Radu-Chapter XXXXVI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley) The Last Chapter

Links to previous installments are at the end of this chapter.
Radu-Chapter XXXXVI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
The Last Chapter (24 pages approximate)

Khoska knew the minute that he entered The Crypt that he might well be walking headlong to his death, but he felt he had no other option. This was what he had lived the last forty years of his life for. In fact, this was what he was born for, to face this evil on this very night. The outcome might well decide not just his ultimate fate, but it could well set the stage for years to come. He might well manage to eliminate, wipe completely from the face of the earth, what he considered the most abominable heresy ever to infect the Romanian Church, or for that matter, any church, or any religion. As such, untold numbers of souls, present and future, were at stake. The validity of the Church itself would be in jeopardy were he to fail. The heresy had a way of insinuating itself, of gaining preeminence amongst the truly faithful, of establishing a hold not easily relinquished.

The last time this occurred was during the reign of Vlad the Impaler. He curried favor with the masses as the defender of the Church and the faithful against the Islamic hordes of the Ottoman Empire, which was, ironically enough, supported and promoted by his brother Radu-the very evil entity whom this very night he was obliged to face down in mortal battle.

It was a situation dire in its evil implications. Should Radu destroy him, the monstrous evil would put an end to the centuries of work, which his family had performed in the service of the Church, and the heretics would then gradually grow stronger and more influential-possibly even predominant. No matter how long Radu himself endured, they would eventually hunt him down and destroy him, thereby furthering their hold over the people exponentially. They would see them as the saviors of the world, from an evil they themselves had facilitated while at the same time utilizing his considerable powers to their own ends.

If he destroyed Radu, however, would the evil truly end? No, it would simply go into remission, back into hiding, until it would revive, in another form at some future date. The battle would continue, and claim no telling how many innocent lives, and what was worse, deliver an unconscionable number of immortal souls to the damnation of eternal hell.

Therefore, Khoska refused to delude himself into thinking any victory he might achieve this night would be permanent. Nevertheless, he had no choice. No matter the consequence, he could not allow this filthy abomination to exist within the world, devouring the flesh and blood, and ultimately the souls of the innocent. Though Radu was a pawn, he was yet a satanic force that Khoska must eliminate. Although others might hurt Radu, even possibly destroy him, ostensibly, they could not rid the earth of him forever. Khoska alone had the power to do that. He alone had the faith to do that.

Therefore, Khoska found himself in the unenviable position of himself being the pawn, the champion even, of a deranged heretical sect of renegade Christians. If he lost, they would then proper and grow, free of the interference from the cloistered sect of the Khoska family, of which he was truly the last. Yet, if he won the battle, though their power and influence would be vastly diminished, they would remain in hiding, their ultimate victory perhaps limited for some centuries. He wondered if it was worth the possibly ultimate sacrifice.

On the other hand, if he did not go through with it, his entire life would have been all for naught, a gigantic waste. His father would have been right. He warned him years before that he was throwing his life away by following his grandfather in the life of what amounted to that of a thankless exorcist, one doomed to spend almost all his time in pursuit of nonexistent demons and old wives tales. At times, he had his doubts, his moments of crisis of faith, but for the most part, he could feel the hand of the Archangel Michael guiding him, leading him to continue the family tradition.

Corneliu Codreanu started his own unique heresy, claiming to be an incarnation of his sects’ patron saint, and so deceiving many of them, including his own grandfather, and leading them into ruin. The aftermath left the sect decimated, many of its members killed, many others defrocked, yet others shamed into renouncing their ancient charge. They all fell into disrepute and so paid the price for their folly.

The night that his mother gave birth to him, on the night of the murder of Codreanu and his fascist followers, within the confines of his grandfather’s all-but-deserted church in Ploesti, the old Priest had seen it as a sign that there was one last chance for deliverance. His father was outraged when he learned of Khoska’s eventual attraction to the discredited sect, and there was a grave falling out between the two in-laws. The Church hierarchy never considered the sect an integral part of the overall community, but at least at one time, it was respected, and even feared.

Now, however, they were the butt of jokes at best. At worse, the church considered them as heretical as their purportedly sworn enemies, whose existence now most of them doubted.

“It provided a comforting explanation for the beliefs in such supernatural beings as vampires,” his father explained to him patiently. “Even if such an abominable cult of flesh-eating, blood-drinking, murderous child sacrificing and orgiastic heretics existed one time within the dark and distant past, it was such a long time ago even their history has lost all relevance. There is therefore no need for a rival sect to one that no longer exists, and quite possibly never did.”

Khoska was determined, though, and felt certain God was guiding him, through the Archangel Michael, on the correct path. On the day that he exorcised the vampire spirits of a mother and her children, in Ploesti, he knew that he was right. When the communist officials of the town offered him the opportunity to go to America, he knew it was a further sign. His work for Securitate was an unpleasant necessity in order for him to carry out the more important work of unmasking the heretics. When he first met his half-brother, Martin Krovell, he did not at the time recognize the implications. It would be some time before it would ever occur to him that he might well have lost an opportunity to deliver a mortal wound to the head of the beast. Because of his failure, many of his own family were drawn away from him. First Doris, and then Phillip, right behind his back, and yet in front of his eyes, walked straight into the demons lair.

One by one, they were either corrupted, or murdered. Khoska came to realize that when his grandfather attracted him into the tradition, he might have only succeeded in prolonging the inevitable. Yet, his failure on this night was simply unthinkable. He had to destroy Radu, even if it cost him his own life.

Now, here he was, within The Crypt, as the patrons began filing out as the Gothic nightclub’s hours drew to a close. Khoska’s senses felt assailed by the onslaught of what passed for them as music, but he prayed and sat silently in a corner, as one by one they left, until he was soon all alone in the dark, mirror-less bar, alone save for the bartender, who watched him curiously and who identified himself as Marty Evans. He offered him water from time to time, but Khoska refused the offer, explaining he was there this night simply to meet someone.

Most of the others there ignored him, though some regarded him with bemusement, even some seeming suspicion. One girl asked him to dance, but of course, Khoska declined. The girl looked too young even to be a legitimate patron of the bar, let alone a companion for an ancient, wizened old Priest.

“It looks like your friend ain’t coming,” Marty observed as the last of the patrons left. “We’re closing up soon. Who is it anyway? I know most of the people who come here, and I know all the regulars.”

“His name is Marlowe Krovell, or that is what he calls himself,” Khoska answered. “I promise you, he will be here.”

Marty looked at him with resigned dread.

“Marlowe, huh? So, you’re the one after all. I kind of thought so.”

Before Khoska could react to this curious response, however, a previously unseen patron, a female, sat down beside him, her appearance by far the most bizarre of a remarkably strange crowd. Though she had no piercings or tattoos anywhere on her body or face, she was completely nude, and yet covered from head to toe with what seemed to be feathers. She looked at Khoska with piercing green eyes from a young face weathered it seemed by ages beyond her young life. Though an adult, there was something childish, possibly even naive about her. She regarded him knowingly, and with some seemingly caustic humor.

“You had better leave here, old man,” she said. “Marlowe is going to eat you and he is going to share your liver with me. I love liver. Marlowe will prefer to eat your heart.”

“Who in the name of God are you?”

“Cynthia,” the strange woman replied. “Look in my eyes, and you will see why you should leave here now, and forget that you ever heard of Marlowe, or Radu.”

Khoska could not help himself. He could not turn away from those eyes, those eyes that drew closer as the creature craned her neck towards him. He could suddenly smell the overpowering stench of death and decay as he found himself surrounded by a thick gray fog, and could hear the screams and cries of the torment of the damned. He could feel the flames of hell licking all about him, as a familiar voice called out to him.

“Please get me out of here,” he heard the familiar voice say. Looking down into what appeared to be a septic tank, he could make out the filth-covered form of Voroslav Moloku trying desperately to pull himself to safety, yet constantly sliding down into the slippery ooze that covered the walls of his own private hell, a veritable cesspool of feces and urine in which demoniac rats swam while chattering endlessly.

The sight was more than Khoska could bear, and so he extended a large staff down to the spirit of his deceased son-in-law, who regarded it with horror.

“Don’t touch me with that thing,” Voroslav commanded as he cringed. “Get it away from me. I don’t know where the hell that thing’s been.”

Vososlav backed away in horror and in doing so lost his footing, thereby vanishing beneath the tons of vile liquid raw sewage that now engulfed him. Looking around, Khoska saw the maggot-ridden body of his granddaughter Marnie, ripped to sheds though conscious and aware through her agony, while his daughter Doris stumbled along blindly and desperately with what looked to be a bullet wound in her chest. He knew he had to leave here, for if he did not he would certainly lose what little mind he had. As he turned in desperation in search of an exit, he heard yet another familiar voice addressing him.

“Father, what are you doing here?”

He turned to see Jonathon, crying in shame and despair.

“Oh, my God-Jonathon? Why are you here?”

“I never really believed,” Jonathon explained. “It was nothing to me but a career, a way to make a living, to provide for my family. I never took it seriously. Michael used to warn me about my disrespect. I used to joke about it. Please tell him he was right, and to be careful, and that I am sorry. If only I had listened to him.”

Khoska wanted to reach out to his son, to hold him and comfort him, if possible to pull him back to the land of the living with him, but he knew that was impossible. Before he could continue, Michael vanished as the land beneath him collapsed. Khoska then turned towards a scream of terrifying agony-the scream of his youngest son Phillip. However, when he turned, what he saw was not Phillip, but a sight far more terrifying, and far more riveting-and infinitely more heartbreaking.

“Lynette,” he said, as the form of his late granddaughter approached him, smiling seductively and yet maliciously, and then suddenly barring her teeth. Khoska watched as the sounds of Phillip’s screams grew ever louder, drew ever closer, and became more terrifying with each passing second.

“Phillip, where are you?” Khoska shouted while watching Lynette closely as she yet drew closer to him, her smile becoming ever more animalistic and ever more threatening, as her teeth became blood-drenched fangs. Phillip’s screams seemed to be emanating from Lynette’s mouth.

“He is with me, grandfather,” Lynette said. “Here, see”-

Lynette then vomited up a vile concoction of digested matter and hair, hair that Khoska understood belonged to Phillip, whose agonized screams emanated from the vomit at his feet, as Lynette laughed maniacally.

Khoska almost felt his heart explode inside his chest as he suddenly found himself back in the bar. Cynthia was no longer beside him, and in fact seemed to have vanished entirely.

“Hey, old guy, are you all right?” Marty asked from the bar, evidently having never seen the strange creature that had sat beside Khoska.

“I-thought for a minute I was-somewhere else,” Khoska replied in gasps, as Marty looked at him apprehensively.

“Yeah, I think I know where that was too,” he said. “I’ve been there. If it’s any consolation to you, just between you and me, I don’t think it’s real. Well, at least I sure as hell hope it ain’t.”

Khoska looked around, still obviously shaken badly by his experience, and wanting to make sure the phenomenon had ended, yet still half-way expecting to discover he was yet trapped in some odiously deceptive portion of hell, one waiting for just the right minute to unexpectedly hurtle him into a never ending maelstrom of insanity.

“Why are there no mirrors here?” he asked as he tried to ground himself, while Marty produced yet another glass of water, one which Khoska had no more intention of drinking than he had any of the others Marty previously offered him.

“Oh, there’s mirrors here, but the new owner had them all covered,” Marty answered. “I don’t have any idea why he did that. If there’s one thing Goths and Emos like more than anything, it’s looking at themselves, believe me. Anyway, he insisted. It was Marlowe’s grandfather, you know. He and Marlowe’s grandmother died a few nights ago. It looked like a suicide pact. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“All I know is I didn’t see them just a few minutes ago, which means you are probably right-it was not real,” Khoska answered bitterly.

“Well, this is my last night at this dump, that’s for sure,” Marty said as he looked around surveying the interior of the bar as though something might be missing.

“You heard about Brad Marlowe turning up alive, right? Well, seems like he’s going to be the new owner, which means I’m outta here.”

“Yes, I heard something about that,” Khoska said, obviously disturbed at the implications.

“Not only is he still alive after all, but he’s married, to this chick that’s about like half his age,” Marty continued. “Which, I got to give him some credit-at least this one’s alive. Well, I guess she is.”

“Who is she?” Khoska asked.

“Lynette somebody,” Marty answered. Khoska gasped audibly, but Marty seemed to not notice as he made his way toward the door.

“I know this is going to sound strange, but I got to go,” he said. “You stay here as long as you need to. I was told to tell you that, by the way. When you leave, I guess you can lock the place up, can’t you? Not that I really care, but I’ll leave the keys in the door here, alright?”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to do that,” Khoska replied morosely, fully aware that whoever left this message for him had every intention of Aleksandre Khoska not ever leaving this nightclub alive.

“The tv is up there in that corner-it’s a plasma widescreen,” Marty said as he opened the door.

“Watching television is the last thing I care about right now, young man,” Khoska replied.

“Oh, really?” Marty asked. “I was told by some Japanese dude that something would be coming on sometime tonight that you would want to know about. Whatever, you do what you want. Good luck.”

Khoska watched as Evans walked out, closing the now locked door behind him.

It was unnerving that Marlowe, apparently knowing he would be here at some point to kill him, yet afforded Khoska the use of this nightclub, even leaving him the option of staying, or leaving, of his own volition. He looked at the large plasma screen television that sat in the corner, by where a large stage now sat empty. How many times, he wondered, had Grace Rodescu danced on this very stage, and elsewhere in this bar? How many times had the pitiable Sierra Lawson desperately attempted to express her dubious artistic talents to the delight, or perhaps the dismay, of the strange, lost denizens who habituated this den of insanity?

Marlowe himself had, as a normal young man-normal compared to what he now was, at any rate-frequented this very place. Now, come to find out, Brad Marlowe, the demented mortician, was not only still alive, but was now the current owner of this establishment, and was married, to a younger woman named Lynette.

Could it possibly be his Lynette? His heart sunk deep into despair at the very idea. If it was true-and he was sure that it was-Khoska realized she was beyond not only his help, but beyond any chance of salvation, as surely as was the case with Brad and, for that matter, Marlowe Krovell. She was as damned even as Radu himself was damned. One thing she most certainly was not was alive-at least, not in any sensible, rational understanding of the word. No, she was no more than a corpse, albeit one now possessed and reanimated by God only knew who-or what.

He sat silently for a few minutes, paying little heed to the vague noises that seemed to be emanating from outside the nightclub, now closed for the night. It was four a.m. He might well have a long wait yet, he realized. He knew Marlowe would be here soon. He would have to face him eventually. He might have at one time thought to forestall the eventuality, hoping to wear down Khoska’s reserve of patience, make him wait uselessly for a meeting that would never occur. He was certain by now however, that Marlowe understood this was all Khoska had yet to live for. He could not take the chance that Khoska would one day find his sleeping form and drive the stake through the monstrous heart, ending his existence forever.

Now would it be sufficient for Marlowe Krovell to entrust such an important undertaking to a subordinate. He had to do the job himself, if for no other reason than to tap into the memories and the knowledge that Khoska held, especially the identities of those with whom he might share his knowledge. Not even the demented Cynthia could accomplish such a feat.

Khoska continued staring at the plasma television, wondering what it was he was supposed to see this night, but determined all the same not to give in to the temptation to play along with this madness. It would probably be better that he not know until his grim task was completed, provided he lived long enough to find out.

As he sat there staring at the blank screen, the noises of the voices became gradually louder. They became more distinguishable. It seemed to Khoska as though he were in fact hearing the voices of children. He thought he had to be mistaken. Why would children be out in the downtown area of Baltimore at this time of the early morning, well before sunrise? He put it down to nerves. After everything he had been through over the past year, to say nothing of the things he had seen over just the last few minutes, he was amazed he had any rational thinking ability at all.

Then he heard the sudden sound of girlish giggling. He looked around quickly, turning his head faster than his wrinkled, elderly body could adjust, and suffered a sharp pain in his neck-but he saw the girl quickly darting toward a back room.

The children are here in the nightclub, he thought to himself. Dreading the prospect, and what it might mean, he raised himself up and walked slowly and cautiously toward from where the voices now seemed to emanate.

As he approached, they grew ever louder, and ever more distinct. They seemed mostly to be young girls, though Khoska was certain he heard the voices of at least two young boys as well.

When Khoska finally made his way to the door, an explosion of noise permeated the rooms and all but shattered Khoska’s eardrums. The noise of the music from the jukebox was deafening, and Khoska cringed as he felt himself overcome by waves of nausea at the untoward intrusion of what he recognized as one of the songs he heard once before described as Death Metal. He turned toward the jukebox, trying to ready himself for what he might see, but nothing could prepare him for the sight that greeted him.

Standing in front of the jukebox, dressed like a prostitute, in nearly nothing whatsoever, was the young girl Elena. She stood and stared at him. She smiled at him as she approached him. He turned back and forth, looking at the door to the banquet room and then back at Elena as the girl slowly and methodically walked toward him-sauntered toward him. She stood almost up against him as the music continued, until it finally stopped.

“Do you want to dance?” she asked.

“Elena, what are you doing here?” Khoska asked, but the words came out as just barely over a whisper. His ears were yet ringing from the excessive noise, far louder than any played early in the night. Elena had turned up the volume. He looked at her glazed expression, the faraway look in her eyes, and yet she still seemed to pierce through his consciousness.

“We are all here,” she answered. “We are learning how to love the way God intended people to love one another, the way it says in the Bible.”

“Oh, my God,” Khoska whispered, as suddenly the door to the banquet room opened, and the other children walked out and surrounded him, looking up at him quizzically and expectantly, and yet, seemingly trancelike.

The oldest boy Augusto whispered something to one of the other girls, while yet another one asked Khoska with which one he wanted to be.

“We were told to take care of you,” she said. “You can have your choice. You can any of us you want.”

“No, I do not want that,” Khoska assured her, trying not to allow anger and despair to overwhelm him. This was obviously a part of Radu’s game, a method to wear him down, to trample on his faith by using these innocent children as pawns in a malicious and devilish maneuver. Now, the young boy Eitan said something to Elena, who nodded her head and looked back toward Khoska.

“If you prefer boys, you can have one of them,” she suggested.

“You should not be here, Elena,” Khoska said. “None of you should be here. What is the meaning of this? Who brought you here?”

They all just looked at him, as though surprised he would ask such questions.

“Why did you burn Sister Agnes?” one of the other girls asked him.

“She died,” Khoska answered. “I thought it was for the best.”

Then the young girl who Khoska was sure was the one he first saw hiding in the lounge, giggling as she watched him, walked up to him. She was all of eight years old, and yet Khoska was to understand she was here as the others for purposes of prostitution. He found himself repelled, sickened by the thought of such unmitigated evil. Yet, she approached him with no sense of shame, the short, tight undershirt she wore plainly revealing that she wore nothing whatsoever beneath it.

“She could have returned to us if you had not burned her up,” the little girl said with some sadness mixed with her anger. “We miss her. Why did you take her away from us?”

“Because,” Khoska hissed, his patience ending, “what is happening here is evil and I wanted to make sure she was not made a part of it.”

At that moment Khoska felt the strong, thick hands of the oldest boy Augusto push him down to the ground, whereupon the other children pounced on top of him. They hit and gouged at him and they kicked as they screamed vile epithets at him. He was helpless to ward of their attacks, and tired in futile desperation to cover his head with his hands in order to ward off their blows as best as he could. Their attacks grew ever more vicious with each passing second, and Khoska could feel his heart pound in his chest, as his ears rang loudly, though not enough to completely block out the raging sounds of their screams and their taunts. Finally, Elena delivered a sharp, savage kick to his groin. Khoska felt his stomach going through upheavals at the assault, and gagged as he vomited on the floor on which his head now laid. Soon, he blacked out.

“You really should try to overlook children,” Khoska next heard a voice say as he gradually woke up, his body wracked with pain from the extended assault he endured long after his consciousness temporarily left him.

He rose, to see Marlowe Krovell sitting at the bar, across from where he himself now laid stretched out upon a pool table. The large plasma screen television was now playing, and at first, he thought the voice came from there, until he saw Marlowe, who now slid out of the barstool and unto the floor with an exaggerated hop.

“They really don’t know any better than according to how they are taught. Evidently, your daughter Agnes left a lot to be desired when it comes to teaching manners. Perhaps it is good that you took her from me after all. I can hardly fault you for that, seeing as how our mutual enemies have taken so much more from me.”

“The children-where are they?” Khoska asked. “What have you done with them?”

“I have locked them away, for the time being,” Marlowe replied. “Don’t be concerned, they are safe, for now. There is no discernible reason they should not stay safe. That is dependant on my demands.”

“You are wasting your time making demands on me.”

Marlowe looked at him curiously.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” he replied. “I was referring to that gang of so-called Christians who seem to think they can use me to change the world more to their liking. You see, when they and Mircea took first Lynette away from me, and then Grace, they did so through a subterfuge. I did not realize that Martin and Louise Krovell were cult members of some duration. They tricked me, in other words. All the time, they have intended to destroy me, after acquiring what use of me they can for their own devious ends.

“Apparently they thought I was too stupid to catch on. Another thing they failed to take into consideration was my power and control over the children. I can kill them at any moment I choose, and will do so with not the slightest regret or hesitation. That would pretty much put an end to their little movement. See, their plans are dependent on using those children as a conduit. Come to think about it, I guess that’s why I have to die. Through the children-once I am gone-they can attract more and more people, and infect more people every day, until soon they acquire all the power they need to establish what they think of as the ‘Kingdom of God on Earth.’

“Yes, I know, it’s a lot of nonsense, pretty much as are your own beliefs. Yet, I have to admit, if not for the little snag in their plans I’ve laid, it might well have worked.”

Khoska listened to him as long as he could stand, as he tried to raise himself to a sitting position at the edge of the pool table. The pain was unbearable.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“I want you to join forces with me,” Marlowe explained. “I want to destroy them. They want to destroy me. They also want to destroy you. In fact, they consider you a far more dangerous enemy than they do me, at least in the long run. They will never stop until they kill you. They seem to think if they can convince me to kill you, your spirit can never reincarnate. Since you seem to be the last in the line of that religious order that has fought them for so long, they believe that your death will herald the end to their long period of exile and the beginning of their ascension to power.”

Khoska stood upon the ground now, still in pain and nauseous, as Marlowe waited for an answer. Khoska walked slowly, hoping to work out the pain, but it seemed useless. He knew he was at the mercy of this creature, and so he considered his options.

“Let me explain something to you,” Marlowe said. “I have no grand scheme for world conquest-far from it. All I desire is to live my life in peace, unmolested, such as it is. Who do you suppose it was who made Dwayne Letcher sabotage their plans to bomb American cities, including Washington? I did that. I also induced Chou to rein in the rampant diseases that would have in time decimated well over half of the world’s population. What good would that do me? All I wanted was a means to be able to feed off whomever I choose with impunity. The cult, the very cult that preserved my remains until the proper time for my resurrection, intended something far different. They never counted on me doing that. Now is the time to destroy them, while they are in disarray, before they can recover. The two of us together can do that.”

Khoska was horrified at the thought of what he now heard. Marlowe, however, seemed serious.

“I can also grant you money beyond your wildest dreams. I have access to hundreds of millions of dollars. I can make do with a few million. I will gladly give you the rest. Think of the good you can accomplish with that much money.”

Khoska now temporarily forgot the pain, and looked Marlowe squarely in the eyes.

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he said.

“What?” Marlowe said, but Khoska made no reply, just focused his gaze sternly upon him. Marlowe was utterly dumbfounded by this reaction.

“Wow!”

With that, Marlowe turned toward the widescreen television. Walking toward it, he pushed a button on the bar and the screen went blank, but then it came back on.

“Something happened that you need to know about,” he said angrily. “I intended to spare you, but I see now that you leave me no choice.”

When the screen resumed play, Khoska realized he now viewed a previously recorded program from earlier in the evening. Flames erupted from a large skyscraper apartment building in what a reporter identified, to Khoska’s immediate horror, as New York City.

Then, he saw his only surviving child, his son Michael, obviously distraught and in a state of shock, as he expressed dismay at the fate of the entirety of his children, in-laws, and grandchildren- all dead, murdered in what was reported as arson. The fire, started and quickly spread with an accelerant, blocked all exits from the apartment building where the family had all gathered, engulfing them all while they slept in an inferno of destruction before any help had any hope of arriving in time to save them. Michael alone managed to escape, though he was unable to save any of the others. His wife was away visiting relatives, and had just received word right before the local news released the victim’s names. All of them had arrived to join Michael in a surprise party for their mother and father. It was their thirtieth wedding anniversary.

“Oh my God,” Khoska gasped in a hushed tone as he made the sign of the cross and shouted a desperate prayer for the souls of all of his family, struggling at the same time not to curse God for allowing this despicable crime to unfold unabated. Yet, he could neither hide nor deny his anger. It was beyond rage. It was disgust approaching outright rebellion.

“Don’t feel bad,” Marlowe said. “I’ve cursed God numerous times. Of course, some might not consider that much of a recommendation.”

Khoska broke down in angry sobs and cried loudly.

“I had nothing to do with any of that, by the way” Marlowe assured him. “That was all the doings of that group of religious lunatics. Nor will they stop, until they have finished with all of you. Someone is, I would imagine, in a hell of a lot of trouble right now due to your son and daughter-in-law’s survival. She was undoubtedly late in her return home. From what I understand, Michael was on his way to the airport to pick her up, and she still had not returned by the time he went back home, to see the home engulfed in flames.

“Unfortunately, for whoever was responsible, these people do not look kindly upon failure. From what I understand, their punishment will be profoundly more intense than saying a hundred extra rosaries and cutting down on their dinner portions for a week or two. They look upon any failure as a sign of God’s displeasure, though never of course as his displeasure at the so-called church in general and certainly not its deacons and elders. No, they look upon failure as a lack of faith at best, at worse a potential betrayal. More often than not, they see such events as a sign the devil has infiltrated their ranks.

“You see, I know all of this, because my brothers were both involved with them, up to their eyeballs. Both Vlad, the one you know best as the Impaler, or Dracula, who is responsible for my curse, and our younger brother, Mircea, who as a monk sought to eventually rise in their ranks to position of patriarch of their insane little branch of the Romanian Orthodox Church. He leads them now. Yes, he has revived as well, and walks the earth in the body of Brad Marlowe, and taken as his wife the woman I was married to, who now exists within the body of your beloved niece Lynette.

“So you see, Father Khoska, they have betrayed me as well. They seek to destroy me, and in the meantime have taken everything away from me that ever I cared about. My own daughter used my remains to conduct curses on her own people, and the tradition has led up into this day. I was but a means to an end to her, and to all her descendants, a way to destroy their enemies and gain power.

“Yes, when I was killed, and once Vlad was finished with his abhorrent life of constant warfare and strife, the cult was relegated to simply a few families of gypsies, into whom my daughter was forcibly married. That was Vlad’s plan all along. He told the courtiers who betrayed me that the life of a gypsy vagabond would be the perfect punishment for the daughter of Radu Dracula. They never realized those gypsies were in fact long ago married into the so-called one true Way of The Church of Christ. Vlad died at the hands of my former Turkish overlords, thankfully, before he could continue his plans or benefit in any way from them.”

He stopped and gave Khoska a few minutes to ponder what he said. Khoska, however, said nothing, too grief stricken over the fate of the remainder of his family to respond.

“If we join forces, we can destroy them” Marlowe continued. “Since I have the children in whom they place so much stock safely locked away inside this very building, we have the upper hand, but we have to move fast. We must move swiftly, and brutally. Once we have destroyed them, we can go our separate ways. You will have the money I promised you, and I will have Grace. They have her guarded now in such a way that I cannot get to her. Once she is once more with me, I don’t care about any of this. I will eventually die, of course, but I still have a good two or three hundred years left-give or take a few decades. Killing you and absorbing your blood would increase my lifespan by maybe another two or three centuries, but oh well-I’ll just have to live without it. By the time my normal lifespan has run its course, I will have probably had enough of it anyway.”

Khoska looked at him in amazement.

“Well, what do you say? We don’t have that much more time, you know. Someone will be here soon, and when they arrive, we have to be ready.”

Khoska looked at him with an intensity that cut deeply into him, a sensation he had not felt in recent memory.

“I will not join forces with evil to fight evil,” Khoska replied. “I will destroy you, or you will destroy me, or we will destroy each other. If I survive, I will fight them after I have finished with you. If not, someone will eventually take my place and when God decides on the time, he will at that time cast all of them into the hell where they surely belong. I do not know how he will do it or when, but it is not for me to question God’s power to do so. He will not allow such an abomination to wreak ungodliness and decay into his holy assembly or upon the world at large for very long. Neither would he look kindly on me were I to allow you to leave here alive, without at least trying my utmost to destroy you.”

Marlowe looked strangely at the pool table by where Khoska stood, seemingly in shock at the priest’s pronouncement. He strode casually up to the table, seemingly ignoring Khoska.

“Are you aware that they intend to use these children as prostitutes? Do you realize that they have many people in positions of power that will protect them? Do you understand they intend to continue growing in numbers and influence, and spreading throughout the country and the world?

“Bear in mind these children are more, much more, than mere child prostitutes. They have my power coursing within their veins. They will in fact form a bridge between the world of the living and the dead. They will in effect have my power, with none of my limitations. Can you imagine what destruction they can wreak? Their potential is almost unlimited. Yet, this Christian cult, the one you claim to despise so much, made up of what you insist are heretics, will control their every move, their every thought.

“Well, that is what cults do, of course. They brainwash the weak minded. They control the gullible. The overpower innocence and corrupt it, like they have these children, and like they will through them corrupt untold numbers more. The recent spate of epidemics that swept through Baltimore and almost spread throughout the country is minor in it’s implications compared to what they might accomplish through these children, and through Grace. If it were not for James Berry, they might have continued deceiving me up until now. Thanks to him, my eyes are now open. Now, I can take steps to not only protect myself, but destroy them-forever.”

He stood by the pool table, not looking at Khoska, who merely stared past Marlowe, hearing every word, and yet, at the same time, seeing through them.

“You all must die,” Khoska said. “If the children die in the meantime, they are better off. Either you will feed off them, and eventually turn them into something as hideous as yourself, or they will turn them into a mockery of everything that is sacred. Your offer is completely out of the question.”

Marlowe made no response to this, at first. It was almost as though he knew-there was no hope of ever coming to an accord with this man whose faith forbade any thought of compromise. Khoska was no stranger to compromise, far from it. He was all too familiar with the feeling of self-loathing he had to hide from himself. Far too many times had he compromised his principles with the agents of Securitate. He found a way in his younger years to justify his actions on behalf of the common good. Now, he was older, and wiser, and though he lived for years with the regret, he now finally was at peace with himself. He would never make the same mistake, even if it cost him his life. He stood silently, and firmly. No further words were necessary.

“I have this strange, overwhelming desire to play a game of eight ball,” Marlowe said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Suddenly, Khoska felt an intense weight bearing down upon him, and try as he did he could not resist the overpowering force that pushed him to his knees.

“Did you really think that on the night I had Raven Randall sent to your church that was a mere subterfuge, a way of getting at your daughter Agnes unmolested?” Marlowe asked. “Well, that was a big part of it, true enough. While I was there, however, I took the time to, let us say, enhance your wine. I am now an essential part of you. I still cannot control your free will, as your faith is much too strong for that. However, I can wreak havoc upon those old bones, as I’m sure you have gathered by now.

“Moreover, I can now feed upon you with no fear of the effects of those old dried up bones I understand you have consumed. The bones of Corneliu Codreanu I have now therefore rendered useless in their effects on me, assuming that was ever any more than just another old wive’s tale to begin with. You see, Khoska, Codreanu was a part of their plan as well. You never thought of that, did you? They tricked him into thinking he was an incarnation of your beloved Archangel Michael, and in so doing, drew off a large segment of your fellow sect members. Thanks to him, the heretics were able to decimate their ranks. Even the idea of grinding up a portion of his bones into powder they based on the old prophecy written down centuries ago by some long forgotten monk. You are the victim of group self-deception and subterfuge.

“Yet, by God, you trudge onward, determined to hold strong to the faith of your grandfather and ancestors. In a way, I admire that spirit, that determination. The more I think about it, however, the more I realize that you are just another deluded fool. Your death will not come quickly enough, but I am determined to see you suffer for your folly to the extent I am able. You should never have refused my offer, old man.”

With that, Marlowe rigidly braced himself as though drawing upon reserves of some previously untapped, though unseen force, and expelled it with a single breath in Khoska’s direction. The pain was unbearable, and yet Khoska could utter not one word, nor even one groan of agony in protest. He soon found himself pinned flat onto the hardwood floor of The Crypt. He felt as though whatever force had control of him sought to push him all the way through the floor to the basement beneath it. He was helpless to resist in any way, and in fact felt as though his insides were at any moment liable to undergo compression out of his frail elderly form all in one final, gruesome squeeze, as though to Radu he was little more than a wrinkled old tube of toothpaste.

At one point, he heard a whirring buzz that gradually ascended to a higher pitch and, when the pain became so unbearable he thought that he would die at any second, the pain suddenly ceased. There was a light all around him, a soft blue light. He found he now could raise his head. As he did so, he saw the sight of Marlowe Krovell, maniacally involved in a game of billiards-apparently with his own self. As if things were not already bad enough, there were now indeed two of them-only one of them was not Marlowe, but an older man, a much bigger man, with long blonde hair and a beard, who seemed desperately determined to win, as did Marlowe. Yet, they seemed strangely unaware of each other’s presence, and seemed equally ignorant of the light that now filled the nightclub, as Khoska himself became aware of yet another presence, one of which the two unknowing adversaries seemed likewise unaware.

Khoska could see the approach of gigantic sandaled feet, and he raised his head slowly. The figure was gigantic, and held a huge sword in his arm, as the blue light both permeated him and exuded from him.

“You must rise,” the figure told him. “You have not yet completed your task. There is one thing yet you must do, and yet one thing more you must face. Remember your vows to me. Hold strong to your faith and your promise to our Lord. I am still with you. Be not afraid, Aleksandre Khoska.”

With that, Aleksandre Khoska rose, his pain not only gone, but now a distant memory. He never felt better. He looked around, and there was Marlowe, seated at a table off to the side, eating some substance Khoska could not identify. Yet, as he crammed the powdery substance inside his mouth, he caught sight of the hideous Cynthia perched on a bar across from him.

“Your friend he has woke up,” she said with a shrill cackle of delight.

Marlowe looked toward Khoska in surprise.

“Yes, it seems that he has,” he observed.

“Let us eat him. I want to eat his soul. I want to eat his old dick and testacles first, though-yummy yummy! I don’t want to eat your old bones. All the good stuff is gone.”

“Shut up, damn you,” Khoska shouted. “You might eat any part of my body you wish to eat, but you will never devour my soul.”

When he said this, Cynthia just cackled in glee, but Marlowe looked profoundly disturbed.

“Cynthia, why don’t you go on out and keep watch?” Marlowe said.

“Very well, but save me some of that old man,” she said.

“I will,” Marlowe promised.

She left so quickly Khoska did not see her mode of exit, as Marlowe regarded him with pronounced curiosity.

“You could understand her?” he asked.

“Of course I could understand her,” Khoska replied. “Why would I not?”

Marlowe looked more alarmed by the minute.

“Well-because she’s a fucking bird?” he suggested.

“A bird?”

“Yes-I called out for help the night I almost destroyed myself in devouring the blood of April Sandusky. It was Cynthia who came to me, who guided me on my torturous journey back to the funeral home. She came to me again on the night I escaped from the hospital. She fed me and nourished me those during those initial days of weakness, of helplessness. My strength was finally restored in time, thanks to her.

I have that kind of power over animals. I can see through to the reality that is their deeper souls. They do have one, you know. Cynthia is quite advanced, as are all black vultures, both socially and in their level of intelligence. Of course, my own power accounts for my ability to commune with her. It doesn’t quite explain your seeming ability to do the same. I must be more a part of you than I ever imagined.

“I am almost all the sorrier now that I am going to have to destroy you. I thought of leaving you to Lynette. That would be a kind of poetic justice, after all. I see now that I cannot afford to take that chance. Besides, I am going to have to destroy both her and Brad Marlowe anyway, after I am finished with you, as well as the children. That will decimate that cult that you are so obsessed with, and which is as obsessed with me as you are. Ruining their plans will be all I need to”-

“You think that thing is just another bird?” Khoska demanded, trying to avoid thinking any further of Lynette, though he found it impossible.

“That is no more an ordinary vulture than Lynette’s true soul inhabits her now reanimated corpse.”

The minute those words left his mouth, Khoska once more heard the earlier high pitched tone as the blue light once again permeated the room, though seemingly without the knowledge of Marlowe, who now resumed his eating.

“Do you know what this is?” Marlowe asked. “This is what remains of the old corpse of Radu Dracula. It seems fitting that I should take all its remaining power unto myself. You see, it will enable me to be truly at my peak when I destroy you. Killing you would be far too easy. The difficulty is in making certain your spirit no longer remains to threaten me, either from some theoretical great beyond, or in a reincarnated form. Your ability to see Cynthia, and to understand her words, tells me I am very lucky indeed that you did not take me up on my previous offer of an alliance. The two of us could never be allies for any more than a brief moment of convenience. Even Cynthia knew better. She told me so, in fact. Animals, of course, are profound in their simplicity. They are far more aligned with the reality of nature than we humans, even those such as I, could ever be.”

“Your Cynthia is lower demon, an Impussae-a daughter of the demon Hecate-one that just manifested in the form of a vulture, which it deemed natural and appropriate for its purpose,” Khoska declared.

“That is nonsense,” Marlowe replied.

“You would think so because it is to your advantage to hide from the truth, which you have been doing throughout the past five hundred years of your existence.”

“What are you talking about?” Marlowe sneered as he rose from the table and approached the old priest, who now stood his ground, suddenly unafraid, as the blue light permeated once more the entire room.

“You are not Radu Dracula,” Khoska replied. “You never were Radu Dracula, any more than you were ever Marlowe Krovell. When you took possession of Krovell, you took possession of not only his body, but his mind, his emotions, all of his memories, both those easily remembered and those long forgotten. Even his addictions and pleasures, his likes and dislikes, became your own.

“So it was when the curse of Vlad Dracula enabled you to take possession of the body of his brother Radu Dracula. You took possession of his body, his mind, his spirit, his emotions, his likes and dislikes, his beliefs, his hopes and fears.”

Marlowe looked savagely at Khoska, and raged silently though noticeably, but said nothing. Yet, he trembled with rage.

“When your demoniac essence was transferred from the mummified remains of Radu Dracula into the person of Marlowe Krovell, you brought with you all of Radu’s pilfered memories and emotions, everything about him which you stole from him.”

“NO!” Marlowe shouted, but he turned away, assailed by the sudden shock of realization.

“Cynthia showed me a glimpse of hell earlier tonight,” Khoska continued. “Quite a neat trick for a mere vulture, wouldn’t you say? She got that from you, my friend. You have an open door to the domains of the netherworld, to that very same hell, because it is your true home. You may indeed dwell for four centuries upon the earth, or even longer, perhaps thousands of years. It is all as but a second compared to the eternity you will eventually face. Once you return to where you belong, there will be no further means of hiding from that reality. You will not be able to deny it then, you filthy demon.”

Radu now trembled visibly, and turned with a look of desperate fear in his eyes.

“YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP OLD MAN!” he screamed maniacally.

“Well, if you do not believe me, then look now upon the tears of the virgin,” Khoska replied as he reached down inside to the inner pocket of his robe.

“This is what my daughter Agnes saw the nights that you came to her,” he said. “You came to her continually in your vain attempts to wear down her spirit, which you could never hope to do, because her faith was far too strong for the likes of you. She saw you for what you were, as I now do likewise. Look upon yourself, and tremble, demon.”

Khoska produced from within his robe the hand mirror held by his late daughter, and held the reflective surface in front of the face of Marlowe Krovell. He could plainly see the hideous evil manifested in the reflected light of the nightclub, and turned in horror away from it.

“Get that thing away from me old man or I will tear you limb from limb, piece by agonizing piece,” Marlowe warned, but Khoska took note of the desperate quality inherent within the demon’s tone, as he strode quickly to the swinging door that led behind the bar. Once there, he jerked back the black cloth that covered the huge mirror, as he flipped on all the lights.

“Here you are, demon,” he said. “Take a good long look at yourself.”

Marlowe turned and saw the face of sheer horror staring at him, what looked to be a gargoyle, greenish gray, with hollowed eye sockets that shone forth two green orbs of dumb malice and lust, now shining with the awareness of discovery and exuding the terror of defeat and of the ultimate fate that Khoska now promised him. He saw the hideous warts that oozed pus in mortal bodily reaction to the intrusion of his demoniac spirit and all the vile and filthy diseases the creature brought with him.

Marlowe screamed in a rage as Khoska prayed loudly and fervently for the deliverance of the Holy Spirit, and called for the strength and guidance of Michael the Archangel. He then produced the sacred blade he had long ago ritually blessed for the purpose now before him, and he advanced quickly, determined to deliver the fatal blow.

However, he approached too quickly, too injudiciously. Marlowe wailed in angry horror as he reached out, gouged at the priests stomach, and pulled him over towards him. He flung Khoska to the ground and, before the old priest had time to react, Marlowe was on top of him, sinking his now hideously protruding fangs deep within his jugular vein. He then began swinging his head angrily like an enraged dog killing a rat, as Khoska’s blood gushed into his hungrily waiting mouth.

Just as suddenly as it seemed to happen, however, Marlowe stopped and recoiled in horror, and in seeming agony. He screamed in desperation for surcease from the pain that afflicted him, as Khoska lay on the floor, barely conscious, in unspeakable pain, as he struggled to control his breathing.

Long forgotten was the true meaning of the phrase “bones of the saint”. The powdered bones of Cornelius Codreanu had, it turned out, been as false as the assertion that the spirit of Michael the Archangel incarnated within the body of the old fascist.

The true meaning of the prophecy, written down centuries before the life of the man whose apostasy all but destroyed the cloistered sect into which his grandfather brought him, lay lost for centuries. Only Agnes, dear sweet Agnes with her truly devout and yet humble faith, had the presence of mind and the God-given grace to understand the true meaning.

Before he came this night to The Crypt, he made a special visit to Doctor Chou, now released on his own recognizance and agreeing to give states evidence of what he knew about the criminal conspiracy most people would never understand, or even be able to conceive.

“Why do you want garlic pills?” he asked. “Why do you want them in such large and strong amounts? Garlic is good for you as a food additive but it is useless in inordinate amounts. You will pass them in your urine.”

“Then I won’t make any urine,” Khoska replied. “Believe me, Doctor Chou, I know what I am doing.”

“It is not good for an elderly person to dehydrate,” Chou objected. “You can do immeasurable damage to your kidneys and bladder, and everything else in the bargain.”

Chou relented in time, without Khoska having to go into any detail as to how dried and powdered garlic was, in his cloistered sect of the Romanian Orthodox Church, once referred to as the “bones of the saint.”

It took considerably more patience to convince Chou to give him the other item he needed, but in time, he prevailed.

“I will trust you to exercise enough discretion to keep this matter confidential,” Chou insisted.

“You have my word as a man of God,” Khoska said, “if that means anything to you.”

Chou grimly handed Khoska the item, which Khoska now held in his hands as he approached the agonized form of Marlowe Krovell.

“Please-help me,” the desperate creature pleaded. “The pain is unbearable.”

“It is not my intention for you or any other creature to suffer unnecessarily,” Khoska replied, with some sincerity. “Not even a demon such as yourself. This should ease your pain. You should have sufficient quantities of my blood to enable it to course through your system appropriately, but you had best hurry.”

The creature downed all four of the pills Khoska handed him, so desperate for relief from his torment he did not take the time to consider the prospect that Khoska might well be tricking him into taking something that might cause him even greater distress.

Yet, as soon as he swallowed the pills, he seemed to calm somewhat. The pain lessened considerably, and as Radu rose slowly to his feet, Khoska fell to his knees, the loss of blood and the pain of the injuries inflicted to his neck and body finally overwhelming him. He sunk down to his knees and prayed, as Marlowe rose with a malicious laugh.

“You crazy old fool,” he said. “Do you realize what you have done? You are dying. You will not last out the remainder of the night. You are as a dead man, and by my hands and with my power. Your blood courses through me, and instead of finishing me off, you showed me mercy. The pain is gone. It is over.”

Marlowe sat down upon a stool as he regarded the prayerful form of Aleksandre Khoska, who continued with his prayers, even as he knew and understood the end of his life was quickly approaching and would soon be upon him.

“Oh, Aleksandre,” Marlowe said. “Do you know who is coming here? Grace will be here shortly. That is right-they are bringing her here. Of course, they do not realize that when they come, I will be alive and well, if somewhat the worse for wear. I will certainly be able to take care of all of them though, thanks to you and your oh so gracious assistance.”

Marlowe now began laughing and snickering like a madman as he shook in uncontrollable glee.

“So, you thought you could beat me by turning me into a heroin addict again,” he said. “What was that, Oxycontin? Oooooohhh. I must remember to pay a call on Doctor Chou. That was so thoughtful and helpful of him. Of course, it will be of no consequence for me to overcome the addiction once more. After all, I did it once. The second time certainly should not be any more difficult. By the time the synthetic heroin wears off, the garlic should as well. Too bad it didn’t destroy me like it would have at one time. It looks like everything is going my way, old priest. See, you and I make good allies after all.”

Khoska collapsed onto the floor, fighting desperately to regain his consciousness. The minutes passed by as he faded in and out, his awareness heightened with each temporary revival, which brought him all the same ever greater weakness. He could not give into it. He had to fight it. There was not that much time left. He tried to rise, but then he collapsed as Marlowe, sliding glasses down the bar to apparently imaginary bar patrons, snickered and giggled as he shook with mirth. It was almost impossible for Khoska to move, let alone raise himself up.

“What time is it?” Khoska finally asked.

“What?” Marlowe replied.

“I left a note-at the church-that I would be here,” he said weakly. “I think-Michael-might be here-soon,” he said. “I left him a message-earlier last night.”

“Marlowe just snickered and shook uncontrollably, as though witness to the most insanely funny expression uttered throughout the ages.

“I heard someone outside just now,” Khoska continued. “Someone is coming.”

“Ohhh, bullllshiiiit, oooold maaaan,” Marlowe drawled as he approached the curtain enclosed window. He pulled it back suddenly, and was immediately overwhelmed by the sudden flood of light.

“It looks like daylight out here, but it don’t hurt that much,” Marlowe said, and cackled, as he sunk to the floor. “Whoops. What’s going on here?”

Khoska, with a supreme effort, finally pulled himself up to his knees, and crawled on all fours to where Marlowe lay quivering.

“It must be even later-than I thought it was,” Khoska said.

The sun was eating away at Marlowe’s skin to such a point he was almost unrecognizable. He didn’t have much time, but Khoska wanted to take no chances. He had to kill him quickly, lest he somehow come to his senses enough to pull himself to safety. If he did that, he would recover in time, and Khoska’s final strategy would be all for nothing. He pulled the blade out of his robe, preparing to plunge it into Marlowe’s chest. As he did so, however, Marlowe gasped.

“Please-help me,” he moaned pitifully. “What am I doing here? Who are you? What’s happened to me?”

It was Marlowe, the real Marlowe, the demon spirit having departed under the combined onslaught of the garlic, the opiate pill, and the onrushing light of the morning sun. Yet, he understood now that Marlowe was beyond help. Even in the extremely unlikely event Khoska or for that matter anyone could save his life, he would exist yet with the curse with which he had been afflicted as surely as had been the body of Radu. He would be in time under the sway of the same monstrous evil. He could not allow that to happen.

“You are going to die, son,” Khoska said. “I am sorry, there is nothing I can do for you, except offer you absolution.”

“I remember you. You’re that priest, the one I went to see, the day Rhino attacked me in your church. What happened?”

“What else do you remember?” Khoska asked.

“I remember now-I killed Raven. I killed my mother and father. Then I found some old trunk and-oh my God, that thing kept ripping into me, trying to make me do things, getting inside of me, until he finally did it, and then I couldn’t do anything about it. Oh God”-

“I can offer you absolution for your sins, but you must have faith,” Khoska said. “You must confess your sins and ask for God’s mercy.”

Marlowe agreed, whereupon Khoska prayed fervently for God to see to the welfare of the poor tortured soul who would soon be coming his way. Marlowe repeated the prayers Khoska prayed, as best he could, despite the pain, as Khoska, with yet another pained effort, pulled himself up to the table on which still sat a glass of the water earlier proffered him by Marty Evans. He weakly grasped the glass of water and lowered himself down to the ground. He doused Marlowe with the water, whereupon he pronounced his salvation by the power of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Marlowe looked up at Khoska, and though he grimaced with pain, his eyes were clear. He was at peace for the first time in his life, it seemed.

“Thank you,” Marlowe said. “I think-I’ll be all right now.”

As he said this, he went limp, and then closed his eyes. Khoska kept a tight grip upon his hand, and Marlowe let out one last, deep breath. His eyes went back in his head as his eyelids shut, and his last breath-the first one Khoska saw him take this night-exited from his body in a loud whoosh of expelled air.

Khoska tottered on the brink of collapse, and tried to pull himself away from Marlowe, whose dead right hand yet held a tight grip on Khoska’s. Suddenly, Marlowe shot up and, grabbing hold of Khoska, pulled him down toward him as he bared his fangs. Desperately Khoska retrieved the blade from within his robe and, ignoring the pain, thrust it into Marlowe’s chest with a superhuman strength born of a manic desperation. He plunged it in deeply, and Marlowe went back on his back onto the floor, his eyes finally staring out into nothing, as Khoska finally gave out, his last bit of strength completely spent. He went over on the floor on his back.

He died in that one-second interval, and saw the peaceful, light-bluish light engulf him, urging him on toward the center, where he could sense the presence of all his loved ones, all of his family. Marta was there, and she stood in front of the rest of them, giving him a good humouredly chiding look as she wagged her finger.

“It’s about time,” she said. “Remember, I told you about the garlic. After all this time, you listen finally. You’re almost ready.”

“Marta, I am ready,” he said. “I have never been as ready for anything in my life.”

“Now, Aleksandre, you know what you always said about unfinished business.”

“What unfinished business?” Khoska asked her.

“How would I know?” Marta answered with a shrug. “We don’t think about those things here. I just know there is one more thing you have to do, one more thing you have to know, as it were. Do you really think I am going to be able to put up with you wondering about these things and asking me questions that I have no way of answering? Go, Khoska, see to them.”

Suddenly, he was back on the floor of the bar, but he was not alone. Michael was there, leaning over him, crying.

“Father, it will be all right. I got your message. I got here as soon as I could. I will get you to a hospital as soon as I can.”

“Have you-called-an ambulance yet?”

“Father, don’t worry about that now. You did well. You killed that creature. I am very proud of you.”

Khoska finally opened his eyes. He tried to raise himself but Michael tried to restrain him. He was fading fast. Aleksandre Khoska would not last longer than a few minutes at the most. He had to let Michael know.

“It was you the entire time, wasn’t it, Michael?”

Michael winced at this.

“Try not to talk, poppa.”

“You were in on it with them,” Aleksandre said. “You brought that abominable creature to the church, and purposely left Agnes to Marlowe. It was you who helped Marlowe infect the sacramental wine to give him power over me. You were involved with Martin and Louise Krovell in everything they did. You knew they were responsible for Jonathon’s murder. You even murdered your own children and grandchildren.”

“How-did you find out?” Michael asked, seemingly relieved the deception was at last revealed. He breathed a deep sigh.

“You realize a lot of things in your last minutes,” Khoska replied. I think-I knew it all the time. I just-didn’t want-to see it. I could not bear-“

“The world is changing father,” Michael said sternly. “God’s will on earth must soon manifest, and the first thing the world sees will be his holy wrath. The whole world must be born again, as it says in the Holy Bible, the Word of God. ‘Yea, verily, I say unto thee, before a man may enter the kingdom of heaven, he must be born again.’ Grace will show us all the way father. She is the sacred vessel of God.”

“Grace Rodescu-is as evil and deluded as the rest of you. Michael, how could you align yourself with these heretics? How could you believe their lies? What have they done to you?”

Michael now cried, as he reached his hand out to his father, but Khoska rejected the proffered hand.

“The world is rife with strife and bloodshed, with sin and avarice,” Michael declared. “They have the way to make things right. They are the one true Church, the Way of The Church of Jesus Christ. You judge them by the deceptive criterion adapted from the standards of the Roman Empire, from the day the Romans drove them underground, on through to today. Yet, they thrive, they prosper, and they offer a new way, a way of peace and love and universal harmony. It is over, father. The false antichrist, the Roman Empire as expressed through the current false churches of this world, is through. Soon that deceit and corruption will no longer be with us. I have seen a miracle, father. Soon, you will see one as well. Grace is due to arrive here any minute now, and you will see what I mean. In fact, I think she is here.”

Khoska could barely make out the sound of the automobile as it pulled up to the front of The Crypt. However, he could feel the presence of the person who walked into the door, almost running and bounding into the bar. He raised his head, in awe of the sight of the young girl in the Baltimore Orioles baseball cap, a young girl who looked identical to the teenage child he had seen more than fifteen years previously, as a young girl of thirteen.

“Grace?” Khoska whispered hoarsely. “Is that really you?”

“Are you all right, mister?” the girl asked. She then looked in the direction of Michael, who smiled at her.

“Welcome home, Grace,” he said.

“Mikhail!” the girl shouted excitedly, and then rushed into his arms and hugged him tightly as Michael’s wife entered the bar.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” Grace said.

“It was all a big misunderstanding Grace. Everything will be different from now on. We have some new children, and you will teach them everything you know. Nadia and I will make sure you have everything you need. You will want for nothing, nor will you ever have anything to fear again.”

“Nadia,” Khoska said as he looked at the woman, his son’s wife, in sad realization. “You two are the Mikhail and Nadia whom Grozhny warned me about? Oh, my God-sweet Jesus and Mary!”

“We are all very sorry that it had to come down to this, Aleksandre,” Nadia said. “Michael tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. You could not be dissuaded.”

“Hey, I remember this old guy now-he’s the one that tired to help me when Grozhny had me in his cabin. What happened to him?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Grace,” Nadia said. “Radu is dead, and I am afraid our dear Aleksandre here is responsible. Of course, Radu had to die, just as Christ had to die, to atone for all our sins. That hardly makes Pontius Pilate a hero though, does it?”

The young girl lowered herself down to the ground as she hovered over the body of Marlowe Krovell, his skin dissolved by the light of the morning sun as though it were acid.

“Ra-du,” she croaked sadly. “Radu.”

“It will be all right, little one,” Michael said as he shot Nadia a warning look, and then looked over toward his father, who had now lost the capacity for all speech. He no longer cared. He would soon be joining his beloved Marta, and would once more see Agnes, as well as his mother, father, and grandfather, all of their rivalries completely and happily forgotten, as he hoped to forget all his own pain. He wondered if Lynette-the real Lynette-would be there, and told himself that, yes, surely she would be.

“Do you know what I want now, more than anything?” Grace now asked as she rose from Radu’s body and looked mischievously and longingly toward Michael.

“Whatever it is, it’s yours,” he replied.

“I want a big bottle of coca-cola with peanuts inside it, like you used to get us all the time before we would go out on the town,” she answered eagerly, yet demurely.

“You got it, Grace,” Michael answered, as Khoska felt waves of release drifting over him. With the release, came an odd form of relief. He heard the young girl bounding cheerfully out of the room.

“You are ready now, Aleksandre,” he heard the voice of his wife say now.

“I am sorry, Marta, for the time I betrayed you, and all those times that I disappointed you,” Aleksandre said.

“It is all right, my dear husband,” Marta said. “I know about what you done, yet strangely I do not remember it. We do not dwell on such things here. It is an entirely different place, and a completely different life. We are all waiting for you. You will see what I mean when you get here.”

Aleksandre did already in fact have an idea what she meant. He knew that he should be sad, but could not be. He knew he had done things in life he had long been sorry for, but strangely enough found it harder with every passing second to recall them. How had he betrayed his wife? He started to understand now that such things bore no true relevance. There was no pain, and there was no sorrow. There was no regret, for the memory of all hardships and difficulties were gone. He felt blissful. He was happy, for the first time in a long time.

Even though he knew her somehow, he yet could not recall the name of the young girl in the baseball cap who now stood over him, glaring at him angrily, nor did he even remember in what manner he had known her. He would be with Marta soon, so felt no dread as the young girl-he seemed to recall her name might be Grace-raised the baseball bat far above her head. She shouted but he could not hear her, as she brought the bat down with all her might upon his head.

He felt a sharp pain, but it only lasted an instant, before the healing blue light engulfed it as well.

Links to Previous Chapters
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
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII
Chapter XXXXIV
Chapter XXXXV

The Second Amendment Camouflage of John McCain

One of the things John McCain said in his recent speech to the NRA convention veered off the subject of gun control and over into other territory, including foreign policy and economics. His statement on the condition of the American economy was the most surprising. Lauding successive, uninterrupted quarters of what he termed as “explosive economic growth”, he made the statement that Americans were once more feeling optimistic about their economic situation and the economy of the nation.

Was he kidding? No, evidently he was serious, or seemed to be. With McCain, it is hard to tell for sure. It is almost as though he might have been trying to dissuade a potential NRA member-many who dislike and mistrust McCain-from possibly putting a bullet in his head. If he really believes that drivel there could not be a hell of a lot there worth shooting at.

Nevertheless, the Secret Service deemed it necessary to take no chances. They banned guns from the national convention of the country’s premiere guns rights advocate groups-at least in the area of proximity to the man the group has in the past roundly denounced as one of the nation’s premiere standard-bearers for incremental limitations on the right to bear arms. McCain was there supposedly to mend fences, of course, but the SS decided to take no chances. Some at the convention must have seen this as an omen of things to come.

Neither Barak Obama nor Hillary Clinton received an invitation to appear at the convention, but evidently, Mike Huckabee did not get the memo, and so jokingly derided a falling chair as Obama diving for cover. He has since apologized repeatedly for this off-the-cuff remark, each such expression of regret increasing his chances exponentially of acquiring the vice-presidential spot on McCain’s GOP ticket.

Others there denounced and ridiculed both Hillary and Obama for their alleged anti-gun beliefs, though Obama at least has stated he defends not only the rights of hunters and gun collectors, but also the rights of law-abiding citizens to have guns for self-defense.

My boy Mitch McConnell, Kentucky’s senior Senator and House Minority Leader-himself up for re-election this year-declared that a Democratic presidency would be bad for gun owners and the Second Amendment. I’m afraid on some levels he might be right. By the same token, I have to wonder how seriously he takes McCain’s promise to protect the Second Amendment and the rights of gun owners. McCain has promised to close the gun show loophole, which he claims is the major area of disagreement between himself and the NRA. Yet, he swears he will otherwise protect Second Amendment rights.

Despite these reassurances, I think Senator McConnell must to this day be steamed over the passage of McCain-Feingold, which he himself fought tooth and nail. He had to be biting his lip to keep from bringing that up to the attendees at the Louisville Kentucky convention for the NRA-one of the largest and most powerful lobbies in Washington.

McConnell sees this as a First Amendment issue-wrongly, in my view. I see it as limiting the ability of special interests to buy the loyalties of our elected representatives. McConnell and I do agree on one thing, however. McCain-Feingold is an awful piece of legislation that not only solves nothing, it in fact creates more problems. McCain is so far off the reservation on this and other matters, from a Republican Party perspective, I have to wonder how McConnell could possibly take him seriously. Party be damned, these two don’t like each other-at all.

Dr. Daniel Mongiardo, the current Lieutenant Governor of Kentucky, a Democrat, was there as well, and is an Obama supporter, yet made no mention of the upcoming national election. There were probably a few snickers at the memory of the last Kentucky governor’s race, an ad for which depicted Mongiardo and his then running mate and now Kentucky Governor, Steve Beshear, sitting in their camouflage with their hunting rifles, smiling at the cameras.

All of which brings me to my main point-the era of gun control activism is all but done for. Democrats have learned the hard way that any legislation intended to curtail the rights of gun owners, by applying a dubious at best interpretation of the Constitution as a “living document” that “grows and evolves” with the times, does not play well in Peoria, nor petty much anywhere else outside the West Coast and the Northeast. I have a pretty good idea, in fact, that it might be starting to wear thin in many of those areas. Any such malarkey will result, in most cases and in most places, in an electoral route.

This is important, because here is the reality-Democrats like to win elections as much as Republicans do, and, plainly speaking, they know this is a losing issue for them.

Oh, I’m sure that, given enough power and control, they would do their utmost to try to sneak in some gun control legislation, or add a few tweaks here and there-close the gun show loophole, ban first this or that specific type of firearm, etc. Be that as it may, I believe-at least I dearly hope-that they will not carry it too far. They simply cannot afford to.

The fact that Democrats feel obliged nowadays to run campaigns in which they depict themselves as avid hunters and sportsmen, showing off their guns in faux hunting scenes with big toothy grins and the like, tells you all you need to know.

McCain might well be a different story. A man who prides himself on his independence and his status as a maverick who is willing to “cross the aisle to get things done” can probably find a reason to institute draconian gun control laws as easily as he can support-well, cap and trade, for example.

Granted, this issue and national security are probably two of McCain’s strongest suits among a pretty limited wardrobe. I just don’t think either one of these fits him that well. In fact, I think he will bend too easily on these issues, as on so many others. When he does, I think there is a good chance that his ass will split wide open, and his party along with him. Since we are on the subject of “suits”, how likely is John McCain to support legislation to enable lawsuits against gun manufacturers? This is a major bone of contention, and is one of the issues whereby John McCain insists he is trustworthy and the Democratic candidates are not.

On the other hand, there have been recent spates of Democratic electoral victories involving conservative Democrats who support gun owners. One such election was in Illinois, for the seat once held by former Republican House Speaker Dennis Hastert. Another was in Mississippi, which President Bush won by nearly twenty-five percentage points. The Democratic victory here was hardly a squeaker. The Democrat challenger won the seat by a double-digit margin. The Democrats have won other such victories in Ohio and Louisiana, all with conservative candidates. One does not have to be a Nostradamus to see a trend emerging here.

This inspires in me a great deal of hope, that more and more conservative Democrats win elections up until that time that the Republican Party, conceivably under President McCain’s “guidance”, finally implodes.

The next few years could in fact see the biggest political realignment since that of the so-called “Reagan Democrats”, or Nixon’s “Silent Majority”.

This time around, like those and other previous occasions, might well amount to a political slaughter. You will know the winners, for the most part, by their hunting trophies, their trusty rifles, and their camouflage hunting jackets. The losers, from whichever party, will be unarmed and unprepared-clueless, as always.

The key to understanding the importance of this issue in the minds of voters and Second Amendment supporters is really quite simple. Issues such as the economy, education, health care, and foreign policy, can and probably will be tempered to suit the prevailing need and political climate-tweaked, improved, revised, and revisited countless times. In most instances, the effects are temporary and transitory in a general sense. Even a major war, as borne out by history, ends at some point.

A constitutional right, once trampled under any pretense, is likely forever lost, leaving nothing but the precedent for yet more loss of freedom, little by little, bit by bit, until soon, nothing remains but the meaningless facade of an archaic, whimsical historical document.

Mohammed-The Sacrilege Of Early Islamic Art

It seems there is actually a long tradition of Islamic artistic representations of the prophet Mohammed, as explained here by zombietime, which has on this page a large collection of such artwork. In fact, supposed Islamic injunctions against such displays actually go back no more than three or four centuries or so.

Granted, most of the images displayed on this page are of Shi’ite origin. Yet, evidently, there are Sunni examples as well.

The pictures are interesting. They depict various episodes of the life and myth of Mohammed, from his birth to his death, and everything (supposedly) in between. Most curious is his constant association with what is called a “buraq”-an animal with the body of a horse, the head of a woman, and the tail of a peacock.

There are also images of him visiting both heaven and hell-the latter in which he views various women tortured by demons for various sins, including inspiring lust in men by failing to cover their hair, bearing illegitimate children and falsely claiming they belong to their husbands, and for ridiculing their husbands and leaving home without permission. In heaven, he is seen viewing, and in at least one case cavorting with, the houris-those divine, heavenly virgins we are now so familiar with.

The one above is a portrayal of Mohammed receiving the Quran from the Archangel Gabriel.

One thing that is most striking about this collection is the marked similarity shared among most of these paintings of the Prophet. Evidently, not only was it at one time acceptable within Islamic culture and tradition to display the image of Mohammed in art, it seems to have been such a widespread endeavor that his image and features pretty much became as standardized among Muslim artists as the now more familiar images of Christ are among most Christians today.

The Newest Addition To The Environmentalist Enemies List

Another frequent target of Democratic Party favored activist groups has just joined the ranks of those accused of contributing to Global Warming. Along with the enemies and critics of cigarette smokers and cattle ranchers-who are apparently guilty of increasing the output of cow flatulence-fast food industry critics have now added to the fun.

You got it. Fat people are contributing to Global Warming

Well, what can you say? How could people possibly dispute this evidence? Yep-facts are all in. Ain't science fun?

Fortunately for the world environmental situation, there aren't a lot of black conservatives and Log Cabin Republicans. The world is teetering toward the brink of destruction fast enough as it is, thanks to those damn NASCAR drivers.

As long as we keep their numbers down then, I guess they are limited in the damage they can do-well, if we can ever get them away away from the damn golf courses, that is.

We Should Choose Our Words Carefully

Farhad Manjoo of Salon gives us the following information about the MySpace mom case-

"In 2006, according to law enforcement officials, Lori Drew, a 49-year-old mother in O'Fallon, Mo., created a fake MySpace account under the name Josh Evans, whom she cooked up as a 16-year-old boy new to town. Prosecutors say Drew used the phony profile to set up an online relationship with Megan Meier, a 13-year-old classmate of Drew's daughter."

He goes on to say how "Evans" viciously dumped Meier, after telling her the world would be a better place without her. The distraught Megan Meier committed suicide.

Manjoo warns that the on-going drive to prosecute Lori Drew might be misguided, if understandable, and could constitute a slippery slope. Of course, anytime you log onto MySpace is a potential slippery slope, but that's a whole different story.

Here is a different take on the subject.

I have mixed feelings about it. I think the woman should certainly be punished severely, but at the same time, I fear the precedent it might set could potentially result in a lot of ill-founded, spurious, and even malicious lawsuits. Caution is advised.

Now if someone wants to get the bitch out and tar and feather her or boil her in oil, be my guest. Not that I am seriously advising anyone to do that, mind you. After all, that might well be construed as an internet cyber-threat and what-not. Therefore, let's just pretend I'm kidding to make a point.

Which is what I'm doing, of course.

Special Announcement

The last chapter of Radu I expect to publish sometime early next week. Actually, I could have done so early this week, but since it is the final chapter I want to take special pains with it to insure that it is everything a last chapter should be, regardless of the fact it is a first draft. Well, also, I noticed I made a mistake regarding the time line of a certain event, involving when Marlowe met Cynthia the Vulture. I mistakenly have Marlowe musing about how she came to him after his escape from the hospital, when of course she actually helped him escape from Johns Hopkins, by feeding him the regurgitated remains of a human infant.

At any rate, for those of you have may have followed the various installments, I think I can safely promise you that you will be very much surprised at how certain things turn out. Hopefully I haven't given too much away, as I fear I might have done regarding the actual identity of Mircea. I intend to correct that in the rewrite, alone with other weaknesses of this first draft.

For those of you who have not read the novel, nor will read it, your torture is not quite yet over. Note that I said the last CHAPTER is upcoming.

Then comes the epilogue.

Gay Marriage Laws-Only During Election Years

They start this shit every election year, and NEVER any other time, in order to accomplish-what? I'm not sure. I only know it tends to favor Republicans, though it might not help them as much this year, especially since McCain has said he will not seize on it. Still, it will certainly rev up the conservative base to at least vote for conservative candidates, be they Democrat or (probably for the most part) Republicans. Then, of course, they will cry after they help get more Republicans elected, and then throw more money at the leaders of the BGLT coalition activist groups, the leaders of whom will laugh all the way to the bank. So much for that myth about gays being so much more intelligent than the rest of us. This issue is one of the main reasons a certain person didn't get the Republican nomination this year.

Now if he was the Republican nominee, it might encourage a different result. In other words, it wouldn't be an act of insanity. Of course the real irony is, they ain't trying to help the Democrats, they are just pissed off because the Democrats actually don't support them as much as they think they should, and as much as most people think they do. So, I guess this kind of makes sense when you stop to think about it.

If it helps Congressional Republicans in their individual races, I'm fine with it, though I don't quite get why they would want that. If it helps McCain, that's a different story.

Like I said, it only seems to come up during election years. Pay no attention to the man behind the lavender curtain-he's probably a Log Cabin Republican.

The People Versus Crooked Lawyers-A Case That Cries Out For Disbarment

A current court case in Covington Kentucky might hopefully sound the death knell for crooked attorneys enriching themselves at the expense of their naive clients. It involves three high-powered attorneys who conducted a class-action lawsuit against the makers of the once-popular diet drug Fen-Phen. The short version-they ripped off their clients.

Twenty-five million dollars each weren't enough for these scum bag attorneys, they had to steal an extra 65 million dollars from their dying clients. Part of this money went toward purchasing last years Preakness winner Curlin, a Porsche, a BMW, and courtside seats at Rupp Arena, home of the University of Kentucky Wildcats.

Now two of them-Shirley Cunningham and William Gallion (the two who brought the horse) could get up to 20 years in prison, along with a third conspirator, Melbourne Mills.

A fourth lawyer who has not been indicted, yet is a defendant in a civil suit, is Cincinnati lawyer Stanley Chesley, who negotiated the Fen-Phen settlement. He is also one of the movers and shakers in the tobacco lawsuits of the nineties, and a longtime Clinton supporter. He as well should be imprisoned and disbarred, but so far has squirmed out of the most serious charges.

Hopefully the money will eventually be recovered. This should go to the people who should have received but were conned out of it. The claims of Gallion that the clients were thrilled to give away excess funds to charity is more than just bullshit, as claimed by government expert Edward Brewer, a Northern Kentucky University law professor-it is low comedy.

The judge who approved the settlements was later accused of misconduct in the case, and resigned his office. In other words, nobody looks good here.

I hope they put them all in GenPop, the SHU would be too merciful.

Sean Penn Is A Fucking Prick

Who made this guy the President of the P'alm D'or jury? Who in the hell is he to decide that if a film doesn't deal with political issues it doesn't stand a chance of winning the award?

Bear in mind the little arrogant fucktard has made this decision even regarding films he has not even seen yet. Even if he intends to give an equal and fair chance to films that have a conservative point of view-yeah, right, as if-it just goes to show that Sean Penn is a self-absorbed and obsessed little douchebag.

This is the kind of guy the world can do without, a guy to whom film and the media is a tool with which to brainwash the ignorant masses. Really, that's what it is about. If you think guys like Sean Penn want people to see two or more opposing and contradictory points of view objectively and make up their own minds, I hate to break it to you, but you are fucking delusional.

And to him, there should be no breaks from political film at all. There should always be a constant fucking point to the entertainment industry. Music, movies, and television without some symbolic or direct social or political meaning-preferably either blatant or subliminal propaganda-is vulgar and not worthy of anything above condescension.

God, these guys just piss me the fuck off. I have no sympathy whatsoever for Leo Penn over his problems with McCarthey. Somebody hurry up and blacklist Sean as well.

Better yet, make another Iron Man movie, tie the fucker down and make him watch it about fifty times. If he has a stroke halfway through it, just keep going, he might be faking.

So Who Was Being Attacked?

In a speech earlier in front of the Israeli Knesset in honor of the 60th anniversary of the founding of the nation of Israel, President George W. Bush denounced those who would engage in appeasement of terrorists. Will Bunch, in the Philadelphia Inquirer, has in response accused President Bush of "political treason".

That's quite extreme. Bush could have simply been offering reassurances to the Israelis, who might be concerned as to what kind of future the next elections might bring, and how that might affect them. He could have simply been referring to appeasers within the political left of Israeli society.

More than likely,however, he was simply referring to all appeasers the world over, including within the United States.

Yet, bear in mind that Bush did not actually mention Barak Obama by name-he merely attacked the policy of appeasement and all those in general who would practice it.

Mr. Will and all others of a similar frame of mind need to calm down. Senator Obama has not become the standard bearer of the Democratic Party yet.

Yeah-Let's Support The Troops, Motherfuckers

Hat Tip to Pajama Pundit

The Next Thing You Know They Will Only Let Us Vote Once

This is fucking outrageous. So because Florence Steen died before the date of the South Dakota primary, her absentee ballot, which she cast before her death, will not be counted? By God that is just unacceptable.

Dead people voting in elections is a time-honored Democratic Party tradition that goes back generations. First the Democratic Party habitually disregards their labor union base, and now they are starting to turn their backs on their very first, their original and by far their most loyal and dependable special interest group-dead voters. This just ain't right.

What You Can Find On A Muslim Dating Site

Well, this is just one picture in the photo gallery over at Muslima.com.

Yep, I registered. Hell, I'm game. Can't pass up a chance like that. My screen name is Patrick Camelhumper.

The Twenty-Five Percenters

A lot of people are making a lot out of Hillary Clinton's mammoth win over Barak Obama in West Virginia, where she trounced him by something like 67 percent to 26 percent-a forty-one percent margin of victory. John Edwards, who is no longer in the race (and who earlier today endorsed Obama) got seven percent. According to many observers, this is a sure sign that Obama has a serious problem with white, rural, blue-collar voters.

Their reasoning is based on exit polls which show that roughly twenty-five percent of Clinton voters voted due to racial reasons.

I do not dispute this assessment, but at the same time, it is easy to blow something like this out of all proportion.

There is another twenty-five percent faction that is rarely mentioned-the twenty-five percent who are regularly voting against John McCain in the Republican primaries, despite the fact that McCain has his party's nomination all sewed up. That was the percentage of people that voted against him in West Virginia, and also in North Carolina, while twenty percent voted against him in Indiana.

Bear in mind, these are not Republican voters who are just saying "what the fuck is the use, he already has won the damn thing". No these are people that are actually still going to the polls to express their disapproval, despite the fact that McCain is already the Republican Party's presumptive nominee.

When you look at the two together, one fact emerges, and that is, Obama's problem, while certainly significant, may not be as profoundly dire as McCain's. Why? Well, bear in mind, just because a white, rural voter might prefer Clinton does not in every case mean they absolutely despise Obama.

So, what is the percentage of Hillary Clinton voters who dislike Obama due to race, or due to the perception of elitism, the Reverend Wright, etc.? We can safely assume that not all voters who voted for racist reasons will admit to this, but I think it is safe to say they are nevertheless in the minority. The majority probably consider Obama acceptable, he is just not their fist choice.

So, you might say, well, it's probably an even trade. Twenty-five percent (at least) of Republican voters hate McCain, but twenty-five percent of Democratic voters also hate Obama. But no, wait a minute, that is twenty-five percent of HILLARY CLINTON Democratic voters who hate Obama.

Assume for the moment we can legitimately divide Obama and Clinnon voters fifty-fifty. That twenty-five percent suddenly becomes twelve-and-a half percent of Democratic voters who either outright hate Barak Obama, or at least consider some aspect of him or his candidacy objectionable enough they would not vote for him under any circumstances. That, however, is roughly half the percentage of Republican voters who feel the same way about McCain, if we can once again assume, based on the last two elections, that the parties are split about fifty-fifty.

Also, do remember, this is just the Republican anti-McCain faction that bothers to go to the polls to vote at all. It is reasonable to assume there is a great many others who just didn't bother to go to the polls.

Anyway you look at it, McCain is in trouble, especially when you consider a few other facts.

1. Lately, McCain has been trailing Obama in the polls regarding the preference of independent voters.

2. Blacks will almost certainly vote in record numbers in this election year, in greater numbers than ever before, and they will vote for Obama by a wide margin. In fact, they will probably vote for Obama by an even greater percentage than they usually vote for the Democratic ticket.

This is not an accusation of racial prejudice either, this is just a simple fact that has already born out. Blacks are not voting for Barak Obama by a margin of ten to one over Hillary Clinton, the wife of the "first black president", because they are impressed with the nuances in the differences between his and Hillary's approach to health care. They are voting for him because they see him as one of them, as an inspiration, a manifestation of their own collective hopes and dreams. Voting for somebody because of their race might be a form of positive prejudice, but it is not a form of bigotry equatable to voting against a candidate for racial reasons.

When push comes to shove, increased support among blacks will probably balance out the defections from white rural Democratic voters, of whom I concede there will probably be some, perhaps a significant amount in some states-mainly those states that Republicans tend to win anyway.

Of course, even these states McCain can not afford to take entirely for granted in all cases, since the recent announcement by former Georgia Congressman Bob Barr that he will be seeking the presidency on the Libertarian Party ticket. If Bob Barr manages to pull five percent of the national vote, then you will know where roughly ten percent of disaffected Republicans have gone. Where will the other twenty percent of disaffected Republicans go? Well, another ten percent will probably stay home and not vote at all, as they have been doing in the primaries since McCain became the presumptive nominee.

The last ten pecent might well vote for Obama.

Add all this up with those independent voters currently preferring Obama over McCain, and you begin to get a clear picture that McCain might well be headed for a route, if all of this holds up.

In the meantime, Obama has some time to appeal to the white voters who might currently have misgivings about him. A great lot of their concerns probably have little to do with race and more to do with such things as the Reverend Wright, Bill Ayers, and the "bitter" comments. It is up to Obama to address such concerns.

The "bitter" comment I put down to typical political pandering on the part of Obama-in this case, pandering to the San Francisco liberal limousine elites who Obama realizes is essential insofar as monetary donations go. I didn't like it, and still don't, but by the same token, I have heard him, prior to this debacle, express his belief in the Second Amendment and the right of American citizens to own guns, so I take him at his word. Besides, I am fucking bitter over a lot of shit. If you doubt that, read over some of the archives on this blog.

On other matters, such as the Global Warming hysteria and the immigration controversy regarding illegal aliens and amnesty, he is at least no worse than McCain, who has recently made overtures to the most radical of immigrants rights groups, LaRaza, a group that claims the US "stole" the American Southwest from Mexico.

In fact, if any group at all could cost Obama the nomination, it is the Latinos, a great many of whom in fact, when it comes to blacks, to at least some extent make the Ku Klux Klan look like the poster children of racial tolerance. They could conceivably cost Obama the election by throwing states where their numbers are significant. This is, in fact, why John McCain recently declared that California is in play for this election. Due to this factor, it might well be.

So, there are a lot of factors at play here, and this election might really hinge on regional factors, and third party influences. The Latino vote could well be the joker in the deck, and they could conceivably throw the election to McCain, but I think they will do so only if the race is close to begin with. I don't think it will be that close. When a candidate pisses off one third of his own party over his beliefs-beliefs that contradict party orthodoxy in more than a few instances-that pretty much has to trounce misgivings based on skin color, or an unfortunate choice of words, or even association with a crazy preacher.

When Obama reaches out to heal divisions within his party, you get the feeling he is at least halfway sincere. When McCain reaches out to heal divisions in his party, you look for the hand-buzzer.

Things To Say To Piss Off Bill Clinton

Bill Clinton has certainly been in a sour mood during the recent campaign season. He has a tendency to really lose his temper and go off, not only on smart-ass reporters, but also on average citizens. He has managed to insult a great portion of the Democratic electorate, and has even verbally assaulted people in campaign events, such as the recent outburst against an elderly woman in the audience who questioned Hillary’s work in the nineties with the Clinton Health Care plan that Bill placed her in charge of.

Some people have even gone so far as to say that Bill has done far more harm than good to Hillary’s presidential aspirations, with his temper tantrums and insults. What one person might intend to be an honest, innocent question, disagreement, or expression of legitimate concern, is liable to bring down the ire and wrath of the former president.

My feeling about this is-why the hell not make a game out of it?

First, dress appropriately, with a Lewinsky style beret. If you are a woman, wear a blue dress with an obvious stain. Then, wait your turn. Don’t give up. If you have to, make your presence known by interrupting his speech. That’s even better actually. One look at you and he’s already mad enough to spit nails, so you hit him with one of the following.

By the way, notice the scare quotes scattered throughout herein. In order to achieve the greatest effect, liberal use of finger quotes when mouthing these words are advisable when asking the following questions-

*Hey Bill-What’s with all this race baiting you’ve been doing lately? Have you always been a redneck racist piece of shit?

*Hey Bill-If Hillary wins do you reckon she might suck some fat slob’s dick?

*Hey Bill-I’m a medium with a message from the Great Beyond. Vince Foster says he’s waiting for you.

*Hey Bill-My sister is one of your biggest fans. She’s a fat cocksucker too.

*Hey Bill-Will you and Hillary be renting out the Lincoln Bedroom for the usual price or will you adjust for inflation?

*Hey Bill-I have one thing to say regarding Hillary’s problem with Obama- you do remember Ron Brown’s “accident”, don’t you?

*Hey Bill-I just realized, if Hillary wins that will make you the country’s first “first gentleman”. HaHaHaHa ain’t that ironic?

*Hey Bill, if Hillary wins are you going to sell us out to China again, or are you going to betray us with a different country this time?

*Hey Bill, if Hillary wins will she bomb aspirin factories like you did to show how “tough” she is?

*Hey Bill, can you account for your whereabouts on the night Deborah Jean Palfrey “committed suicide?” Well, come to think about it, I guess you paid somebody else to take care of that little problem, like you did with Vince Foster and Ron Brown and God only knows who else, huh?

*Hey Bill, are you still going to disaster areas, like when you visited New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina? You just can’t stay away from those fucking blow jobs can you, slimeball?

*Hey Bill, what’s the deal with this “partnership” you have going on with Rachael Ray? Hey, she kind of looks like Monica Lewinsky, huh?

*Hey Bill if Hilary wins will you pretend to be her “roving ambassador” so you can fuck every woman you can stick your dick in, or will you just spend your time bribing foreign leaders with American taxpayers money so you can basically just enrich yourself?

At some point, somebody should be sure to ask the following question, as it might be the most pertinent one of all-

Hey Bill, I understand why you have been so upset these days. Really, I do. After all, if Hillary loses how will you ever smooth things over with the people that have paid all those bribes-errr, I mean, “donated all that money” to that money laundering operation known as the “Clinton Presidential Library”?

Feel free to make up your own. Be creative. Don’t let those Secret Service guys intimidate you. The most they can do is escort you outside the building. On the other hand, when you start to make your way home later that night-be very, very careful.

Remember now, your basic accessory for any serious game of Clinton baiting-

Lindsay Lohan-If Things Really Happen In Threes

Whatever will Lindsay Do Next?

First she shows us her fur burger-

Now, come to find out, she's a fur burglar

Both cases reveal that evidently Lindsay is suffering from a fur shortage. I don't really want to think about what might happen next, but hell, I just can't help myself.

Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

All previous installments are listed at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
13 pages approximate

Phillip Khoska watched intently the replay of the Senate Select Committee on International Crime-for the third time, as though seeing it for the first time live, with no knowledge of what was about to happen. He knew, of course, that Greg Morrison would soon conclude his testimony. He realized that Morrison had completely absolved him of any wrongdoing perpetrated by employees and associates within his company, conducted supposedly without his knowledge or participation. His own family was unfortunately involved, including his ex-wife, now dead along with his children and grandchildren, all of them murdered along with her second husband-supposedly-in a gruesome Christmas Eve massacre.

Elaine Khoska, Morrison testified, had been a pivotal part of the operation headed by Phillip’s brother-in-law, Varoslav Moloku, along with his wife Dorothy and daughter Marnie-Phillips sister and niece, respectively. It was a conspiracy, said Morrison, that reached into the corridors of power, involving Morrison along with his late father Randall, from the time the disgraced Baltimore Assemblyman had been a mere minor.

The real mastermind, he testified, had been Jason Talbert, the Wall Street financier and international broker, whose sudden and unexpected death set off a power struggle within the cabal that had so surreptitiously infested Khoska’s legitimate company and financial holdings. They corrupted many, from Khoska’s own wife, to powerful politicians and journalists such as Grady Desmond, on down to decorated police officers such as Baltimore Police Department Lieutenant James Berry. Phillip Khoska, he asserted, despondent over the charges leveled against him in the aftermath of the brutal murder of his entire family, made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt on his own life.

At one point, Morrison began looking at his watch, then looking nervously all around him, as though in expectation of something that seemed destined to not come about. He became obviously annoyed and anxious, yet strangely relieved. One of the committee members was at this point in the process of inquiring as to whether Morrison knew of the current whereabouts of Marnie Moloku, or of James Berry, when he took note of Morrison’s strange behavior and inquired as to whether he was well.

Khoska could almost hear Morrison through the television wondering when the damn bombs were going to drop. As unfortunate as it was that this part of the plan failed, Khoska could not help but feel some amusement at his obviously bizarre reaction. Had he been aware, he would likely not have been so willing to follow the script as rehearsed. Morrison pulled himself together somewhat and replied that he was of the understanding that James Berry, whose whereabouts was currently unknown to him, as to everyone else, had murdered Marnie Moloku and disposed of her body. He then went on to murder her mother Doris, in addition to the federal agent assigned to watch over Marnie.

Unfortunately, Phillip came to understand all too well that no one had devised any contingency plan in the event of failure. That was the problem with dealing with religious fanatics. Their faith made failure unthinkable. Now, it would be a simple matter for the Senate Sub-committee members to pick apart Morrison’s testimony. Morrison was a simple-minded stooge unable to think on his feet. He needed coaching and rehearsing. Now, he was on his own. By the time they were finished with him, the whole tapestry of lies would unravel, and Khoska would be back to where he started from, suspected of complicity in all of the criminal activities of which, in fact, he had been a part from the beginning.

Fortunately, Phillip had devised a contingency plan, which his confederates, who were not all together unreasonable, thankfully adopted. Khoska continued watching as one of the other Senate inquisitors asked Morrison about his knowledge pertaining to the recent outbreak of the multi-epidemic, which was yet far from over though somewhat abated, if but temporarily. Of course, Morrison was completely unaware of any of this, which in truth few were. Khoska himself had been unaware of this matter, a secret shared by a very select few-two of who would be soon joining him, this very night.

Tonight would also be the night he would finally come face to face with the one they all reverentially referred to as “The Master”.

The Master, they claimed, very much looked forward to meeting with him, as he had been following and monitoring his progress for some time now. The Master, they assured him, would reward his faith. The bullet from the Derringer, with which Khoska shot himself immediately prior to the expected arrival of the tabloid photographer Phelps, could easily have killed him, and likely leave him disabled for the entirety of his life were he to survive.

The Master insured Khoska would receive the utmost care and treatment by way of the blood-derived compound developed under the auspices of the pharmaceutical laboratories, which were just one part of Phillip Khoska’s extensive holdings. The Master kept his word, as always. The compound proved to be a dramatic cure in his case, repairing all damage to his brain, even restoring the individually damaged cells, leaving no traces whatsoever of the self-inflicted wound.

Not only did he heal completely, he never felt better in his life. Now that he was all but cleared of any charges of wrongdoing, he had his entire life yet ahead of him. The sacrifice of his family was unfortunate, but necessary. Whatever happened next, Khoska’s life, his freedom, even his wealth, all were as secure as they ever were.

He almost pitied Greg Morrison, who noticeably grew increasingly more distraught by the second, as someone inquired, to the overall amusement of those in attendance within the Senate chambers, as to whether he expected company or if he had somewhere that he needed to be at any given time. Morrison obviously did not know how to answer the question. It was supposed to be over by now.

Suddenly he clutched his chest and began heaving, then going into convulsions. The crowded assembly watched in shock as Greg Morrison collapsed at the desk at which he sat beside his team of lawyers, none of whom had any idea of the extent of Morrison’s involvement with the plan that had come so close to forever changing the world.

The screen returned to the evening newscast on ABC Nightline, and to a roundtable interview with people discussing the strangeness of the day’s events. Morrison had died. An autopsy revealed that he had an artificial heart-a heart that had given out on him, and one that had some strange kind of tracking device that was easily misinterpreted as a monitor installed solely for health reasons. There were some, of course, who viewed Morrison’s death as suspicious under the circumstances, but had no clue as to the magnitude of the events of the day.

Khoska watched the television in the quiet solitude of his new though temporary home, the owners of which soon pulled into the driveway. He watched them through the window. They seemed so calm, so assured. It was hard to believe they realized the seriousness of what faced them. They had devoted their lives to their church, and to their faith, toiling in thankless obscurity behind the scenes, out of necessity, knowing that one careless move would lead to their own condemnation by the world, which would denounce them as evil cultists. They would be pariahs, doomed to a life worse than death, possibly executed for their crimes of necessity.

Khoska of course did not share their faith, but he did share their goal of transforming the world. His motivation was basic greed and drive for power, but he felt no shame at this realization, for he knew that he would leave the world a better place for his efforts-at least in the long run.

Yet, he could not help but admire the Krovell’s selfless dedication to their ideals, and to their religion. They possessed, in fact, a child-like faith that Phillip Khoska barely grasped even when a child his own self. His knowledge of their dedication, in combination with their obvious talents and abilities, made them perfect allies. He meant to turn what was at the time he joined it an international criminal cartel, of extensive wealth shielded by vast legitimate holdings, into what would soon become the foundation for a new government ascending from the ashes of the burnt out corpse of the old one, the death of which they would all be obligated to preside over.

They moved slowly up the sidewalk to the door, and then entered, for perhaps the last time, the newly repaired and refurnished former Krovell Funeral Home, now their own private residence.

“Ah, it is good to be home again,” old man Martin said. “After all of these years, of being away for so long, now at last I can feel some semblance of real peace.”

Louise rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“Really, Martin, you are such a complainer,” she said. “What was it you said to me not too long ago? I believe it was something along the lines of ‘wherever a man’s heart is, there is his true home, and if a man’s heart is with God, the entire world is his home.’”

“Oh, that is true, my dear, but at the same time, you must understand, this was after all the home of my childhood. There are so many happy memories here. I still remember the time we buried the old gypsy out in the back yard, with the trunk that contained Radu’s remains. I wanted to open it so badly, but I was told-in no uncertain terms, mind you-that this was not yet meant to be. Our dear Marlowe, God bless him, just doesn’t know how lucky he is to be chosen to be such an important vessel. Our Marlowe, chosen to carry the sins of the world to their ultimate destruction-who would have thought we would actually live to see it all begin to unfold?”

Louise Krovell cleared her throat then at the notice of Phillip Khoska standing in the doorway to the dining room, standing and listening intently to Martin’s reveries.

“Phillip, you are looking well,” Louise said.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve never felt better, just as you promised. What was this about Marlowe carrying the sins of the world?”

“Oh, you mustn’t mind Martin,” Louise replied as Martin approached their confederate. “He does tend to engage in a great deal of symbolic hyperbole. You should really hear him recite Hamlet’s monologue one of these days. You would think he had composed the stanzas the way he carries on sometimes.”

Martin reached out and shook Phillip’s hand heartily.

“That was how I won her, you know. I tell you, my friend, recite poetry to a woman, and if you can make it seem as though it comes from the heart-if you can make it your own, as they say nowadays-you will win her every time. A little blackberry wine used strategically in conjunction with it doesn’t hurt either, by the way.”

“He was quite original, I must say. Even my gypsy blood and wiles were unprepared for the prospect of being wooed by a recitation from The Tempest. Of course, our marriage was an arranged one, you know, but still, Martin had a way of making it seem like the blossoming of true love. I have no doubt that had we met as strangers, the end result would be much the same as it was.”

“So, when do I get to meet this mysterious Master, as you call him?” Phillip asked expectantly.

“Very soon, my friend, very soon indeed”, Martin answered. “He and his new bride should be here anytime now. He is more than delighted with your contribution to our cause. And now, of course, that your private holdings will soon be once again recognized as legitimate, as they once were, now that your legal status has been cleared up and your innocence proclaimed, we all know we can count on you to keep your word.”

“The orphanage, of course,” Phillip said. “That seems a small price to pay, actually. I will gladly see to their needs, and beyond that. They will want for nothing, I promise you. I likewise assure you that they will be raised in the true faith, as you require. In fact, the paperwork has already been prepared, as you requested.

“I am only sorry our original plans did not come to fruition. They would be among the top elites of the world had we succeeded. At any rate, their lives shall yet be one of privilege, tempered with knowledge, faith, and responsibility.”

“And you will keep the doors open to any other children that might be in need, and likewise raise them in the true faith of our Lord Jesus Christ?” Martin asked.

“Of course,” Khoska assured him. “Of what use is wealth and power if you don’t use it to leave the world a better place, to what extent you are able?”

“Oh, that is such a relief,” Louise declared. “We so much feared that you would renounce your earlier promise seeing as how we failed unfortunately to live up to our end of the bargain. You would certainly have every right to do so.”

“There is always tomorrow,” Khoska replied. Martin and Louise looked to each other with a knowing glance.

“That is very true, Phillip,” Martin replied. “Tomorrow is a promise that never fades. The children are indeed the future of the world. Their needs are of paramount importance. Not only their material needs, as important as these are, but their emotional and spiritual needs as well. Far too many children in this world live lives of deprivation. They know not the joys of art and music, of great literature, and as such, their souls starve every bit as much as the bodies of the materially destitute. The result, I am afraid, is a world famished of spirit and bereft of hope.

“You, Martin, can provide for their sustenance, and set an example for others to hopefully follow.”

“So,” Louise said, “I trust you are finding the guest room to your liking.”

“Of course,” Phillip said. “It used to be Marlowe’s, I think you said? It is actually quite comfortable.”

“If you would be a dear and go up there for just a while longer, we will let you know when the Master arrives. We do need to speak to him in private when he first gets here. It has been a good while since we have seen him and, to be frank, we are a bit selfish when it comes to what little time we get to have with him. I do hope you understand.”

“Of course,” Khoska replied. “If I by some chance fall asleep, please feel free to wake me.”

Martin turned to walk up the steps, but before he got halfway up, he stopped and turned.

“I guess you know all about Morrison,” he said. “It was really too bad in a way. At one time, he had such a brilliant career ahead of him. He might have been useful. It’s too bad they had to die, but I guess it’s like they always say-everybody is expendable.”

“They?” Martin asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Morrison’s father Randall, of course,” Khoska replied. “It’s ironic, in a way. He had hopes at one time of being Governor of Maryland, maybe a Senator. He even entertained dreams of possibly one day being President. He always had these dreams of political accomplishment. He always wanted Greg to follow in his footsteps. He told me once that the American people loved their political dynasties, and that it was a part of their European heritage they could never throw off. It was up to people like him to provide them the leadership they all inwardly craved.

“Instead, he and his youngest son end up killed in a plane crash in the Himalayas, and now Greg dies of heart failure in the middle of a Senate Sub-Committee investigation of his criminal activities. It’s almost sad. That’s saying something coming from me. I never considered myself the sentimental type.”

Martin and Louise looked at each other, as though neither was sure exactly how to respond and looked to the other for the answer. Finally, Louise cleared her throat.

“It is really understandable, Phillip, if you are experiencing regrets as to the fate of your wife and children, and of course your grandchildren. As we explained, it was an unfortunate necessity. All the same, we certainly understand your grief. Matters such as this are never easy.”

Phillip looked at them both, and then looked away briefly, and breathed deeply.

“It had to be done,” he replied at length. “My only regret is that it seems to have been for nothing. I don’t fault you for that, in that you tried your best. Still, sometimes I wonder if they could have been brought into the circle. Are you sure-“

“The Khoska bloodline has to perish from the earth, Phillip. That is true not just of your own children, but all of the Khoskas who are of childbearing age. At some point, they would revive the heresy that has cursed the world. After all, it was they who drove underground we who make up the true elect, the faithful followers of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is they who have been at the forefront of persecuting us throughout the centuries.”

“As for the Morrisons, they had to die due to their own greed for power-a fatal flaw in far too many of us. Yet, in death, there is a resurrection and a renewal. This will prove true of your own bloodline as well, my friend. Remember, we are all one within the universal whole. There is no death-truly, there is not. There are only varied modes of existence.”

“Of course,” Phillip replied as he turned once more to walk up the stairs. “Be sure and wake me when the Master arrives.”

They watched him walk up the steps towards Marlowe’s old room until he disappeared out of sight.

“I think he knows,” Louise said. “What do you think?”

“Perhaps he does, but even so, it shall do him precious little good,” Martin said as he turned off the television. “What do you say we break out the wine? It seems most appropriate for the occasion.”

“I will gladly do the honors,” Louise replied, and was soon off into the kitchen as Martin sat down upon the recliner. “Besides, this is a special occasion, and it would not be appropriate for you to hold back in miserly fashion as you are so often prone to do.”

“I would not dream of such a thing on a night such as tonight,” Martin replied defensively.

“Just the same, I am happy to do the honors,” Louise said as she made her way toward the kitchen. “You just sit back and relax.”

“Yes, it is good to be home,” he muttered once, as much to himself as to Louise, now in the kitchen, from where she asked him what he said.

Before he could respond, however, Martin felt the cold steel of the revolver up against the back of his head, and a steel-toned voice command him to “turn around real slow.”

Martin did as commanded, only to see the cold, determined glare of James Berry, his service revolver pointed at his head.

“Well, I see that you have recovered quite nicely,” he observed. “So, what brings you here James?”

“Can it, you old fart,” Berry replied. “I’ve recovered all right. What you didn’t realize, when I was infested with that spore from Marlowe, is that it tends to increase your susceptibility more towards diseases you are already prone to catch, which in my case happened to be allergies and influenza-things I’ve dealt with all my life. When Chou treated me for them, he drove the allergies back into remission and cured the flu that was kicking my ass.

“Unfortunately for you, when he did that, he also eradicated the damned spores from my system. Once they were gone, Marlowe’s influence went with them.”

“Ah, but you have been a bad, bad boy James,” Martin reminded him as Louise now re-entered the living room, carrying a tray upon which sat a bottle of wine, along with two chilled wineglasses.

“As you can see, Louise, we have an unexpected visitor.”

“So I see,” Louise said as she nonchalantly placed the tray on the coffee table in front of where Martin now took a seat on the sofa, and where Louise now joined him.

"Why, Lieutenant Berry, what is that foul odor emanating from you. If I didn't know better I would swear you must have just bathed in garlic?"

"Why, Louise, I think you are right," Martin concurred. "You will never attract a wife that way, Lieutenant. Well, of course, that might be all for the best after all, as we are all so unfortunately aware."

"Shut the fuck up," Berry hissed. "I'll do the talking here."

“You aren’t going to shoot us, are you, Lieutenant Berry?” Louise asked. “Surely you don’t think such drastic measures are necessary in the case of two old invalids such as me and Martin, do you?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot two old rattlesnakes like you two, but no I hope that won’t be necessary,” Berry said. “I want answers, and I damn well better believe what I hear. Like for example, I want to know who is really behind all this shit. Marlowe obviously ain’t behind it, and you two are too hands-on to be the real ringleaders. Everybody else is either dead or no more than pawns, like Chou and me. So what in the hell is going on here, and why?”

“Very well, Lieutenant Berry, we will tell you, everything you want to know. We will leave nothing out. First, though, will you consider joining us in a bit of wine? This is a fine vintage, from Romania. It comes from the days of the Phenariots. It is really quite exquisite.”

“Do you really think that is wise, Louise?” Martin asked reservedly.

“Oh, gracious, Martin, you are so selfish,” she replied.

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” Berry said with obvious sarcasm as Louise poured first one glass, and then another. Martin took a long, languorous sip and closed his eyes in obvious satisfaction.

“Now this was truly worth the wait,” he said as Louise sipped her glass in turn.

“Before I answer your questions, I really have to wonder if you are sure you really want to know,” Louise said. “The truth can be a harsh companion, Lieutenant, especially for those on whose hands are so much blood as yours.”

“You should be an expert on that,” Berry hissed. “Any blood I shed was while under the influence of”-

“Really now, are you sure?” Martin asked with his eyes now wide with skepticism. “I do wonder what your dear, departed wife might have to say about that. You are going to have to answer for her death one of these days, you know, in addition to so many other things-many of which you did well before we ever came into the picture, I might add.”

Berry bristled at this, and seemed ready to lash out, yet restrained himself.

“My wife’s death was an accident,” he protested.

“Oh, of course,” Louise replied with a cackle. “The two of you fought because she discovered your affair with our dear departed Marnie Moloku, which occurred while she was yet just a young, naive, love-struck teenage girl. Later, of course, you engaged in yet another series of liaisons with her mother Doris. Oh, and let us not forget your corrupt dealings with our good friend Voroslav.”

“Need I also remind you,” Martin added, “of your part in the murder of Jason Talbert, as per the orders of Phillip Khoska? Should it prove necessary, it would certainly be no problem for me to call Mr. Khoska downstairs here in order to refresh your memory.”

“Phillip Khoska-is here?” Berry asked.

“He most certainly is,” the old man replied with a sudden twinkle in his eyes. “He is here to meet the same person you are so interested in, and who shall be here momentarily. He is here to meet the Master. Who knows, James, maybe this is fate’s way of affording you an opportunity to acquire absolution for your many and varied sins-some of which are, as we have noted, of quite a heinous nature.”

“My absolution will come from making restitution for my crimes and doing whatever is necessary to gain forgiveness for my sins. I know full well that I have a hell of a lot to make up for. I intend to start by taking the two of you in and seeing that you are charged and convicted in a court of law. Whoever your master is, I’m sure somehow I can make sure he joins you.”

“Oh, really, James, and just what do you propose to charge us with?” Martin inquired. “Might I suggest you begin with the rather ingenious plan we hatched to resurrect the spirit of an ancient Romanian nobleman, and to insure that this vampire took possession of the body of our heroin-addicted grandson? I’m sure the jury will be on the edge of their seats.”

“Especially once they hear that the spirit in question is that of the brother of Dracula himself,” Louise added with a delighted chuckle.

“As far as any crimes that we might have committed, the only thing on which you have any real evidence, which is entirely circumstantial, is our presence at the Baltimore Sun immediately prior to the murder of Mr. Desmond. As it happens, our presence there was for a very legitimate reason. Mr. Desmond sought to inform us of the truth regarding our heritage. It seems that Father Khoska and I our half-brothers, though thankfully this is not on the Khoska side.”

“We’ll see what Grace has to say about all that,” Berry said. “She was there too. You two are up to your eyeballs in everything that has happened. I am past caring about what happens to me, and unlike David Chou, I know more than enough to put all of you people away for good. I intend to do just that.

“So go ahead and enjoy your wine. It might well be the last little bit of pleasure you ever know. Whatever happens, you sure as hell ain’t going to live out the rest of your lives here as though you are a couple of respectable old retirees living out your last days in comfort and serenity.”

To Berry’s amazement, Martin and Louise looked at each other lovingly, and then entwined their arms as they finished the last of their wine. They then looked with a gaze of contentment toward Berry.

“You misunderstand our intentions, Berry,” Martin said. “We didn’t come back to our home here to live. We came here to die.”

Before Berry could respond, the lights went out as a sudden onrush of wind blew throughout the house, bringing with it a foul, stifling odor that made Berry’s senses reel as the two elderly Krovells merely looked upward, as through addressing an unseen presence.

“Welcome back, old friend,” Martin said. “We have awaited your return. We are of the hopes that you and your beloved wife will find this place to your pleasure.”

“We trust that you will kindly see to our remains as we prepare to take our leave of this mortal veil of woe,” Louise added as the wind blew ever harsher throughout the house. It dislodged from the wall an old still life that had been in the family for three generations, in addition to a vase that sat precariously upon a ledge. Berry looked all around him in mounting terror as the Krovells, smiling, leaned back on the sofa and leaned against each other, Martin’s arm around Louise, who laid her head upon his chest.

Suddenly, Berry heard the sounds of someone knocking from an adjacent room, the one that had previously been the Funeral Home office. The sounds had a desperate tone to them, and as Berry approached it, he saw that it was bolt locked from the outside.

“Hold on just a minute,” Berry commanded, as he surveyed the lock and the doorknob. Bracing himself, he first kicked with as much force as he could muster against the door, then throwing the entirety of his body weight against the solid oak door. After the third such attempt, the door finally gave way. Berry entered cautiously, only to see the form of Phelps, the tabloid photographer, tied to a chair behind the desk of the recently refurbished room. He had somehow managed to free his mouth from the confines of a gag stuffed inside it, while yet tied securely to the chair.

“Please-you have to help me,” Phelps begged desperately.

“How long have you been here?” Berry asked as he hurriedly loosened the rope, then tearing at the knot that bound Phelps securely to the chair.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Phelps asked in terror while ignoring Berry’s question.

“You probably know more than I do,” Berry asked. “You’ve been sending photographs of Marlowe Krovell and other things to the Inquirer, from what I hear. So what happened, did they figure out you was spying on them, or what?”

“That wasn’t me,” Phelps swore. “That thing-that thing that wears the gray robe, he was the one that used my camera. My God, he took his hood off once and”-

Phelps was obviously in a state of shock and found it hard to continue.

“So they’ve been trying to set up Marlowe to take the fall for all this stuff, just like I figured. The only thing I can’t figure out is, why didn’t they just kill you?”

“Grace,” Phelps answered as the wind blew harder, it seemed, with each passing second. “She told them not to hurt me. They’ve been trying to convert me to their fucked up cult, though. Please, we have to get out of here. That thing is coming, and he ain’t human, he’s”-

By this time, though, the fury of the wind all but drowned out his words, and even though he shouted, it was difficult for Berry to hear him. Yet, as Berry looked outside, what struck him was how calm it seemed. The wind was entirely within the house. He motioned for Phelps to follow him. Phelps did so, and as they entered the living room, he looked over toward where Martin and Louise Krovell sat on the sofa, both of them obviously dead, staring out into space, both of them smiling contentedly.

Suddenly, the wind stopped, and everything became engulfed in a deadly silence, all within the space of less than a heartbeat. Then, from upstairs, a terrified scream pierced the atmosphere, followed by desperate pleading. Berry recognized the frantic cries of Phillip Khoska.

“I’m getting the hell out of here,” Phelps said. “If you’re smart you will too.”

With that, Phelps was out the door, but Berry approached the steps, determined he would make things right, even if it cost him his life. He trudged carefully up the stairs, until he approached the room from whence the desperate cries yet emanated-the former bedroom of Marlowe Krovell. He listened for but a few seconds, as he stood by the door. Finally, he swiftly threw open the door, and entered. At first, he saw nothing but the furniture tossed violently about the room. Soon, however, he heard desperate, mournful moaning.

“Khoska, is that you?” a terrified Berry demanded as he aimed his gun.

Suddenly, Berry saw a bloody hand reach for the edge of the far side of the bed. Then, a horror stricken Phillip Khoska pulled himself up over the edge, as he tried desperately and painfully to rise while looking straight at Berry with pleading, yet hopeless eyes.

“Please-help me,” he begged. At that moment, however, an unseen forced pulled him down to the floor and out of Berry’s sight as a different head appeared-a head of dark, raven black hair. Berry watched in horror as Khoska’s desperate screams finally stopped and Berry could hear his body ripped open.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Come out now.”

The head raised up above the edge of the bed, to reveal the now lunatic features of Lynnette Khoska, her eyes deranged with the satiated lust filled by the blood of her father, her grinning, cadaverous face caked with his blood and gore as her eyes shone with an intensity that was maddening to behold.

She looked at Berry and growled like a wild animal. Then, she laughed, as Berry backed up out of the room. He turned and fled desperately down the steps. Upon reaching the first landing, he jumped the rest of the way down, but caught his left heel on the second to the bottom step, from which he plunged head first to the floor. He rose painfully as he felt a presence hovering over him.

He looked up in agony and terror at the gray robed and hooded figure that towered over him. He raised his gun to aim at the creature, but he just stood there. Berry aimed, and pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed on him, would not fire. Desperately, Berry flung the gun at the rapidly approaching figure, but the gun seemed merely to bounce harmlessly off the thick, bulky robe. Berry lowered his head and cried. The figure stood over him and watched curiously, as Berry mumbled a frantic prayer as he repeatedly made the sign of the cross.

“What are you going to do to me?” Berry asked in a whining, defeated voice.

“Nothing,” the figure answered. “You have already done it to yourself.”

Berry looked up as the figure then began to remove the hood from his head. Berry found himself staring into the reddened eyes and fire-scarred face of Bradley Marlowe, who looked down upon him with a sneer.

“You are already a dead man,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet. Or, maybe you’ve just forgotten it. Maybe you are just a mere ghost of a man. Maybe everything you’ve done these last few years has been nothing but a dream that you need to wake up from. When you do, maybe you will forget all of that as well.”

Berry cried as Brad Marlowe’s eyes pierced inside him, burning into him with a laser-like intensity, as Berry cowered and attempted to hide. Brad Marlowe stood there over him and, producing Phelps’s camera from inside his robe, he pointed it at Berry, now crouched on the floor in a fetal position. The last thing Berry heard was the lens shutter snap as a light flashed. When he woke up, he felt a strong handclasp onto his shoulder as more camera flashes permeated the room as they assaulted his retinas, obliging him to throw up his hands in a futile defensive posture.

“Get up, James,” he heard someone say. “It’s over now.”

He looked up to see his former partner from the Baltimore Police Department, Lieutenant Frank Anderson, towering over him, as another detective approached. Yet another detective walked around the room, snapping pictures. Berry rose in confusion.

“They’re both dead,” the approaching detective informed Anderson. “It looks to me to be poisoning. I’m suspecting hemlock, probably in their wine. Might even be a case of a suicide pact, if not murder-suicide.”

“Who are you?” Berry asked the unknown detective, who looked at him strangely.

“Come on, James, you’ve known me for seven years now. I’m Frank’s new partner now, for going on four months.”

Berry looked at the man and at Anderson, as though what the man said just did not register in any kind of sensible manner, as another detective, a woman, came down from upstairs.

“I don’t know what went on up there but there’s blood all over the damned place,” the fourth detective said to the one taking the pictures. “You better go up there and get some pictures fast.

“All right James, what’s happened here?” Frank demanded.

Berry looked around as more detectives filed into what was obviously a crime scene. He did not understand any of this.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Berry said. “How did I get here? What is this place?”

“This is the Krovell Funeral Home,” Frank answered suspiciously. Berry looked at him as though he had never heard of such a place.

Frank helped Berry to his feet, but Berry had to lean on him. He had twisted his ankle, but did not even remember how he had done that. They made it outside the house, where Berry saw Phelps, shivering while wrapped in a blanket, drinking coffee as uniformed officers stood around him, along with yet another detective who seemed to be taking his statement.

“Who is that guy, is he a suspect?” Berry asked. “He looks like he’s in a bad way.”

Frank just looked at his old partner with a mixture of sadness and apprehension.

“James, what were you doing here? You don’t remember anything at all?”

Berry stopped suddenly, as though a veil lifted.

“Oh shit I forgot,” he said. “We were supposed to go to the game tonight weren’t we? Oh hell, Frank, I’m sorry. I’ve been looking forward to this game for two weeks. That new pitcher the Orioles got is something else. We might make the play-offs this year, huh?”

“What new pitcher?” Frank asked, aware that suddenly Berry seemed to have already forgotten the events of the last few minutes.”

“Oh, you know, Gordon Reynolds,” Berry replied. Frank wiped his brow and stifled a gasp. The Orioles traded Reynolds to the Twins after his rookie year, more than twenty years ago. He never worked out to expectations, but at the time, the Orioles had put many of their hopes for future seasons on the young firebrand fastball pitcher from Kansas.

Frank opened the back door to his car and helped Berry crawl inside the back seat area. He was not sure where he was going to take him. He obviously needed medical attention. He hated the prospect of taking his old partner in for questioning, but at the same time hated not to be there. He was obviously not faking. Frank had known Berry for far too long. Just as he had for some time been suspicious of his recent activities, he now knew something profound had happened to his old friend. As he got into the front seat, Berry knocked on the back window. Frank looked back towards him.

“I want to make it up to you,” Berry said. “Maybe we can take the girls out for dinner sometime next week. You know what they say about wives always worrying about their husbands with their partners on the job. It always helps to keep them a part of your life. You know, so they’ll know it ain’t all constant life-threatening danger and gunfire. What do you say?”

Frank looked inside Berry’s eyes. They were empty, devoid of reason. He was really in another era now.

“Yeah, James,” Frank said somberly as he started up the car. “I think I’d like that.”

Links To Previous Chapters
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
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII
Chapter XXXXIV