Radu-Chapter XXIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments:

Part One
Prologue and Chapter 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

Part Three
Chapter XXIII

Radu-Chapter XXIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
19 pages approximate

When Aleksandre Khoska opened his eyes, he appeared to be in an airport lobby, though it seemed engulfed in fog. He knew he was supposed to be waiting for somebody, and though he knew whom it was he waited for, he seemed vaguely unaware of who the person was.

There were people all around, walking around aimlessly. He started walking straight ahead of him, toward where a group of people stood, the only people who remained in one place, the people who stood straight ahead of him, though at some distance. They became remarkably clearer as he drew closer to them. He seemed to recognize the old gypsy woman who smiled at him knowingly. He noted the old woman, incredibly ancient, who seemed not to know where or, for that matter, even who she was, as an old man stood watch over her. Yet, though he was considerably younger, Alek seemed to understand he was the woman’s husband, and was actually much older than she was.

When he saw the children, he felt sad, though resigned, at the sight of the young boy with the obviously broken neck slanted down on his right shoulder, and the heart-wrenching site of the two younger children who gazed at him with baleful, questioning eyes, their entire bodies afflicted with severe burns. Then he saw the young teenage girl, huddled in the corner, obviously sick, shivering as she cried. She was afflicted with boils. This horrified Aleksandre Khoska, who recognized the plague all too well, though he never saw it before.

“Is there a problem here?”

Aleksandre turned at the sound of the commanding voice to note the approach of what he took first to be a guard. He realized though that this was not an airport terminal guard, but a soldier, an American soldier in what appeared to be a World War I uniform, riddled with bullet holes and caked with blood.

An older man almost immediately joined the soldier. Aleksandre noted the vitriolic hatred and anger that emanated from the heavy-set balding man, whose face was purple with rage, as a throbbing vein pulsated violently at his nearly hairless temple.

“You are going to have to move along old man,” the soldier said, as Aleksandre suddenly recognized the Romanian medals that adorned the uniform of the soldier, though he seemed to be an American.

“I am sorry, but I do not seem to know where I am,” Khoska said to the soldier. “Could you perhaps give me directions?”

The angry man then stepped forward and glared at Aleksandre.

“I will give you directions,” he shouted. “Go to hell, you son-of-a-bitch.”

He then awoke, to realize he was still in the hospital, though this was to be his final day. Doctor McCann had already signed his release, and he was more than ready to go, but he dreaded doing so. Yet, he could not remain here forever. Soon, his nurse entered the room with a questioning look, to inform him he had a visitor.

“She says her name is Dorothy Moloku-I think I have that right,” she said. “Do you know her?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Aleksandre said as he stifled a groan, still sore from his encounter with what he had with some reluctance to admit was some form of demonic entity that invaded the sanctity of his little Orthodox Church.

“I will tell her you are sleeping,” the nurse replied. “It’s really past visiting hours anyway, but since she claims to be your daughter I thought-“

“No, I will see her,” Aleksandre replied. “I’m going to have to do so eventually, I suppose.”

When Dorothy entered, bedecked in costume jewelry she proudly wore as a copy of that which she kept fastidiously locked away for insurance purposes, dressed in black satin pants and matching blouse, her natural auburn hair glowing from the effects of her most recent spa treatment, Aleksandre winced.

“Were you on your way to some charity event?” Aleksandre asked. “If you are, I hope that I am not the charity.”

“I came to take you with me to Chicago,” she told him. “It’s been years since you visited, and this is as good a time as any. You won’t be bothered by reporters there, I promise.”

“I think the police want me to hang around Baltimore,” he replied. “There were two bodies on the church property. I’m sure you read all about the supposed black mass that took place in my church, and the alleged human sacrifice performed on the Eucharistic Altar.”

“Who were those people anyway?” Dorothy asked, and then acted as though she immediately regretted the question. “Never mind, that’s not important. I just want to make sure you are well cared for. After what you have been through you certainly should not be alone.”

“Agnes is coming from Romania in a few days,” he insisted. “She put in for a transfer, and seeing as to the nature of my injuries, the Church is allowing it. It really is not a good idea to go to your house at this time, though I do appreciate the offer. What does Voroslav have to say about this, by the way?”

“Voroslav is fine with it,” she insisted. “In fact, when I brought it up he told me he was ready to suggest the same thing.”

“Even though I have been cooped up for three weeks in a facility filled with every germ imaginable?” he asked. “I find that very hard to believe.”

Before she could respond to what she obviously took as a sarcastic utterance, the nurse returned and told Dorothy that visiting hours were really over, but she could allow her thirty minutes, as she looked at Aleksandre with a nod and brief smile.

“Doctor McCann did say I could leave tonight if I felt up to it, right?” Aleksandre asked.

The nurse looked surprised at this, but then affirmed this was so, whereupon Aleksandre informed her he believed he would leave tonight, to Dorothy’s obvious surprise.

“I will go with you,” he told her, “but I must return home first, as there are certain things I have to see to.”

“That’s fine,” she said.

It took Aleksandre all of Dorothy’s allotted time to dress and otherwise prepare to leave, during which time the nurse presented his discharge papers, at which point he signed them.

“Has that Doctor Chou still been inquiring after me?” he asked her.

“Chou?” she asked. “Not that I’m aware of. Doctor McCann might know.”

“Well, it’s not important,” he replied. “Thank you for your gracious hospitality and your kind and most professional manner during my stay, but it is time for me to leave, before I run up my insurance premiums more than necessary.”

After they left, Dorothy seemed ecstatic, pleased that he agreed so easily to come to Chicago. Soon, they pulled up to the Church Of The Blessed Sacrament, and Khoska was relieved to see the crime scene tape gone, though the absence of the old gold plated cross stood as a grim reminder of the previous weeks events. The scene still haunted him, though he tried not to think about it.

“Well, here we are,” Dorothy noted as she completed parking in the old cobblestone driveway that formed an angular pattern to beside the church doors. The lights were on, and Khoska was relieved to note that “the boys”, as Dorothy called them, were still there.

Indeed, the twin sons, the oldest children of Aleksandre Khoska, had gladly agreed to stay at the church and see to its security during the course of his stay in hospital, for which he was grateful. Now, he was glad to be out, though dreaded the prospect of asking one or both of them to remain a while longer until Agnes arrived from Romania. Unfortunately, there was a slight delay, and now he faced the prospect of a trip to Chicago, one he realized he could not afford to pass up.

“Gee, Dad,” the New Jersey priest named John said, “I’d like to stay longer, but there’s really a lot going on. I have so much to do as it is, and I‘ve gotten so far behind”-

“Why John I thought you retired,” Dorothy said, knowing full well her older brother did not take kindly to her to begin with, and especially resented any dispute from her.

“Yeah, I did,” John said uneasily, “but there’s a lot of personal stuff I have to take care of. Rita has had medical problems, for one, and”-

“Oh, you mean her back is acting up again?” Dorothy replied.

“It’s all right, John,” Khoska said. “I really appreciate you coming here when you did, and if you cannot stay longer I completely understand.”

He then shot Dorothy a stern look as Michael, the other twin, stepped out from the hallway that led to the interior of the church and it’s suite of offices.

“Well, we weren’t expecting you back until tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “What was this about Chicago? Dorothy, you’re as vivacious as ever.”

“Isn’t she though?” John asked, still stinging with discomfort.

“I just thought it would do poppa good to get out of this place for a while,” she said.

“Go on,” the twin named Michael insisted. “I can stay here a few days. It might do me some good.”

“What about your church?” Khoska asked. “Really, Michael, I should not impose on you this way.”

“I can swing it,” Michael insisted, as John suddenly cleared his throat.

“I’m sure I can take over for Michael at his church,” he suggested. “That way, I’ll be close enough to home I can see after my affairs, and Michael can stay here with no worries. That should work out fine, I mean if that’s all right with Michael, of course.”

Michael suddenly laughed a mischievous laugh.

“Hell, why bother to tell anybody?” he suggested. “We look alike, sound alike, and do almost everything else so much alike, most people probably would never notice. It might be fun.”

“You can’t be serious,” Aleksandre said, but suddenly Michael and Jonathon Khoska seemed like two kids again, almost giddy as they discussed plans for Jonathon’s last day, when Michael would return and walk into the middle of the service.

“We can turn it into some kind of lesson, I’m sure,” Michael suggested. “Be wary of appearances, that kind of thing. The kids will get a big chuckle out of it.”

“Well, I guess that settles it then,” Dorothy said. “We really should get going.”

“What in the hell’s the hurry, Dorothy?” Jonathon asked suspiciously.

“Well, none, I just thought since”-

“No, she’s right,” Aleksandre said. “If we leave now, we should be in Chicago before it gets too late. Hopefully, I can get good and rested over the weekend, and be back by bright and early, say, late Tuesday afternoon?”

Aleksandre was grateful for the presence of his older sons, as they provided him the ability to take care of a very urgent matter, as well as the excuse not to take a lot of time doing so. In fact, the sooner he got it over and done with, the better.

He made his way to the privacy of his office, where he noted the newly replaced urn, which this time he was certain held the genuine ashes of his beloved granddaughter Lynette. The city cemetery now contained those that apparently belonged to some other person, possibly a murdered girl named Spiral Lamont. A brief funeral service had been her lone farewell, though none attended, not even her family. He thought of this as he looked at the urn of Lynette, and considered it no wonder the world contained such hatred and violence. He began to weep, though he knew he should not, and composed himself as he looked within his safe. He closed it back after taking a roll of hundred dollar bills.

He then made his way to the basement, where he had yet one more matter of which to attend. He turned on the light and made his way down the musty, seldom visited basement, and toward the old broom closet that contained the false doorway behind which rested an old cabinet. Before he got to the door, however, it struck him that he was not alone. Someone was there with him this day. He always felt that way upon coming down here, but this was different. This time, the eyes he felt upon him belonged not to some spiritual entity, but his familiarity with that realm possibly prepared him for the intrusion of the more mundane intruder he sensed within his basement, where was stored so many private memories and unfulfilled promises. He quickened his breathing, and grew fearful. By the time he called out for help, he knew it would be too late. He doubted anyone could hear him from this distance at any rate.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “I know you are in here. Show yourself to me at once.”

He turned at the sound of a movement behind him, and saw then the figure silhouetted in the darkness, his shadow outlined by the dim light that shook weakly from its chain at the top of the steps.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Khoska hissed as he attempted with some difficulty to control his mounting fear. Then, the figure of a tall, lanky man stepped forward from out of the shadows.

“Okay, here I am,” Khoska heard the man say. “Don’t worry-I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Who in the name of God are you and what are you doing her?” Khoska tried to control his breathing and steady himself as the man drew two steps closer, until Khoska could make out clearly the face and form of the tall, lanky black man with the camera.

“You are a reporter?”

“My name’s Phelps,” the man said. “No, I’m a photographer, but same difference I guess.”

“I thought you people were warned to stay away from here,” Khoska said, relieved, and yet now angry at the intrusion.

“This ain’t business, Father,” Phelps replied. “This is a personal matter, having to do with Grace Rodescu. She’s a friend of mine.”

“Oh, so you’re the one,” Khoska observed bitterly, which induced Phelps to bite his lips.

“Very funny,” he said. “Look, we’ve worked together, and I guess I got to know her pretty good. You might not like her much, but if something happens to her, I doubt you’d feel that callous about it, right?”

“Actually, I would,” Khoska insisted. “She has pushed her luck to the limit, with me and with a good many others. As I told the police, I was unconscious when she left here, or was taken from here, and at the time I was assaulted, the only other people here besides her and I were the two people they found here murdered. For all I know she is responsible for that, or was complicit in it. As you may well be aware, she lived with the girl Sierra for some time. Sierra left and stole some things that belonged to Grace. Some would consider that curious, in light of the fact that two people are dead, while she seems to have merely vanished.”

“Grace is not a killer,” Phelps said firmly. “She might be a lot of other things, and most of them may not be good, but I am pretty confidant she doesn’t have it in her to actually commit murder.”

“Well, perhaps you do not know her as well as you think you do, then,” Khoska said cryptically, his voice tense with anxiety as he almost spat this declaration in the face of the beleaguered news photographer, who for just a few seconds held his breath as he turned from Khoska’s gaze.

“Look, young man, I do not really know you,” Khoska continued. “I am taking your word you are here for the benefit of Grace, and that you are acting out of concern for her welfare. However, I promise you I can tell you no more than you probably already know. Sierra Lawson knocked me unconscious, and by the time I awoke, Sierra and Joseph Karinsky were dead and Grace was gone.”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I get the impression you are holding something back,” Phelps replied, but before he could continue, an interruption brought the conversation to a halt.

“Who in the hell are you?” Michael demanded as he bounded down the steps in a near furious panic.

“Father, who is this man?” hhe insisted.

“I was just leaving, sir, I’m sorry for the intrusion,” Phelps assured her. “Look, Father, if you think of anything, if you remember anything, if you hear anything, will you please get in contact with me? Here, you can call me at home and leave a message if I am not there.”

Phelps reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a card. He handed it to Khoska, who took it warily.

“Very well, Mr. Phelps, I promise you I will do so,” he said.

“Wait a minute, just who are you, a cop, a reporter, or what?” Michael asked as Phelps edged by him while glancing at his face fleetingly, obviously uncomfortable at his accusatory tone.

“Its fine, Michael, he is merely seeing to the welfare of his friend,” Khoska explained as Phelps made his way up the steps.

“Grace Rodescu, I take it.”

Khoska started toward the steps and then realized he yet needed to see to his personal effects, and so told him to see that Jonathon and Dorothy did not accost the strange black intruder on his way out of the church.

“I’ll be up momentarily,” he told him.

After he left, he hurriedly checked the hidden latch on the false wall that led to his secret reserves of cash, gold, and relics, and saw it was evidently well. He opened it, looked inside, and then closed it quickly back. It was going to be a long trip to Chicago, but he hoped it would not take long.

Khoska was exhausted from his stay at the hospital, and dreaded the flight. He hated flying and did not trust planes. This would be his first flight since the death of Marta seven years ago. He had intended that to be his last flight. It had been no pleasure trip, nor would this one be. He did not intend to act as if it was. Still, he tried to be as cordial toward Dorothy as possible, though he said little.

“You surely are not planning to leave your vehicle at this place, are you?” he inquired as they pulled into the airport.

“Father, this is a rental car,” she explained. “When we get to Chicago, we’ll take a cab home.”

“Oh, I see,” Khoska replied as he looked out the passengers side window. “I would imagine we will have a long walk then, from the rental agency to the terminal.”

“No, I’ll just turn the key in when we get to the lobby, and then we’ll just wait for the flight. I took the liberty of purchasing your ticket when I purchased mine, so we could remain together. Our flight will be in about forty minutes, unless there is a delay.”

It was a short walk to the main lobby, where Dorothy turned in her keys with the receipt, and then they proceeded to the waiting area. Khoska was amazed at the number of people waiting for flights out of Baltimore, and particularly bemused by the number of small children, many of whom seemed to lack adult supervision.

“Are children allowed to fly on planes by themselves?” Khoska asked in amazement.

“Yes, it would seem so,” she replied. “They should have adults with them until they board though. Some people are rather careless, you know. Once they are on board, there’s not much they can get into, at least.”

“They are probably more savvy than I would be were I alone,” Khoska observed. He sat and began to doze off within ten minutes. He could not believe how tired he was after spending two weeks cooped up in a hospital bed, half of which seemed to have been unnecessary. For the last half of his stay he needed neither antibiotic nor any other kind of medication, yet McCann seemed insistent he remain for “observation”.

Now, he was completely exhausted, and more depressed than he had been in years. By the time the announcement was made of the departure for Chicago, some two hours later than originally scheduled, he was all but convinced he should return home. Dorothy sat there beside him and said little, other than to ask if he were hungry or would like a pillow.

He remembered how when she married Voroslav he objected, though meekly, his opposition based mainly on the age difference. Voroslav was thirteen years her senior, and married her when she was a mere eighteen, barely out of school. Yet, Dorothy was always willful and stubborn, and rare was the time she would listen to others advice when it did not suit her. Khoska predicted it would end unhappily, and when Voroslav was defrocked, he was sure that would be the end of it. Instead, Dorothy defended her husband, and declared she would remain until the end. She really seemed to love him. That was what Khoska found perhaps most objectionable of all, given the circumstances.

By the time they took their seat, Khoska resigned himself to whatever awaited in Chicago. Voroslav had the answers he needed-or so he told himself. After the plane left the runway and was on its way to O’Hare, he wondered if he made the right decision, while telling himself he really had no choice. The only thing he dreaded was being in the same home with Voroslav, who was perhaps the most peculiar fellow he ever knew. Some more old-fashioned folk even considered him demon possessed due to the nature of his curious afflictions.

Aleksandre did not look forward to his visit, for a number of reasons. He already knew the answers to too many questions. They were not pleasant, yet he found himself in the position of needing confirmation, of which his son-in-law was the only reliable source. Nevertheless, by the time their plane taxied onto the O’Hare runway, he found himself wanting to return to Baltimore.

He was dead tired by the time they made their way to the baggage claim area, and Aleksandre found himself wishing for as long a delay as possible, when suddenly he found himself the object of some attention from a couple of airport guards. Obviously, they found his manner of dress curious, as he remained dressed in his Orthodox robes. At length, one of the guards approached him in the company of a well-dressed man, obviously an airport official of some sort.

“Sir, we wondered if we might ask you a couple of questions,” the well-dressed man stated.

“I am not Islamic. I am an Orthodox Christian Priest!” Aleksandre said, incensed that the security at this airport would be so unprofessional, to say nothing of uninformed, as to not distinguish the difference. He looked toward Dorothy, who looked more embarrassed than angry.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

The man looked embarrassed now, and looked around, to note the numbers of people milling about. He seemed to be looking for someone.

“Have you mistaken me for someone else, perhaps?” Aleksandre asked.

“It’s just a routine check, sir,” the man replied. “If you could just kindly follow me, this should not take long. You do have identification?”

“For what purpose should I follow you?” Aleksandre demanded. “What have I done?”

“Just go along with them, poppa,” Dorothy advised him, obviously perturbed, and yet unwilling to engage in a confrontation with persons of obvious authority at an airport where she was a frequent customer.

Aleksandre noted that there were others standing in a line undergoing security scrutiny, though there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary about any of them. One guard waved a wand over them as they progressed to a certain point, while some others stood off in the distance, drinking what appeared to be coffee and idly chatting.

“No, I will not just go along with them,” Khoska replied. “I have done nothing to warrant this treatment.”

“Sir, you are making this very difficult,” the man replied. “The quicker you follow our instructions, the quicker this can be over with. I assure you, this is routine airport security screening. As a passenger”-

“That is just the point!” Aleksandre shouted. “I am no longer a passenger. I am not departing. I have arrived, you idiot!”

Two other guards now approached hurriedly, as Aleksandre noted now what appeared to be a list in the hands of the one guard who remained silent throughout this exchange.

“Father, please for God’s sake just let them see your identification,” an obviously mortified Dorothy insisted.

“You would be well-advised to do as your daughter suggests,” the man now said in all earnestness, obviously annoyed at Aleksandre, who now regretted his tirade, and actually felt somewhat ashamed in the wake of a noticeable crowd that gathered, though they remained at some distance, looking curiously in their direction, as Dorothy practically hid her features from view.

He finally relented and produced his wallet, and after a brief perusal of it, the airport official handed it back to him.

“Enjoy your stay in Chicago, Father Khoska,” the man said with a noticeable hint of animosity.

“Father, that was completely uncalled for,” Dorothy observed. “You made a scene. Aren’t you the slightest bit embarrassed?”

“Perhaps a bit,” Aleksandre admitted. “I don’t care, I am tired, I am still not well, and I do not appreciate being monitored as though I were some sand monkey with a bomb hidden under my vestments. It is an insult. I bet if I told the bastard my name was Ahmed Mohamed he would have offered to buy my dinner by now. Screw all of them.”

“You just do not understand, poppa,” she replied. “It’s really my fault. I should have warned you ahead of time. Let’s just get out of here, please.”

Dorothy extracted her cell phone from her purse and quickly placed a call, which lasted under a minute. They waited less than five minutes outside the airport terminal before a limousine pulled up to the curb.

“This is one hell of a cab,” Khoska observed. “I will be glad when we get to your home, as I am exhausted. A good night’s sleep will do me good.”

“Voroslav wants to see you before you go to bed,” she said.

“Oh really, Dorothy,” Aleksandre replied in a voice tinged with anxiety. “Can it not wait until morning?” he asked. “I really am in no mood to bathe. I showered in the hospital not quite four hours before you arrived. Afterwards, I slept for a while and had the most disturbing nightmare. I am still quite ill, and my nerves are a shambles. Really, I would much prefer”-

“Father, really, would a nice hot bath kill you?”

Khoska fumed, not really knowing how to answer the question. He knew he should speak to his son-in-law before he retired for the night. There was actually a practical reason for doing so. If he spoke to the man tonight, there was a better than average chance he might not have to see him any at all for the duration of his stay. Perhaps a little inconvenience would be worth that much.

“I suppose I could put up with it,” he said as the airport faded from view. “I don’t know why I bothered to pack any clothing, frankly. That was a waste of time.”

“Well, you did say you might stay three or four days, and you sure can’t go about in the same clothes, and you sure can’t go about Chicago in a bathrobe at this time of year.”

“I have no desire to take in the sights of Chicago,” Khoska insisted. “Still, you have a point. After what I have been through over the last three weeks, two baths in one day is certainly a minor inconvenience. I am more curious as to what this was you should have warned me about.”

Dorothy suddenly seemed uncomfortable, as though she dreaded answering the question.

“It is nothing,” she finally said. “I am just glad we’re away from there. I was afraid you might cause us to be detained for far longer than you or I would have liked.”

Khoska knew she was lying, but said nothing as they finally approached the relatively modest two-story home that rested in the suburbs of northeastern Chicago. Khoska informed the driver that he could carry his own baggage, and at a nod from Dorothy, the elderly driver acceded to Khoska’s wishes as he carried Dorothy’s own quite cumbersome suitcase. She had obviously come to Baltimore prepared to spend more than a day or two if necessary.

When they made it inside the house, which seemed larger on the inside than on the outside, Dorothy told Khoska to deposit his luggage by the door.

“It will be well taken care of,” Dorothy assured him.

“I assume the bathroom is within a few short steps of here,” he said. She told him that it was indeed through the nearest door to his right. Incredible, he muttered to himself.

He bathed, after which he put on the newly cleaned robe that hung on the inside of the door, wrapped in plastic. He left his clothing in the floor after making certain he put his wallet, keys, and loose change inside the robes pockets.

Khoska remembered well where Voroslav’s room was as he walked up the spiral staircase that led to the upper floor. He proceeded down to the end of the hallway, past the two bedrooms that faced opposite each other, down past the bathroom that faced opposite a large linen closet, and to the end of the hallway, where a room without doorknob waited.

Khoska stopped at the sound of the beep initiated by his passage by an electronic eye, and a whirring motor produced by the infrared camera he knew announced his approach.

“Aleksandre, just a second, and the door will open,” he heard the voice of his son-in-law, who at fifty-six years of age was exactly in years between himself and his daughter Dorothy, who always had a predilection for older men. Khoska had mused upon their marriage that since he insisted her preferences were unseemly, she decided to compromise. In fact, there was twenty-six years between Khoska and his daughter, with Voroslav firmly between the two of them, and separated from both by thirteen years almost exactly.

The door opened and Khoska entered, to note the change that had occurred over the former criminal conspirator and Orthodox Priest. His hair, though still dark, was graying, and he had put on quite a few pounds. This was understandable, despite the fact that he did not eat a lot, nor did he drink alcohol. He exercised little, and in fact, he seldom left this room. Through his thick moustache, Khoska could detect the hint of a smile, for which Aleksandre could think of no discernible reason for him to affect.

“It is good to see you, Aleksandre, it has been a long time,” Voroslav said, as he made no motion to rise from his leather-upholstered recliner, which was in fact where he slept most of the time.

“I am glad to see you seem to be well,” Aleksandre replied as the door shut automatically behind him. He noted the presence of ionic air cleaning devices, and smokeless candles that filled the air with an antiseptic scent, as Khoska could hear fresh air filtered from an indiscernible source into the otherwise hermetically sealed off room.

“For the time being, yes,” Voroslav said. “I thought I would die when I was taken in for questioning, but there was little I could do about it.”

“You do know your life is probably in danger, I take it,” Khoska said. “What does Dorothy say about all this, and what of Marnie?”

Voroslav looked away as a worried expression briefly crossed his brow, but he quickly recovered.

“Dorothy will be fine,” he replied. “Or she would be, if she would just leave me to my fate, as I am always telling her. Unfortunately, you raised Dorothy a bit better than I think you imagine. Sometimes, if I did not know better, I would think she actually really does care something about me after all. Marnie, well that is a different story. She is away at university, going for her Masters in Business. I know she will be protected.”

“Protected from what, and by whom?” Khoska asked. “Really, Voroslav, I know you are not a well man, and you know it too. I will not bother going into that, as I know you are not responsible for your affliction. But please, for the love of God, can you find it in your heart to allow me to sit?”

At first, Voroslav seemed confused but then his black eyes gleamed with realization, as he told Khoska that of course he could sit, as he indicated the sofa that set off to the side of the room. Khoska then noted the presence of a liquor cabinet and ice tray, which Moloku explained he kept for the comfort of his guests, what few he had, though he allowed no smoking.

“Unless of course you would like to join me in a bit of hashish after we have finished our business,” he added, almost as a polite afterthought. “Of course, I would be very surprised, pleasantly so, if you would do that, but your expression tells me probably not.”

“You read my expression very well,” Khoska replied, to which Moloku smiled and nodded.

“Very well, then, before we get on with it,” he continued, “let me assure you, both Dorothy and Marnie are to be well provided for. There is no problem with the two of them.”

Khoska felt as though his son-in-law now resigned himself to whatever fate awaited and knew it was certainly coming. After all, he had turned states evidence against criminal associates who recognized loyalty to none, not even family, above loyalty to the code.

“So what exactly is it about Grace Rodescu you wished to tell me about?” Khoska asked him.

“First things first,” Voroslav replied. “On the end table by you, you will notice a folder. Feel free to examine its contents, if you will.”

Khoska did so, and was somewhat disconcerted by what he saw.

“Your father Volescu-what of him?” he asked uncomfortably.

“You will recall how he was shot outside our home in 1968, when I was a mere lad of seventeen, studying for the Priesthood,” he explained. “Go on, look at the other pictures.”

Khoska did so, only to see other, older pictures, of Voroslav and his father and mother, in seemingly happier times. In one of them, a picture that seemed taken in Romania, Voroslav was an innocent child of two or three years old.

“My parents emigrated from Romania after the war,” he said. “It was a very hard life compared to what they were used to. Of course, I was raised in the kind of filth and degradation my mother could never quite adjust to. She went from living a life of comfort and abundance, in clean and safe surroundings, to a time of traveling from one filth-infested slum in Europe to another. We finally made it here in 1958.

“Of course, what I and my parents went through was nothing compared to what the others were obliged to endure.”

“What others?” Khoska asked. “Whom do you mean?”

“My half-sisters and my half-brother,” he replied. “Yes, my mother was previously married, to a man named Ion Ionescu. He died two decades before we came to America, whereupon my father persuaded her to marry him. I was his only child, out of five. When they left, he insisted the others stay behind with relatives, though he promised to send for them later. He never did, and my mother grew cold and harsh, as much towards me, her own son, as towards him.

“When he was murdered that day, allegedly by Securitate agents in retribution for his activities against the Romanian communist regime, rumors circulated that you were responsible. I know you heard those rumors and probably believed them. In fact, I have reason to believe this caused you a great deal of anxiety.”

Khoska was stunned. He indeed always held himself responsible for the death of Volescu Moloku, but never imagined anyone connected him with the affair. Now, here was Volescu’s own son, now his son-in-law, decades later, inferring his complicity in a state crime.

“Are you sure you do not wish to have a drink?” Voroslav asked. “If you would like a little wine, I also have some of the finest Wisconsin cheese, straight from the docks of Racine. It is in fact the one indulgence I allow myself these days, apart from a little hash, which is a rarity.”

“No thank you,” Khoska said, trying to control his fear and his anger, the last of which he now felt was out of place under the circumstances.

“I do not deny my involvement with the communist government, as I was given little choice,” he said. “If this resulted in the death of your father I am truly sorry. I have spent years in regret over the incident.”

Voroslav looked at him harshly, as suddenly he reached over and extracted a mask attached to an oxygen tank that blended in well with the metallic nature of the furniture in the sterile environment within which Khoska found himself. Voroslav breathed deeply, and then returned the mask.

“Relax, Aleksandre, I did not send for you to berate you,” he then explained. “For one thing, if you were responsible I would have killed you long ago. Your involvement was incidental at most. No, I place the blamed squarely on the shoulders of he to whom it belongs-my half-brother, Sylveu. He came here and found my father, and killed him, in revenge for what occurred with his sisters. All of them were beaten and raped, one of them eventually killed by a brutal, drunken husband who sold her into prostitution. One of the twins died of pneumonia, eaten up with syphilis. The other twin died an old woman, forced to beg in the streets.

“Somehow, he came to America, got in contact with our mother, and he later killed his step-father, my own father. Then, the son-of-a-bitch had the gall to come proposing an offer of friendship, as after all we were half-brothers. He even admitted his crime, and claimed he was justified. Well, perhaps in his own mind he was. At any rate, he offered to help initiate me into his organization. I played along with him, and eventually I rose in the ranks.

“All the while, I learned what I could. He had no choice but to leave his own wife and child behind in Romania. In his despair, he spent days on end looking into their whereabouts. He discovered that his daughter married a man by the name of Rodescu, a mere farmer who barely managed to stay a step ahead of starvation.

“His wife, meanwhile, had died, and soon enough the Rodescu family was scattered to the winds. I saw to that. Rodescu himself disappeared, while his wife, in despair, turned her children over to the state after two of them died of infectious diseases caused mainly by malnutrition and exposure. She then took her own life.”

Khoska sat listening to this, what he realized now was a confession, in abject horror. He had no need to hear the rest of it.

“And then you took it on yourself to go to Romania, adopt her, and sell her into sexual slavery. Your own grandniece and you turned her into a heroin addict and whore. Voroslav, how could you?”

“Because he was dying, and I wanted him to know,” he replied. “I wanted him to know that he, who had sponsored my membership and rise within the organization, had enabled me to destroy his family in the process, and that I did so in the exact same manner that he himself had participated in the similar abuse of thousands of other innocent children.

“Then, after he died in agony, from cancer, I made sure my beloved mother knew the truth as well. It destroyed her, of course. She went all but insane, unable to speak, seemingly unable to hear. That is fine, as I understood very well that she knew the whole story, which was all I cared about.

“So there you have it, the story of Voroslav Moloku, the monster Priest of Romania. Yes, the Church eventually learned of my activities, and I was defrocked. And yes, Aleksandre, I know as well of your part in that. I accept the responsibility. It is even well and good that Grace Rodescu managed to survive, and bring the cycle of revenge to what I hope will be its completion. I accept her right to do so. I did not bring you here out of some self-serving search for forgiveness. I did my part to destroy the organization that my half-brother was such an influential and powerful member of. Granted, that was not my intention, but I still see it is only right.

“It is also right that I explain all of this to you now. Go ahead and look at the rest of the pictures. They tell quite a story. Somewhere within them is one with your grandfather, by the way. Perhaps you might recognize one of the men with him.”

“Corneliu Codreanu”, Khoska said as he found the one picture in question. As he looked at the old black and white, age-faded photograph, a thought occurred to him.

“Ion Ionescu was also one of his followers,” he declared.

“Indeed he was,” Voroslav admitted. “As was my father Volescu, until the time my father realized what an insane madman he was, and broke his ties to his Iron Guard organization.”

“According to some sources, your father found affiliation with Antonescu much more profitable and fortuitous. Some people considered him a traitor. You do realize that, do you not?”

Voroslav smiled.

“Codreanu was an anti-Semite, a fascist, and a religious fanatic. He was an ally of Hitler. He was no hero by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps in his own mind he was sincere, but if so, he was insane at best, at worse possessed. All of this of course is of no consequence to me, but something else is.

“You see, Aleksandre, I have agonized over the prospect of telling you all of this. I wanted to tell you, but at the same time, I could see where it would serve no useful purpose. Then, you mentioned something in your call from the hospital, something that came wholly without warning. It was as though somehow, in some way, I was granted a bird’s eye view of the workings of destiny and fate.

“I have seen the hand of God, working through the minions of Satan. It reminded me of my days in the seminary, when I honestly believed there was a purpose to life, a truly divine plan. Of course, I eventually put aside such foolish pretenses. Beliefs such as that were for the benefit of the sheep, I came to believe, not the shepherd. It is the shepherd’s job to protect his flock from the ravages of nature, from the storm and from the wolf, and perhaps most importantly, from the ravages of their own animal impulses. I did not see myself as a wolf in shepherd’s clothing, by any means, only that I performed a necessary function to society.

“Well, all of this is what I had come to believe, and still believed up until that time I was defrocked, and even afterwards. Do you know that I still prayed, after that, even though I did not truly believe? Is that not amazing? What would make a human being act in such a manner?”

“Faith,” Khoska replied. “It is called the dark night of the soul. I have had my share of them.”

Before Voroslav could respond, a buzzer heralded the entrance into the room of Dorothy, who seemed to affect a casual attitude than was natural. Something about her manner was, in fact, wholly suspicious.

“So are the two older men in my life having an enjoyable visit?”

“I won’t say enjoyable is an accurate description, but it has certainly been enlightening,” Khoska replied.

“I have some business I have to attend to,” she said as though her previous statement had been a mere formality after all. “I might not be back for a few days. I will be back by Monday at the latest, and I will see you home the next day, poppa.”

Khoska nodded, not terribly disappointed at the announcement, yet wary of her true intentions to return at the time stated.

“Voroslav, if there is anything you need, you have my cell phone number written down somewhere, right?”

“Yes, it’s here in the book, but I am sure I will be fine,” Moloku replied. “Have a nice trip.”

“Goodbye then,” she said as she turned to leave. “Love you both.”

“That is it?” Khoska asked in amazement. “She just walks in and casually announces she is going off somewhere, and you allow this, and do not even ask her where she is going?”

“Oh, I know where she is going,” Moloku told him. “She is going to meet her boyfriend. She is having an affair.”

Khoska’s jaw dropped at this pronouncement and his eyes widened. Voroslav seemed to take his reaction with some amusement.

“Oh, I do not mind,” he insisted. “Like I said, she will be well taken care of.”

“Yes, and you never told me exactly what you meant by that,” Khoska replied, obviously hurt at this level of infidelity evidenced by his own daughter toward her husband of twenty-six years. Now, he obviously did not care to know any more, as Voroslav reached down and opened the top of an end table, from which he extracted what appeared to be a game board.

“I want to show you a little something I discovered, which I consider most interesting,” he said as Aleksandre watched him lay out what appeared to be some version of a chessboard, one that seemed to be a computerized machine of some sort.

“While I am setting this up, you should want to peruse the other folder, in the same drawer from which you took the first one. It has everything to do with why I wanted you to come here this night.”

Aleksandre however waited until Voroslav set the tiny little pegs on the board, choosing the white pieces for himself, the black pieces for his computerized opponent.

“As you shall see, the only choice you really have in this game is the choice of white and black.”

“What, is this supposed to be some kind of symbolic lesson or something?” Aleksandre asked, as he considered such displays to be a waste of his time. As Voroslav made his initial move of the knight’s pawn, two spaces up the board, Aleksandre reached into the end table and withdrew the folder.

“You will never defeat that machine,” Aleksandre said with a mirthless chuckle. “That has always been your opening move, and if I am familiar with it I would be certain the move is forever enshrined within that computer’s memory banks.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Moloku replied. “More than likely you are. I have defeated it twice, out of more than one hundred attempts, and I was hoping I could show you something that is most amazing.”

Aleksandre watched his son-in-law play the game opponent, which signaled to Moloku the moves it wanted him to make on its behalf.

“This is actually quite an old game,” he explained. “With one of the newer versions I seriously doubt I could do this. It is in fact a rarity when I defeat this game. I’ve had this thing for going on twelve years, and it took me more than three years to beat it, a feat I never repeated until a couple of years ago.”

Koska found himself increasingly drawn to the on-going battle of human intellect versus computer calculation. Within ten minutes, Voroslav lost a knight and one bishop, as well four pawns, while only taking two pawns and a bishop off the computers’ side.

“I think you are in a bit of a jam,” Khoska observed.

“Actually-I think I might be on to something here,” Voroslav replied. “Do you see it?”

Khoka did indeed see what appeared to be a potentially devastating move, one that would place the computer’s queen in dire jeopardy. All he had to do was place the king in check, which would necessitate a move one square away, exposing the queen to the ravages of Voroslav’s rook. Though he would lose this remaining rook to the king, Voroslav could then proceed to decimate his opponents’ field with his own queen, rooks, and remaining bishop and knight.

“You see, Aleksandre, the key is to not take too many of the opponents pieces, while making a few necessary sacrifices of your own in order to maneuver the king into an area where there is scant room for movement on its part. His own crowded field does him in.”

Voroslav then proceeded to take the queen, but to Khoska’s amazement, the computer did not respond by taking its opponents rook. Instead, the lights on the board changed, signaling that the computer changed sides. It was therefore now Voroslav’s queen that was off the board, and Voroslav who now had the option of taking the offending rook. Khoska now saw something he previously did not see. If Voroslav took the rook with his king, the computer could now put the king back in check with a knight, while simultaneously taking an opposing knight. The king would be obliged to e moved to one remaining open spot, at which point it could be checkmated by a rook.

“You see, I have no choice,” he explained. “I have to move from this side, before the computer will signal for me the move it wishes to make from my former side which it has now stolen from me. That makes three times that has happened. You see, Aleksandre, this computer is programmed to do anything involving the game of chess with the sole exception of losing.

“You asked me if there was some kind of lesson to this. Well, you have just seen it. This is a most accurate display of how the universe works. Whatever force put it into motion programmed it in much the same manner. Whatever move you make in life, the outcome is a foregone conclusion. No matter how well you seem to do, those who are destined to lose will lose in the end. Those who are destined to win will do so as well. This is not due to goodness and sacrifice, or to faith and holiness. It has everything to do, I am afraid, with cunning, guile, and the practical application of intelligence and strength. Ruthlessness is all but a necessity, at some point, of course.

“Even then, you have only so much in the way of good fortune, and once it is gone, then the game is over. Then, the universe will switch sides, so to speak.”

“I changed my mind,” Khoska now said. “I think I will have some of that cheese and wine. I am starting to become very hungry.”

He opened up the small refrigerator where he noted several varieties of cheeses and cold cuts, along with some yogurt, and he extracted what looked to be a portion of sharp cheddar, though a Wisconsin variety, and an unopened bottle of port. He poured himself a glass, and took the entire somewhat small portion of cheese. He knew that Voroslav would not eat from it once other human hands touched it.

“I am curious about something Voroslav,” Khoska asked. “You say you have struggled with your affliction since you were a teenager, so I was wondering how you could stand to go to a filthy place such as a Romanian orphanage, and return in the company of Grace, to say nothing of surrounded by all those people you encountered on your travels.”

“I did it more than a few times, frankly,” his host replied as Khoska hungrily bit into the wheel of cheese that was actually more of the taste of an Edom, and quite good. “Grace was not the first, she was merely the last. Yes, it was a struggle. However, I took comfort in the series of inoculations I was assured would protect me on my travels from every disease known to man. It got to the point I actually started looking forward to those trips, for precisely that reason. I insisted on the inoculations even when I was assured they were not actually necessary.

“That may have been my downfall, to tell you the truth. When the church discovered my activities, they officially said nothing. However, I have an idea one or two of the more holier-than-thou busybodies turned me in to the authorities. Of course, by that time, my activities in those regards were over, and yet I found I could make no flights even within the country without being questioned. Dorothy and Marnie were harassed as well. Dorothy threatened a lawsuit at one point, and so though the harassment did not exactly cease, it slowed considerably. Had you any problem at the airport?”

“Yes,” Aleksandre replied. “They were quite insistent that I show them identification, and answer their questions, which I found quite insulting. You mean that was all because of you?”

“I apologize, but yes,” Moloku replied. “9/11 gave them the excuse to be more through, I suppose, but Islamic radicals aside, their reasons are what they are. It is a waste of time and money of course, but when did the government ever let that even be a consideration?

“Imagine how you would have felt if your own daughter had her identity stolen, the way Marnie’s had been, and you were told there was nothing which could be done about it. You said it turned out to be Grace Rodescu’s doing, and I suppose it was. At the same time, consider this. How exactly could she have gotten such personal information about my daughter’s life, unless that information was on file somewhere, under the care of some person determined to find some criminal conduct through way of her.”

“You are saying that Grace got this information from someone in the government?” Khoska asked.

“The government or the police, obviously,” Voroslav confirmed. “She probably found it fitting to steal the identity of the daughter of the man who adopted her for illegal purposes, and then sold her. I cannot fault her for that, truthfully, but at the same time, it all goes back to what I was saying. The game’s outcome is already decided, and the winners and losers all have their predestined paths to follow. They might veer off course from time to time, but even at that, they only delay the inevitable.

“Well, I will no longer delay the inevitable-quite the opposite.”

As he said this, Voroslav extracted a gun from the drawer of his end table, and Khoska, who just now took a large drink of port, sat it down hurriedly and looked around frantically, almost certain Voroslav meant to kill him after all.

“The Krovelescu’s are the key,” Voroslav continued, seeming not to notice the frantic terror that gripped Aleksandre. “I realized that the minute you mentioned their name as being complicit in this affair. Of course, that should have come as no surprise to me, especially seeing as how I have had an on-going relationship with Martin Khoska and his wife for several decades now. In fact, you referred Martin to me when he came to you for help searching for his long lost mother. I was unable to help him, unfortunately, but we have remained friends, though we seldom see each other.

“Nevertheless, though the Krovelescu’s are a factor in our lives, and as you shall see, have been for some time, I never expected the level of involvement they have had in our affairs.

“I suppose you know by now of Radu. If not, you shall. I will say no more about him, for I am of the hopes that for your sake, as well as for the sake of Dorothy and Marnie, and the rest of your family, you will drop this crusade you are on. You see, I know exactly what you are doing. In that folder, you will find everything you need.”

Khoska found some relief at this statement, but was still overwhelmed with anxiety.

“Who was he, at least tell me that much,” Khoska said. “I know about Radu the Black, and Radu the Handsome, but this person”-

“The game is over, Aleksandre,” Voroslav replied, as his eyes became almost emotionally unexpressive, yet stern and even cold. “I am very sorry about Lynette. She did not deserve the fate she suffered. She was a very good person. Many were the times I wished privately that Marnie could be just somewhat like her. Just a little bit. That of course was quite unfair to the both of them. If there was ever anything in life I tried to acquire, it was a sense of fairness. It is now finally time to be fair to myself. Goodbye, my friend.”

To Aleksandre’s horror, Voroslav Moloku placed the barrel of the gun inside his mouth and in the space of an instant sent his brains splattering on the wall behind him, as Aleksandre Khoska loudly shouted an impotent and senseless no. He dropped down to his knees and prayed, and cried loudly as he swayed back and forth on his knees on the hardwood floor of the room in which Voroslav Moloku, who spent most of his last years confined within it, now ended his life.

He placed a frantic call to Dorothy, unsure of what he would tell her, but Dorothy never answered. Instead, her recorded voice advised to leave a message. He felt loathe to relay the night’s events on voice-mail, and was unsure exactly what to say. In despair, he hung up.

Aleksandre then remembered the folder, the one he never got around to perusing, and in an effort to calm his despair, opened the folder, only to see what looked to be a marriage certificate for Voroslav’s mother, though not to his father, but to her first husband, Ion Ionescu. What he noted, however, that shook him to the core, was the maiden name of Voroslav’s mother, which was Krovell.

He then noticed the old, age-lined black and white photograph of the young man of about twenty-five years old, the man in the Romanian uniform of the World War I era. Attached to the photo by a paper clip was a document that turned out to be a death certificate for a Lieutenant Jason Krovell, listed as a volunteer combatant for the Romanian Royal Army, killed in the line of duty early in the year 1917 in a battle against Turkish forces near the Black Sea. Another photo revealed the nature of his wounds to be at somewhat close range. In fact, his body appeared riddled with bullets. Then, the thought occurred to him.

“He was not killed in the line of duty at all,” he mused aloud. “He was executed.”

Suddenly the phone rang, and Aleksandre was now in the uncomfortable position of walking within touching distance of the corpse of his son-in-law, who sat staring out into the vastness of the eternity to which he at last surrendered. The caller ID of the screen was a number he did not recognize, and so he frantically scrolled down the list of names in a vain attempt to find a number with a name to match, an attempt that proved fruitless.

Aleksandre gave up, and said a quick prayer over the corpse of his son-in-law. He then closed his eyes.

He decided to replace the folders within the drawers of the end table from which he extracted them. He had no need for them, and was concerned about how this might look. How would he ever explain this? He and Voroslav did have a falling out at one point, over a good many of the very things they discussed this night. Though Aleksandre never confirmed or denied it, it was patently obvious to Moloku that Aleksandre was responsible for the Orthodox Church defrocking him.

Graces’ survival that night, in the woods of western Maryland, and the eventual recovery of her memory, enabled her to remember the name of the man who had adopted her. Aleksandre said nothing to the authorities. There was always the possibility that criminals had procured and used his son-in-laws identity. After all, no one would suspect an Orthodox Priest of such abominable activities as engaging in the sexual slave trade of young children. He tried to tell himself that this had to be the answer, though at the same time, his conscience would not allow him to keep the matter entirely secret. He reported it to the Church, who conducted an investigation. They found that, indeed, Voroslav and a small number of other Church priests and officials were involved, and so in order to forestall what might well amount to a crippling scandal, they swept the entire thing under the rug, while expunging from the Body of Christ those offensively guilty parties.

Aleksandre benefited from his silence, of course, but it left him with a guilt he never entirely came to terms with. He had nothing to feel guilty for, and yet he did. He should have done more, taken more action, regardless of the immediate consequences to his family. Now, it was too late. The game played on, and Khoska looked with great despair upon the form of his son-in-law, his gaping mouth wide open as the blood and gore that caked the wall behind him yet moved inexorably toward the floor. He knew well that he was merely looking upon the remains of the latest victim, but, unfortunately, probably not the last one.

“Why, Voroslav, did you do these things?” he asked. “What possessed you, and why did you do this, the most unforgivable of all sins? Why?”

Khoska jerked at the sound of the gun dropping finally from Moloku’s hand, producing as it did so a thud on the pristine, waxed hardwood floor. He saw then for the first time the white handkerchief by which he held the gun and pulled the trigger. Then, the thought occurred to him that sent waves of terror cascading through his body.

“That was not your gun, was it, Voroslav?”

He sat for twenty minutes, praying as he finally started to cry, until he heard the sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs. Even through the sounds of the fresh air circulating from the tanks in the adjoining room, Khoska could tell they were too heavy to be the footsteps of Dorothy, who tended to walk much like a cat, a maddening habit shared by her daughter Marnie. Someone was walking, actually tromping up the steps, slowly but surely, as Khoska, now in mortal terror for his life, hid within the adjoining room, squeezing uncomfortably between two instrument panels that he realized barely hid him from view as he gathered his flowing robe tightly around him.

He heard the beep produced by the electronic eye, and realized someone would have to grant admittance from within the sealed off room. Unfortunately, that was no deterrent to the person who waited outside, who proceeded to kick the door down.

“Stop that, what are you trying to do?” Aleksandre heard a female voice say, and soon enough, the door slid open.

“Uh-oh,” he heard the voice of the man say. “Guess what? We are too fucking late. I guess he took you up on your little offer.”

So-there was two people here this night, Khoska realized, and then he heard a female gasp.

“Oh, so now you’re going to cry,” the man said. “Come on, lay your head on here and cry those eyes out, get it out of your system.”

“I thought it would be easy,” the female voice said. “Now that he’s actually done it, and I’ve seen it”-

Marnie, Khoska realized, was the woman. She was crying, and Khoska peered briefly out, wondering what would happen next.

“Come on, you know he’s better off,” the man said. “I’m actually glad for your sake he had the guts to do it, to spare you the ordeal of having to do it yourself, or rather have me do it for you. It’s for the best.”

Khoska soon no longer heard the sounds of Marnie’s stifled crying, as the man continued consoling her.

“The folders should be in that end table over there,” she said. ‘Let’s get them and get the hell out of here.”

“Yep here they be,” he heard the man say. “Oh, shit, Marnie, somebody else has been here. Look, there is an open bottle of port, and some cheese. I thought you said your dad quit drinking a long time ago.”

“Maybe he wanted something to steady his nerves,” she suggested.

“Uh-uh, something just ain’t right here,” the man continued. “Look at this shit, his fucking eyes has been closed. Somebody shut them. I’ve seen enough people die I know for a fact when you die at least from a gunshot to the head there ain’t no way you eyes be shut, you be staring out into space, the great beyond, that be just the way it be. I’m telling you, somebody have either be here or they still be here. If they left, we had to just miss him, cos I’m telling you he just did this shit about thirty minutes ago. Look at this, he’s still a little warm. As cool as this room is he couldn’t have done it too long ago.”

“Hell, what are you, some kind of detective or something?” Marnie asked in what Khoska took as a teasing tone of voice.

“Well, come to think of it,” the man replied, “I do wants to be your private dick.”

From that point on, Khoska heard nothing but the sound of breathing, and the terrible thought occurred to him that Marnie, his own granddaughter, was engaged in what seemed to be activity leading toward a tryst, in the presence of the corpse of her own dead father.

“Come on now, girl, let’s get a room, this is weird shit,” the man weakly objected.

“No, fuck me here,” Marnie insisted. Khoska gasped, and immediately hoped the air circulation devices that now surrounded him would serve to cover the unfortunate sound. Fortunately, both Marnie and the man now breathed so loudly she doubted they would hear him if he pounded the wall. He could not help himself, he had to see, not because he wanted to view the act of his granddaughter’s sexual shenanigans, but he realized this might be the only opportunity he might have to see exactly with whom she was. It was obviously a person who was involved with Marnie in some criminal activity, one that would bode no good for him if they discovered him here. From the sound of things, Marnie brought this man up here for the express purpose of ending her own father’s life, and he had no illusions she would feel any qualms about ending his.

He carefully approached the curtain that blocked the view from one room to the other and peered carefully out the curtain. He was relatively sure of their distraction in the face of the groaning, grunting, and inadvertent swearing from the both of them, as the hardwood floor seemed to shake under the both of them. In fact, it shook under Khoska as well.

He looked out carefully to see the form of the large black man, who seemed to be almost three times Marnie’s size, and realized he was a man whose picture Lynette showed him, not long before she died, in a newspaper advertisement. His name was Dwayne Letcher, but he went by the stage name of Toby Da Pimp. He was a hardcore criminal, a former member of the now defunct street gang known as the Seventeenth Pulse.

According to Lynette, the late Brad Marlowe brutally assaulted him at the funeral of Marshall Crenshaw, after which the rap artist cancelled a number of appearances. Marlowe had almost crushed his throat. Now, he certainly seemed well enough, as Khoska, having seen enough of the sickening sight of his own granddaughter’s debauchery, once more withdrew into the relative privacy of the little room in which he planned to remain for some time, despite the urge he now felt to use the bathroom.

After a number of minutes that seemed more like hours to Khoska, the incident came to it’s conclusion with Toby cursing fiercely and then collapsing on the floor beside Marnie.

“Damn, that was the best fuck I’ve had in a long time, maybe ever-especially from you,” she said. “Hell, let’s just keep him here.”

“Yeah, right, let’s do that,” he said. “Hey, I just remembered-what about your mom?”

“Oh for God’s sake Toby I wasn’t serious.” She said.

“Uh, I wasn’t either, I was just saying, again, what about your mom? Do you reckon she’s there by now?”

“Hell, not this quick,” she said. “Her flight to Baltimore wasn’t scheduled for until about thirty minutes ago, and I doubt it’s even off the ground yet. Just the same, I’m going to call him now.”

“Hey, lover, your so-called girlfriend should be on her way,” Marnie said into the phone that rested right by her father’s corpse. “Be sure you give it to her good for me. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow,” Toby said after she hung up. “Come on, let’s get moving, we gots to find that other shit before we get out of here, and we also gots to make sure there ain’t nobody else in this house. Look at this shit. He wrapped the fucking gun with a handkerchief before he shot himself. Ain’t that the pits. He had it bad, didn’t he?”

“Hey, you know something, I bet he doesn’t have a single fingerprint on that gun,” Marnie said.

“Well, so fucking what?”

“So, if we take the handkerchief it would look like a murder disguised as suicide, right?”

“Uh, yeah, and you’re the first one they would be asking about that.”

“Yeah, but you seem to have forgotten whose gun this is, whose gun I actually stole this from, and who it is registered to. In fact, it’s one of his oldest personal firearms.”

Toby remained silent for the time being, as though digesting the information and the implications thereof.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he said.

“Yep, I’m tired of his shit,” Marnie replied, “and you want him off your ass too. What better way to accomplish that? It will just look like a man killing his lover’s husband, the oldest story in the world. Well, one of the oldest stories anyway. If we are lucky, they will question him right about the time he is ready to dispose of her body. Come on-let’s go look for the shit. You search the living room downstairs and I’ll look in the bitch’s bedroom.”

“I keep telling you, now, if you’re going to hang with Da Pimp, that’s”-

“Yeah, I got it, I’ll search the beeyathch’s bedroom,” Marnie said.

“That be better”, Toby replied with a chuckle as the two of them finally exited the room, the door to which shut automatically behind them.

Khoska promptly removed himself from the confines of what once was a walk-in closet, before its conversion to an air-filtration center, and quietly yet quickly walked to the bathroom. He pissed as quietly as possible, worrying about the sound of it hitting the water in the bowl. It was a foolish thought, and Khoska knew very well if he was going to survive this night, he had to control his nerves. All he needed now was for April Sandusky to arise from the commode. He had to keep his nerve, he thought repeatedly.

“Keep your nerve, Aleksandre Khoska,” he muttered to himself, until he finally finished.

He walked quickly to the phone, picked up the receiver, and hit redial. The phone answered after three rings, and Khoska heard the familiar voice of Detective James Berry.

“You have reached the residence of James Berry and family,” he said. “At the tone kindly leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call, if you really, really want me to. Go on, punk, make my day.”

Khoska put the receiver down. Everything was finally coming together for him, as he frantically looked for the cell-phone number of his daughter Dorothy. He found it, and then he hurriedly dialed it from Voroslav’s phone. Although Dorothy never answered, at length he got once more the recorded message from her answering service.

“Dorothy, this is your father, and it is very important that you listen carefully to what I am about to say. Voroslav took his own life right in front of my eyes. Your own life is also in danger, from Marnie and Detective James Berry, so please avoid both of them. That is all I can say for now. I am in hiding, as my own life is in danger. Marnie is here with a black man, a rap artist named Toby the pimp, I believe. Go to the church and wait until I return, and then I will tell you everything.”

He hung up the phone, and then treaded cautiously to the door, where he placed his left ear while cupping his right ear with one hand to block out the sound of the machinery in the room. He could hear the sounds of walking and some talking, but it seemed to be at a distance. He returned to the phone, as he hastily extracted his wallet. Going through it, he found the card with the phone number. He extracted the phone and then walked over toward the one small window. He could see out of it enough to note there was indeed a balcony, from which Khoska hoped there yet would remain a set of emergency steps leading to the street below. He dialed the number. The phone rung several times before a weary voice answered.

“Phelps here, who is it?” asked the photographer.

“It is father Khoska,” Aleksandre replied. “I don’t have much time, so I cannot talk long. I have a favor to ask of you, and I also have a good deal of information I am sure you would be interested in, information concerning Grace, and a good many other things.”

“Yeah, okay, but what are you doing in Chicago?” Phelps asked him.

“Right now I am waiting for you to come and get me, and hoping it won’t take you a long time to get here.”

Lounge Of The Cyberholic

As a Hellenic Wiccan, I’ve often considered Hephaestos to be the patron deity of computers, or possibly Hermes, who I think of as the patron deity of the Internet itself. After reading this post and the resultant discussion on Grad Student Madness, however, I am starting wonder if perhaps Dionysius might be a better fit as patron deity of this modern tool of mass communication.

The post originally had to do with this article about a book, Republic.com 2.0, by University of Chicago law professor Cass Sunstein. It posits the theory that the internet, far from strengthening and enhancing democracy, is turning us all into a society of rabble, and in fact is making us dumber as a society in general. It got me to thinking, which is dangerous sometimes, but it did induce me to come up with a complimentary theory of my own. Is the internet turning us into a nation of cyberholics?

The Internet does after all share many things in common with your neighborhood bar. Everybody seems to gravitate to the blogs, sites, or on-line forums where they can associate with those of like minds, much as they search out the appropriate bars for the same reason.

Once there, in both cases, a good many people end up wallowing and saturated in their own delusions and self-assurances, and search out mainly those people that offer them insight in some cases, or verification and justification in others. In some cases, they get a little too carried away, and the next thing you know a fight breaks out. In most cases, it never gets beyond verbal jousting, but in certain instances, it can turn downright ugly. It might even get violent, and this might as well be true of internet habitués. After all, who knows who or what they end up taking their frustrations out on?

We all know that television and gaming can be addictive, just as nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, sex, gambling, etc. Well, consider the number of people that engage in internet discussions, and the question becomes, how can it not be an addiction for some? It offers the same degree of comfort and release, while allowing for a degree of anonymity not available in other ways.

On the internet, you can be yourself to a degree that would be wholly impractical in other areas of life. In a bar, you have to get drunk or high to achieve that level of comfort at being exactly what you are. Of course, then, there are the repercussions that inevitably follow. The nightclub owner might have you arrested or sue you for damages. You can have your ass kicked or worse. You can wake up the next day with a killer hangover. You can even end up with an STD and not even remember whom you got it from-if you are lucky.

There are no such readily apparent dangers on the internet, and so you can be yourself without those kinds of repercussions.

You say do not want to be yourself-fine, who says you have to be? If you prefer, you can be somebody totally different from the person you really are, and can feel comfortable in any forum, internet chat room, or blog discussion. You can even be the troll you have always longed to be. You can be a 280-pound cyber-bully, so to speak, with a twelve-inch dick. On the internet, it does not really matter if you are a 98-pound weakling with a three-inch dick who is afraid of his own shadow.

If a good lot of what I said here seems to apply to you, there might well be a reason for that. If so, you might feel at home here at this site.

It is all about the pheromones.

Does The Last Supper Contain A Hidden Symphony?

Could this possibly be for real? According to this report, Leonardo DaVinci might have encoded a musical composition within The Last Supper. If this is true, you just know this is going to turn up as the score of the next Biblical movie based on the life of Christ. Question is, would the Vatican own the rights, and will this set off a flurry of bids to purchase the rights for the work? Or, could it possibly end up in court? I have a hunch the Vatican would insist on full creative control over the movie’s content, so think more along the lines of Passion of the Christ rather than The Last Temptation of Christ.

Of course, there is always the possibility that, assuming this does turn out to be true, the score is not really worth a shit. Moreover, this brings up another question. Is somebody seeing something that is not really there? Could it be that a number of brush strokes might have inadvertently ended up looking like musical notes, with some following strokes being just of enough of a relative consistency to those first strokes that somebody might just be filling in blanks? Think of a Rorschach Test with the appearance of musical notes.

On the other hand, if it does turn out to be true, it could be big. What would have been the purpose of it? Could the musical score have been in Leonardo’s mind a kind of encoded prayer? If so, a prayer for what-for enlightenment to any who view the painting, perhaps, especially to those of the church charged with its safekeeping or to the clergy in general?

Why in the hell did he not just write the damn musical score outright, either instead of or in addition to encoding it within the painting? Was he assuming that it would be uncovered decades or centuries, or even millennia later, and therefore provide fresh inspiration to a whole new future generation? Leonardo must have been a very strange man.

Hat tip to Instapundit

A Honey Of A Dilemna

Some group of witches should possibly think of attuning with a little known goddess from ancient Greek mythology, known by the classical Greeks as Melissa, which was also the title of the priestesses of the goddess Potnoi of the Mychaenaean era. This could possibly lead to a breakthrough in understanding exactly what the problem is with our bees. They are disappearing. If no one can solve this problem, it could result in more than just a scarcity of honey. A great many, maybe most, if not all, of our food crops are either dependent on or highly enhanced by the fertilizing aspects of bee pollen.

The problem is, no one knows for sure what is causing the problem. Sure, some people are sure it has something to do with the use of fertilizers. Environmental factors might as well be contributing to the problem. Others seem to think it might have something to do with cell phone signals according to this post by Loki over at Sacred Paths. Whatever the case, it certainly points out how important this little insect is, and can be.

By the way, I will be the first to admit, the goddess Melissa might not seem to be a practical answer, but we have to start the brainstorming somewhere. Moreover, when you stop to think about it, it might not really be that impractical. What better way to start a pagan community than one revolving around beekeeping as a partial means of communal support? Honestly, when you consider the money to be derived from honey production, it is practically a kind of liquid gold, is it not? It might be a process of trial and error, of course, attempting to discern just what it takes to keep the bees happy, healthy, active, fertile, and, just as importantly, willing to stick around-but there has to be an answer. At least, we sure better hope there is.

Did I Miss It When Pakistan Became The 51st State?

President George W. Bush, who ironically would probably have been a Democrat were he not the son of former President George H. W. Bush, seems to think he has the right to tell General Pervez Musharraf of Pakistan to “turn in your uniform”. Our duly elected leader has seemingly morphed from a wannabe messiah figure and symbolic Second-Coming-Of-Christ, and has decided to play Caesar Augustus to Musharraf’s Herod the Great.

Funny, I don’t recall the US ever getting a say in how Pakistan’s government runs it’s affairs, nor have I been able to glean much in the way of enlightenment from the Constitution in that regard.

As for Benazir Bhutto, the former Prime Minister of the country, previously run out of the nation in 1998 amidst ever-growing and credible charges of corruption-well, she seems to be the new darling and cause celebre` of American politicians, particularly among the left. The trail regarding past evidence of her former misrule, scandal, and corruption, seems to have grown as cold as a stack of thousand dollar bills in Congressman William Jefferson’s freezer.

It seems we find ourselves constantly faced with three choices:

One-side with dictatorial regimes that do not represent American values and ideals out of a vain hope for stability in the face of economic and/or strategic concerns.

Two-side with allegedly pro-democracy movements and politicians, and make excuses when they turn out to be corrupt, or when the society they rule crashes and burns because most factions want democracy for their own selves but no one else.

Then, finally, there is choice number three-leave these people the fuck alone and let them be. In other words, follow the fucking constitution for the first time in going on seventy years. Trade with them if possible, and if not, do without. If we have to do without, call on that old-fashioned American inventiveness and ingenuity I keep hearing so much about. If any of them start any shit with us, bomb them off the face of the earth. Otherwise, again, leave them the fuck alone. Sure, give aid to those nations that really need it through no discernible fault of their own or their rulers, without any regard to the type of government they have. Help feed their hungry, clothe and shelter them, educate them, give them medical aid, even aid in development and infrastructure when appropriate. Then, in those cases where we discover that the money ends up stolen, misused, or misappropriated, never ever help them again.

How fucking hard can it be? Yeah, I am one of those evil “isolationists” you have probably heard about. I think it is going to be a growing trend myself. Actually, it is probably already a majority attitude among most Americans, and possibly even explains why pundits and politicians consider a 60 percent turnout among voters during a presidential election a huge turnout.

By the way, am I the only person that finds it a little odd that Benazir Bhutto, during her recent assassination attempt, just happened to get safely out of harms way at exactly the right instant? Kind of convenient, huh? Why, some of your more backwards, superstitious Muslims might well view that as a divine omen.

Just sayin’.

Hey, Felicity Huffman, Strike On This Dick

UGLY BEEYATCHH!!


The truth is out there-Duchovny, you're a dick. Bad news, Williams-you, nobody cares about.


Look at the fool in the ball jersey, yeah he wants a "pizza" that. So what does she bring? Dominoes, the cheap slut.


Hey, Hunter-bad news, bitch. Time for another face-lift.


Eva Longoria, Marcia Cross, and Nicolette Sheridan conspire to FUCK UP MY SUNDAYS!!!


Pose and smile for those cameras, cunt. Fuck you, I don't think I'm going to give your name.

The Fat Guy got it dead on right here:

"Who could tell the difference? All they do is re-makes and comic book rip-offs."

I was all for the writer's strike before I turned against it, and I pretty much turned against it when the actors all decided to join in solidarity with the striking writers and ruin my fucking television viewing, which totals an average of one hour a night. Here's how it pretty much breaks down.

Sunday-Desperate Housewives
Monday-Prison Break
Tuesday-House
Wednesday-Life
Thursday-The Office
Friday-Friday Night Lights
Saturday-Not a motherfucking thing.

I also watch, from time to time-My Name Is Earl, 30 Rock, and Boston Legal. It depends on what else I'm doing or need to be doing at the time.

In the case of Boston Legal, it depends on if I can even remember it's own. If I do, I watch it, but for some odd reason, I rarely remember it.

My Name Is Earl has gone from fucking hilarious the first year, to pretty funny the second year, to outright fucking stupid this year.

30 Rock is usually pretty good, but I'm usually doing something else at the time, which I make sure I finish up by the time the Office comes on. If I'm not finished, I put it off for the next thirty minutes.

Other than these shows, and 24, which of course is not currently on the schedule, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, on television that's worth my time. Yes, this includes Heroes, Lost, ER, Grey's Anatomy, and the fucking constant barrages of CSI and Law And Order franchises. Not interested.

I will say this, though, that as long as their demands are not too fucking unreasonable, the writers should be paid fairly for their work, including for the downloads and DVD sales that seem to be the major sticking point. Pony up and pay them.

Then, do something different. Make all of them actually earn their fucking money for once. No more of this ripping shit off "screaming from today's headlines" and calling it original, for example.

Thanks for the photos to The London Daily Mail

Looks Likes I Gots To Try Hardur

Cash Advance Loans

Hat Tip to Born Again Redneck, who is in the same class as myself (then again, though, so is Glenn Reynolds over at Instapundit).

and

Classical Values, a smart-ass high school punk.

Radu-Chapter XXIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Segments-

Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X

Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
ChapterXVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII

Part Three
Radu-Chapter XXIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
10 pages approximate

“No one is looking for me, Grace Rodescu”, Marlowe Krovell told his captive in the quiet of the darkened, burned out basement of what had once been Krovell’s Mortuary, now boarded up and condemned in the aftermath of the fire that all but gutted the century old building..

“The only one anyone is looking for is you,” he said as he approached the crypts that held the remians of all the Krovell ancestors, beginning with Vlad and Irenea Krovelescu, who immigrated to America from Romania in the late 1880’s.

Grace looked at him, curiously, wondering if he was attempting to trick her, perhaps toy with her, before he finally put an end to her existence, as he so easily had done to Joseph Karinsky and to Sierra Lawson.

“I have nowhere to go, and nothing to do there if I did,” she said. “You have disrupted my plans to such an extent”-

“Oh, the hell with it,” he said as he suddenly slammed his fist down on one of the old desks, a forty year old office desk that had escaped the recent blaze relatively unharmed.

Marlowe looked around, at the crypts, the only things left relatively unharmed, amused at the irony. He walked toward the one marked with the solitary identification “Radu”.

“You can yet make a new life for yourself,” he continued. “You can have everything you ever dreamed of. I know you have the proof you need against the old priests son-in-law.” “As I said, no one is looking for me. You can go if you please. I no longer care. You can still make a life for yourself.”

Marlowe indeed no longer cared. He rarely spoke over the course of the two weeks in which he held Grace Rodescu, at first as an unwilling captive. Now, she had no desire to leave.

“No, I’m afraid it’s over for me,” she told him gloomily. “Luckily, for you, Father Khoska never saw you at the church. Incredibly, the police are so incompetent they have managed somehow to identify one of the bodies they found here as being your own. I can only guess at how they come to that conclusion.”

“That was a body double,” Marlowe replied impatiently. “They were certainly competent enough to identify Brad Marlowe’s body, as well as Lynette Khoska’s. They correctly identified the seven other bodies that were here awaiting legitimate burial-cremation in two cases. Why would you think-

Grace looked down upon the cold, damp basement floor, morosely reviewing the past few days.

“Voroslav is turning state’s evidence against his Russian mob associates,” Grace explained. “A work associate left word on my e-mail, and on my answering service. When they went to my apartment, and to my safe deposit box, they found all the names, the ones I have worked so hard to collect over the last four years. They confronted him, accused him of complicity in my disappearance. They threatened to charge him with my murder. He folded, like the coward he has always been. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Tell them what you want,” he said. “I will keep you here no longer. You still have your life ahead of you. I have nothing but empty promises, and betrayals.”

Grace lifted her head up and looked at him. She knew he was insane, but she never imagined in her wildest dreams he would be this pessimistic. He seemed to live in a world of fantasy and illusion, and now, finally, seemed to be coming to terms, albeit slowly, with reality. He obviously did not care much for it, to say the least.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?” she asked. “I’ve never known anyone like you. The things you can do are beyond most people’s comprehension, yet now you act as if you do not care. So people think you are dead. What is so bad about that? You don’t have any idea how many times I wish I could be in just that position.”

“You don’t understand,” he explained, as he now turned to face her for the first time this day. “I counted on being able to present myself as alive and well. I planned to explain it as simple luck. I left the hospital in the midst of the confusion of the attack on the hospital. Brad Marlowe should have destroyed the body double, making it feasible that its identification as me was a false one.”

“You mean-he was in on it with you?”

“No! Mircea was manipulating him-or that was supposed to be the case. For some reason that I do not understand, Mircea failed me. Otherwise, he simple betrayed me. I believe that to be the case. He had his own ideas, his own plans, and I was merely a means to an end for him. He had no intention of saving Lynette.”

“She was to be entombed-not cremated. He failed to go through with the way things were supposed to be. My wife, whom I lost centuries ago, was to be united with me. Instead, he dangled her before me like a bauble in front of a child. Then, he pulled her away from me. That is because Mircea hates life. He wants nothing but death, and the grave. Still, he is not content merely to bring death and destruction. He wants to see it manifested among the living, in the form of suffering and despair, amidst the knowledge of hopelessness.

“That was his plan for me all along-to bring about death and suffering. The presence of my wife would have been incongruous with those purposes.”

He turned away from her, and looked upon the crypt containing what he claimed was his former body from centuries past. For a second, he almost forgot she was with him.

Grace knew she had to choose her words carefully. She had long ago given up trying to learn who exactly Mircea was, even though she somehow vaguely remembered him from her own past. He refused to speak of his old life-his supposed life in ancient days-other than in cryptic sentences that made no sense. When she pressed him on this, he insisted he did not want to relive those tragic days. The whole point, he explained, of having a new life was to have just that-a new life.

She decided early on he was suffering from some kind of delusion, and when she brought up the matter of the parents of Marlowe Krovell, she almost knew she was right. He reacted almost violently, a mixture of emotions at the mention of his mother especially almost overwhelming him with shame, anger, hatred, and depression. When she brought this up, he always gave the standard excuse that he possessed Marlowe’s brain, which stored all of Marlowe’s memories, and those memories included all the degrading, humiliating, and painful emotional traumas that Marlowe Krovell succeeded up to a point in burying deep within his subconscious-something he could not do.

All of those emotional traumas now lay bare on the surface of his conscious mind, and he had no control over them.

“Mircea probably planned it that way,” he concluded in disgust. Everything, he blamed on Mircea.

“So, what did you want with me anyway?” she asked him. “Do I not at least have the right to know that much?”

“Your blood,” he said matter-of-factly. “It is compatible with me. In fact, you could enable me to adapt to blood from anyone, not merely those who are pure, or spiritual purified.”

“And how would my blood manage to do that?”

“We have a connection, from the past-from Marlowe’s childhood,” he explained. “Naturally, I would not expect you to remember that. I was merely one among many, although I am fairly positive I was one of the first, if not the very first, that you serviced.”

“You mean-you were a client?” she asked.

He looked at her solemnly, for quite some time, as he obviously looked into the past at the same time. He could remember what she obviously could not or did not want to remember.

“My grandfather brought me to this house, out in the suburbs of Baltimore. It has long since burned down. You might remember that the owners, at least on paper, were a couple by the name of Mikhail and Nadia. There was another man there, a man who seemed to be a hired hand of sorts. I remember someone saying something about an electrical short he was to repair in one of the light switches. I also seem to remember that he was a chauffeur, bodyguard, carpenter, and did almost everything else of importance. After all, the nature of the house would make it impractical to hire outside help, for even the most incidental of matters.”

“Yes, that would have been Grozhny,,” Grace said, as suddenly the memories of those days came flooding back to her.

“Well, it was this Grozhny who took me to the basement, and who called each of the girls by name. I was afraid, as I had no idea what was really going on. I did not even want to look at them. There were a couple of boys there as well. They also looked at me and smiled. All of them looked at me and smiled. You did too in fact.

“Grozhny told me to pick one of the girls, or one of the boys if I preferred. I picked you, because, out of all the others, out of all those smiling faces”-

He stopped and looked at her, to gauge if she remembered. It was growing ever more difficult to read Grace Rodescu. She fascinated him, just as she did that long ago day when she was a girl of twelve, when he was a mere boy of seven.

“You were the only one that seemed to really be happy. That is why I picked you. You did things to me that day I never could have dreamed of. It felt so strange, so abhorrent, and yet, it was the most intensely satisfying feeling I have ever experienced.”

“I was well trained,” she replied. “Are you sure it was me?”

“Was there another Grace?” he asked.

“No, I was the only Grace,” she replied. “There were many little boys brought there, and I serviced quite a few of them. I am sorry I do not remember you, but you see, most of those times I was high on heroin. It would be impossible for me to remember everyone.

“I do find it curious that you continually refer to yourself as Marlowe,” she noted. “You insist you are not him, yet you identify strongly with him at the same time. So, what will you do? Marlowe’s supposed fake body is in the morgue, and will probably soon be brought back here for entombment. From what I’ve heard, after this house is torn down, all the bodies entombed here will remain in their crypts. The land will become a private Krovell family mausoleum. It would be a simple matter for you to remove this fake body and destroy it. There is no reason you cannot then pursue your original plans. I don’t see what the problem is.”

“I told you, I no longer care,” he insisted. “You can leave here at any time, as I said. You can say what you wish. It is of no concern to me. As for Marlowe Krovell-not I but the true Marlowe Krovell”-he looked at her firmly when he said this-

“He is leading me in an entirely different direction,” he continued, “from what I had planned. Yet, the more I accede to his old desires, the more I run the chance of allowing him to reassert his will. If he were to come back to life, to take over the consciousness of his old body, he would regret it. He would find out the hard way the life force that now powers this mortal frame would not afford the kind of life he would endear himself to easily.

“Why should you care about that?” Grace asked. “You insist you don’t care anyway, and you act like you would just as soon die as continue. So, why not follow his urges, see where they lead you? What possible harm could it do? Either you maintain your life, or he takes over. At least, you are doing something besides wallowing in depression, worrying about it.”

He walked off, his head down, and she decided to allow him this space. As insane as he was, he was entirely unpredictable. Then, he bowed, down on one knee, as he craned his head up toward the sky, what part of it was now visible through the ravaged floor above his head. Then, he began to groan. It was low, and guttural. There was no way of knowing what state of mind he would be in within the next few minutes, or even seconds. Grace knew all too well of his capacity for violence and murder. He could very easily have been playing with her, for all she knew, to gauge the level of her trustworthiness. On the other hand, she knew full well, he would feel no need to do this. He needed no protection from her. However, he might well have need of her. If he did not, she might well be insignificant to him. The last thing Grace Rodescu could stomach was being insignificant.

“So, why Marlowe?” she asked. “I mean, why him in particular. From what you told me, when you lived before, you were much older than he was. What possible use could you have for a twenty-three year old heroin addict?”

He stopped his groaning, and slowly rose, and turned to her.

“You are still here, I see,” he observed. “Very well, I will tell you. Marlowe is my descendant. I am his ancestor. He is directly descended from me by way of my daughter. He is not descended from me through the Krovelescus, but through a gypsy woman by the name of Magda, whose daughter married into the Krovelescu family.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful with you, by the way. I know what you need now, more than anything else. You yourself are a heroin addict, and you are feeling the need for it now, are you not? Well, so do I. That is another thing Marlowe has given me. I could have done without it, but again, Mircea set the whole thing in motion. I would have as soon possessed Marlowe’s father, who was indeed closer to my own true age at my death years ago. Still, Marlowe’s addiction made him easier to control.

“And really, Grace, what man in his forties would not kill to be a man once more in his early twenties? What would you, yourself, give to be able to be young again, even though you are not that old yet?”

She just looked at him in confusion. She knew well what he meant, and knew it was common, though not with her. She had never had any desire to be anything other than what she was.

“I never really gave that any thought,” she said.

“Go, Grace Rodescu-go and get your heroin,” he said. “You see, that is another reason I wanted you. Despite my addiction, despite my need for heroin, this body cannot process heroin in the manner necessary to curtail the ravages of withdrawal that even now afflict me. I must have you in order to do that. Taking your blood while you are under the influence of heroin will enable me to gain the satisfaction I crave.

“Like I said, I no longer care,” he continued. “You may go, do what you will. Why you would willingly come back here, I have no idea. I have this strange idea though that you will-you will.”

He looked at her when he said this, and then lowered his head. Grace looked toward the open space where a dresser in Marlowe’s parents room had crashed down first to the first floor funeral parlor, and then to the basement, where it shattered on the concrete floor into dozens of pieces. The roof as well had collapsed, along with the old attic floor, which had rotted in spots, weakened by previous years of leaks in the old roof, which went for years without repair.

She knew that the nighttime sky, which even now began to herald the approaching dawn, only held the empty promise of freedom. There was no freedom anywhere. There was only power and control, or slavery and servitude. That, along with wealth and influence, was all there was worth truly living for. That and, of course, the prospect of vengeance.

“I’ll be back, probably later tonight, maybe sooner,” she promised. “I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

She turned and made her way toward the stairs, half way expecting him to stop her and end her existence in the space of a heartbeat. Yet, she made it to the steps, and started walking up them carefully, and then more assuredly, as she decided he might well misinterpret caution on her part. She was halfway up when he stopped her.

“By the way, Grace Rodescu,” he said. “Before you leave, there is one thing more you should know.”

She stopped and turned to face him. Now surely to God he is not going to tell me he loves me, she thought.

“What is it, Marlowe?” she asked.

“You are pregnant,” he replied. As he said this, he never turned, but then he did. It was easy to gauge her level of disbelief. For the first time in the roughly two weeks he held her here, she laughed.

“I am incapable of becoming pregnant, or at least I am unable to carry a child full term,” she replied. “I’m afraid you are wrong. Besides, the last person I had sex with was Sierra, and that’s been three moths ago. It’s been more than six months since I had sex with a man. There has been no need to. How could I possibly be pregnant, and who would I be pregnant by?”

He now glared at her in a kind of silent anger that almost withered her.

“You are pregnant by me,” he replied. When he said this, she felt her knees buckle, and she grabbed hold of the banister, fearing as she did so that it might well give with her. She steadied herself, as he looked at her, almost as though to look inside her womb.

“Go get your heroin, Grace,” he told her.

She looked at him, her shocked gaze rooted firmly on his cold, steely eyes, as he maintained an unflinching gaze on her, taking in her reaction, until she nervously turned to leave, slowly, and yet, hastily. She walked through the door, and left without closing it.

He stood firmly to the spot, suddenly shivered, and then almost collapsed. The sun was growing more ominous, and soon, a half light would illuminate the partially exposed basement. He once more approached the crypts, as the shadows began to manifest, along with the voices from the grave. He was alone with them now, all of them, the spirits of the dead that awaited his company. He only knew two of them. The rest were a blur. They mumbled incoherently, in shouted whispers that made his head hurt.

Richard and Mabel walked out from the darkness of the shadows. Richard as always seemed to flicker like a ghostly flame, though more steadily than a flame, as he looked upon the figure of his son with a dismissive attitude of scorn, anger, disappointment, and ridicule, while Mabel looked upon him with her typical flourish of exaggerated and mocking lust. However, they were not alone. They brought someone with them. A girl, a very young girl, stepped up from behind Richard, who viewed her approach with a triumphant sneer, as Marlowe trembled in pained agony.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“You know who I am, Marlowe, you weirdo,” the teenage girl said sarcastically. “You always were a little pervert. I bet you enjoyed looking at my pussy when I lay on your embalming table dead, didn’t you, Marlowe? Did you feel of my pussy, Marlowe? Did you want to stick it in me?”

Linda Bellamy looked at him mockingly, and then laughed, as he trembled. All the others then joined her laughter, including Richard and Mabel. He was growing sicker by the minute. He wanted to throw up, but he could not. He had nothing in him to vomit, and so his body shook. He felt as though something was ripping him apart from the inside out. Soon, he would go through convulsions.

“I hate you Marlowe, you little nerd,” she said. “I always hated you. No one could ever stand you. You are more than a little nerd. You are a perverted little bastard. You always were-just a perverted little motherfucker. What is wrong, Marlowe? Does the truth hurt?”

He tried to steady himself, as he looked at the figures standing around him.

“I am not Marlowe,” he told them all. “I am someone else entirely. I am someone who is going to send you all to the hell where you belong.”

They looked at him now with attitudes of uncertainty, even of dread, though they attempted to hide the concern they felt at his sudden assertion of determination.

“You will never be rid of me, Marlowe,” Mabel said. “You will never want to be rid of me. You could never resist me, could you, Marlowe? You remember what fun we used to have, when your father was not around.”

“Oh, I knew all about it,” Richard then said.

“When the sun is finished rising, it will dispel the darkness, and it will take you away with it, never to return,” Marlowe adamantly declared.

The sun was even now filling the basement room with its light, and the spirits of the dead that now waited within started now to groan. Richard, Mabel, and Linda started more than ever before to betray glimpses of anguished dread. Marlowe kept his steel gaze upon them, though all of the time he trembled with ever growing pain.

Not only was the withdrawal putting him in abject misery, but the approaching sunlight, though indirect, heightened his agony. He maintained his balance, as they looked upon him with anticipation. Then, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder. He stayed rooted to the spot. He had no need to turn around. He knew who she was.

“Marlowe, you must stop this,” she said. “You are going to destroy yourself.”

“This is what you wanted, old woman,” he said. “Up until the time you died, you continually exposed your grandchildren to the mists from the accursed trunk that held my remains, hoping one of them would eventually provide the avenue for my reemergence to the land of the living.

“All you accomplished was their deaths. What ones did not die, went insane. Look at them. They are all here, Magda. Do you remember how you exposed the two oldest children, the boy and girl? Do you remember how the girl died of some disease that necessitated her quarantine from everyone, even her parents? Do you recall how the boy then went insane, and set fire to the house, killing the two youngest children, whom he felt were possessed by the same spirit that destroyed his sister? You should remember it well-the entire city was set ablaze. He was so overwhelmed with guilt and despair at his actions, he hung himself.”

“They were not strong enough,” she said. “It had to be done.”

“Yes, and that was not enough for you, was it?” he continued. “You continued when the next child as born, and exposed him as well. When that did not work, you exposed his two sons. When their mother objected, their father ran her off. Do you remember that? You continued, both with Marlowe’s grandfather and with his brother. All you managed to accomplish was their corruption and in the case of the one, his eventual destruction as well.

“Even after you died, you would not relent. You raised your daughter to continue the same rituals, so that when Richard was born, and his brother, she exposed them to the gases as well. Then, she buried my remains beside yours, in the open dirt. That should have been the end of it. You have waited a long time, old woman, and have finally succeeded. My only question to you, is why? What was the reason for this? What could you possibly hope to gain?”

He now turned to face the ancient old woman, now joined by yet another ancient old woman, one even older, the woman who was in fact Magda’s daughter, over a century old at her death.

“Why in the hell could you not let me rest in peace?” he yelled at the two of them.

“You poor ungrateful fool,” Magda replied. “I and my daughter carried on the tradition that was started by your own daughter, do you not see that?”

This shocked him, and he collapsed, as the surrounding spirits now regained their strength, and drew closer to him.

“You could never rest in peace, due to the manner of your death,” Magda insisted. “Had I tried to bring you peace, it would have been a mockery of centuries of tradition. It would have been meaningless and empty. It would have been a betrayal of your daughter’s wishes and demands. Not only would it have brought a curse upon my family and me, it would have been for nothing. Your spirit would have remained locked within that iron trunk, screaming impotently for vengeance, throughout all eternity.”

He now groaned in pain, no longer able to control the degree of his reaction to both the light that filtered in stronger through the floor opening, and to the ever-increasing intensity of heroin withdrawal that racked his fevered body with convulsions. Finally, he doubled over and vomited what appeared to be a mass of bloody tissue.

“Please, Radu, take refuge from this light, before it destroys you,” she begged him. She then tugged at him, trying to draw his attention once more to the wraiths that yet stood watching his every move, curiously and derisively, at times even piteously.

“They are not the problem, Radu,” she said. “You-you are the problem.”

He looked once more upon them, as waves of assurance suddenly drifted over him. He approached the girl, whom he in his childhood naivety imagined once that he loved.

“You are right, Linda,” Marlowe said. “I had a big crush on you. I thought you were something special. I guess every teenage boy that gets a crush on a girl thinks there is nothing like her, huh? Of course, it was nothing but raging hormones. Now, I can see you a little clearer now. There was not anything special about you. You were just another little girl, just another face in the crowd. All the guys you used to like are all married now, for the most part. Not one single one of them so much as gives you a thought now. If they do, they probably think the same thing I do-what the hell was wrong with me?”

By the time she completely faded away in the light, he had already turned his back upon her, and faced his father, who yet flashed on and off again, repeatedly, though now his facial features revealed not a phantasmagoria of concurrent critical appraisals, but the single emotion of dread. Marlowe steadied himself with some effort as he addressed him.

“You are worthless. I am almost sorry I killed you, because you certainly were not worth the effort, or the expense and time of your funeral, which, by the way, your own father and mother could not be bothered to attend. You know, we almost had to beg your fellow country club members to come. Oh, a small number of them did come, though it took some doing on Uncle Brad’s part to convince them to do so.

“Once they realized there was no bequest to any of their pet charities coming their way, they could not leave quickly enough. Had any less people come, Uncle Brad and I would have had to endure the humiliation of hiring pallbearers. Go on and leave here. No one wanted you when you lived, and no one wants you here now.”

His father’s wraith flickered ever slower, until it suddenly stopped, and he appeared almost as a still picture from a projector, his aspect one of abject humiliation, as Marlowe turned, at which point he simply vanished. Marlowe now turned towards his mother, Mabel, who seem now terrified, and desperate, as she slowly backed away from him.

“Where are you going mother?” he asked. “Don’t you want to have sex with me? You always wanted to before. I used to be ashamed of it. Well, not anymore. I admit, a part of me always enjoyed it, and now that you have gone, I think I am going to miss it from time to time. That is all right, though. I’m sure I will find others, which you can no longer do, of course, now that you are dead and gone.

“And you are gone, you know. Oh, your spirit is here, for now, but not for long. When you get to wherever it is you are going, I hope you think about me all the time, mom. You see, I know you will. You will miss all the good times we used to have, and will wish to have them back more and more as each second passes. Of course, you will never have those times back, mother. I do not really care, of course. Well, you know that old saying-it was fun while it lasted.”

“You can’t do this to me!” she shouted desperately. “You can’t send me away. You will always remember me. You will never forget me.”

“Oh, you are probably right, mother,” he said as he unzipped his trousers. He soon produced his penis, now partially erect, as he looked at her with a scathingly violent and derisive lust.

“After all, I am sure you will never forget me. Here, do you want to suck my dick just one more time before you go-just for old time’s sake? Who in the hell needs a bedtime story anyway, when they have a mother that will swallow? What more could any innocent, trusting child ask for?”

Mabel suddenly seemed to mirror Marlowe’s own convulsive state, as she shook, trembled uncontrollably, her face going through such contortions as to make it distorted almost beyond recognition. Then, with a final shriek, she vanished.

By now, however, Marlowe was too sick to feel any kind of triumph. He felt a quick death would be a blessing, as he was by now too weak to remove himself from the ever growing penetration of the sun’s rays. Were he in direct sunlight, he realized, he would be a mass of ulcerated sores.

Suddenly, it grew darker, as the sky above seemed suddenly overcast. It might be a brief reprieve, he realized. Unfortunately, he still felt too weak to remove himself from this area. He might seek refuge in one of the broom closets, but he doubted he had even that much strength. He wanted Cynthia, and gazed up toward the opening. She could save him, and in fact, she might well be his only hope.

“Cynthia sleeps,” he heard the voice of the old gypsy woman say. “She may only come to you at night. You may not be strong enough to last until then. You are stubborn, Radu. You were always stubborn. That was always your downfall.”

“Shut the fuck up!” he commanded her. “Why in the hell did you bring me here anyway? Why did you take me from my homeland, to this vile country? I do not belong here in this land, or in this time. If I die this day, I do not care, it is just as well. If I do live, I will find a way to go home, I promise you that.”

“You do not want to go there,” he heard another voice say, the voice of a man. He turned to see the wraith of the man who had been Marlowe’s uncle George, his form the appearance of a decomposed corpse, his face as well as his body half-eaten by rats, which yet crawled all over him. As Marlowe gazed at him in horror, one of them popped his head out of his stomach, held his head up in the air as he sniffed in Marlowe’s direction. Then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he vanished inside the gruesome cadaver, as another followed behind him.

“Romania is a hell of a place,” he said. “Here is where the action is.”

“All you need is a good woman,” another of the wraiths said, as Marlowe turned to behold the beaten and battered corpse of Raymond Krovell.

“American women are fucking sluts, but European women are just too old fashioned. All women are whores, but why should you have to marry one just to get a piece of ass, boy? Take my advice-fuck ‘em and forget ‘em.”

He chuckled, a mirthless laugh all the while his brains seeped out from his crushed skull.

“That’s where my wife went, back to Romania, and good fucking riddance,” observed the pale, corpulent wraith of Marlowe’s great-grandfather. “She probably spent the rest of her life passed around from first one commie thug to another. She probably fucked every man in the country for a pack of cigarettes or a cheap bottle of booze, the bitch.”

As the bitter old spirit railed, Marlowe saw the impression of blood pounding through a throbbing vein at the temple of his balding head, as his face contorted while turning purple with rage. Then, another spirit stepped up, a spirit dressed in the uniform of an American lieutenant, the corpse as well as its nearly century old uniform riddled with bullet holes.

“I went to Romania,” he said. “You see what it got me, don’t you? I’m just another dead and forgotten hero.”

Marlowe was now dizzy, and growing weaker by the minute, as the most ancient of the old women now started humming a nonsensical tune that seemed disjointed, as she swayed back and forth, her head nodding as she closed her eyes, and Magda, the old gypsy woman, once more approached him.

“You can never go back there, Radu,” she told him. “There is nothing for you there. It is an insignificant place now, and has been for centuries. It becomes more like here every day, only not so much in the ways that really matter. Believe me, in time you will understand, this is where you need to be. I came here for a reason.”

As Marlowe tried desperately to understand the words of the old gypsy woman, he was approached by yet another of the shadowy wraiths, one who became clearer upon his approach. He now looked upon the form of a young teenage boy, a boy whose broken neck forced his head to slant over to one side, almost completely over on his right shoulder. His eyes bulged out as his swollen tongue protruded though his lips.

“You have to help us, sir,” he said. “Please, stay and help. Make it all right.”

Marlowe then felt a slight tugging at his shirt, and looked to see the hand of a child, and then the badly burned body of the little girl who gazed up at him, her face a mass of burns.

“You should really stay here mister,” she said. “We need you here.”

“We really do need your help,” yet another child said, a boy that looked to be maybe a couple of years older, as badly burned as the little girl. “We’ve been waiting for a long, long time.”

“But what do you expect me to do?” Marlowe said, his confusion only serving to heighten his agony. “I have no way to help you.”

At this point, the older of the two old women started wailing, crying frantically, as an old man suddenly joined her in her tears, and reached out to her, holding her in his arms, whispering to her. Yet, the old woman seemed not to hear anything, as Marlowe looked around, at them, the two young children, and all the others who stood all around him, gazing at him with hopelessness and yet, some kind of faith. It was a faith instilled in them all from their earliest days, a faith that remained with them throughout their lives, a faith they took with them to their graves-and a faith that manifested itself on this day, a day in which the overcast clouds now blocked out completely the light of the sun.

Marlow felt his strength return, and yet he hungered more, and was weak, so famished was he.

Marlowe looked past the two horribly burned children, to see the form of what appeared to be a young teenage girl, over in the corner, moaning and crying in despair. Marlowe walked towards her as the others cleared a path for him.

“Why do you cry?” he asked the girl as he felt himself becoming very sad, and at the same time, very angry.

She looked up at him, and Marlowe could not help but react in horror at the sight of the young girl, racked with fever, her face a mass of swollen knots and boils, pus draining from them, as her swollen eyes gazed steadily up toward his, with a gaze of approaching death manifested in her visage and demeanor. He knew that look very well, for it had led to his own death, and his eventual curse. He realized as well where this girl had, while living, contracted the fatal disease, and it caused his heart to burn like molten lava.

“If you do not help us,” she said. “It will make all our deaths meaningless.”

As he said this, the old man that previously attempted vainly to comfort the older of the two old women now stood beside the distraught young girl, who collapsed her head upon his calve and held tightly, as he now glared at Marlowe in a mixture of disappointment and anger.

“Have you no shame, sir?” he asked. “Do you know who she is? She is my child, but she is also your own. All of these others here are, in fact, sir, your children. Will you just abandon them, after they died on your behalf, every single one of them, in the most miserable ways imaginable?

Marlowe turned from the old man in shame, hurt at the accusation. Magda walked up to him, and looked steadily at him.

“What would you have me do?” he asked.

“Follow your destiny, the way it was meant to unfold,” she answered. “That is all you have to do, Radu. It is more than merely Romania. It is more even than this one place, and this one time. The whole world has what is coming to it, and deserves to suffer. It has been a long time coming.”

“I don’t really care about the world,” Marlowe objected weakly.

“Good, very good,” she replied with a sudden cackle. “You are not supposed to care.”

“There are things though that I care about,” Marlowe said. “There are things that have been taken from me.”

“You will see to all of it, in time,” Magda replied. “You have only a little time left, and all will be made right. You know what you have to do next. In time, it will all be made clear to you.”

Marlowe looked at her, suddenly strong, though the hunger yet afflicted him. The pain he felt from the light of the sun now was gone. The old room with its ancient, vengeful spirits now once more prevailed in darkness. The clouds that now blocked out the sun seemed to make their way into what remained of the basement, and the spirits one by one began to fade away, until only the old gypsy woman remained.

“You will see me and all of us again soon,” she said. “Never forget us, Radu. Our spirits will yet give you the strength you need when the time comes. You must be strong.”

In one brief instant, as Magda faded from view, Marlowe Krovelescu could see the world’s masses, groaning in agony, the alleys and streets lined with corpses left to the rats and other vermin, while gangs of roving thugs viciously attacked the weak and the helpless. He saw children fall prey to their parents, and parents to their children, while the sanctity of marriage transformed into a brothel of violence and rape. The elderly as well were without hope, without comfort, with no promise of security, as the entire world gave way to chaos and hatred. All attempts to restore order became futile, as suicide and even infanticide became an accepted means of hastening the relief of death for both young and old.

Marlowe Krovell saw the entire world in flames, with the sky over the entire world blocked from any light from the sun. He saw what was left of the world, what was left of those who yet lived, succumb daily to a dreaded disease for which there was no cure, for which there was no relief from suffering.

Marlowe Krovell saw all these things, and he collapsed to the floor in anguish. For the first time, in a long, long time, he cried, as through the dark gray smoke, two giant ruby red eyes peered into him, while a figure suddenly walked towards him. As it got closer, he could see clearly, through the clouds, the figure of a young girl, naked and bloody, battered and raped, as she walked painfully, yet with a calm assurance, towards him.

“I never really gave it any thought before now,” she said. “Death is within me, and is my world, and my only hope. Death is the greatest of all powers, and is in fact the only power that matters. Without death, there can be no purification. Without purification, there can be no healing. Without healing, there can be no life. Without life, there can only be peace, and peace is an abomination. That is why the dead must make way for the newborn. That is why the world must die, Marlowe. The world has grown old and stagnant. It has to end.”

He turned briefly, staggered at the intensity of the young girl who looked upon him with baleful eyes that danced and shimmered of hatred and hope. Suddenly, he feared her, for her purpose was to strengthen him, to reassure him. He did not want that reassurance, however.

“Why must I do this?” he asked. “Why was I chosen? I did not want this. I only wanted another chance to make things right.”

“The world has to end before a new one can begin,” she said as he turned from her in despair. “That means everything has to end. You can end it, or you can end with it. It will end regardless-that is fate.”

“Why did you return?” he demanded. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see the fully-grown Grace Rodescu, naked and swaying, as the heroin now coursed through her veins, her pupils dilated with the power that swarmed through her innermost being. He could feel its power flowing through her as he took her by the back of the neck. She smiled at him lasciviously.

“I never really left,” she said, as he now felt entranced, drawn irresistibly to the dreamlike state she now manifested within herself.

He pulled her head back by her hair, and baring his fangs, sunk them deep within her jugular vein.

Farewell To A God (Year In Review)

As the old year draws to a close, I give thanks to the god Erechthonius, for all his past guidance, his wisdom, his comfort, and direction, as he makes ready for his departure to the realm of the dead, from whence he will soon rise, after he takes some comfort within the arms (and stuff) of the goddess, of course. In the meantime-




In other words, it's time for a roundup of the past years observations, reflections, and rants.

Scorpio-Yep, what better astrological sign to dwell on the meaning of the myth of Persephone while musing on it's likely inspirations, with The Rape Of The Maiden


For that matter, Jesse James did some looting and pillaging in his day, and what did he get for all his trouble? A cautionary tale for all those who think politics is a noble profession.

If Jesse's story don't prove that point, just look at how poor old Saddam Hussein ended up. All that hard work for nothing.

Of course, some people don't mind being abused. Dakota Fanning didn't even mind being raped, she'll have you know.

All this violence, rape, mayhem, and overall nastiness got me to thinking, just What Would Gandhi Do? I came to the conclusion the old boy was a bit of a whack job.

Hey, we all have our faults, in fact, I even went so far as to defend the indefensible-Rosie O'Donnell-in Whack Jobs Have Rights Too.

Some whack jobs though, well, what can you say, some of them you are better off just washing your hands of them. At least you'd damn well better if you shake hands with Sheryl Crow.


CBS washed it's hands of Don Imus, and MSNBC did too. I've missed the old fart ever since.

But that's the media for you. As long as you make them money, you can get by with almost anything. And, as Paris Hilton found out, if you have potential, they'll give you a helping hand.

What do they think she is, a goddess or something. Well, considering who I discovered the Stregha goddess Aradia might well be based on, that's entirely possible.

The Japanese of course have a far more practical view of wanton women. Fuck 'em and forget 'em. Well, I say they should at least pay them the going rate.

If Captain America had known about those antics back int he day, he would have been incensed. Nowadays, unfortunately, Marvel Comics decided they didn't want to deal with any controversy, so they killed the good captain off.

Some heroes just ain't what they are all cracked up to be. Some gods aren't either. Take for example, the Mychaenaean God Enyalios and the Christian Jesus Christ. Not the kind of guys you want to turn to to put out a fire.

Well, some people just outlive their usefulness, don't they? I think so, and that is precisely why I'm glad this woman was killed.

But, let's end the year on a high note, shall we? Since that motherfucking Al Gore won the Nobel Prize, by God, I think I deserve one too.

Real Witches Ball Mask Of Depravity

Former author AJ Drew makes an attempt in the accompanying picture to prove the allegations of brain damage he is always claiming. According to Drew, the "ritual" at the International Real Witches Ball was a solemn affair. Reportedly, five surviving victims of past child abuse related the accounts of their purported abuse. Afterwards, Drew presided over the ritual conducted aimed at Gavin and Yvonne Frost in effigy.

The bulk of the ritual consisted of copies of the Real Witches Bible withdrawn from the rear body cavities of the effigies, made to simulate their anuses. Drew and his wife Aimee both performed this action, whereupon they read the offending passages from the book, which Drew insists, to any who will listen (an audience which grows increasingly smaller as time marches on) that the passages in question mark the book as a "pedophilac instructional".

After reading the passage, the books were then literally shoved back up the Frosts's asses, from which, according to Drew, they shat them out.

The following pictures will serve as an illustration of the "sacred" nature of the proceedings.




One can only wonder that, if this was actually a magical ritual, involving group power raising and energy conducting techniques aimed at the frsots, exactly what these people are going to draw back their way. I bet it won't be pretty. Let's move on to the next picture for a particularly gruesome display




In this picture, an unidentified woman pours an apparently alcoholic beverage down the oral cavity of one of the effigies, in an apparent protest of a part of the book in which it is suggested that young children are to be intoxicated with mead following a fast, before they are ritually deflowered.

She is of course taking Drew's words on faith, a classic mark of the brainwashed in all ages. AJ Drew has continually misrepresented the fasting process as one in which celebrants are denied all food for a period of time. In fact, actual fasting typically involves a reduction of food intake, and limitation as to type of food. Nor is there any proof that underage children were actually initiated in this manner, or in fact in any manner, sexually or otherwise, by the Frosts, who added the offending chapters in their book thirty five years ago as a means of pointing out the cultural historicity in their view (probably wrongly) of such ritual initiations in ages past.

In fact, The Church of Wicca, founded and operated to this day by the Frosts and their daughter, Bronwyn, take no initiates under the age of eighteen years old. When the book was written, by the way, Bronwyn was a little tyke. She is now a major officiating leader of The Church And School of Wicca, and has firmly stated she was never abused sexually or otherwise by her parents.

But hell, why let a little thing like the truth put a damper on the festivities? Let's see what else the gang is up to, shall we?




This all kind of puts you in mind of Krystalnacht, doesn't it? Brown shirted thugs-in this case a group of Nazi witches-encouraging ritual violence against a couple of elderly people in the name of purifying Wicca, and Paganism, so it can be what AJ Drew wants it to be. Judging by AJ's views as regarding the First Amendment, which he insists is meant to protect "society"-not individual freedom of expression-I would imagine one can make the case Drew holds a rather collectivist view of Paganism.




Of course, we can haggle over what it all means. Druid adherent Shadowhawk, from whom I derived these pictures, claims they are Nazis, and compares Drew to a wannabe Hitler. I am beginning ot think he is possibly correct, though in some regards they strike me more as communists. Whether they are one thing or another, I know one thing for a fact-they are as much of a fringe movement among pagans as any other fringe group.

There are many people who take exception to what the Frosts wrote in Good Witches Bible who take just as great or greater exception to AJ Drew and the antics of him and is followers.

In fact, I went through a whole lot of past pages in Witchvox today, and found no mention of this event. Drew of course will insist that Witchvox is being unfair, or are corrupt, or whatever. The point is, if this had popular support among large groups of pagans, it would be impossible for them to ignore it.

After all, I am certainly not in AJ Drew's corner, and here I am talking about it, huh?

FIIZZZZZZZZZ-That is the sound of the little dud firecracker that was the Real Witches Ball-hardly the dynamite blast reverberating throughout the pagan community AJ Drew assumed it would be.

Thanks to the images goes to Shadowhawk over at Pagan Perspectives

Costume For A Catwoman

Catwoman Livea-Trick Or Treat?



Who could ask for anything more?