The "H" Word

Hellcrashers have their own subculture and slang, and are very superstitious. All of them go to great lengths to avoid ever saying the "H-Word" aloud, and each individual 'crasher has his own term for… "Down There" (Tartarus, Ghenena, H-E-Double Hockey Sticks, The Bad Place, The Abyss, The Land of Bad Things, etc.). To use another crasher's term for "The Underworld" is very bad form.

Most crashers also have "good luck" superstitions include getting tattoos of sexy "devil girls", carrying at all times pack of exactly 13 cigarettes (after 6+1+6, or 616, the original Hebrew "Number of the Beast"), and wearing a double edge razor blade on a chain as a necklace (particularly if it was used by someone to commit suicide, particularly if the suicide victim was the wearer's lover). West Coast crashers sometimes stuff their wallets with Chinese “Hell Money” (Fake bills sold in China towns for Buddhists to burn during festivals for the benefit of dead relatives).

Grayson looked through the night vision goggles and scanned the trailer again. The structure sagged and slumped against the fetid swamp like some thirst-dead creature, crumpled and rictus moments before it reached the water hole. And everywhere surrounding the rank husk were cats. Mangy, filthy and loud, teeming through the trailer and its surrounding like maggots. Their target shuffled onto the rickety porch and began the tedious process of feeding the cats again. She was gaunt and pale and broken. Stringy gray hair fell down to her slumped shoulder. She moved with practiced deliberation, like someone that had been doing this for years, though she had only been here a couple days.

"Got a lock on the baby-raper," Grayson said.

Jess sighed, "Do you have to keep calling her that? We don't know why she's here…"

"But we do know she's here, don't we? Cunt gave up her chance to a fucking respectful moniker the moment her bony ass landed in Cat Shit County."

Taking the goggles herself, Jess looked over the moss-caked log the trio had chosen as cover. Coffin seemed unconcerned and didn't deign to even look. He simple continued to lay on his back looking at the stars with his cigarette and shogun aimed straight up. Something like a cricket chirped in a droning cadence. Jess came back down.

"Are the cats screws?"

"No," Coffin's voice scratched out. "Too many. Thems the shackles. They'll go git a screw and delay us if they can, but they ain't much on their own."

"But there's a hell of a alot of them."

"Then it’s a good thing we brought scatter shot, eh? And watch yer fuckin' mouth or you'll jinx the whole crash, got it?"

Stretching her neck, Jess turned to look at Coffin, "You can't really be that superstitious with this job, can you?"

Coffin sat up and rattled a few hacking coughs into the sleeve of his jacket, "You kiddin'?…"

A soft scratch announced a new arrival and they all turned to look on top of the log, on which sat a large orange tom cat.


As Coffin leveled the shotgun less that a yard from the cat, a humourless grin etched into his face, "Fuckin' novices."

What We Know
Crasher Jargon
Game Terms
The "H" Word
Rust and Despair

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