends who did car wouldn't be able to interfere.  I hate resourceful antagonists.  That being said, I still get a little chuckle out of the more recent posts, like the one where I kicked his ass.  Good times.

But what really confuses me is the big guy.  The head honcho.  Slendy.  Why the hell would he go to all that trouble to save my ass from a fucking truck if he was only going to send bird-brain after me in the end?  Was that his plan all along, or did something change?  I can't believe I would ever pose a threat to an Eldritch Abomination as powerful as he is.  But if that was his plan all along, why wait to spring Whitecrow on me until now?  None of it makes any sense.

I guess it doesn't matter either way, really.  Trying to figure out Big 'n Tall's motivations won't help me right now.  What will help is some element of surprise.  I'm not going down without a fight, after all.  Yeah, I don't have my weapons on me anymore (even the ones I hid in...um...creative places as a contingency plan), but if I can wrestle his knife away from him, or grab it when he least expects it...

That's not important.  What is important is what happens if I don't make it.  I'm almost out of time here, so I need to get my last words out there.  So...here goes, I guess.

Lucia, thanks for everything.  Seriously.  You helped me in my early days of exposure to this little 'twilight zone,' and I don't know that I would've been able to stay sane without our conversations.  I suspect I don't have to tell you this, but don't listen to Whitecrow; you did all you could to warn me, and it was my fault I didn't pick up on any hints you were giving me.  If you happen to run into the birdfucker...well, you know what to do.

North, thanks for at least being willing to give a rescue a try.  No need to apologize.  My own stupidity put me here.

Nathan Umbra, I'd love to compare my choice words with yours; something tells me they'd line up pretty damn well.

If anyone wants to use my blog as a prime example of what not to do when the Slender Man comes a-knockin', please do.  I'd like to think my legacy of poor decisions will save some sorry bastard some day.  ...hell.  I just realized the irony of this situation.  In trying to learn from my mistakes, I made perhaps the worst mistake of my life.  I would be laughing my ass off if I weren't past the point of hysteria now.

So, that's it.  I'm out of time.  Here he comes.  I'm going to fight.  Maybe win, maybe not.  If I do, I'll get another post up as soon as possible.  If not, well, I guess that's that.

Goodbye, andqpwoi4u;l kj.nsav


In about ten minutes, I'll be meeting Whitecrow down at the park.  I've got my knives, my machete (concealed, of course), and a few other tricks hidden away up my sleeves (literally, in some cases), so I should be prepared for damn near anything that tries to grab me while I'm down there.

I promise I'll post an update tomorrow, since I know some of you are a little worried. about this meet-up.


I know my last post was only three days ago, but for some reason it feels longer than that.  Come to think of it, that may because today has been one hell of a long day.  All because of that damn picture...

Whitecrow e-mailed me last night.  It was a warning message containing a picture of me (from behind) at the library where I work.  He said a Proxy who's been harassing him for a few weeks now sent him the picture with a warning for me:  I'm dead in one week.  In other words, Kniferapist is starting to bring in a third party.  This does not sit well with me.

What really shocked the both of us, however, was that Whitecrow recognized the library.  He knows where I live, and apparently has family here that he'll be visiting for this weekend.  With both of us in one small town, I'm going to assume that Kniferapist is going to have a field day, so we've already started coordinating preparations.  Since Whitecrow won't be here until incredibly late tomorrow, we won't be able to meet, but we've arranged a rendezvous at the park where I took the pictures for my other blog.  Not in the trees, of course; we're not suicidal.  We'll be meeting at the baseball diamond, on the opposite end of the park.

Before we started this, though, I had to ask about a few of his comments that he's left on a few different blogs, talking about 'Father' like a Proxy.  Well, as it turns out, he got a little too close to the big guy on one occasion, and got himself partly hallowed/hollowed.  Now he gets a little reverent of the Anorexic Abomination from time to time, which has cost him quite a few friends.  He's assured me it never gets violent, though.  Still, I'll be cautious.

Yeah, gathering might be exactly what Kniferapist wants us to do.  But I'll be ready for him.  And so will Whitecrow.  We're not helpless.  Whitecrow has actual experience in fighting (or so he says), and I already know that I can handle this Proxy bum.  We'll kick Knifey's ass and send him back to the faceless fuck with his tail between his legs.


So I graduated today.  Was kind of cool.  Ended up getting glitter-bombed by my entire class (that shit gets everywhere), but it was otherwise a pretty relaxed day.

Oh, and I got into a bit of a scrap with Kniferapist.  No big deal.

...oh, that is a big deal?  Well then, let me brag tell you all about it.

The ceremony was alright.  People talked, people sang, people got money, people played instruments, a guy with a face I can't remember stood in the doorway the entire time and watched me; it was a pretty standard affair, really.  I got a severe headache just before I started walking up to grab my diploma, so I'm under the assumption that Mr. Slim was there as well.  Charming.

Anyways, afterwards, everyone congregated outside the gymnasium doors in the blistering sunlight while the graduates and I were wearing heavy black robes.  Yeah.  Not the brightest idea our class anyone has ever had, but I lived, so I guess it doesn't matter now.  I'm nice and comfortable in the AC.

My parents took pictures.  Many pictures.  Too many pictures.  I'm still seeing little blue rectangles in front of my eyes (although the really big one from my uncle's giant, old-style flash bulb finally disappeared).  I'm not sure I want to look at any of them now, because nine chances out of ten, Kniferapist or his tall buddy (or both) are in a few.  Or they just screwed with the camera.

But eventually, the crowd died down and people started heading for home.  This is where I made horror movie mistake number one:  I split off from the crowd to walk on by myself.  My parents headed for their car, my grandparents for theirs, and my friends towards their own vehicles.  I, however, decided I wanted to get some exercise for once by walking the six short blocks from the high school to my house.

I was so damn close to home:  the parking lot of the Presbyterian church in town.  Literally two blocks away from my front door.  Also blocked from the main street by the church itself, bordered on the other three sides by backyards and houses with people who absolutely love to have their curtains drawn.  In other words, the perfect place to stage a battle royale with a knife-happy Proxy.

He was waiting for me smack-dab in the middle of the parking lot.  Again, stared right into his face and can't for the life of me remember what he looked like.  I really hate Perception Filters.

But I hate pointy objects pointed at me more.  So when he rushed me with a big-ass knife out (seriously, it looked about eight inches long), I may or may not have screamed like a little girl let out a very manly holler of pants-pissing terror very understandable shock.  Then I remembered I, too, was armed, took a slight step back to conceal my hand as I pulled out and opened my folding knife, and waited until he was about the right distance away.

I'm not going to lie, that was an incredibly stupid idea.

I now have a shallow but long cut running down my chin.  He almost got my neck, but I started to duck underneath his swing and immediately pulled away when I felt his knife start to slice the back of my jaw.  It probably won't leave a scar (at least I hope it won't), but I wasn't really worried about that at the moment.  I was kind of drunk on the realization that he had as little clue what he was doing as I did.  How exactly do I know that, you may be wondering?

Well, his swing left an opening the size of Texas, and I exploited it immediately.  He may have given me a cut on the chin, but I got him one better.  To this very moment (note:  'to this very moment' doesn't have the same impact as 'to this very day'; keep in mind for noveling efforts), I still have no idea why I held my knife in a backhand grip, but I did, and it paid off.  I lined up a punch for his face, and the blade just so happened to slice all the way up his arm, right through his hoodie (way too cliche by this point) and the shirt underneath.  I actually drew blood.

And I didn't let up, either.  I got in a good kick to his midsection, and would've had a good finishing stab to his chest, but he got his arm in the way just in time.  So I got a good chunk out of his wrist (sadly non-vital), and a slice up his arm.

Then he vanished.  Spun me around with a pretty good punch to the cut on my jaw, and when I recovered (fully expecting about seven-hundred stabs to the chest), he was gone.

So the score is currently Lucia 1, Moral 1, Kniferapist 0.

Yeah, I've given up adding the brackets to my name every time I type it.  Not worth the effort.