"It's not a costume," he insisted to no one in particular, as he lay his clothes across the bed, "It's about being professional, its about...Looking the part, It's not a costume!"
Every time he went out on one of these jobs, he always wore the same outfit, a collarless dress shirt, and a button-down vest lined with four steel plates in the front and six smaller ones in the back. Just because he couldn't feel pain didn't mean he wouldn't succumb to massive organ failure or loss, hence the duct tape, he told himself as he wound it around his neck to cover over his stitches, it was practical. The old duster coat, gave him an air of mystery and danger, while also concealing whatever weapons he might be hiding, and the golf cap kept his hair in place to hide his horns from view. It was not a costume, he asserted to himself one more time, and, checking his profile in the mirror, decided, he actually liked the way he looked.
He waved goodbye to Lizzie, still in possession of their father's body, on his way out and quickly jogged to the old shed behind the house. Throwing the doors open wide, he found a broken and rusted out old AMC Gremlin with a rotting scarecrow in the drivers seat. Toulon was an invention of his own, based off of a spell his father had developed so that he might fool around with girls in the back seat without a worry of getting caught. Of course he was never smart enough to actually put something behind the wheel and was continually pulled over for 'ghost riding'. Ichabod on the other hand, had formed a contract with a Wil-o the wisp to guide a lost soul home every Halloween in exchange for a chauffer, a supremely useful creation for when he needed to review his notes for a job or when he needed to make a quick escape, something that had happened more often than he would like to admit.
The scarecrow, of course, was just a conduit, the withered pumpkin on its head holding a metal disk inscribed with eldritch writing that bespoke the bond he had formed.
"Hmm," he examined the buckling teeth and rotting smell of the jack-o lantern as he set a candle within it, "May need to carve a new one."
"Hey-HEY!" it shouted, coming to life the instant he ignited the candle, bouncing about in its seat with a giddy laughter as it spoke through a thick New York drawl, "Aint no problems here Mistah Crowley," it rapped its twiggy knuckles against its head, "I got at least another month with this old noggin."
"OW!" Ichabod shouted, burned by the candle when Toulon had jostled itself around, and briefly wondering why fire was the only thing he could feel anymore, "Can you at least wait until I get my hand free?"
"I'm sorry Mistah Crowley, you know how it is, so where we goin'? Where we goin'?!"
"Calm down," he admonished, sighing as he placed the lid back on Toulon's scalp, "Warm up the car while I grab my things?"
"You got it," the scarecrow revved the engine and before Ichabod's eyes the entire car surged with new life, rust bubbling away as the entire paint job assumed a glossy coat as though freshly waxed, tires inflated, and hubcaps gleaming as they popped back into their proper position. All the cracks in the windows disappeared and the radio chirped to life blasting out the chorus to 'Walk this Way', "Ah, the classics never die right?"
Sparing his companion a glance, Ichabod walked further to the back of the shed, wondering as he procured his bag, as to how little he knew or understood this creature, despite all the years they'd worked together. As far as he could tell it had no personality of its own, no desire other than to fulfill their deal, whatever it projected seemed to be a direct result of what head had been placed on its shoulders. Curious to this, Ichabod had experimented with it for a time, though, not being one of the strongest carvers often lead to bad, or rather inconsistent results. One particular failure involved him trying to modify Toulon's head with a simple spiral cut, and that iteration had been a nightmare to work with, not only mute by all but inflection, but devastatingly insane. The most recent had been an attempt to at least make Toulon happy, though it had apparently worked a touch too well.
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Ichabod Crowley - series 1 Life and Legacy
رعبAtop a hill on the edge of a small town there sits a lonely house with a sour aura. There you will find a man with stitches running around his neck, a chip on his shoulder, and a gun at his hip. If you have dallied in the dark, played with demons, o...
