The Killer Rabbit Chronicles

Not too long after his first and only term as President of The United States ended with his disappointing and humiliating defeat by Ronald Reagan in 1980, Jimmy Carter related how, while on a fishing trip, his fishing boat was boarded by what he described as a "killer rabbit". It looked at him, growled menacingly, and then departed, evidently hopping away before the stunned Carter had time to process the sudden phenomenon.

What he probably actually saw was something known as a Neutra, a small mammal that frequents fresh water, can be noticeably hostile if suddenly encountered, and is in fact more the appearance of a dark brown rat.

This is not the first time Jimmy Carter has misread or misinterpreted the facts in front of his own eyes to absurd effect. Unfortunately, it is unlikely to be the last. His latest antics, however, are more potentially horror story than ridiculously comedic farce.

This article in US News And World Report by Mort Zuckerman details what might well be the most extreme example of not only misinterpretation, but perhaps a profound state of denial, and even outright deception by the former President in regards to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

Could Jimmy Carter possibly pick a worse time to meet with the leaders of Hamas? This is something that might have a dramatic and even drastic vital influence on the current Presidential race. Whoever the eventual Democratic nominee is, whether Clinton or Obama, that candidate could have the entirety of the Carter legacy to deal with, hanging about their shoulders like some kind of hateful albatross.

It would be bad enough that Carter will undoubtedly have a seat of honor at the convention. He will most assuredly give his voiced support to the eventual nominee. He will likely be treated in a deferential matter at some point during the convention.

All of that would be bad enough without Carter's recent grandstanding regarding his current Middle East tour. Carter's Presidency has inflicted a visible scar on the American psyche that becomes more pronounced with every provocation by the power-hungry Shiite Mullahs whom he, by his policies, helped install in Iran. Strike that "helped" bit, he made it possible, and even inevitable. It would not at all be inappropriate were Tehran renamed Jimmy Carter City in recognition of his contribution from their perspective.

Every terrorist act conducted by every terrorist group supported by the government of Iran can be placed squarely on the doorstep of Jimmy Carters Iran policy. Every act of murder and repression perpetrated on Iranians and others by that murderous regime has Carter's fingerprints at the scene of the crime.

At least in part due to the chaos engendered by the Carter years, you can also thank him, by the way, for the inordinately high cost of oil and gasoline.

Now, he turns around and adds this recent trip and meeting with Hamas to his list of initiatives.

The Israelis have denounced the deal and even went so far at one point to announce they would not cooperate with Carter's security detail. His welcome at Ben Gurion Airport was with minimal attendance. In fact, no elected officials greeted him. Hardly surprising, when you consider Carter has referred to Israel repeatedly as a Zionist apartheid government, while simultaneously engaging in the most obvious denials and deceptions concerning the activities of Hamas. One might legitimately wonder if, in fact, Carter is acting as a paid lobbyist for the radical Islamic terrorist group that Carter unbelievably denies is a terrorist organization.

The Democratic Party of course will gloss over Carter's pernicious influence to their overall detriment when they laud him for his one valuable contribution in encouraging and helping to forge a peace deal between Egypt and Israel. As laudable as that was, like the similarly welcome peace treaty it led to between Israel and Jordan, it is an exception to the overall Carter foreign policy legacy. It is almost like a blip on the radar screen by comparison to the overall foreign policy disaster that was the Carter Administration

The Democrats, during the course of this election, can try to play hard and loose with the facts of those long-ago years, when Jimmy Carter turned his back on a dependable ally in the Shah of Iran and so paved the way for the pernicious reign of the Ayatollah Khomeini and his successors. They can feign a kind of moral equivalence based on the Shah's own admittedly bloody and repressive regime.

Of course, comparing the Shah to the Ayatollahs is like comparing the Dark Ages to the Renaissance-and this by the way would be from the perspective of most Iranians. That just won't wash with most of us.

Unfortunately for the Democrats, thanks to this latest insanity that is the arrogance of Jimmy Carter, they will now have to deal with it as an open and on-going issue of profound importance. They will not be able to ignore it.

Jimmy Carter is a fool. No one takes him seriously. I suspect even the radical left-wing sees him as a useful idiot.

To paraphrase John Kerry-how do you ask a candidate to be the last one to sacrifice his campaign for a mistake? A better question might well be, why should they? They could easily denounce this latest Carter initiative in no uncertain terms, and should. However, I fear they will not in any more than the most tepid, timid terms, if that.

In the meantime, the Killer Rabbit strikes again, hopping to and fro, and the Killer Rabbit Chronicles will probably be an ongoing series. Where will the Killer Rabbit make his next appearance?

Only time will tell if he manages to put in an appearance at the next White House Easter Egg Roll.

John McCain-A History Of Bipartisense

This article in Slate goes a long way toward explaining John McCain's tendency to cross the aisle and to try to achieve bipartisan solutions to problems. Thanks to Mo Udall, that is precisely what got him where he is today.

Regardless of what you think of McCain-whether you believe he really is a Maverick, a calculating politician who is just too clever by half, or simply just another RINO, it would be difficult for even the most jaded and cynical to be untouched by this story.

Ironically, by the time he's through, he might single-handedly demolish any urges among the American people for politicians to "put aside their differences and get to work for the American people", to use a commonly overused bit of phraseology.

Maybe McCain is a unique, well-meaning individual who is simply too honorable to be a partisan. Unfortunately, as long as the two major political parties have a death grip on Washington politics, partisanship might well turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

McCain, in the end, might conceivably turn out to be just another well-meaning chump who, for all his arguably good intentions, might do more harm than good. This of course is even giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Antiochus Epimanes

Antioch University went from what many considered a great institution to what might accurately be described as an asylum. Unfortunately, in this case, the inmates are running the asylum, and seem to be having serious difficulties attracting new customers.

I went into this story here, but it begs a revisit, since as of June 1st, it looks as though Antioch will be closed, presumably for at least a year. It is in debt, and needs more than twelve million dollars to satisfy its creditors.

And now, the madness continues as the end approaches.

Antioch University officials are still hoping for an 11th-hour agreement with the Antioch College Continuation Corporation, a group of wealthy alumni created to negotiate independence for Antioch College, despite rejecting the group's "best and final" offer on Friday, March 29.

But a late announcement Saturday night that the university would seek offers from "any party" to help the ACCC come up with $12.2 million cash at closing does not mean the university is for sale, spokeswoman Lynda Sirk said Tuesday, April 1.

But the ACCC said Tuesday it's too late to close a deal and still meet regulatory approvals to open the college in the fall. The only offer on the table now is a "10-10" proposal: $10 million now in exchange for 10 of the 19 seats on the board of trustees.

"This way the college can stay open because the same entity owns the college, but allows us more time to work on independence," said Eric Bates, co-chair of ACCC. But Sirk said the university would not consider the offer.

So, what exactly are the sticking points?

Chancellor Toni Murdock said the university has significant bond debt on the new Antioch University McGregor building in Yellow Springs, and buildings in Seattle and in Keane, N.H.

Another sticking point in negotiations was ownership of WYSO, the NPR-affiliated radio station based in Yellow Springs. The ACCC wanted WYSO as part of the $12.2 million purchase.

What it amounts to is the current Administration is bogged down trying to make a success out of a college that is run on a formula for failure. The Antioch College Continuation Corporation is determined they can do a better job, and want control of the college in order to prove it. The faculty and current staff want to keep their positions and salvage their reputations. The corporation wants to save Antioch and salvage their ideals.

Any students who are lured to the place will still get the short end of the stick, unless by some miracle the college adapts to reality. Good luck with that.

The only truly surprising thing in this story is that there actually are wealthy Antioch Alumni.

Denver Calling

I have a healthily sick sense of humor, so I can appreciate this story

Aliza Shvarts, an art student, impregnated herself with the sperm from donors whom she calls fabricators, and then subjected herself, over a period of time, to abortifacient drugs in order to induce miscarriages. She saved the whole bloody mess while videotaping her miscarriages. She then collected them in the form of a bloody collage which she wrapped in plastic and kept preserved in Vaseline in order to prevent drying.

She presented the collection, along with the videos, in the context of a performance art exhibition. Yale claims the whole thing is a scam. It was just a big joke, meant to make some kind of statement-though damned if I know what that might be.

Shvarts, for her part, claims it was for real, although she concedes that she can't be certain whether or not she was ever pregnant at any given time. So, where did all the blood come from? Well, it could all be simply menstrual blood. This artistic masterpiece was undertaken over a period of several months, you see. All great art, such as the Sistine Chapel, to use one example, is time consuming, after all, and requires dedication and energy.

The internet world is aghast. For once, the different sides of the abortion debate have joined hands in objection over this spectacle. Pro-choice advocates claim that it trivializes abortion. Translation-they are afraid, rightly so, that it makes them all look bad.

Moxie claims to be pissed, but I think deep down she is inspired.

Liz, from White Trash Republican is pissed, whether it's a joke or not.

I'm waiting to see the video.

Everybody should calm down. After all, this is art, remember? There's a better than average chance that Miss Shvarts will be invited to create a collage for presentation at the Democratic National Convention. For his acceptance speech, Obama might explain to us all how white rural voters cling to their kids out of frustration.

Bulleyes And Bullshit

It would really take a book to explain this, but I'll try to keep it simple. In between Obama's insistence that rural whites cling to their guns out of frustration, and Hillary's sudden yearning for the days of Annie Oakley, I think something is getting overlooked.

This obsession with guns is not an American obsession, it's a Democratic Party obsession. How are Americans' obsessed with guns? It's quite difficult to be obsessed with something you've always had around. In fact, you start to take it for granted. Fifty years ago, this was an issue limited to a few oddball precincts, cities, and regions. This was far from the norm. It didn't become a national obsession until following the John F. Kennedy assassination in 1963. It kicked into high gear after the assassinations of RFK and MLK, both in 1968.

That's when Lyndon Baines Johnson, at the instigation notably of Ted Kennedy, passed the first gun control legislation, which was supported curiously enough by Charlton Heston. Of course, as unfortunately happens to be the case more often than not, give some people an inch and they want a mile every time. Due to the increasing and suspiciously obtuse demands of gun control advocates, Heston bolted from the movement and became the hard core social conservative and Second Amendment advocate he is remembered as today. There's a lesson there somewhere.

So what is behind the Democratic Party obsession-not the American obsession-with guns? Whatever it is, they've been taken aback by the curious fact that most Americans are unwilling to give up their personal prerogative of self-defense in return for a raise in minimum wage once every decade or so.

So, what do they do? They try to reframe the debate. They are sudden staunch supporters of the Second Amendment, it seems. In fact, they have no problems with law-abiding citizens who are gun collectors, or who like to go hundting, or enjoy the "family tradition" of target shooting.

Listen to them sometime-carefully. In all these reassurances, you never hear them mention the rights of American citizens to have guns for the purpose of self-defense, of themselves and their families, inside their own homes or businesses.

To hear them tell it, the Second Amendment was crafted in order for people like Daniel Boone to settle places like Kentucky. He and his fellow pioneers would never have made it after crossing through the Cumberland Gap without their trusty muskets with which to hunt deer for food.

Of course, it also happens that Kentucky was quickly settled and became a state dependent on river trade and agriculture, even before it became the fifteenth state of the union in 1794. Hunting by this time was in fact not considered as vital to life in the western states as so many seem to assume today. At best, hunting augmented pioneer life. Few, if any at all, depended on it solely or even mainly for their sustenance.

The Second Amendment has nothing whatsoever to do with hunting or target practice, nor does it take into consideration the whimsical hobby of "gun collecting". Amendment Number Two was written for the precise same purpose as Amendment Number One, and Amendments Number Two through Nine. It was meant to protect us from the potentially abusive grasping of tyrants not only foreign, but domestic-ie, the Federal Government. Those are just the facts.

An enemy of the state can come in many forms. It can come in the form of a foreign invader. It can come in the form of unelected and/or unaccountable domestic tyrants. Finally, it can take the form of the criminal element that exists unfortunately within all societies, and whose very existence, by their very natures, is a threat to the domestic tranquility.

Unfortunately, again, you will almost never hear a Democratic politician (nor for that matter most Republican ones) frame the debate in this matter. There are two reasons for this.

1. Most criminals from whom one might have occasion to protect oneself, whether black or white, have for the most part one thing in common. The majority of those who vote strangely tend to vote Democratic.

As important as this is, however, it pales in comparison to the importance of the following point.

2. An admission that people might, at any given point in time, find it necessary to defend themselves with guns against a criminal element, is tantamount to an admission that the government has failed to protect the citizens of the United States. It is a failure that reaches from the bottom level of local politics, on up through the state and federal levels.

It is not just an admission of the failure to fight crime, but a failure to combat the root causes of crime, those societal factors and conditions that breed the criminal element. The Republican Party wants to approach it from the corrective level after the fact. The Democratic Party seems to focus traditionally on solving the root causes, the problems of poverty and unemployment, with the added factors of race issues and other cultural factors.

Give them the power to solve your problems, and over time, they would suggest, the crime rate would drop to manageable levels. They will give you a Cops program with 100,000 cops on the streets of America. They will fund after-school programs aimed at targeting problem kids in troubled areas. They will have this and that program aimed at "uplifting" the poor. In time, this will solve the crime problem and so guns will be unnecessary.

You can still go dear hunting, though. No problem. Go along with us, and over time, everything will be just great, and crime will suddenly become a rarity throughout this great land of ours. Just trust us. Would we ever lie to you?

Ouisch

To all the numbnut losers trolling the internet and in other ways attempting to discern the current whereabouts of Ruth Ann Moorehouse-

Just so you’ll know, she’s no longer the young, hot, pretty sixteen year old hippie chick that will (supposedly) fuck all comers. FYI that was forty years ago. Now she’s a fifty-six year old, probably drug-addled sixties era sloppy fat and wrinkled hippie broad, whose only resemblance to the past might well be the hair growing from her stinking armpits, which might well be matched only by the hair on her legs, and the sewer-like stench of her cunt. Have I shattered your illusions yet? You are obviously proof that man is indeed an ape if none of this has ever occurred to you.

Of course, I could be lying. In any event, stop wasting your time. Go buy yourself a Big Mac, sprinkle liberally with LSD, and jack off.

Radu-Chapter XXXXII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about Uncle Brad?” he prompted her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

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

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

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

“Did Jean tell you that?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You love her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Turn all of them off,” Marlowe replied.

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

“Just do it, or else,” Marlowe said.

“Now look here, you fucking”-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I will never accept it,” Marlowe said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Princess Diana- Smoking Guns, Smoking Tires

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

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

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

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

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

What about this one?

And then-

How much would you say this picture would be worth?

Radu-Chapter XXXXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abraham looked at him strangely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You-really mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back To The Broom Closet

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

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

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

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

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

Disclaimer-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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