Damien Thorn South Park Novels & Stories

Sienna made her way home from Damien's house, still feeling high but at least able to walk in a straight trajectory. As she ambled down the tree-lined avenue, the row of red maples seemed to stretch on forever. She was still laughing at the episode of South Park Damien had played her—the one with the alternative kids. It was his favourite. 'Damien is so much cooler than I ever realised,' Sienna thought. She pictured his face, his face, his outfit, and felt ashamed of her attraction to him.

Damian Thorn is a 35 year old, his 6.2 feet tall handsome guy. He is a Greek god that makes girls drool, his the definition of an ideal guy yet behind this perfect image of wealth lies a psychotic maniac. His feared by most due to horrid tales about his shady business dealings, some say he has no soul and those who know him speak not of him due to fear of him dealing with them. His family knows his a serial killer, they've tried different kinds of help from different institutions to try and offer him help his mother always wonders what she did wrong during his upbringing for him to end up this way.

'What does it sound like to you? I shake my head. 'I don't know. A place, perhaps. But I've never heard of anywhere called Silver Thorn.' Damien's thumb brushes carefully over the torn edge. 'Neither have I.' That surprises me. Damien seems to know everything about the world beyond the walls of Ashcroft Manor. He has lived long enough to remember things I have only ever read about in books. Yet even he doesn't recognize it. I look back at the diary. 'Then we need to find out.' I suggest, curious.

Damien cleared his throat, scanning the room with a grin that was equal parts charming and terrifying. “Good evening, everyone. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Damien. The younger, better-looking, significantly more fun Grayson brother.” More laughter. I rolled my eyes, but I didn’t stop him. “I’ve known Alexander my whole life,” Damien continued, pacing the stage. “And for most of that life, I assumed he was a robot built by our father to destroy the stock market. He didn’t smile. He didn’t sleep. He once fired me from an internship because I brought him the wrong kind of sparkling water. It was ‘too effervescent,’ apparently.”

I opened them because of his voice—the last person I ever expected to run into at this college. The college of the one person who barely tolerated him. Carter. Carter Hayes. Damien’s friend that Damien probably hated.

“-like yourself. You're young, harmless, and easily taken advantage of. You stink of mortality. Underworlders won't be able to resist. I, however, exude power-” “-ful odors.” Damien burst out laughing at my interjection. “I exude power, you wretch.” “The stench of death? Is that why you have no friends? Because you smell like roadkill?” “You're insufferable,” he said. “At least I'm not the root of all suffering.” “I think you two might need counselin',” Damien observed.

And if he isn't, then why did Damian look like a man drowning in guilt? As the days pass, Marcus's reports grow more detailed. Thornesby has been meeting with shady characters all over the city, and Vincent's money trail terminates at a series of companies, which I think will be perfect for me to own. But the one that hits me in the gut is the report on Damian: He had been seen in a seedy bar on the outskirts of town, drinking by himself every evening. No women, no friends. I think he has become exactly what I have wanted to make Vincent for so long. Just a poorer, more wretched version.

And to kill his brother is celebrate Tristan too. Damien and the guys went to corner to sit waiting for the perfect time to strike. They haven't sit for two minutes when a naked slut sat on Damien's laps, and he scrutinized her body thoroughly with his eyes. Clean-shaven pu$$y, wide @ss, big breasts and fake plastic surgery face which is so obvious judging by her nose and cheekbones. She leaned in trying to kiss his lips, but he lowered his lids before speaking... "You kiss me, I'll snap your neck. Ion kiss sluts"

She had heard someone speak, but she had yet to process it. When her head snapped backward, her breath hitched at the sight before her, and her body completely froze. Damian Thorne stood at an imposing 6’5 feet, with an umbrella above his head and a gun in his other hand. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal two-piece pinstripe co-ord, with the blazer revealing his sculpted, naked chest.

It was a smell that meant home to me, but for Damian, as he stood in the center of the floor with the Hamptons salt still drying on his skin, it looked like a confession. ​We didn't turn on the overhead lights. The weak morning sun filtered through the high, grimy windows, casting long, skeletal shadows across the floorboards. Damian hadn't said a word since we crossed the bridge. He looked haunted, the weight of the journals in his jacket pocket pulling at his shoulders. ​I grabbed a crowbar from the tool chest near the back. It was cold and heavy in my hand, a primitive weapon against the polished, digital lies of the Thorne empire.