Radu-Chapter XXXXII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous installments are at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
13 pages approximate
Marlowe Krovell never felt so powerful in his life. The blood of Agnes Khoska made him seem invincible, and unstoppable. He could barely control himself. He watched lustfully as the various patrons filed in and out of The Crypt. He smiled when he saw Marty Evans, his old friend, standing outside the newly opened Goth club, passing out samples of what he promised was an “immortal elixir”. The last time he saw Marty was when he used him to help him retrieve Raven’s corpse from the Baltimore Morgue. From the top of the adjacent building, he turned to see Cynthia eyeing him curiously.

“I won’t be long, old friend,” he promised the creature. Within an instant, he was at Marty’s side.

“You,” Marty shouted in shock. “What do you want now?”

“Now, Marty, is that any way to greet an old friend?” he asked. “That is my blood you’ve been handing out, you know. You have done an admirable job at that.”

“This stuff-is yours?” Marty replied in disbelief.

Before Marlowe could respond, a young Goth girl named Brandy approached them both, her eyes focused on the cardboard box which hung around Marty’s neck from a leather strap.

“I’m glad you’re still here, Marty,” she said. “How much would you charge me for some more of that stuff? Is that really some kind of blood? Whatever it is, it’s great.”

Marty informed her anxiously that he had no more and was going home soon, but the girl now had her attention focused on Marlowe.

“Hey, I know you, ain’t you Marlowe Krovell? Damn, I thought you was dead.”

“Me, dead? Naw, I just been hiding out, ya know? Joseph and his crew already tried to kill me and they did kill my mom and dad, and I just learned they all got what was coming to them. So, here I am. Man, you look fine. Rachel is it?”

“No, Brandy,” she replied. “You remember, don’t you? You were at my party a couple of years ago, though you didn’t stay long.”

“I just broke up with Raven, and when she showed up it was time for me to go,” he explained, all the time noticing that Marty looked increasingly worried, as Brandy stepped up closer to Marlowe.

“Hey you know,” he continued. “This is a good night to just kick around town. You ain’t with anybody are you?”

“Nobody important,” she said. “I could use a Latte. There’s a new place down the street that beats the hell out of Starbucks, and don’t cost nowhere near as much. You ever been there?”

“Yeah, here in a few minutes. Hey, Marty, hold down the fort here for me, will you?”

“What fort?” Marty asked suspiciously. He was well aware that Marlowe was telling him plainly not to bother to try to tag along, which he had no intention of doing. He knew deep down exactly what Marlowe was up to as they started walking on down the street. Marty watched them helplessly, aware there was nothing he could do or say that would not put his own life in extreme danger.

“Talk to you later, Marty,” Brandy said. Marty just said, simply, “Goodbye Brandy.”

Marlowe shot him another cold hard look as they continued down the street. Marlowe’s breathing was becoming labored and erratic, though he tried with great effort to conceal this. Brandy did not seem to mind, if in fact she noticed it at all. She is a horny bitch anyway, Marlowe thought to himself. She probably has every intention of being fucked after leaving what she called “Duke’s Coffee Joint”. For that matter, she probably wants to fuck well before then. Marlowe of course had other, more pressing matters on his mind.

Suddenly, well out of sight of The Crypt, Brandy stopped abruptly.

‘Wait a minute, I just remembered-I was at your funeral,” she said. “Your Uncle Brad”-she stopped short of any further observations, as though unable to process the sudden re-emergence of the memory of her attendance at his own fake funeral. The bitch was probably high, if not totally fucked up, he realized.

“What about Uncle Brad?” he prompted her.

“He had a closed-casket funeral for you,” she said. “So, he was in on this as well?”

“Yeah, in a manner of speaking,” Marlowe replied, now suddenly tired of the pretense. He needed her now in the worse possible way, while still dreading the consequences. This filthy bitch, he realized, in ordinary circumstances would render him almost incapacitated, as bad as-or worse-than the results of his assault of April Sandusky. He looked up in the sky above his head, and perched on a distant ledge was Cynthia, glaring down at them sullenly, and expectantly.

“I heard about what happened to him,” she continued. “That must have terrible for you, to lose your only surviving relative, especially so quickly after your parents died. You and he must have been real close.”

“We had our share of problems,” Marlowe said. ‘Like I told you, he was only in on it in a manner of speaking. There was a body in that coffin, and it was mine, in a way. Just a spare I made out of some random DNA from some teeth and spit. I didn’t have enough blood at the time to do the job, so I had to improvise. It was kind of rough ripping out my appendix, but hey, I had to have something for the DNA to build on. It was too bad you didn’t see the body. You would never have known it was a fake. Hell, it fooled Brad, and he was an expert mortician-what can I say?”

She digested all this without comment, though her eyes seemed to betray a sense that he must have been joking. Yet, he seemed so serious. He stepped up to her closer. There was now no one around, and a deathly silence pervaded the night. Only the cool of the night air betrayed any sense of reality as Marlowe Krovell now hovered over her.

“I need you now,” he said, and she fell into his arms. With one quick, savage thrust, he ripped open her throat with his long, black painted nails. She gasped as she jerked back, as the blood spattered all over him. He hungrily lapped it up as he held her tightly. She swooned as the blood gushed to his face as though it were a fountain. He pressed his lips up against her throat, feeding on the hapless girl as every desperate thought and random memory raced through her head and into Marlowe’s mind, much as a quickly racing stream that ran faster with every second that ran toward oblivion. She finally died, after putting up not the least bit of a struggle. He then ripped open her chest and extracted her heart. He had no desire for her to return, and so he devoured it completely, like a ravenous wolf, in the space of under a minute.

It worked, just as his grandfather had promised it would. The blood, the sacred blood that she and so many others had imbibed, had enabled Marlowe to feed upon her with impunity. More importantly, the virus they all now carried would easily transmit to any they encounter. It would spread further, ever further, until soon there would be few, if any, upon whom Radu, in the person of Marlowe Krovell, would be unable to feed.

Cynthia flew down now and began feeding upon the freshly slain corpse. Marlowe watched her intently, until she stopped after some ten minutes of gorging, and met his gaze.

“Lead the way, old girl,” he said. “We have much work to do tonight.”

Marlowe gazed into the creatures eyes, and soon the green aura surrounded his consciousness, bathing him in it until a form took focus within his consciousness. He could see it- the church, with its many members now exposed to the same virus that enabled Brandy to fall victim to his designs. Though it was yet nighttime, the church was not empty.

Marlowe gleefully bounded up toward the top of the nearest roof, reaching for the corner, and pulled himself over the ledge with little effort. He bounded from rooftop to rooftop, like some great mythical ape, no distance too great for him to traverse, until after a relatively few number of minutes, he found himself on the opposite side of town. He looked directly toward the Catholic Church, the one attended by Lieutenant Berry, who had unknowingly and inadvertently infected the sacramental wine with the virus that raged through Marlowe’s blood stream, turning all who partook of the sacred Eucharist into his potential and unwitting victims.


Like Brandy before them, they too would have no defense against him. Where before, the faithful of the church, the devout, could repel him with the power of their faith as channeled through the crucifix, now they were as so many sheep. Their accursed savior would not protect them now. His power, if all went as it should, would be useless to them. Even their most devout prayers would be to no avail.

He approached the Church. No longer did the giant crucifix attached to its roof fill him with dread. He looked over toward Cynthia. The creature waited expectantly for Marlowe to make his move. He could see the family inside the church. They seemed as devout a family as any other that entered the edifice. That they were here at this time of the night was solid testament to that fact. There was a problem. The child, the infant recently born, just under a year ago, was not well. Were he to live, he would be a hopeless invalid due to some rare disease of the blood transmitted through the mother.

They prayed earnestly. The father was grief-stricken. The mother was guilt-ridden. The teenage daughter was bored out of her wits, and resentful, as she looked out the window, and saw Cynthia. She stifled an automatic gasp, then continued to gaze. After a few minutes, she informed her mother she needed to walk outside, for just a few minutes.

By the time she walked out the door, she had forgotten all about Cynthia. She came out here for a cigarette. She lit one up, certain neither her father nor her mother would follow her out here, at least for now. She extracted a cigarette from her purse and lit it. She took one deep drag after another, allowing the smoke to waft out of her mouth, and then inhaling it through her nostrils and out of them again in an effort to minimize the scent of the tobacco on her breath. Finally, she allowed herself first one, and then another, long, luxurious drag through her mouth and down her throat. Marlowe waited in silence, behind the large evergreen, as she finished. She put the cigarette down to the ground and cautiously ground it out with her foot. She was not ready to go back inside-not just yet.

Marlowe however was ready, and waited long enough. He pounced, and quickly ripped open the girl’s throat before she had time to so much as gasp, let alone scream. As he fed upon her blood, her thoughts flooded through clearly into his consciousness, unlike the hazy and dazed ramblings that emanated from the mind of the Goth girl named Brandy who was his previous victim.

This girl, he realized, was on methamphetamines, hooked as badly as her last victim was on heroin. No longer did any of this have an effect on him. Ordinarily, his addiction would roar back to life and make him crave the substance as much as any mortal junky, perhaps worse. The pain of withdrawal had been constant and fierce. Now, he was free from this effect as well.

As had also been the case with Brandy, with this girl he saw concisely everything in her life. It was as though, in those final few seconds, her life flashed before Marlowe’s eyes. It was most amazing. He knew everything about her, her likes and dislikes, her needs and fears, her desires and her-wow, this little girl was a lesbian, he realized. Now, she was just dead, and not only did he know the entirety of her life, but much of the people who waited yet within the church-from her perspective, of course.

He entered the church openly, and the two people stopped their prayers and looked at him with obvious shock and some trepidation. He sensed a degree of loathing from woman, and not a little fear from the man.

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

“Are you here to see Father Chuck?” the man asked warily.

“No, I came to ask you why you’ve been treating your step-daughter so badly,” Marlowe replied in an accusatory tone of voice.

“That’s a lie,” the man stammered, but the woman looked at him with a suspicious fury.

“Did Jean tell you that?” she asked.

“Yep,” he replied. “The first time was when he went into her room during your vacation to Disney World. I think that was like three years ago. She was what-twelve, thirteen? Of course, as I said, that was the first time. According to her, there have been others-many, many others, in fact.”

“Mister, I don’t know who you are or what Jean has told you, but it’s all bullshit,” the man insisted.

“Where is she?” the woman demanded. “I’ll go talk to her about this right now.”

She headed for the door of the church as the man just stood there, enraged and yet fearful, trembling with impotent fury.

“Who in the hell are you?” he demanded in a coarse whisper.

“Radu-Radu Dracula,” came the reply. “I just did you a big favor, by the way. Your stepdaughter has been talking to the cops. Oh, and to her father, who desperately wants to kick your ass in the worse possible way. You see, after so long, they expect you to do more than just feel them up. It seems she knew it was getting to the point that if she didn’t do something, something bad was going to happen.”

“I swear, mister, I would never do anything to hurt Jean. I”-

“You love her?”

The man just looked down to the ground, and toward where the infant waited for a salvation and healing that was months long in coming. In all the time he had been inside this church, the child had made no sound. Suddenly, the woman came back inside.

“Jean is gone,” she said, obviously mystified. “There’s a vulture out there, sitting on the ground, just staring at me.”

“Let me get right to the point,” Marlowe said. “I am here to heal this child. I can remove every disease in his pain-wracked little body, and in fact, I can make him not just normal, but better than normal. I can remove the curse with which your cruel God has afflicted him. All of this I can easily do, but not without a price-a steep one, as it happens.”

“Why should we trust you?” the man demanded.

“Shut up!” the woman shouted, then turned her attention back toward Marlowe.

“I don’t know who you are, but if you can do what you say, I’ll pay you anything-I don’t care what it is.”

“You can’t be serious,” the man replied. “This guy is a demon. Look at him. He has entered the House of the Lord and is talking about some abomination involving our son-our child, not just yours. He is as much mine as he is yours and I say”-

Before the man could continue, however, Marlowe had him by the throat. Within a matter of seconds, the woman watched in desperate terror and, what was worse, uncertainty, as Marlowe drained the life force from the body of her husband of four years. He then turned to the woman, now paralyzed with fear and anxiety.

“Please-do what you promised,” she stammered.

Marlowe, now gorged on the blood of three victims, looked at her with a perverse serenity, the blood and gore caked and dribbling from his lips.

“You must hand him over to me,” he said. “Before you do that, however, there is one other thing you must do. You must give yourself to me, willingly.”

The woman began silently praying, unsure of what to do. A part of her resisted his entreaties, which was just as well. Marlowe grabbed her by the head of the hair and pulled her against him. She resisted him automatically and called on the Lord, but Marlowe had her pinned helplessly against his body and bit into her neck fiercely. He continued to feed upon her until she collapsed. She lay on the floor unconscious, next to her now sufficiently dead husband.

He walked over to the child, and fed upon his frail form, extracting just a small sip of blood from his lips. The child jerked and finally made a moaning sound. He opened the mouth of the child, regurgitated a small amount of blood into the open orifice, and then sat him upon the floor by his unconscious mother. As the child lay there trembling, Marlowe extracted the heart of the father and fed upon it. By the time he finished, the mother awoke. She rose in fear, and then saw the child on the floor beside her. The child now cried. He was on his hands and knees. For the first time in his life, the child crawled. The child smiled, and babbled.

The mother looked upon the sight of her child with delight. Forgotten, at least for now, was the fate of her daughter and that of her treacherous husband as well. Forgotten for the time being even was Marlowe, who stood over her, well satisfied with the events of this night, as the door opened to admit Father Chuck, who stood in obvious shock at what he saw.

“Who are you? What in the name of God has happened here?”

The woman rose and in a delirium swept the child up in her arms.

“This man has healed my child, Father Chuck,” the woman explained in delight, as the priest looked in horror on the mutilated body of the man on the floor.

“I’ve just performed the Devils’ work, here inside this very church,” Marlowe bragged. “I have done what you, with all your prayers and useless rituals, could never hope to do. Oh, and by the way, that confession you received from this man, and the so-called therapy you attempted with the daughter-you no longer need concern yourself with the matter. Justice has been served, if I might be so bold, and the sins of both wiped clean from the face of the earth.”

Father Chuck immediately called upon God, Christ, Mary, the Saints, all in an effort to dispel the demon who stood in his presence, mocking him and mocking God, as he held out his crucifix to ward off the Satanic intruder. Marlowe snatched it from his hand as though it were a piece of chewing gum, and flung it to the ground with a snarl.

The woman sat with her child in the front pew, holding her son, who cooed happily at his mother’s attentions for the first time since his birth. She talked back to him in baby gibberish as Marlowe ripped Father Chuck’s throat out of his neck, and fed upon him. Blood splattered everywhere, as a stream once splashed upon the blouse of the now relieved and happy mother, who laughed as her child made baby faces as he smiled at her, both of them laughing merrily as Marlowe quickly gorged himself on the heart of Father Chuck.

“I hope the two of you will be happy,” Marlowe told the woman. “There will be questions asked, of course. Say that I came to leave a message for the Patriarch Daniel, and that I will be coming for him soon. He will know what it means. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, of course,” the woman, said. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you. I’ll be sure and let them know. What is your name again?”

Marlowe, however, was on his way out the door, where he saw not Cynthia, but the Land Rover. They were just in time. Marlowe opened the door to the back seat. Toby looked at him sullenly.

“Okay, here I am,” he said. “What do you want, you freak?”

“I think you already know,” Marlowe replied, in no mood to trade insults with the rapper who he now had no reason to fear.

“Yeah, I think I do, but the question is, what the hell do you expect me to do about it?”

“Turn all of them off,” Marlowe replied.

“How the hell do you expect me to do that?” he asked.

“Just do it, or else,” Marlowe said.

“Now look here, you fucking”-

But before Toby could continue, Marlowe had him by the throat.

“Listen to me well, you fucking nigger,” he hissed. “I’m not in the mood to play games with your fat ass. You know what you have to do. If you can’t do it, somebody else can. Otherwise, what has happened thus far is nothing compared to what will happen. Do you read me?”

Toby pulled away and simultaneously fell into a near state of collapse. He then realized he had urinated on himself. The freak wasn’t playing games, and now turned his attention toward the driver of the Land Rover.

“Take me back to The Crypt,” he demanded.

Mercury Morris simply voiced a quick agreement and began driving away. Toby sat back silently, not uttering a sound, but breathing heavily. It was a silent ride of some forty minutes back to the south side of Baltimore, and to the front door of the Crypt.

“You do know how important this is, don’t you?” Marlowe said.

“Yeah-I know,” Toby replied. “I’ll do what I can.”

Satisfied, Marlowe stepped out of the car. Looking up toward the sky, he saw Cynthia perched on the ledge of the Crypt. He looked around, and saw Marty down the street. He still passed out the vials, a seemingly never-ending supply of them in his possession. As the Land Rover pulled away, Marlowe could hear Marty pronounce the coming end of the world and urging passers-by to partake of the magic formula that would enable them all to survive the coming destruction.

He turned with a smile and walked to the door of the Crypt. It was now empty, save for the lone figure of the new owner, who waited within.

“Marlowe, I see you’ve had a busy, busy night tonight.” The old man said.

“Grandfather.” Marlowe said by way of greeting. “Are you sure I will be safe here?”

“Oh, much safer than you would be at the funeral home, to be sure,” Martin Krovell replied. “It is only a matter of time before the old Priest will come looking for you, and he must not find you before you are able to face him. So, I take it all went well? You experienced no difficulties?”

“It worked even better than I hoped in my wildest dreams-such as they are,” Marlowe replied.

“Good,” Krovell replied. “Soon, there is going to be a brand new world, with a completely new order-a sacred world, one in which Christ will be the final ruler and arbiter. You, my grandson, will be the one chiefly responsible for helping to finally bring that about. It has been five long centuries in the making, you know. But the time and sacrifice will prove to be well worth it.”

Marlowe scowled at the mention of Christ, and at the thought of what this proposed new world would cost. Something was not quite right. There was something he was not being told. His grandfather promised that he would have a life free from pain and despair, a life of freedom and abundance. At the same time, his grandfather was not a man he trusted easily, for good reason. No Christian, of any sect, had ever given him anything but misery. A Christian and a champion of Christianity-his brother Vlad the Impaler-was responsible for the tragedies and the ultimate curse that afflicted him. Vlad did this not only out of his own malicious need for vengeance, but on behalf of the Mother Church, in their shared goal of defeat of the Ottoman Empire, against whom Vlad warred relentlessly. Now Vlad was dead for centuries, but his own Order, the Order of The Dragon, yet existed within the framework of what his grandfather hailed as the essence of the One True Church of Christ, driven underground two millennia ago first by the Roman Empire in it’s drive to extinguish the new Christian cult.

When that cult grew to predominance over the Empire, it became in time the Catholic Church, and al but exterminated what his grandfather called the true church, while insisting that the Catholic Church was the first of the heretical Christian sects. When the true Christians fled to Dacia-later known as Romania-it was not too long before they were driven into hiding yet again, this time by yet a new heretical Christian sect, in the form of the Romanian Orthodox Church.

As far as Marlowe was concerned, one faction was like another, all of them power hungry and intent on world domination as much, if not more so, than those Muslims of the Ottoman Empire with whom he was during his brief life obliged to align himself.

What would his new life be worth under such people as this so-called One True Church? If his grandfather achieved the entirety of his stated goals, there would be precious few people left on whom Radu could feed. He cared nothing for politics and power. That was another life, one long gone. He had no chance of relief from the curse with which Vlad afflicted him-nor in fact did he wish for relief other than the freedom to exercise his desires on anyone he wished. After five hundred years of suffering, he now had the chance to pursue this dream to the fullest extent possible.

He would therefore exist as he now did-if not forever, then certainly for a good time to come, far longer than any mortal human could hope to live-for many generations, in fact, or until someone finally destroyed him. That did not bother him. He would in fact have it no other way. He longed for nothing more than to feast upon the flesh and blood of those who now lived and who would come to live within the world-to feed his ravenous appetite during what amount of time he continued on the earth. He wanted only one thing more.

“My wife-what news do you have of her?”

His grandfather looked sullenly in response to this question. They had already been through this.

“I told you, Marlowe-or Radu, excuse me-your wife is gone forever.”

“That is a lie. She is here. I can feel her presence.”

“Of curse you can feel her presence. She will always be a part of you. We are all a part of the universal whole, Radu. Even when we die, we are all as one. Your wife is now with Mircea.”

“No!” Marlowe screamed with rage at this pronouncement.

“You do understand that she was promised to Mircea before his death, do you not? Her marriage to you came about after, and due to, his unfortunate early murder. It was all in the way of adhering to the family alliance-nothing more. You also had the chance to make matters right between the two of you, but of course you failed. Yet, this was to be expected. Now, she is with Mircea, the way the two families originally planned it to be-and as she always wanted to be, by the way. You must learn to accept this.”

“I will never accept it,” Marlowe said.

“Well, just sleep on it for now,” Martin suggested with inferred finality. “The sun will soon rise. Unfortunately, its effects on you are yet one more thing it seems will never change. Modern sunscreen, no matter how much you use or how medicated it is, is yet only good for so much, you know-especially in your case.”

He accompanied Marlowe to the attic, where waited not one, but two coffins.

“I hate sleeping in these damn things. Is there any reason I can’t sleep in a fucking bed like a normal human?”

“These protect you from the sun better than any bed possibly could, more even than any save the most completely sealed off room can. More importantly, they provide a ready made explanation to any who might inadvertently discover you.”

“Of course, as long as a dead body in the attic of a Goth bar is in a coffin no one would ever be the wiser, huh?” Marlowe stated sarcastically. “So what is this other one for?”

Martin opened one of them to reveal the mummified remains of Radu Dracula. Marlowe looked upon it with sadness.

“You should never forget where you came from,” Martin said. “Besides, if it fell into the wrong hands, it might provide information which could be used to your detriment.”

“Speaking of which, since you are obviously talking about that old busybody Priest,” Marlowe asked, “why not just kill him outright and get it over with?”

“If you don’t destroy him yourself, he will simply return in some later incarnation and resume the job, probably to greater effect, as he will be the wiser for the experience and so better prepared. Don’t you see, Marlowe-if you destroy him now, with your own hands, with your own power, directly, you do away with him for good.

“Of course, he is not the only problem. James Berry seems to have found his independence. His involvement was always problematic at best. We merely made use of an unfortunate set of circumstances. He will have to be dealt with.”

Marlowe looked morosely down at the coffin within which he would spend this night. He opened it and prepared to climb in. The exhaustion that now started to overwhelm him was not the same as experienced by normal humans. It was more like an approaching, inevitable death.

“Stop concerning yourself with your old life, Marlowe,” Martin advised him as he climbed inside the waiting coffin.

“You tell me that with that thing here in the room with me?” Marlowe asked indicating the remains that rested beside him.

“I must confess, that was another reason I brought it here-to bring home to you the simple fact that that life is indeed over and done with, as well as everything that life revolved around. Your wife, your daughter, they are all gone. All the friends, servants, courtiers, down to your most trusted guards, are no more. Your new life bears no more relation to that old one than the world has to the one in which you were born and raised.

“You now have a new life, and soon, a new bride-not too long from now, a new child. They are your life now, Marlowe. Grace will soon give birth to a new child, free of the taint of this world and its wicked sinfulness, yet as ready as you to devour and feast off it. That time will be soon, I promise you.”

Marlowe lay there as Martin Krovell finally closed the lid on his coffin. He now felt cold, devoid of any semblance of life, as he began the sleep of death, a death that in his case ended nothing. He could feel the coldness embrace him as he saw a vague light that, as always, mockingly beckoned him to enter into it.

Yet, he knew he could never enter into the warmth of its embrace. He stood outside as he watched countless souls entered within, blissfully unaware now of their former torment, while outside the light, an even greater number of others moaned and wandered aimlessly, in despair and pain, bereft of comfort or guidance, tortured souls beyond redemption. He knew that if not for the curse that afflicted him, he would share their fate.

He watched as others called out to him, the generations of his family that proceeded forth from and after him. He saw the Krovell family, those original immigrants from Romania, watching him in longing for him to achieve their final vengeance on the world that rejected them and despised them for the heritage they were obliged to keep secret.

Magda, the old gypsy, looked at him with malicious glee, confidant that soon he would reap the harvest she had so long ago planted, as had her ancestors before her. Her son-in-law Vlad watched and twitched with hopeful anger, while even Irenea, his young wife, now the most ancient of them all, in her advanced degree of dementia seemed to understand, on some deep inner level, that their revenge would soon be complete.

All of the others stood and watched-the incestuous children no longer concerned themselves with the older brother who in trying to destroy them provoked a fiery Holocaust throughout the city of Baltimore. The older sister, though wracked with the pain of the hideous disease that destroyed her, nevertheless seemed at last content in her anguish.

All of the others, those who yet bore the scars of their ultimate fates, waited along with them. The multiple gunshot wounds of the soldier, the diseased heart of the youngest brother, the crushed skull and battered body of the dockworker, the rat devoured addict, all of them stood in muted anticipation, as they mumbled and moaned, until two other forms took shape, that of Richard and Mabel, Marlowe’s mother and father. Even they, who for their own selfish reasons had rejected the family tradition, now in their failure came to grips with their ultimate destiny, and seemed finally to understand the rightness of it.

No longer did Marlowe despise and fear them as he once did. Now, he felt nothing for them beyond pity. It was right that they should be avenged, as they spent their whole lives trying to avenge his own death centuries earlier as much as their own disenfranchisement. Magda now walked up to him.

“We all shall live again, through you,” she declared.

Suddenly they all vanished, and Marlowe was alone in his dream that was death. He knew he would walk one day in this shadowy world forever, with no ending. Nothing lived forever. Even the undead had no permanent grip on the world of life. Soon, it would fade away, unless he found yet another form in which to inhabit and possess. Unfortunately, he would never have the same grasp on any other form he might so possess. Marlowe Krovell was of his bloodline. In fact, he was the last of it. When he was finally gone-as eventually he would be-who could possibly take his place to anything near the same effect?

There was one more person he wished to see. Soon, he saw not one but two forms. His daughter stood beside him, alongside his wife. His daughter looked disappointed. She looked angry. She blamed him for the failure that cost her own place, her rightful royal heritage. Because of him, her life became that of a gypsy vagabond.

She transformed the curse of his brother Vlad into one that would extend into the ages. She fully intended to wreak destruction on the descendants of those who had raped her, humiliated her, stolen her birthright, and left her a legacy of shame, disgust, and fear. Even that would not be enough. She intended for the whole world to suffer, far more than she herself had suffered.

“It will not end until all or dead, or enslaved,” she declared.

“Do you see now what you have done?” his wife said to him. “Your thirst for power has brought all this about. I had no choice in the matter. She had no choice in the matter. Because of you, our lives were misery in human form. She, our daughter, lived a life of shame, as the wife of a despised gypsy. Can you fault her for wanting everyone on the face of the earth to suffer worse than she suffered herself, over things that were not her fault, while everyone she met mocked her, reviled her, and persecuted her as though she were the lowest born trash?

“Yet, even now, all you care about is living your new existence with no thought of responsibility, and hope that somehow you and I will be reconciled. It is impossible. My soul has been reunited with Mircea. You have no right to expect a new life with me. Go, Radu, live your life, your new existence, and start anew. Forget about me, just as I try to forget about you and the misery you brought upon me, and upon our daughter. You owe us at least this much. Leave us alone.”

He reached out but she turned away, and soon they both faded into the gathering fog, a gray fog that grew ever darker and more ominous, until soon, it engulfed everything around him, until two giant emerald eyes glared out through the fog and pierced inside him. He knew now that Mircea, who never really left him, was now with him. Now, he could feel Mircea’s thoughts as easily as he knew Mircea knew his own.

“You will end sooner rather than later if you continue on the road you are on, brother,” Mircea said to him as he suddenly took on the form of the man in the dark gray robe and hood, which covered his mutilated face as the eyes, in life burned from their sockets, now transformed into red hot embers. They burned inside Radu’s soul.

“You always loved the life of comfort and vice, Radu,” Mircea now told him. “You have never changed, nor will you ever change. Look where your life of luxury led you. Look at what the result was then. There is nothing inside you but a longing for pleasure and leisure. You were willing even to fight for it then. It seemed never to occur to you to fight instead for your birthright. You willingly and gladly sold your heritage for a bowl of pottage.

“Well, it will soon end, as surely as it ended then. This time, there will be no reprieves, no second chances. That is your true curse, Radu. The dead, even those like yourself who are conscious and aware, can do no more than suffer for their crimes in perpetuity. You are no more capable of learning from the mistakes of the past and changing your nature than you would be of atoning for your sins. You cannot atone-you can only suffer. Nor can you change-you can only rot. Good day to you, my brother. You will see me no more, until the day your miserable existence finally ends for good.”

Radu could do no more than rave and growl in fury like a maddened animal, and so he screamed and cursed as he kicked and flailed at the ground beneath his feet-only to discover no ground was under him. He floated in his death dream, until he found himself over the coffin that rested beside the one in which his present body now reposed, but which now was empty, as he seemed suspended above it as well. He watched as the coffin that held those ancient remains suddenly opened as if of its own volition, but it was the corpse of Marlowe Krovell upon which he gazed in confusion. He looked toward his now empty coffin, and toward a mirror, into which he stared to see the grinning, mummified cadaver of Radu Dracula staring back at him.

The room began spinning around as he was now surrounded by a mist, one that grew thicker, until he realized he seemed now to be in a stagnant lake, while all around him mosses, leeches, and lichens gathered around him, holding him down under the same water that he at the same time gazed into from the shore. He saw himself on the shore, looking down from the shore onto himself trying desperately to rise to the surface toward where he waited on shore.

He reached out from the shore to where he now rose to the top of the lake, and reached his hand toward his hand that reached to him from the shore. He raised his moss-covered head to see Marlowe Krovell, trying desperately to pull Radu out of the water of the lake. When Marlowe saw it was not himself but Radu, he tried to push him away, but Radu gripped the outstretched arm. He pulled himself onto the shore, and saw now that Marlowe had taken his place in the water of the stagnant lake. He was now trying desperately to rise back to the surface, but when Radu looked down into the lake, he saw not his own reflection, nor the reflection of Marlowe Krovell. They both had disappeared now under the waves, as the blackness of unconsciousness finally overwhelmed him.

The dream then finally gave way, as the sleep of death finally overtook him, again for yet this one more day.
Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI

Princess Diana- Smoking Guns, Smoking Tires

According to the findings of the Inquest into the death of Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed, they died not as the result of murder, but due to negligence and carelessness on the part of the Paparazzi and driver Henri Paul, whose blood alcohol level was significantly above the legal limit.

Some suggested that she died as the result of some plot conducted by the Royal Family and British Intelligence services. Such theories offered, by way of explanation, her romantic relationship with Fayed, who was a Muslim, and by whom she was rumored to be with child. Her work in various charitable activities was also mentioned as a possible motive for these shadowy forces to “shut her up”-particularly her work at encouraging a worldwide ban on the use of land mines. Some have even gone so far as to claim that Henri Paul was victimized by a drug inserted into his drink, not long before the parties left the nightclub in Paris that fateful night.

In the end, however, it was determined that Diana died as the result of a horrible, tragic accident.

Well, I don’t believe it. I believe that Henri Paul was indeed drugged, and the accident staged. I believe Diana and Fayed were in effect murdered, though not intentionally, nor by the Royal Family or any arm of the British government or British Intelligence. I believe she did, however, die as the result of a horrific and intentional assault, explicitly aimed at causing her accident. I cannot prove that, of course, but I do have one question. Well, a few questions, really-

First, before the accident that claimed her life, how much money did a typical picture of Princess Diana bring, such as the one here?

What about this one?

And then-

How much would you say this picture would be worth?

Radu-Chapter XXXXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous chapters are at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
7 pages approximate
Michael left after Agnes’s funeral, determined the time had come to return to his family. He did not even bother to ask Khoska to come with him. He was in fact quite angry.

“I know you are upset with me,” Khoska said.

“Agnes would never have agreed to be cremated,” he said. “What gives you the right to make such a decision?”

Khoska looked at him strangely. He had already went over this with him once before, and he was positive Agnes as well had discussed it with him.

“She was hardly in her right mind those last few days,” Michael stubbornly insisted. “On the other hand, I can easily say the same for us all lately. The idea that she might have come back under some satanic curse”-

“You doubt this still, even after what you went through, here in this very church, with that vile creature?” Khoska demanded.

Michael bowed his head as if in prayer. For a minute, he was silent. Khoska waited in awkward silence, not wanting to push him to admit the evidence of his own experience.

“I don’t know what to believe any more,” he finally said. “What I do know is my family needs me. Someone is evidently determined to wipe out our entire family. So far, they have achieved a remarkable rate of success. If you insist on staying here, I will not belabor the issue.”

He left the next day, as Khoska placed Agnes’s urn next to the now empty one for his niece Lynette, as he wondered at the power of Marlowe Krovell. He had somehow managed to wear the both of them down, to weaken their defenses sufficiently to enable him to victimize them. Lynette was one thing. She was young and her faith was new. Despite her strength, she did not have Agnes’s bedrock of faith on which to call. Nevertheless, he deduced Agnes’s main area of weakness-her devotion to the children under her care. She never should have brought them with her. That she could not bear to leave them behind provided evidence of the one chink in her armor of faith.

Khoska remained glum all through the day, and into the night, as he continued to pray and meditate. He then removed himself down to the basement and, retrieving the old keys, he accessed the safe that held the powdered bones of Cornelieu Codreanu. Either they had failed him or he had failed in their application. Now, there was only one vial remaining. The others had proven worthless at protecting both Lynette and Agnes.

That night, as he slept, he dreamed of Agnes in her bed. She cried as she looked into the mirror.

“How, poppa, can you help us now? Why should you bless the damned?”

She hid her face, and as Khoska approached, he heard a voice call to him in a hushed tone from behind him. He turned to see Lynette, smiling at him. He awoke with a start. There was the vial at his bedside where he left it.

“Of course,” he said. ‘That is it. Why did I not know?”

He arose and ate. After he bathed, he spent the remainder of the day in quiet prayer. In every application, he had blessed the relic, which was not a sacred relic at all, but the bones of a grasping, power hungry and possibly fanatical madman. In so doing, he actually lessened its power, had perhaps even gone so far as to make it completely worthless. By the end of the day, he was in an inspired state of near frenzy.

He blessed the sacred wine of the Eucharist. Then, without blessing the bones, he added them to the wine.

“That was the whole problem,” he said in wonder, as he dropped down on his knees before the icon of the Archangel Michael.

The demonic entity that possessed the person of Marlowe Krovell was itself under a peculiarly malicious curse. The blood of the righteous or the innocent alone could sustain him. The blood of sinners was as poison to him. Yet, only the truly faithful, the very ones necessary to sustain him, could repel him. Therefore, the demon found itself faced with a quandary. In order to feed, he had to wear down the faith of those whose blood he needed to survive. Their assured salvation gave him strength and sustenance. Yet, the bones of Codreanu would destroy him, already would have had Khoska not foolishly blessed them. He felt like a complete idiot. Now, however, he felt waves of faith and even profound peace sweep through him.

Neither Lynette’s death nor that of Agnes would be in vain, he vowed. He allowed himself no further recriminations. Such would not bring either of them back. Perhaps it was necessary in order for him to grasp the truth. They should both be alive now, and would be if he had discerned the truth in time. Yet, his faith was not sufficient to see it. He begged forgiveness for his lack of faith, and vowed to carry on the fight, for which he now felt assured of victory. He had to win. He could not allow such abominable evil to prevail. It would make a mockery of the deaths of the two people he loved the most.

By nightfall, he had a not completely unexpected visitor. The Metropolitan Abraham, who in fact had presided over the funeral of Sister Agnes, promised he would see him in a few days. He no longer dreaded it, as he would have a few months ago.

“Where is Michael?” he asked. Khoska remained bowed in front of the Archangel.

“He has returned home, to see to his wife and family,” Khoska replied. “I am frankly glad he has done so. His place is not with me but with them. How are the children?”

“The children are well,” he answered. “They will soon all be placed in fine homes, with families who will love them and raise them well, I am sure.”

“That would make Agnes very happy,” Khoska replied. “They were her life.”

“Aleksandre, let’s not beat about the bush any more, all right? This is awkward enough. You know why I am here. It is time for you to retire.”

“We have had this conversation before,” Khoska replied.

“Really, Aleksandre, you have no place in this city. You have no parish of which to speak. You are a shepherd without a flock.”

For the first time, Aleksandre rose from his attitude of prayer and turned to face the Metropolitan.

“You are my flock,” he replied. “Not just you, but the entire church. You are all blind, walking toward a precipice that will lead to your destruction. I can do nothing about that, but I can and will slay the wolf when he comes to slaughter you. Are you aware that Michael saved my life from the clutches of a woman who in fact has been dead for two years? Not falsely presumed dead, mind you-the recent autopsy performed on her remains verified that she has in fact been dead for that long.”

“Do you really believe she was dead that long, Aleksandre?” the Metropolitan asked sadly, albeit with a faint smile.

“Yes, I do-well, give or take a week or two. You do not have to take my word for it. Her name was Raven Randall, and she died a victim of murder, at the hands of the very man who raised her from the dead and used her as a subterfuge, as a distraction in order that he could get to Agnes.”

“Yes, indeed, the amazing Marlowe Krovell, I know, I have heard all about him. Really, Aleksandre. Of course it so happens she was also affiliated with this strange young man you took under your wing, whom ended up impaled on the upright beam of the cross I am happy to see you have had replaced. Oh, and that other girl, Sierra I think her name was. You know-the one who seemed to be the unwitting victim of a satanic type sacrifice performed here on this very altar.

“Would you like me to once again read to you the police reports on these people, these loathsome criminals whom you insist you saved and who were a part of your war against the devil?”

“Sierra was an unbeliever to the end,” Khoska reminded him. “Joseph sincerely believed. His death was a tragedy, regardless of his past actions.”

“Khoska, Khoska, Khoska, what can I say?” Abraham said in undisguised anguish. “Perhaps Joseph Karinsky was sincere, but more than likely, he was at best desperate to save his own skin from the fate he brought upon himself. At worse, he may have been-and I do hate to say this-playing you for a fool.

“I do not know who or what killed him, but whoever-or whatever-it was may have done you a big favor. A great lot of these troubles, Aleksandre, I fear you have brought on yourself. When you jump in a lake, you get wet. When you lie down in the mud, you get dirty. When you stick your hand in the flame, it burns, and so on and so forth.

“Now you, the self-described shepherd of us all, seem to think you are empowered to save us. I am afraid you are badly deceived. If anything, your endeavors threaten to destroy us. You have already lost almost your entire family. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but why could you not save them?”

Khoska looked at the Metropolitan with a barely disguised disdain that did not go unnoticed by his superior. By this time, Khoska did not care. He looked at most high-ranking officials of the church as though they were for the most part bureaucrats, barely functional ones at that, who cared more for appearances and propriety than they did the truly important spiritual issues of the Church. Unfortunately, such attitudes were indispensable in any rise in position of authority. It was but one of those fatal human flaws from which the church never purged itself. By this point, Khoska was not about to defend himself to the Metropolitan, whom he viewed as a well-meaning individual, but whose value beyond his job description was questionable at best.

“I need just a little more time,” he said at length.

“And you shall have it,” Abraham replied. “In fact, I am giving you a month-that is to say, I am giving you a month to find yourself new and suitable living arrangements. Your duties as a Priest are, I am very much afraid, over. You have now officially been retired. At this point, whatever activities you engage in are of your own volition, and are not to be assumed to have the permission or the blessing of the church.”

Abraham waited a couple of minutes, to give Aleksandre time to digest this pronouncement, but to his chagrin, Khoska betrayed no surprise in his reaction, only one of resignation.

“I did not want it to be this way,” Abraham continued. “You have left me no choice. Actually, I spoke up for you, believe it or not. I suggested you be promoted to Bishop. I believe Daniel would have been amenable, but too many others objected. You have kept yourself too insulated, Aleksandre. You have been an island unto yourself, here in this Catholic city without a flock to call your own, and with nothing or no one to recommend you.

“I consider myself quite fortunate to have secured your retirement. You can live quite comfortably, if you choose to. Whatever the case, the doors of the church are henceforth closed to the public. Soon, officials of the Church shall inventory the property. What is yours, they shall transfer over to your possession. The rest shall be catalogued and delegated to where they might be needed and wanted.”

As he said this, Abraham focused his attention on the icon of the Archangel Michael, his foot upon the vaguely serpentine form as he prepared to plunge a sword into the heart of the demoniac best.

“It has come to my attention that this icon was formerly in the possession of a Greek Orthodox Church that burned to the ground some decades ago. I understand the party responsible for its transfer to your care did so at the behest and in honor of your grandfather, who was indeed a remarkable man of God. I understand you are quite attached to it. As it is not a legitimate church property, you may more than likely keep it, provided its transfer to you turns out to be valid and above-board.”

Khoska looked on, as though he had other matters on his mind.

“You know the Metropolitan Daniel’s life is in danger, do you not?”

Abraham looked at him strangely.

“I understand you heard this second-hand, from some one who supposedly heard it from the lips of your son. I believe the individual in question is someone who supports himself as a photographer for the Baltimore Enquirer-not among the most reputable of newspapers. How unfortunate that Phillip is yet in a coma and therefore unable to verify any of this.

“Aleksandre, Daniel’s life is constantly in danger. There are those who resent his outreach to other churches of the Christian community. Please-no longer concern yourself with these matters.”

“I am concerned not just for him, but for all of us,” Khoska replied, his exasperation getting the better of him and showing now in his voice. “The heretics whom I wrote to you about, and who are led by some person whose identity I am unaware of”-

“Aleksandre!” Abraham shouted, and then restrained himself as he sought to regain his composure.

“Please, Aleksandre,” he said. “Let it drop. I beg you. Daniel is going to meet with officials of not only Christianity, but leaders of other world religions. He is coming here to Baltimore in a few days. I assure you, he is well guarded. I want no nonsense to interfere with his plans, or to disturb his meditations and his preparations for the coming days.

“These heretics of whom you speak are a small number of malcontents who have somehow inflated their power and influence only in your own mind. There will always be heretics and malcontents. Twenty years from now their names will be forgotten, and others will arise to carve out for themselves a similar pathway to obscurity. The church and its people will go on forever, until God reclaims his earth in the name of the Crucified and Resurrected Lord Jesus. I believe that with all my heart. That is my faith, Aleksandre. I should like to think it is still yours.

“As for the Brothers Dracula, including Radu, they are mere historic personages, important in their day, but whose sole importance in our time belongs chiefly in the domain of the motion picture industry, to some degree to the Romanian Board of Tourism. If the heretics of whom you speak truly believe that Radu Dracula has somehow resurrected and leads them on a quest to world domination, well that is-well, that is interesting, and perhaps a little sad. Is it a cause for great concern? Not for me, Aleksandre-nor for any sane person, I hasten to add.”

Aleksandre Khoska was livid, though Abraham’s words were by no means unexpected. It would be easy for an outsider to conclude he was making way too much out of past events. After all, the Centers for Disease Control seemed certain the recent epidemic would quickly wind down to at least relatively manageable levels. They pronounced it unnecessary to impose quarantines on vast areas, as everyone initially feared would be required. Though the death toll was significant, it showed recent signs of abating significantly, as recent victims, for the most part, responded well to treatment.

The recent power outage, which afflicted the entire nation for a period of four days, ended quicker than anyone expected. The local police, state, and federal responses resulted in minimal looting and rioting in Baltimore and in other urban areas, and though it was an inordinate expense, fund-raising drives in addition to government assistance provided replacements for the vast quantities of spoiled food. The mere fact that elected officials found it to their advantage to debate over the amount of federal funds needed to repair the damage gave testament to the fact the damage was not as severe as initially feared.

Its cause even was traced-evidently a virus had insinuated itself at a previously unheard of level and shut down almost the entirety of the not only US computer systems, but in fact the entire world. It was quickly traced to the DVD of Toby Da Pimp, on which it was embedded within the video that portrayed the horrific murder of the youngest daughter of Doctor David Chou.

Now, Chou himself, presumably one of the main ringleaders of what law-enforcement officials identified as a terrorist plot, was in prison, awaiting certain indictment and prosecution, while yet another alleged conspirator, Detective James Berry, while still in hiding, would most likely be found soon.

It was easy to conclude that the true instigators had misjudged and underestimated the capabilities of those they sought to undermine and destroy. Khoska, however, believed there was something missing, some component yet identified. Marlowe Krovell had masterfully used the reanimated corpse of Raven Randall to provide a distraction in order for him to wage his ultimately successful assault on his dear, sweet Agnes. Khoska could not help but believe that Marlowe Krovell was himself a minor player, no more important in the overall scheme of things than Doctor Chou or Lieutenant Berry. He was certain that some yet unknown person or entity manipulated things behind the scenes. Who was it? Could it be his demented half-brother and his abominable wife-or could it possibly be the mysterious Edward Akito? Perhaps it was some other person whose identity was beyond Khoska’s comprehension.

Khoska believed this was more than likely the case. His own son Phillip, a man who was a multi-millionaire leader of a previously successful and wide-ranging international crime cartel of nearly unstoppable power, himself turned out to be the merest of pawns.

Yet, Abraham stood now in judgment over him. No one could see the danger. Khoska however was far too aware, the true depths of disaster waited to unfold, when all least expected it. There was no need in trying to convince him further.

“Will you at least stay for dinner? I promise I will not bore you with my little conspiracy theories. I accept the pronouncement of the church fathers-as always.”

Abraham was stunned. It took a few seconds to respond.

“You-really mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

Abraham remained for over an hour, and joined Khoska for dinner. Yet, he seemed reserved through most of the evening. Finally, he rose to leave, but Khoska had one final request.

“Will you please administer the Eucharist to me, one last time?”

Abraham could not believe the request, yet Khoska was truly sincere.

“It has been years since a Priest other than myself has administered the Lord’s blessings unto me,” he explained. “It would seem as though I no longer have the authority to do so.”

Abraham performed Khoska’s request, and noted that Aleksandre seemed strangely at peace, for the first time in years.

“You have served the church well over the years, Aleksandre,” he said. “Your very determined efforts to bring to an end Voroslav Moloku’s hypocrisy we all look upon with a great deal of admiration. It is most commendable that you should act in such faith against the interests of your own son-in-law. Neither did you spare your own son when it came time to act for the good of the Church, to which we all appreciate that you have truly devoted your life. You have suffered greatly through the years. I and in fact all of us are well aware of this.

“However, all things must end, my friend. You will see, in time, that it is all for the best. If what you say is accurate, you should at least be aware that, whatever Satanic evil has been unleashed, the power of the Lord Jesus Christ would destroy it as easily without your continued involvement as it would with it. You have earned your rest, Aleksandre. We shall handle it from here on out. You have my word on that.”

That easily, his career ended. No longer would Aleksandre Khoska legitimately conduct a mass or lead a service of the faithful. For years, he lived as a shepherd without a flock. He was no longer even a lonely shepherd. He retained the title in retirement, but without any authority to utilize it, he was no more than a figurehead with a title kept out of respect for past services.

Soon, he would conduct his own personal inventory. He had money, enough saved over the years to retire in comfort, in a private home where he would certainly move the Archangel which looked down upon him now seemingly in knowing sympathy. He had clothing, as well as many books, and other personal items. What would become of the Church? A few days before he left, Michael had mentioned something about it becoming a private retreat, or perhaps an orphanage in honor of Agnes. She would have liked that.

However, until he had to leave it, he had precious little time in which to conclude his true business. Personal matters could wait. He slowly moved to Agnes’s room. He reflected on how it was in this room that both she and Lynette lost their lives at the hands of Marlowe Krovell.

He waited in vain for an answer on how to end his evil existence since the day of Lynette’s murder. He prayed endlessly, but no answer was forthcoming. At times, he felt abandoned. Then, upon the murder of Agnes, he ironically received the answer for which he waited so long.

He picked up the mirror into which she gazed constantly during her last few days of life, horrified at the image she saw, though no one else could discern the reason for her terror.

He touched the wine to his lips from within the flask that contained the last of the powdered bones of Cornelieu Codreanu. Then, he gazed down upon the mirror, still streaked with the dried tears of Agnes, a remarkable woman of God.

He muttered a quick and silent prayer as he gazed upon the tears of the virgin.

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX

Back To The Broom Closet

Anymore, it is getting harder to identify as a Pagan or Wiccan. This is truer of my relations with people I know in the real world than it is of my musings on this blog or in regards to my communications in other areas of the internet. At the same time, it is growing exponentially more troublesome even here on-line, in regards to people with whom I converse, even though more than likely I will never meet in real life the vast majority of them, if indeed any at all.

I look back on the days of my self-proclaimed conversion with equal parts amusement and amazement. I too went through the religious fanaticism stage that marks any true believer. I approached days of hardship with varying degrees of faith in the “gods of my ancestors” and in the hidden science of magic. The good days I found easy and appropriate to render thanks for divine guidance. I longed for more spiritual as well as occult knowledge, and hungered to find meaning beyond the oftentimes quite whimsical mythologies of the past, in some cases inventing or devising hidden meanings where perhaps there were none to be found, nor were any intended.

When confronted with the skeptics and the ignorant, those who identified Pagans and Wiccans as evil black hearted magicians or sorcerers in the employ, knowing or unknowingly, of “the Devil”, I admit to a perverse satisfaction in their reaction. I felt oh so superior to them and what I saw, correctly in many cases, as their superstition and hypocrisy.

All things change and evolve over time. I am no different in this regard. I like to think of it as the wisdom that comes with growth, experience, and maturity.

Some things, unfortunately, seem almost to never change for the better.

Disclaimer-

American taxpayers have a perfect right to criticize the policies, both internal and external, of those foreign nations said taxpayers subsidize in any way-this is especially true of those nations whose defense we subsidize-such as Europe, Japan, and, yes, Israel.

Of course, American taxpayers are often divided, finding themselves in stark disagreement when it comes to the policies of many of these countries. This is especially true of Israel, it would seem.

Therefore, when such Wiccan luminaries as Starhawk offer criticism of the nation of Israel, she is merely doing what many other American citizens have done and have a perfect right to do. However, there is legitimate criticism, and there is crossing the line. Many Israeli critics cross that line often-figuratively and literally.

Starhawk has joined their ranks. The fact that she might feel, as a person of Jewish ancestry, that she has a compelling reason and right, and even a responsibility to do so, changes nothing.

Starhawk is a member, or at least a supporter, of the International Solidarity Movement. These people have in the past acted as human shields against Israeli operations in Palestinian territories. They claim to be acting in the defense of innocent Palestinians (I refrain from putting quotation marks around the phrase in the hopes there are at least a few).

It is hard to take that claim with more than a grain of salt when I remember how people such as this once acted in such a manner in defense of Yasser Arafat, who, whatever you might think of him, can hardly be called innocent. In fact, both Hamas and the rival Palestinian group Fatah typically use them as pawns. They are in fact little more than propaganda props to these thugs, and when women like Rachel Corrie end up dead-and that is always a real possibility in situations like this-in all likelihood there is little that could possibly please them more. One of the few things they might find more satisfying is when a few hundred of their own people end up dying because of an Israeli counter-attack on them within their positions in Palestinian residential neighborhoods.

It would be much easier to take Starhawk and her peers seriously were they to make a point of standing around Israeli pizzerias and bus stops with signs saying things like “I Too Might Be a Victim of a Palestinian Suicide Bomber”.

Of course, that now is unnecessary. Such bombings seem now a thing of the past. Perhaps that is why the ISM is so devoted to forcing the Israelis to dismantle the fence now separating them from the Palestinians of the West Bank Perhaps that is why they insist on the Palestinian right of return. Maybe if all those things happened, the ISM would be at the vanguard of protesting such atrocities when they inevitably resumed.

On the other hand, probably not. The ISM, and others like them, cannot be taken seriously as honest critics of Israeli-US policies. That is because their movement is entirely political. True, it is based on legitimate criticisms of those policies, but the agenda obviously moves much deeper than that. It, like most alleged “peace” organizations, seem to be concerned with considerably more than changing US foreign policy. I am very much afraid it is also about more-much more-than merely standing up for the beleaguered Palestinian people. All of that is a facade, mere window dressing for the ultimate goal of removing capitalist influence and ushering in a socialist internationalist system with little if any regard for currently recognized national borders. International policy is not the problem to the way of thinking of most of these groups. The established international facets of the US government is in fact to them an opportunity-the world as an oyster is a more than appropriate cliché.

They do not want to dismantle the current system so much as take it over and remake it in their own image, a socialist one. Of course, they are a small faction of lunatics with little real influence on the hearts and minds of average people, at least in the US. However, they are a real and growing influence on policy. Thanks to incompetence in regards to conduct of the Iraq War, and to the current financial crises, especially in the Housing Market and energy prices, their influence is not as minimal as one might suppose. They are in fact the ugly face of liberal politics. They are the crazy aunts and uncles the Democrats just cannot seem to keep locked in the attic. When election year rolls around, unfortunately, they grow strong enough to break their bonds, and many times roam out of control. It must be the effect of all that red meat tossed around.

I long ago wearied of warning the Democratic Party members, what ones that would listen, of their pernicious influence. I should have known better. After all, as crazy as these people are, they are still their uncles and aunts, and blood is thicker than water, to use yet another tried and true cliché.

Until they purge themselves of this influence, if they ever do, I will vote Republican-or, even more likely, not at all-and let the chips fall where they may.

Paganism and Wicca, however, are different matters. While many of Starhawk’s concerns and objections are, I repeat, well founded, she has crossed the line. Now she complains that Israel denied her entry to their country, and held her briefly in detention. Well, let’s see now-she is a member and supporter of International Solidarity Movement and Code Pink. She has openly accused the Israeli government of apartheid. Her criticisms of Palestinian atrocities are tepid at best when compared to Israeli responses to these very same Palestinian atrocities. (By the way, most such Israeli critics, when you point out the Palestinian contribution to the problem, like to react in such a way that their opposition to these tactics should be taken for granted and so they need not dwell on them).

Starhawk likes to complain that her reason for wanting to go to Israel is humanitarian. She wants to teach a two-week course of permaculture and organic design to the people of Israel, a country that has successfully turned what for centuries was basically a desert into an agricultural exporter. They accomplished this despite the constant attacks from or on behalf of the people she deems in need of her defense. Can anyone blame the Israelis for viewing this former Jew, now a Neo-Pagan Witch, with some degree of suspicion, given especially her past association with radical left-wing organizations?

I support Starhawk’s rights to her views, just as I have in the past supported the legitimate rights of other Wiccan luminaries, such as Gavin and Yvonne Frost, who like Starhawk seem to lean greatly to the left in a great many of their beliefs. However, there is a vast difference in supporting freedom of association and freedom of speech, and allowing something of which I am a part-even if admittedly on the outer periphery-to be seen as an entirely left-wing phenomenon.

Though there are of course many liberals and leftists within the Wiccan/Pagan world-in fact, the liberals probably do make up the majority of our overall numbers-there are nevertheless many libertarians, conservatives, and moderates as well-in addition to complete and unabashed independents such as myself.

Unfortunately, I am very much afraid that when I identify myself as a Wiccan or Pagan, the first image that comes to people’s minds is no longer the evil, wart-ridden, spell casting Satanic “devil worshiper” that such phrases tend to conjure up. More and more often, they might instead come to identify me with an even more pernicious influence. A radical leftist airhead who in a good many cases never grew up or out of the sixties is not much an improvement, if at all, and when you stop to think about it, to me at least is no less terrifying.

Radu-Chapter XXXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous chapters at end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
6 pages approximate
Chou did not like it, but he had his instructions. James Berry was too valuable to die. He watched him through the glass partition that enabled the staff to monitor him within his isolated environment. He was still obviously dangerously ill, yet improved from the day before when he hung to life by a thread. He talked incoherently as Chou fed him intravenously and insured a steady dosage of the formula developed from the white blood cells extracted from the whole blood of Marlowe Krovell.

Berry improved considerably. In a way, Chou was glad. Berry had much to answer for, and Chou was determined to get answers. Some things, however, there were simply no answers for. Chou walked grimly down the hall to where yet another patient waited for his services. He entered the room where the old woman lay. Though seemingly ancient, she was yet spry, and cackled with delight when Chou entered the room.

“I was beginning to wonder if I would ever see you again,” she said.

“Oh, I would never just abandon you. You know that.”

“When can I get out of here?” she asked. “I am tired of being cooped up in this place.”

“It is way too soon for you to leave.”

“I feel as good as I ever did. I want to visit my children. Is there any word on them? You would think the least they could do is drop by for a visit.”

“We have had to limit visitations to the hospital,” Chou replied sadly. “There is a multi-epidemic going around, and we fear for the safety of the public.”

The old woman howled with laughter.

“That is hilarious. What place could be safer than a hospital?”

“There are few safe places anymore,” he replied.

Chou turned away from the old woman. It was hard to come in here, but he had no choice. Each visit, however, was more and more difficult. He tried feverishly to find a cure for the old woman. Yet, he was unsuccessful. Nothing he tried seemed to work, and at her advanced age, he had to be careful not to put too much of a strain on her. Yet, as she clearly seemed to be well over a century in age, and although she seemed healthy for one so ancient, she obviously did not have much longer to live. Chou had to face the eventuality of her death, and the likelihood that he was helpless to do anything about it.

Her mind had adjusted to her dilemma. At first, she fell into shock, and went through all the various stages of adjustment. She went through them very rapidly, in fact, and now was past even the stage of acceptance. She was to all intents and purposes well adjusted. Some might even consider her happy. It was as though she had lived a full, long, productive, and happy life, and experienced no tragedies or, for that matter, nothing out of the ordinary.

“David, how long have we been married now?”

“Twenty four years,” Chou replied. “You know I love you still, don’t you Mia?”

Chou turned to look at his wife, now so blissfully ignorant of reality in her advanced stage of dementia, only to see she was already asleep.

He lowered the light in her room, and, looking one more time at her, he silently walked out. It was so ironic. Her reaction to the death of Susan and to her disappointment with the other children was not one of despair or surrender. She wanted to have another child, despite the fact she was past childbearing age. She did not care. She would take fertility drugs if necessary.

That was all Chou needed. One child hated him and was now dead, before Chou could ever come close to establishing a rapport with her. Another daughter kept the family in debt with her extravagant and impulsive spending, while their only son, who was gay, drifted habitually from one job to another and seemed totally lacking in ambition. The last thing he needed was a litter.

When he injected her with Marlowe’s blood, he thought it would boost her immune system, provide her with renewed strength and vigor, and at the same time pull her out of her depression. He got more than he bargained for when she raped him, and then, unsatisfied with him, she left. When she returned two months later, she looked as though she aged more than twenty years. Every day that went past, she seemed to age more than a month by his reckoning. He was helpless to reverse the process. Now, she was obviously near the end. So was Chou.

He made his way slowly toward his office, but stopped when he heard someone call his name. He turned to see the man flashing a Baltimore Police Department badge.

“I’m Lieutenant Frank Anderson,” he said. “I’m here about my colleague, James Berry. I hear that he has improved considerably.”

“Yes, he has improved a great deal, but he is by no means able to leave here yet.”

“That is fine, I don’t want him to be discharged,” Anderson replied. “I was just wondering if it’s possible yet that I could have a word with him.”

“I am sorry, but I can’t allow that,” Chou replied. “It would not only be detrimental to his recovery but it would be dangerous to you, and in fact any contact with him would necessitate your remaining here in isolation. I know you had contact with him when he first fell ill, but we cannot assume your immune system will protect you from prolonged exposure. Even if it did, you might still carry it and infect those with whom you might later come in contact. This is a very serious situation, Lieutenant Anderson. The CDC is just two steps away from placing the entire city of Baltimore and the surrounding areas under quarantine. The only thing that has prevented this so far is the logistical problems such an endeavor would entail. In my opinion, they should do it anyway. But, I am, alas, a simple physician.”

Anderson looked at Chou with a good deal of obvious suspicion, and even some frustration.

“I have just been informed that Berry is willing to talk to me. In fact, he has requested that I personally come here to take his statement. He has sent word that he has some important information. It might interest you to know some of this has to do with the death of your own daughter. That is another thing I am concerned about. Are you sure you should even be involved in his case?”

Chou rolled his eyes, a habit born of frustration that he usually tried to avoid. Mia always chided him for it, calling it a mark of inferiority, to say nothing of bad manners. Some times, he could just not help himself.

“Lieutenant Anderson, my patient has gone through hell. He is not quite yet in his right mind. He will say anything to get his way. I would be derelict in my duties were I to allow you to question him while he frankly does not know what he is talking about. We are both professionals. I am sure you understand the need for objectivity and discernment.”

“I would be more than willing for you or someone else to monitor our conversation. I know there is a system set up to where I can question him without having to come in contact and risk exposure. Look, Doctor Chou, this could be very important. James Berry might have a lot of information, vital information, not only about this plague, but also about other matters. Many innocent lives could be at stake here.”

“I am sorry, but my answer is still no,” Chou replied firmly.

Anderson seemed shocked by his determination.

“I guess I’ll have to go over your head. I will get a court order if I have to. I do not know why you are being so stubborn, but your attitude is incomprehensible to me. You are very possibly interfering in a criminal investigation. You might want to take some time to rethink your position. Good day to you, DOCTOR Chou.”

Anderson stormed off then, while Chou realized he had better do something quickly. He made his way back to the isolation ward, and soon found himself standing at the window to the room where James Berry, though still feverish, anxiously paced the floor.

“You had better get some rest, Lieutenant,” Chou advised him. “You have a ways to go yet before you are sufficiently recovered.”

Berry reacted to this with obvious agitation.

“I sent word two hours ago I wanted to speak with someone from the Department. His name is Frank Anderson. I was assured he would be here way before now.”

“I am afraid I cannot allow that, Officer Berry,” Chou replied. “Perhaps in a few days”-

“A few days is not good enough,” Berry shouted.

“Oh, but I am afraid it will have to be,” Chou replied. “So, calm down. You still need to rest. By the way, I must tell you, you have very unusual taste in women. I am sure Officer Anderson will be more than curious about your recent association with Raven Randall. The next time you find yourself so eager to speak to him or any of your colleagues as to send messages to them, you might want to bear that in mind.”

Berry almost collapsed when he heard this.

“What about Raven?” he demanded. “Is she all right?”

“She is dead, my friend. She seems possibly to have died of a traumatic stab wound to the heart, pierced all the way through with some kind of ceremonial sword. Perhaps she died from the third degree burns over ninety percent of her unaccountably decayed body. I am not sure what the actual cause of death is. This time, however, unlike before, her death seems to be, shall we say, permanent?”

Berry sunk back down to his bed in an obvious state of shock. He seemed on the verge of tears.

“That is right, James,” he said. “Stay in bed and get some more rest. It can always get worse. However, as my wife always used to say-not too many months ago in fact-surely it cannot get much worse.”

Berry said nothing, just sat on the edge of his bed, unsure of what to say. Chou watched him silently for a few minutes, until he heard the receptionist page him. He had a phone call on his office phone. He looked around and, certain no one was watching him, he pushed the button that unlocked the door to Berry’s room. Berry visibly reacted to the sound, and looked strangely all around as he rose.

“It won’t be much longer, Lieutenant,” Chou promised. “Just wait and things should get much better, maybe in-oh, say an hour?”

When Chou returned to his office, he saw his son Jack was on the phone.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “Why in the hell would you want us to go to Lapland? What is there?”

“Well, snow and reindeer,” Chou replied. “That’s about it. Oh, and there are Lapps, of course. You and your sister will be safe there, at least. Most of the diseases involved in this epidemic do not seem to thrive too well in cold weather. Your chances of survival are exponentially better there than they would be anywhere else.”

“Oh, okay, then, but why not Helsinki, or Saint Petersburg, or”-

“There are too many people there,” Chou replied. “Trust me, Jack. Catch your flight tonight, and when you get there, a driver will be waiting to take you to your new home. I hope that you will not have to live there more than three or four years at the most. Now, if you please, let me speak to your sister. Please do not say she is out shopping.”

Christy was there, however though outraged.

“How can I shop when you’ve cancelled all my credit cards? And how can you expect me to go to a place like Lapland without buying the things I need?”

“The things you tend to buy will not be very useful to you there anyway. Just be thankful I finally managed to pay off your debt. It was not easy to do, by the way. Forgive me for not wanting to have to go through it again. You will have everything you need there in the way of food and clothing, and then some. Now, are we settled? Are you ready to go?”

Christy mumbled that she was as ready as she would ever be, and Chou said goodbye as he picked up the DVD that sat on his office desk. He then called his receptionist to tell her he did not wish to be disturbed for the next hour, unless it was an absolute emergency.

He put on the DVD, and there she was-Susan, his late daughter, dancing to the beat of what he considered a butchered version of an old Frank Sinatra standard. As he watched her, and heard her, it finally occurred to him that he had not failed, nor for that matter had Mia failed. Some people were just born naturally stupid. He tried his best, but in the final analysis, his and Mia’s share of the responsibility was probably limited to a bad DNA combination. He clicked on the link, and grimly watched the final fate of his daughter. He saw what now tens of millions of people across the world saw, from all walks of life. Rich and poor, young and old, lawless and lawmakers, all watched in amazement as Susan Chou, his daughter, while ripped to shreds by a variety of savage dogs, screamed in pain and helpless terror. He watched the scene, allowing it to run farther along than he ever had before. He knew the hospital’s computer monitoring system would copy every second of it while he watched. Soon, the scene changed to a close up view of Dwayne Lecher, sarcastically advising his listeners with a smiling leer-“kids-don’t do drugs. Thugs do drugs.”

The DVD then went back to where it left off, to the point where Susan was now vanished, unceremoniously flung to her ultimate fate at the apparent hands of the random thugs and assorted street trash that lined the alleyway setting of the number. Dwayne Lecher then went into a version of yet another Sinatra song, now a number one single-“That’s Life”.

Chou left the music playing in the background as he focused his attention on the electron microscope upon which set a few drops of the Krovell blood. He watched it, as it now slowly replicated. He focused the light of the microscope upon the substance, which seemed to react to the intrusion of even this faint light. It seemed to cringe as though in fear and pain. Chou separated the samples into two distinct groups, to which he added two different samples of blood. The reaction to one was seemingly benign, although it soon became apparent that it was actually soon absorbed completely within the Krovell sample.

The other sample reacted violently to the Krovell blood, as though rejecting it with a fury. He then put a small portion of the newly infused Krovell sample onto the rejecting one, and the reaction first slowed, then halted all together. Within a matter of minutes, the Krovell sample had absorbed it as well-or so it seemed, at any rate. He magnified the power of his microscope until he finally saw what he was looking for. It was some kind of spore, of unknown quality. He had never noticed it before, within either of the samples. Now that he combined the two samples, the spore manifested, as it did once before during two previous similar experiments. He took a small safety pin and pierced his finger, then allowing two drops of his blood to mix with the combined samples. The spores roared to a seeming new life, attacking the new blood-his blood-while they burst open to reveal a variety of bacteria and viruses, which seemed previously contained within the spore as though it were a natural habitat for them all. Yet, in this case, they seemed unable to absorb the fresh new intruder.

Chou smiled as he withdrew from his pocket a bottle, one that contained a cocktail of antibiotics. He quickly downed three of them and drunk a glass of water. Suddenly, the lights went off, the voice of rap star Toby Da Pimp now silenced, as there was a sudden hubbub in the halls outside his office. The power was now completely gone, as he had been promised it would be at this time. He looked at his clock and noted the time was 6:47 PM. It actually happened with thirteen minutes to spare.

He looked out his window as he wondered whether the problem might for now just be contained within the walls of Johns Hopkins. However, a brief glance outside his window was enough to tell him the entire city was experiencing a blackout. He had no doubt the phenomenon extended well beyond Baltimore. He smiled. Then, there was a knock on his door.

“Doctor Chou, are you in there?”

Yes, of course, he thought, but he did not intend to leave-not just yet. He had waited too long and worked too hard for this day. He wanted to savor it while it lasted. He knew that the best was yet to come. All the same, he realized he should spend some more time with Mia. She would probably not last too much longer now.

“Doctor Chou,” the persistent nurse continued, “James Berry has walked out of isolation and no one knows where he is. It is dark and all the lights and power has shut down. If you’re in there, you might want to stay in your office and keep your doors locked for a while.”

Chou laughed silently, stifling his merriment, even as he felt a presence inside the locked and now pitch-dark office with him.

“All this brings back old memories, doesn’t it Doctor Chou? Terror and panic at Johns Hopkins University. Do you remember that day months ago, when you hid me here in this very office, until I was able to make good my escape?”

Chou had forgotten all about it. I fact, he was in terror for his life until Marlowe Krovell reassured him with the power of his piercing green eyes, the same eyes that now peered at him from the barely visible mirror from which Chou now looked not at his own features, but Marlowe’s.

“Marlowe, damn you are everywhere,” he said to the image of the laughing Marlowe, which soon turned into the image of Chou. His entire body then shook as he cackled uncontrollably.

By the time he came to an hour later, his nurse banged furiously at his door. He opened it, still groggy, as though he had slept an entire night. He felt out of it. Worse, he felt hung over. The nurse informed him of Mia’s death, the news of which he greeted with stoic complacency. Soon, however, the arrival of the Johns Hopkins Administrator shook him to his core.

“The CDC has ordered the program terminated,” she told him. “We’ve been ordered to hand over your papers, along with all your equipment and supplies.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why?”

“There is reason to believe the epidemic originated with the experimental blood,” she explained. “Agents from the CDC are waiting to speak to you now. They are saying this might have something to do with some kind of criminal conspiracy, and possibly terrorism. Also, a Lieutenant Frank Anderson from the Baltimore Police Department is waiting to”-

The Administrator, a woman named Betty, found it impossible to go on.

“Why did you do it, David?” she asked. “I’ve known you for years. I just do not understand any of this. Why did you let James Berry leave? Now you have the Baltimore Police and the Feds after you. They are fighting now over which one gets you. I do not know what in the hell is going on, but you had better come up with some answers fast.”

Chou looked all around. The hospital lights were on. He had not even considered the generators. They probably saw him on tape unlocking Berry’s door. Now Berry was gone, and he was finished. The Feds would take precedence of course, so it was only a matter of time before they led him out of the hospital in handcuffs. According to Betty, they were waiting outside his office now.

He looked out the window. The lights of the city were still out.

“Well, we might as well get this over with,” he told her, without a word of explanation. He walked slowly toward the door, and a burly looking Federal investigator approached him flashing a badge from the CDC. He looked past him to see a frustrated Frank Anderson pacing the floor, engaged in conversation with other federal agents as some of Anderson’s partners from the Baltimore PD looked on with some concern, probably more for their own presence in a hospital everyone now realized was the origin of a multi-state, at the very least, epidemic of immense proportions.

Not bad, Chou mused to himself, for a simple general practitioner.

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX

Out Of The Prison And Over The Shark

First there was Prison Break Season One-Escape From Fox River
Next came Prison Break Season Two-Manhunt
This was followed by Prison Break Season Three-Escape From Sona
Now comes word that the fourth season might well go down in television history as Prison Break Season Four-Jumping The Shark

Yes, Sarah Wayne Callies, who was killed by way of decapitation in episode three of Season Three, her bloody head delivered to Lincoln Burrows in a box-oh, strike that, it turns out this WASNT REALLY HER HEAD AFTER ALL.

Yeah, Sarah is still alive. The MiSa fans have prevailed. The shows producers give some credit to the fans for the ultimate decision, but at the same time try to claim they had this in mind the whole time.

Yeeeeahh, right.

Let's see now, here's the latest story of Callies return to the show. Compare that to this article in which was explained the original decision to kill her off.

I would offer the MiSa nuts some grudging congratulations, but it's kind of hard to congratulate what might turn out to be success at ruining the best dramatic series on network television.

So, MiSa, what's next on the agenda? Maybe Theodore "T-Bag" Bagwell should find God by way of Sister Mary Francis and change his evil ways and become a "good guy". Hey, what about that Gretchen? She's too pretty a woman to be so evil. Maybe she should find love and change her evil ways. Maybe her and Mahone would be good together. No, strike that, Mahone should get back with his wife and kid, if not you'll probably scream at the television.

Hey, by all means, don't stop with Prison Break. Why not exert your influence on other shows? Hey, maybe if Dexter Morgan would finally get some real therapy he would change and make a positive contribution to society instead of being a miserable vigilante serial killer.

But, whatever you decide to do next, you can at least congratulate yourselves on this victory-

Prison Break has now officially become Bones.