kingdom of god 23

The preacher lifted Gomez over his shoulders and carried him down king’s road. Passersby only glared at the men as sweat drenched down Stephanos’ face. Blood trickled down his smock. Urgency coursed through his veins as the midday sun beat down upon him. “I’m a dead man,” said Gomez. “Just leave me here.” But the preacher ignored him. Miles ahead and his knees began to buckle. He saw a thicket of trees yards off to the right and headed towards it. In a small clearing, he laid down Gomez’s whitening body and tended to his bleeding. “Thank you for your help preacher,” the dying man said, “but there’s nothing more to be done.” Blood puddled into the grass and Gomez grew cold. Before nightfall, he was dead.

Stephanos sat silently beneath the trees for several hours while Gomez’s body rested peacefully against the oak. The nighttime prairie glowed from a full moon and the preacher figured he would bury him in the morning. Numbed by the day’s pain, he struggled to make his bed. Against his better instincts, he dug through the deceased man’s remains and made a fire. He didn’t eat and he didn’t drink. His eyes remained fixed on the smoldering flame.

The hours passed. The preacher’s eyes grew heavy. Then there was a cracking at the edge of the meadow. He turned around to find a hunched over man walking hand in hand with a small boy. As they approached, the fire illuminated the man’s face. He was scared and bundled up in a charcoaled duster. What appeared to be a cane holding him up was actually a long range shotgun. Staphanos thought of reaching for the pistol but the small boy threw him off. The boy was five or six years old and said nothing.

“Excuse me sir,” the man said. “Mind if we rest by your fire?”

The preacher drew a sigh of relief and welcomed them in. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry but I have to food or water to give you.”

“What about that fellow over there?”

“He’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No. I found him wounded on the side of the road. I couldn’t save him.”

The man straightened out his coat and sat next to the fire. The boy sat with him. He sat the shotgun off to the side and held his hands over the fire. “I’m Stephanos, an emissary of Jonny,” the preacher said. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Yes I know who you are,” the man said.

“You’ve seen me before?”

“In Cessa in fact. You claim to have received the word directly from Jonny.”

“That is true. I have received the word.”

“Then tell me preacher. If you’ve received the word from Jonny, why don’t you recognize me?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 7

Satisfied with the representative’s response, Wade left the Agency’s office and headed back towards the inn. When he arrived he informed the innkeeper to hold his room for a few more days while he went north yet the innkeeper only moaned and protested.

“I took a closer look at that gold ring you gave me and it ain’t worth two rat shits put together. You’ll have to find another form of payment,” the man said.

But Wade spat on the floor and put his hands on the desk. “I’m gonna need the silver. I’ll pay you when I get back,” he told the innkeeper.

“No sir. I need payments up front.”

“And what about you snoopin around rooms while your guests are away? I doubt the Guild would take kindly to what’s going on here.”

“The Guild don’t have no say in how I do business! Now you get your shit and get outta here!”

“Then I want my ring back.”

“Why?”

“If it ain’t worth two shits then what difference does it make?”

“And what about the whore?”

“I’ll settle up with her later.”

The innkeeper gave the ring back and Wade gathered his things with the satchel dangling in front of him and rifle case around his shoulder and he departed towards the river’s edge. There a ferryman stood by and Wade gave him a piece of silver to boat him to the northern shore. As the ferryman cast off, more Nighthawks scrambled overhead and the ferryman chuckled.

“Ya know, they say that the longer you spend on this river that the river will eventually speak to ya,” the ferryman joked. “But I hear nothing from this water. The only thing I hear is that damn screamin from the sky. I found two bodies floating downstream yesterday. Last week I found six! I suppose the creeks from them mountains are washing the bodies down here. Goddamn. I don’t know what kind of fool would want to go up that a way but I imagine if anything is talkin these days it’s the folks up in those hills. The only folks they sendin down this way are their dead and a graveyards ain’t known for being jovial.”

Wade said nothing as he watched the waters glide underneath the boat.

“I can see you ain’t much of a talker neither,” the ferryman said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Anaideia 46

After blowing my winnings at the casino bar, I stumbled back to the suite and I fumbled around with the keys outside of the door for second before finding the key card. When I unlocked the door, all the lights were off and the suite was eerily quiet. I had assumed that Dale was fuckin off somewhere in the city so I turned on the lights in the foyer and proceeded to the kitchen. When I cut on the lights, it illuminated both the kitchen and the living room and I saw the hotel guards along with their manager holding Dale hostage. There were no baseball bats this time. Just guns and knives with one to Dale’s throat.

“Sorry ol buddy,” Dale regretfully said. “There were just too many of them.”

“It’s alright Dale,” I told him.

The hotel manager stepped forward and ordered me to place the Walther on the floor and put my hands behind my head. So I dropped the gun on the ground. “If you check the receipts at the bar, you’ll see that all the money I won was spent at your casino,” I said. “Except for the booze which you clearly overcharged me for, you didn’t loose a single cent on me.”

“I don’t care about the money,” the manager said. “Mr. Furie’s patience has grown thin. We will be escorting you out of the hotel where there’s a limousine waiting for you downstairs.”

“Will I have time to pack my bags?”

“I don’t think you’ll be needing them sir.”

A guard put a gun to my rib cage and Dale and I were escorted to the elevator then down into the lobby where we did the walk of shame in front of casino patrons. Outside, we were thrown into the backseat of a limo where Susan was already inside. It was clear she had been treated to the same care we had just received. “Hello fellas,” she mournfully spoke.

“Evening Susan,” I said.

When we were all inside, the manager handed me a paper. “Here’s your receipt sir,” he explained. “If you take the survey at the very bottom then you’ll receive a 1.5% discount on your next stay.”

“Thank you,” I told him. Then I crumbled up the paper and tossed it out the window. When we were all buckled up, the driver rolled down the front seat glass and smiled. “We should be arriving in Tahoe within an hour,” he said.

“Is there any booze back here?” I ask him.

“Nope!” he said. Then he rolled the glass back up.

“I suppose that this is our last hurrah,” Dale said.

“Eh, I wouldn’t say that,” I told him. “I’ve defeated Randy before and there’s no reason to think I can’t do so again.”

“But you’re drunk,” Susan told me.

“Shit, I didn’t think of that,” I said. “Well look at it this way: no one wants to live forever, right? And who said that? Freddie Mercury. And look what happened to him. They made a movie about him! So if you want to achieve immortality then that’s the way you do it. You have to die for people to remember you forever. So I think what’s happening now is a good thing.”

No one said another word to another as we traveled westbound to Tahoe.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Farewell, for now

So anyways I finally got back my WordPress account. With the help of the CIA, I busted the thief who stole it in the Andes. It’s a weird story. But now that I have it back, I don’t know what to do with it.

After three years I hate to say it but it needs to be said: I’ve taken The Internet Ruined Everything as far as it can go. Between divorce, mounting debt, crippling diabetes, unchecked anger issues and soul-crushing depression, I’m not in the mental space to maintain it. This blog was always meant as target practice to hone in my writing skills by trying weird things. Now I’m looking to graduate into more immersive, long-form writing which extends beyond what a blog can accommodate.

With that said, I don’t plan on abandoning it altogether. It might just be rebranded. A podcast perhaps? I’ve done it before with varying degrees of success. Whatever it may become, I want it to be more focused. I simply need time to figure out the angle.

In the meantime, anyone want to write for this blog? If it’s a weird and absurd story then I’d like to post it here. Message me on Instagram at beaumontana1 if you’re interested

It’s time (Part III)

“I need a volunteer from the audience,” Paul requested.

Everyone looked at each other, puzzled by the strange presentation. No one stood up. “Are all of you chicken shits? Come on, volunteer goddamnit!” yelled Paul.

The flustered speaker scanned the auditorium for some poor bastard to pick on. Then he found him: a crew-cut jabroni, easily 6’3, with a potbelly poking through his tucked in polo. The man towered over the diminutive Paul. When he reached the stage, he crossed his arms in a defiant gesture. But Paul wasn’t intimidated.

“What’s your name sir?” Paul asked.

“Bill Hickman. Vice President of Development at Eckhart Automotive.”

“I see. And do you have children, Bill Hickman, Vice President of Development at Eckhart Automotive?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “I have two daughters,” he said.

“How old are they?”

“17 and 23.”

“Are they hot?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are. They. Hot?”

Befuddled and offended, Bill looked at the audience and then back towards Paul. “What are you getting at?” he asked.

“Answer the question Bill Hickman, Vice President of Development at Eckhart Automotive. Are your daughters hot? Meaning, would you fuck them?”

“You are one sick son of a bitch!”

“Come on, Bill! We’re both men! Just tell me!”

“I’m not gonna stand here and listen to this shit!” Bill said as he began to storm off stage. Paul was persistent. “They must be uggos then!” Paul taunted.

“One more word out of you mister…”

“It’s doctor!” Paul interrupted. “It’s Doctor Paul Westinghouse! I didn’t spend eight years in college just to be called ‘mister’ by pissants like you!”

“That’s it!”

Bill rushed the stage and punched Dr. Paul Westinghouse in the face. His thick wired framed glasses smashed onto his nose and blood instantly poured out. Laying on the floor, Paul removed the broken frames from his swollen eyes. “Is that the best you got?” the defiant doctor asked Bill. “Your daughter hits harder during foreplay.”

Bill kicked Paul in the mouth, knocking out several teeth. He then dropped to his knees, with Paul between his legs, and began relentlessly whaling on his face.

The audience sat in petrified silence. They looked to the sleeveless guards and then to each other. No one moved a muscle. It was only when Bill began to strangle Paul that a gaggle of audience members interfered.

“I’ll kill you!” Bill screamed as he was pulled away.

Paul struggled to get to his feet. Battered and bruised beyond recognition, he staggered to the podium to hold himself up. After cooling off, Bill began crying in a corner by himself. While everyone was in a state of shock, Paul spat blood onto the carpet and laughed. “Don’t worry, this always happens on the first day,” he assured the frenzied crowd, “please take your seats.”

Right when everyone sat back down, Paul collapsed to the floor. Everyone jumped to their feet again, but two sleeveless guards waltzed up to the stage to bolster him up. “Please be calm,” he continued, “there’s a lesson to be learned here: teamwork. None of us know each other, yet you all rushed to your feet to save me from certain death. We’re meant to work together. Regardless of the circumstances, we will find a way to work together, especially when it involves the certainty of death.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part XIII)

“This bullet wound ain’t shit,” Jack said. The bikers were carrying him away while dodging fire from the high flying hueys. While deep in the cover from the surrounding jungle, Jack attempted to cauterize the wound Rambo-style. But this was a spectacular failure and he soon went into shock.

After spending five days in a coma, Jack awoke to find his father standing over him. “Goddamn you, Jack,” Rod said. Then he punched his son out.

Jack spent five more days in a coma due to a severe concussion. When he awoke again, he found himself in a shack far away from Juarez. “Where the hell are we?” he asked.

The scarred up biker sitting nearby put down the tequila bottle. “Puerto Paloma,” he said, then belched and farted.

“Mexico?”

“Nuevo Mexico.”

Jose barged in splashing water on his face and cursing. “Hijo de puta!” he yelled.

“Why are we in the United States?” Jack asked.

Jose picked up the tequila bottle and shook his head. “While you were in a coma, we tracked Pablo and the cartel across the border,” Jose explained. “Your father is a bastardo.”

“Where is he? Whatever business my father had with cartel is over. I’m taking him with me.”

“Good luck with that,” Jose retorted. “He’s not listening to anyone!”

Jack got up from the dusty floor and walked out into the blazing sun. A few yards away was another shack where Jack presumed his father to be. He swung open the door where he found Rod Hardcock in deep meditation. “We’re leaving,” Jack ordered after he kicked in the side.

Rod emerged from deep thought and picked up a pair of nunchucks. He swung them around his body just inches away from Jack. “The fuck are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Why did you come to Mexico?” Rod responded, still focused on nunchuck practice. “I don’t need your help.”

“I’m not here to help you. I’m here to get you away from this mess!”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re 76 years old dad! Why are you still running around with a murderous gang of bikers?!”

Rod threw down the nunchucks and looked his son square in the eye. “You think I can’t hang? Try me!”

“Dad, you don’t want none of this.”

“I don’t want to fight you! I’m a pacifist! But I see that you’re still carrying around that pathetic .38. Come on now! You’re a big boy! Give it a shot!”

Jack cocked his head. “You want me to shoot you?”

“Shiiiiiiit, that bullet won’t come near me!”

Jack shrugged, pulled out the .38 and pointed it at his father. “I don’t know what you think this will prove,” he said, “but if you really want me to shoot you…”. He fired a single round and in less than a blink of an eye, Rod threw a shuriken which completely deflected the bullet.

“Mother of god,” Jack gasped.

Rod chuckled. “You still think your old man has nothing left to prove?”

“Alright then,” Jack replied while he re-holstered his gun, “so you’re a pacifist, eh? I should have known that you’ve become a filthy heathen. But why chase the cartel? What’s the point?”

Rod pulled an immaculate Samurai sword from off the wall and slowly swung it around. “You’re a messenger of the Lord’s Word,” he explained, “but I live by the Way of the Blade. I don’t know why fate has chose me, but I know it’s my duty to purify this land of its violent ways…specially by the tip of my sword.”

“Okay dad,” Jack agreed, “I will help you, but only because I have some unfinished business with Pablo. And after we mercilessly kill all of them, you’re coming with me.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part VII)

“I didn’t know there were jungles around Juarez,” Jack said as he swatted away mosquitoes.

“Si Senor,” responded Jose. “Mexico is nothing but jungle.”

The darkness of night provided the perfect cover for Jack and Jose, along with their motley crew of biker vigilantes. The gang passed around a bottle of tequila as they watched and waited several hundred yards away from the cartel’s compound. “Are you sure my father is being held here?” Jack asked Jose.

“Sí. We’ve been watching this place for several days.”

“I know Pablo Santora is behind this,” Jack added. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him.”

One of the bikers whispered over to Jose. “no reconozco a esta persona,” Jack heard.

Jose gazed through the binoculars towards the compound. “Jack, come here,” Jose said, “do you recognize this woman?”

Jack took the binoculars and scratched his head. “I don’t know who that is,” he replied, “but goddamn she’s tall.” He continued watching this mysterious woman through the window as she handed a large metal briefcase to none other than Pablo Santora. “I knew it!” Jack uttered to himself. The exchange lasted no more than a few minutes before the woman departed in a stretched limousine.

“Now’s a good time to launch the attack,” Jose said. Jack nodded and readied his .38. “Let’s go,” he declared.

The group marched through the muggy jungle until they were right on the perimeter. Without hesitation, a biker launched a flare into the air while another unleashed hell with a 50 cal. Suddenly the compound was lit up with explosions and tracer rounds.

“This is a little much, wouldn’t you say?” Jack shouted to Jose. Then the watchtower exploded from an RPG. Shattered glass and smoldering debris fell onto the men below. “I think it’s the right amount,” Jose retorted.

With the compound covered in fire like it’s the coming apocalypse, the gang marched through the gates and fired on anything that moved. Jack kicked open every door and looked under every pile of rubble looking for his father. Jose found a critically injured member of the cartel whose skin was smoldering and guts splayed out over the ground.

“Donde esta Rod Hardcock?!” Jose shouted to the dying man. But all the poor bastard could utter was “agua…agua.” So Jose emptied his .45 into him.

“No luck so far,” Jose told Jack. Then one of the bikers shouted “lo encontré!” Jack rushed to the portly biker and beside him was a tipped over porter john. And inside the porter john was a shit-caked Rod Hardcock.

“Jack, goddamn you, why did you come?!” Senor Hardcock told his son.

“Don’t worry Dad, I’m gonna make Pablo pay for this!”

Jose inquisitively look around him. “Has anyone found Pablo?”

Suddenly Hueys began whooshing overhead. Before Jack could react, he felt a bullet cut clean through his abdomen.

TO BE CONTINUED….

it is accomplished

As of right now, I’m a published author. And as a published author, that means I’m a professional writer. So I’m one of the cool kids now.

Don’t worry tho. Maybe one day you’ll be cool like me (probably not though).

Anyways, finally got that shitty ass book The Detective James Series: Vol. I submitted to Amazon, so it might be available to purchase (in both Kindle and paperback form) in the next few days.

I don’t recommend publishing a book. Even self-publishing is a pain in the ass. It’s a lot of formatting and rewriting and blah blah blah. It really sucks the fun out of it. So if you have a manuscript that no publisher will pick up and you’re thinking about self-publishing, do yourself a favor: throw it in the trash and forget all about it.

Just fork over a couple of grand and let someone else do it for you.

You’re welcome. And be sure to pick up your copy of The Detective James Series: Vol. I on Amazon 😀

Editing is bullshit

If I ever write another book, I’m letting…no, MAKING…someone else rewrite and edit it. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that the “real writing” is done in the 2nd and 3rd drafts.

That’s why it’s important to get everything right the first time. I have always had perfect first drafts. But then again I’m probably the second coming of Dean Koontz.

But you though, you probably need to write a 2nd and 3rd draft. Not me. That shit’s for the birds.

Jack Hardcock: The Wrath of God (Part VI)

“How many times do I have to explain to you,” Jack stated while blindfolded and strapped to a chair, “I don’t understand the gibberish you are saying. I’m an American. And as an American, it is my goddamn right to only speak English. So you better get to speaking my language or you will be facing the wrath of God which won’t be seen again until the final days.”

Jack heard a loud guffaw then his blindfold was lifted. Before him stood an old, scarred up gentleman covered in tattoos. His teeth were rotted out and his breath reeked of tequila. “I am Jose Altuve and in this country we speak Spanish,” the man said.

Jack looked around and noticed a ragtag gang of Mexican bikers. Then he spat on the ground. “So what do you want from me?” Jack asked, “Are you the cartel?”

Following Jack’s lead, Jose and his gang all spat on the ground. “We are no cartel,” Jose ominously declared.

“Then why the abduction? What do you want with me?”

Jose ordered Jack to be cut free. The old tattered man then opened a bottle of tequila, took a swig and handed it to Jack. “The cartel runs this town,” Jose explained. “They killed my family. They’ve killed everyone I loved. The Federales do nothing! We are ones that stand in their way.”

“Cool story bro,” Jack said, “but what does that have to do with me? I’m in Juárez for one reason and one reason only: to rescue my father from this godforsaken place.”

“I know,” Jose said. Then he picked up an M16 and placed it in Jack’s lap. “We’re going to help you.”

Jack glanced at the weapon and looked back at Jose. “Why?” he asked.

“Because Rod Hardcock was one of us.”

Jack was shocked. “But…but how could that be?” he asked, “my father is a mule! I thought he worked with the cartel!”

Jose laughed. “That’s what he wanted you to believe,” he explained, “he wanted to keep you out of danger. If you believed that he worked with the cartel, Senior Hardcock thought you would stay away from here.”

“My father thought wrong. I can never escape danger. He should have told me this a long time ago!”

Jose popped a magazine into an M16 then placed a Desert Eagle and a Bowie knife under his belt. “Thank the Heavenly Father for sending you here,” he said, “because we’re hitting the cartel tonight. You’re one of us.”

Jack took a big gulp from the tequila bottle and picked up an M16. “Hand me my .38,” he ordered, “and do you guys have AKs? These things are pieces of shit.”

TO BE CONTINUED…