Manuscripts Burn


MANUSCRIPTS BURN

"Manuscripts don't burn"
- Mikhail Bulgakov

Hi, I'm horror and science fiction author Steve Kozeniewski (pronounced: "causin' ooze key.") Welcome to my blog! You can also find me on Facebook, Twitter, Goodreads, and Amazon. You can e-mail me here, join my mailing list here, or request an e-autograph here. Free on this site you can listen to me recite one of my own short works, "The Thing Under the Bed."

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Contest Prizes


Okay, it's the contest so great it warranted two whole posts. The prizes have been photographed and are posted here:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=101940&id=56558306907&saved

If you have no idea what contest I'm talking about, refer back to this page:

http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com/2009/03/worlds-biggest-manuscripts-burn-fan.html


Monday, March 30, 2009

THE WORLD’S BIGGEST MANUSCRIPTS BURN FAN CONTEST


Well, we did it. 100,000 hits. A milestone as arbitrary as the millennium, I know, but like the year 2000 it is also one we will celebrate. And no, it won’t be by watching “Rushmore” and smoking three cigarettes. I’ve been promising those of you who care enough to pay attention a contest almost since the last contest and here it is:

THE WORLD’S BIGGEST MANUSCRIPTS BURN FAN CONTEST

Here are the rules:
1) Make a comment on this or any subsequent page explaining why you are the biggest fan of this blog in the world
2) Your explanation can consist of anything: an essay, a multimedia event, a picture, video, song anything that will get the point across
3) The contest ends at 11:59 pm EST on April 13. That gives you more than two weeks to compose something magnificent
4) The winner will receive an honest to goodness brick and mortar prize: a set of posters. Watch this space for a link to a photo gallery of the grand prize.

Judging criteria:
a) Cleverness, originality
b) Quantifiables: i.e.,
- did you comment on the blog a lot (or retroactively comment, hint, hint)
- are you a fan on our Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Manuscripts-Burn/56558306907?ref=mf)
- are you a MySpace user who has to copy and paste the stupid link every day because MySpace has no idea what’s spam and what’s not
c) Content of your explanation (i.e. “you changed my life!” or “Manuscripts Burn is my homepage!”)
d) Quality and effort

So, have at it!

Sunday, March 29, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 10

SCENE 10

INT – THE FRANCOPHILE LAB
(FRANCOPHILE, ALGORE)

ALGORE IS JOGGING IN PLACE ON A SMALL PATCH OF GREEN CARPET. HIS HAIR IS STANDING UP SLIGHTLY FROM STATIC ELECTRICITY. HE IS TOUCHING ONE OF HIS INDEX FINGERS TO THE MONSTER. FRANCOPHILE OPENS THE DOOR TO THE LAB SO THAT THE DOORKNOB IS WITHIN ALGORE’S REACH.

FRANCOPHILE

Now, Algore, touch the doorknob and my creature will come to life from static electricity!

ALGORE STRAINS TO REACH THE DOORKNOB BUT JUST BARELY CAN’T REACH IT WHILE TOUCHING THE MONSTER AND JOGGIN IN PLACE ON THE CARPET.

ALGORE

I can't reach it, Professor Francophile!

FRANCOPHILE

Can't reach the doorknob! What kind of a convoluted plot device is that?

Saturday, March 28, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 9

SCENE 9

INT – THE FRANCOPHILE BATHROOM
(JIMMY)

STANDING ON TOP OF THE TOILET JIMMY REACHES AS FAR AS HE CAN AND GRABS THE TARANTURLA. HE SIGHS IN RELIEF. HE SUDDENLY LOSES HIS BALANCE AND BEGINS TO TOPPLE. THE TARANTULA FALLS SMACH DAB INTO THE BOTTLE OF GREEN GOO NEAR THE SCREWDRIVER. JIMMY GETS UP FROM THE TILE TO FIND HIS LEG IS STUCK IN THE TOILET. HE PULLS ON IT, BUT IT DOES NOT BUDGE.

JIMMY

Oh, great. First I'm attacked by a serial killer, then my car breaks down, and now I've got my leg stuck in a toilet. What else could happen?

ALTHOUGH JIMMY DOESN’T NOTICE IT, THE TARANTULA SUDDENLY DOUBLES IN SIZE FROM EXPOSURE TO THE GREEN GOOD. FOR THE MOMENT, THOUGH, IT IS STILL STUCK IN THE BOTTLE.

Friday, March 27, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 8

SCENE 8

INT – THE FRANCOPHILE LAB
(FRANCOPHILE, ALGORE)

FRANCOPHILE

It's alive! Alive! Alive!

FRANCOPHILE SCREAMS IN PLEASURE AND CLENCHES HIS FISTS IN THE AIR. ALGORE WALKS BEHIND HIM AND POKES THE PROJECT, WHICH IS NOW UNDER A WHITE SHEET.

ALGORE

Actually, sir, it's quite dead.

FRANCOPHILE

Oh. So it is. We shall bring it to life...with the electrical transducer!

FRANCOPHILE LAUGHS IN A MANIC WAY. ALGORE REARS UP TO WHISPER IN FRANCOPHILE’S EAR.

ALGORE
(whispering)

Actually, master, they didn't have enough money for the electrical transducer.

FRANCOPHILE

Oh, dammit! You know, they always run over budget, and they always cut the corners from the mad scientist. Why don't they cut the zombie budget, or the angry mob budget. Do you know how much extras get paid a day?

ALGORE

No sir.

FRANCOPHILE

Well, it's a lot! We'll have to use a more...unconventional method to bring my creation to life.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 7

SCENE 7

INT – THE FRANCOPHILE BATHROOM
(JIMMY)

JIMMY IS URINATING VERY LOUDLY AND WHISTLING OFF-KEY. THE SCREWDRIVER IS BY HIS SIDE ON THE SINK. NEXT TO THE SCREWDRIVER IS A BOTTLE OF GOOPY GREEN LIQUID. HE LOOKS UP WHILE STILL URINATING. HE SQUINTS AND SEES A VERY LARGE AND HAIRY TARANTULA. HE ZIPS UP AND STEPS UP ONTO THE TOILET TO GET A CLOSER LOOK AT THE TARANTULA.

JIMMY

Look at that. A tarantula.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 6

SCENE 6

INT – THE FRANCOPHILE LAB
(FRANCOPHILE, ALGORE)

ALGORE RETURNS TO THE LAB. FRANCOPHILE IS STILL HUNCHED OVER HIS PROJECT.

FRANCOPHILE

Who was that?

ALGORE

The Earl of Warren. He had a screwdriver then took a piss.

FRANCOPHILE

Oh.

FRANCOPHILE GOES BACK TO WORK ON HIS PROJECT.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 5

SCENE 5

INT – FRANCOPHILE PARLOR
(ALGORE, JIMMY)

ALGORE RUNS OFF THROUGH THE CASTLE DOWN TO THE VERY LARGE DOOR AND OPENS IT DRAMATICALLY. STANDING THERE IS JIMMY, WITH THE CAR RUG DRAPED AROUND HIS NECK LIKE A CAPE AND A GLASS CIRCLE IN HIS EYE LIKE A MONOCLE. HE IS POSING (EXTREMLEY POORLY) AS AN ENGLISH NOBLE.

ALGORE

Yes?

JIMMY
(in a hesitant, faux British accent)

Hello. I am Jim...er, rather, James, the...Earl of, uh, Warren.

ALGORE

The Earl of Warren? At my master's very door! Fantastic! What can I do for you, Earl?

JIMMY

Yes, well, I am not here for pleasure. In fact, I am here as a sort of menial job. I need to...inspect all the screwdrivers in the land.

ALGORE

Screwdriver? Oh, yes!

ALGORE REACHES INTO A FLOWERPOT AND PULLS OUT A SCREWDRIVER. HE HANDS IT TO JIMMY.

ALGORE

There you are, oh venerable Earl of Warren. Will that be all?

JIMMY

Ah, no, I will also require the use of your rest facilities.

ALGORE

Oh, we haven't got any of those. We're a clean house here.

JIMMY

Er, no, that is, I mean, a bathroom.

ALGORE

I apologize, Earl, but I don't understand your high English. I am just a lowly hunchback.

JIMMY STARES AT ALGORE’S BACK, NOTING BOTH HUMPS.

JIMMY
(regular voice)

Quasimodo! I didn't know it was you! Amazing! What made you leave Notre Dame?

ALGORE

I'm not Quasimodo.

JIMMY

It's all right, Quasimodo. I won't tell anyone. You know, I went to Notre Dame. Just tell me where your bathroom is.

ALGORE

Bath…room? Oh, you mean the pisser. It's in that general direction.

ALGORE POINTS IN A GENERAL DIRECTION. JIMMY SHAKES HIS HAND.

JIMMY

Thanks, Quasimodo!

ALGORE

You can let yourself out.

Monday, March 23, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 4

SCENE 4

INT – THE FRANCOPHILE LABORATORY
(FRANCOPHILE, ALGORE)

FRANCOPHILE IS WORKING AT HIS PROJECT AND ALGORE IS STANDING BY EAGERLY CLAPPING HIS HANDS LIKE A CHILD. SUDDENLY THE DOORBELL RINGS. ALGORE LOOKS AROUND EXPECTANTLY.

FRANCOPHILE

The door's ringing, Algore.

ALGORE

My God! How can the door ring itself?

FRANCOPHILE SMACKS ALGORE VERY WAFTLY.

FRANCOPHILE

It means someone's at the door, you lackwitted incompetent bungler! Go answer it, and send them on their way!

ALGORE

Yes, master!

Sunday, March 22, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 3

SCENE 3

EXT – THE DIRT ROAD
(JIMMY)

JIMMY LOOKS BACK IN HIS CAR. HE PICKS THE UNSCREWED STEERING WHEEL UP FROM OFF THE SEAT.

JIMMY

Gol dernit. I'm gonna need a screwdriver. Say! There's a castle over there!

JIMMY POINTS AT THE FRANCOPHILE CASTLE. THE SUN SHINES AND BIRDS FLY. A RAINBOW SHINES DOWN ONTO THE CASTLE.

JIMMY

Hmm, that's very odd for a dark stormy night, but it's my only chance to get away from here. Oh, I can't go like this, though. They'll think I'm just a stupid American. Hmm.

JIMMY PULLS ONE OF THE GLASS CIRCLES OUT OF HIS POCKET AND LOOKS AT IT THOUGHTFULLY.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 2

SCENE 2

INT – THE LABORATORY AT CASTLE FRANCOPHILE, NIGHT
(VECTOR VAN FRANCOPHILE, ALGORE)

SCATTERED ABOUT THE LABORATORY, AMONGST THE TEST TUBES AND VIALS AND LAB PARAPHERNALIA ARE MANY ANIMALS AND PARTS OF ANIMALS. WORKING ON A SLAB IS PROFESSOR VECTOR VAN FRANCOPHILE, THE MAD SCIENTIST OF THE PLOT. BY HIS SIDE IS ALGORE, A HUNCHBACK WITH TWO HUMPS. AS FRANCOPHILE WORKS ON HIS AS YET UNSEEN PROJECT, BLOOD SPATTERS IN HIS FACE.

FRANCOPHILE

Algore!

ALGORE

Yes, Prof. Francophile?

FRANCOPHILE

Fetch me the hacksaw, boy. And bring me some more lobsters.

ALGORE

Yes, Prof. Francophile!

FRANCOPHILE LAUGHS MANIACALLY. ALGORE SCURRIES OFF.

FRANCOPHILE

As long as he's gone, I believe I will work on my menacing laughter.

FRANCOPHILE LAUGHS MENACINGLY.

FRANCOPHILE

Getting better. I've got the maniacal laughter down pat, and the evil laughter is rather good, as well. Perhaps I will work on...chortling!

FRANCOPHILE CHORTLES.

FRANCOPHILE

Now, giggling!

FRANCOPHILE BEGINS GIGGLING. ALGORE WALKS UP BEHIND HIM, HOLDING A HACKSAW AND SOME LOBSTERS.

ALGORE

Master!

FRANCOPHILE
(annoyed)

Dammit! What do you want?

ALGORE

Hacksaw, master!

ALGORE PROFFERS THE HACKSAW.

FRANCOPHILE

Oh, I sent Algore off to get the hacksaw. You can use it when he gets back.

ALGORE

Um, I'm back, master.

FRANCOPHILE

Where have you been!

FRANCOPHILE RUDELY GRABS THE HACKSAW FROM ALGORE AND THEN SMACKS HIM IN THE HEAD. HE BEGINS SAWING AT HIS PROJECTS, AS BLOOD AND EFFLUVIA SPRAYS ABOUT.

Friday, March 20, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Scene 1

SCENE 1

EXT – A DESERTED DIRT ROAD IN BAVARIA, NIGHT
(JIMMY SMITH, JEFFREY MANSON GACY)

IT IS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT. LIGHTNING STRIKES SEVERAL PLACES. JIMMY SMITH, A YOUNG AMERICAN, IS DRIVING ALONG THE ROAD IN HIS CAR.

JIMMY
(sing-song)

My name is Jimmy Smith, yes my name is Jimmy Smith. It rhymes with Timmy…uh…Rith, yes my name is Jimmy Smith.

JIMMY BEGINS HUMMING TUNELESSLY. SUDDENLY, A PSYCHOTIC MAN LEAPS OUT INTO THE ROAD WITH A HUGE SHOTGUN.

JIMMY

Oh no, it’s Jeffrey Manson Gacy, the son of the Boston Hillside Zodiac Ripper!

JEFFREY MANSON GACY LEAPS UP ONTO THE HOOD OF JIMMY’S CAR. HE BEGINS SMASHING THE WINDSHIELD WITH THE BARREL OF HIS SHOTGUN. LITTLE CIRCULAR PIECES OF GLASS SHOWER DOWN ON JIMMY, WHO BEGINS SCREAMING LIKE A LITTLE GIRL. SOME OF THEM FILL HIS POCKETS. JIMMY UNLOCKS HIS DOOR. HIS FOOT CATCHES ON THE CARPETED FLOOR OF THE SEDAN, WHICH TEARS OUT AS HE LEAPS OUT OF THE CAR. THE CARPET DRAGS ALONG BEHIND HIM. GACY BEGINS TO CHASE JIMMY WHEN SUDDENLY GACY IS ENVELOPED BY A SHAFT OF LIGHT.

GACY

Huh?

GACY LOOKS UP TO SEE A CARDBOARD UFO HANGING FROM STRINGS WHICH LOOKS EXCEPTIONALLY FAKE. HE IS GRADUALLY SUCKED THROUGH THE BEAM OF LIGHT INTO THE UFO. HE SCREAMS AS HE IS TAKEN ABOARD AND THE FLYING SAUCER FLIES OFF INTO THE NIGHT.

JIMMY

My God! How contrived!

Thursday, March 19, 2009

The Terrifying Revenge of the B-Movie!!!: Prologue

THE TERRIFYING REVENGE OF THE B MOVIE!!!

PROLOGUE

INT – A VICTORIAN ERA PARLOR, NIGHT
(BRITISH NOBLE)

A BRITISH NOBLE IS SITTING IN A CHAIR, SMOKING A PIPE. HE SPEAKS IN A DIGNIFIED MONOTONE.

NOBLE

Hello, and welcome to our broadcast of "The Hideous Freak", a classic "science-fiction" movie from 1957. Tonight's movie contains scenes of explicit language and violence, unwholesome ideas, a ravening composite serial killer, two cliché aliens bent on conquering earth, a monstrous freak, an angry mob of peasants, a band of zombies, giant, Frisbee-playing monsters, a man with a toilet stuck on his foot, Elvis, a crash landing UFO, the destruction of a castle, and pointed commentaries on B-movies. For these and other reasons, viewer dissection is advised.

THE NOBLE GRABS A SCALPEL FROM A TRAY OF SURGICAL INSTRUMENTS AND HOLDS IT UP TO THE LIGHT. FROM A DISTANCE CAN BE HEARD THE AGONIZED SCREAMS OF A PERSON BEING VIVISECTED.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

THE END



Hey, thanks to everybody for sticking with it through the whole novella. It had it's ups and downs, no doubt, enough downs to make me seriously believe in "burning" it, but hopefully a few more ups than you were expecting. Tomorrow we'll be starting an entirely different tone and an entirely different medium: a screenplay relic so utterly hilarious and so outlandishly dated that it can only properly be published here on Manuscripts Burn. If you have any ideas, thoughts, concerns, or parting shots about "Eternity Burning" feel free to comment and thanks again!

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Eternity Burning: Epilogue

Todd S. Engel woke up and gasped for air. He gently eased himself out of bed and walked over to where he had thrown his suitcase. There was still a rhythmic pattering of rain outside that calmed him. It was the dead of night.

Engel had been a member of the Fellowship, an avid one in fact. As a member he had gained power and wealth. However, when the October Massacre and other problems had started coming to light, he had bailed out, hoping to save his skin. And he had succeeded. He had moved away from Pennsylvania, because since it had been the strongest Fellowship state, witch hunts against former Fellows were common and turned up a lot of people. He didn't want to be caught, so he moved to Florida, which had less Fellows, and thus, less police chasing Fellows. With the bit of money he had managed to get away with, he had built a comfortable life.

He kept his small fortune in his suitcase. He didn't trust banks one bit. If he had deposited his money into a bank it would have been suspicious and he may well have been tracked down. So he just kept his wealth in a suitcase where he could carry it with him.

Now he pulled out his journal. He had kept it ever since he had been a child. On rare occasions he turned back to those first few pages, written in a ten year old's bulky printing. Nowadays he hardly ever wrote in it. Tonight, however, he had something to write.

Accosted after work today. An immigrant, a Cuban. Don't know what he wanted; he was shouting at me in Spanish. Just gripped my suitcase and ran off. Been thinking. Illegal aliens are a big problem in America today. I've often feared being mugged walking the streets when Cuban gangs are around. There are a lot of them. Can only imagine what would happen if one of them got my suitcase. We need some kind of organization to combat illegal immigration. The INS is too weak. Too limited. Need to make a better organization that's not afraid to take it to the streets. Aliens do not deserve the same freedoms as citizens – very important. Slept at motel tonight. Afraid police might come to my home. Just woke up with this thought. Wanted to write it down before I lost it.

Yawning, Todd closed the book and replaced the pen. He was glad he’d been able to turn the thought into paper before he had forgotten it. It would be something he’d have to work on. He crawled back into bed and slept much easier.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 18, Part 4

The class somberly filed out of her room. She noticed that one of her students was hovering around behind, trying discreetly to be the last one out. The girl probably wanted to talk to her alone for a minute. It happened sometimes. Usually it was the smartest students, or the sycophants who stayed behind. Dina didn't recognize this girl as either. In fact, she didn't recognize her at all. She knew all the brilliant ones and all the troublemakers by heart (they made an impression). The girl was probably a well-disciplined, average student, so Dina didn't know her.

"Professor Sharp?" she asked.

She sounded meek, gentle, and concerned.

"Yes, dear?" Dina asked.

She wanted to be polite, but she didn't know the girl's name. That could be a problem.

"I don't know if you remember me. My name is Daisy."

Well, that solved that problem.

"I have to admit I didn't," Dina confessed, "That's a pretty name, Daisy."

"Thank you," she said, and then smiled, "I...I just wanted to ask if you were all right."

Dina glanced down at her broken arm, which was still in a cast, and she involuntarily touched the stitches on the side of her head.

"Not as good as I could be," she said, "But, then again, not as bad as I could be, either. I'm fine, Daisy."

"Oh, good," the girl said, brightening up.

As Daisy started to turn and walk out, Dina realized that she had stayed behind just because she was concerned. It was a bright spot in Dina's day that someone had been nice to her. She sat down at her desk and began to ruffle through some reports.

"I never noticed that before."

The professor looked up. Daisy was looking at a portrait of Victory Halov. It was hanging on the wall of the classroom. Victory had put on his Fellowship uniform and posed for the portrait, then gave it to Dina as a keepsake. Dina had once kept the picture by her bedside at home, but she had found that after Vic’s death she couldn’t sleep with it there. She had transplanted it to her classroom.

“Being the girlfriend of the founder of the Fellowship might mean something someday,” he had once told her.

He had turned out to be right. Being associated with the Fellowship nowadays meant that you were the object of persecution and hatred. As a matter of fact, it was not very safe to keep that picture around.

"I think I'm going to get rid of it."

“Do you mind if I ask why you have a picture of a Fellow?” she asked, with constrained anger.

“That’s Victory Halov,” Dina said, “He was my boyfriend once. I think I’ll get rid of that portrait, actually.”

"Oh, don't do that!" Daisy exclaimed.

"But it's a Fellow," Dina pointed out.

"Well, I never liked the things the Fellowship did," Daisy said, "But Halov wasn't just another bully."

"Everyone thinks he was."

"Does that make everyone right? It's not promoting the Fellowship, it's remembering someone you loved. It's in memory of a single person who did some good, even if he wasn't in such a great group. Right?"

Dina smiled. She must have taught her students well.

"That's right."

"So don't get rid of it," Daisy said, then she turned and started off again.

She turned around almost instantly, though.

"Besides, it's not a political statement. It's just a picture."

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 18, Part 3

“Check this out, Brother John,” Charlie said as Rahowa walked into New Fellowship HQ.

Rahowa looked at what Charlie was trying to show him. It was a black man tied to a chair.

“What the hell?” Rahowa exclaimed.

Racism was not one of the Fellowship’s pillars. In fact, the Fellowship opposed racism. So why the hell was Charlie abusing some black guy? Then an idea dawned on Rahowa.

“He’s not a god damned bum, is he?”

“He wouldn’t be breathing if he was,” Charlie said, matter-of-factly, “This guy here was a member of the original Fellowship.”

“He’s got an original jacket and everything,” one of the other New Fellows put in.

Even as Charlie handed Rahowa the man’s wallet, he started yelling at him, saying, “You shithead! So fucking what? Ten percent of the world’s population was in the Fellowship in it’s heyday. This guy could’ve been any stupid shit…”

Rahowa stopped dead in mid-sentence. He had opened the wallet and now looked at the man’s ID. Rahowa grinned. This man was very important, but he didn’t want to let that on to the other New Fellows, and he certainly didn’t want to let on to the man himself that he knew who he was.

“You said you’ve got his jacket?”

Someone handed him a folded up blue jacket. He took a look at it. It was similar to the what they were all wearing, except it was very old. He checked the tag and was satisfied that it was made by the original producers of Fellowship jackets.

“Why do you still have this jacket?” Rahowa asked, “They had bonfires ten fucking years ago to burn all the old Fellowship stuff.”

“Seemed like a waste. Original Fellowship stuff will be worth something someday to historians,” the man said, although Rahowa knew instantly he was lying.

“Is that all? Just kept it as a collector’s item?”

The man nodded.

“Then why keep your Fellowship ID? You can’t sell that to anyone for anything.”

Rahowa waved the damning card in front of him. The man shrugged.

“You know, I think you kept this stuff because it means something to you. I think you didn’t want to get rid of it because you’re still chasing the dream, like us. Guys, this is Greg Barlow. You don’t know who that is, but I do. He was instrumental in developing Cainism. As a matter of fact, he introduced Adrian Cain to Victory Halov. You might even say that without this gentleman, there would never have been a Fellowship.”

Many impressed little noises came from the group of New Fellows. They freed Greg’s bonds and tried to shake his hand, but he would not take any of their hands.

“Get off of me!” he said.

“Settle down, Mr. Barlow,” Rahowa said, “I know conventional society would treat you like shit for being a Fellow, but we’re smarter than that. You were there when the struggle that we’re fighting began. You saw the rise and fall of fucking gods! We adore you, sir.”

“You sick fools!” Greg exclaimed, “I made a mistake more than two decades ago that cost thousands of lives, and you adore me for it? You want to know why I keep this old stuff? It’s to remind myself never to make such a monstrous mistake again. I’m a broken old man. Just leave me alone with my guilt.”

“But you’re a hero to us! You’re a champion of our cause! There’s so much you could teach us, and we could make you a hero again,” Rahowa said.

“No!” Greg yelled, “I won’t make the same mistake twice. I realized Cain was evil. I realized it too late, but still, I realized it. And I killed him! I was the one who stabbed Cain. Because I could no longer live with what I had done, I struck him down. Now I have to live with not just his sins, but my own, because I killed him. I don’t want anything to do with the Fellowship, new or old.”

Greg left the stunned group of New Fellows. They would go on as the shattered shell of the once powerful Fellowship. Greg would go on as a disillusioned human being.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 18, Part 2

“My God, Vic, what have you done to yourself? What have you done to your memory?”

Dina mournfully shook her head. Though she was alone in the dark and her eyes were blurred with tears, she still looked at Victory’s picture. She didn’t really need to see it; she knew every contour of his face by heart. Still, it was comforting in a bittersweet nostalgic way to hold his picture.

Her tears were the product of both sorrow and pain. Her sorrow was a constant, but since she felt it every day, it rarely drove her to tears. Tonight, however, the constant had been multiplied, and her depression reached record depths. The pain was a new factor in the equation.

The pain was a result of violence. Her arm had been broken and her head had been cut open. A few angry homeless people had found out she had been Victory’s girlfriend and had lain in ambush for her outside her apartment complex.

They’d attacked her mainly by hand, although one of them had a crowbar. He had given her the nasty compound fracture and the gash on her head. She’d been left to fend for herself with a shattered chunk of bone sticking out of her arm.

Dina had managed to stagger to her feet and make her way to the nearby free clinic. The receptionist had tersely turned her away. She was about to protest and ask if the receptionist was a human being when she stopped herself. The clinic she had chosen had been one of the chief victims of the October Massacre. The receptionist had recognized her just as the homeless people had. She managed to call for an ambulance before passing out.

While convalescing she pondered what had happened to the collective consciousness of the world in the twenty years since the fall of the Fellowship. Once upon a time it would have been a purely intellectual exercise, but now it was far closer to her own life. Many countries around the world had banned their Fellowship chapters. Legal intervention was hardly necessary, however. Almost universal public revulsion and hatred did the job better than the police ever could have. The Fellowship had become the ultimate Great Evil, the object of gnawing, angry mob justice. Cain had become a figure of almost mythical proportions, a new Satan. His bearded image had become almost synonymous with human perversity and insanity.

Victory’s story was pretty well known, although opinions on him differed severely. Some people said he was as bad as Cain, since he had created the Fellowship and had been so incompetent as to lose control of his creation. Others said he was a decent fellow, since he had opposed Cain and given up his life for his convictions.
What it really came down to, Dina realized, was the blue jacket. Whether a man or woman was personally good or bad, any association whatsoever with the Fellowship was a mark of disgrace and made him an object of hatred. That was the root of Dina’s problem. She had been close to Victory, and so close to the Fellowship.

In twenty years she had not been with anyone other than Victory. Her entire life had been affected by a brief, tumultuous period. Since then she had forgotten how to love.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 18, Part 1

John Rahowa walked the streets of Philadelphia, proudly wearing the blue jacket which was a trademark of the Fellowship of Labor, Business, and Merchantry. It had been over twenty years since the deaths of Adrian Cain and Victory Halov. After the two great leaders had been killed, the Fellowship had collapsed. The truth about the October Massacre had been made known. The general population had turned on the organization, helping to pull it apart.

Rahowa knew that Cain had been right. Even now, as most people metaphorically spat at Cain and the Fellowship, a certain, small, wise group had begun to rebuild what Cain had lost. Rahowa and his followers had constructed (in secret, naturally) a New Fellowship, based on Cainism and using the traditions of the original Fellowship.

The New Fellowship was small, because the generation which had been born after Cain's death had been brought up to believe the Fellowship was real. Only a small, radical few in Philadelphia like Rahowa new better.

Rahowa believed sincerely that elsewhere around the world small secret, "pocket" Fellowships had also formed. But it was only in Philadelphia, the home of Cainism, that the Fellows had numbers enough to go public.

(In reality the Philadelphia New Fellowship was little better than a street gang with blue jackets as their colors and preaching Cain's old lessons of eliminating homelessness by eliminating the homeless. There was no charisma, no knowledge, no nothing. They were just thugs directing their negative energies towards the homeless.)

Yes, the New Fellowship was glorious indeed. Soon they would have control of Philadelphia, as their predecessors had. Soon statues of Adrian Cain would be erected in Washington D.C. Soon workers around the world would...

"Hey you!"

Rahowa turned. A couple of men were sitting around a fire in an alley. One of them had apparently noticed Rahowa as he walked by the alley’s mouth. They all stood up as they saw Rahowa’s jacket.

Then it dawned on him. They were bums, and a whole bunch of them. Rahowa suddenly wished he hadn’t been so bold as to wear the blue jacket in public without bringing any other New Fellows with him. He was vulnerable when he was alone, and people nowadays instinctually hated that jacket.

Deciding that caution was the better part of bravery, and self-preservation was the better part of caution, and cowardice was the better part of self-preservation, Rahowa ran like hell. He heard yells behind him.

“Get him!”

Rahowa ducked into a doorway as he rounded a corner. He made it just in time, too. The bums came right on his coattails. Luckily, they passed by his hiding place without noticing him. It was then that he truly realized the paradigm of Philadelphia had shifted. The homeless were a stronger force than the Fellowship. Now Fellows were being attacked by bums, when it should have been the other way around. He shook his head, then took of his jacket. He continued on to New Fellowship headquarters, taking all precautions to hide his identity.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 17

The Oxen were grimly silent and stern. It bothered Cain. He had wished that they would be screaming for Victory's blood. He'd told them all the treacherous story of how Victory had lost his job on purpose in order to besmirch the reputation of the Fellowship and for his own dark, personal reasons. Still, they seemed more bothered by Cain than by the traitor.

"Judas. Arnold. Quisling. Petain. You, Victory Halov, you join their ranks now. You have betrayed your morality, you have betrayed your Fellows, and you have betrayed me. And you will receive the punishment fitting a traitor.

"You've committed no legal crime, so the courts will not bring you to justice. But you have committed and unforgivable moral crime. And for that I will bring you to justice."

"Why, Adrian? Because you make justice? Because you decide what is right and what is wrong? Because you are God?"

"I am only a man, but I am an honorable man!"

"Oh, Brutus is an honorable man!" Victory exclaimed, "Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!"

"You call me Brutus? Am I so black a kettle? You betrayed us," here he gestured to the assembled oxen, "You betrayed this!"

Cain made a melodramatic gesture at the crossed pick and axe which hung on the wall. He grabbed the pick and waved it in Victory's face.

"You betrayed this," he repeated, "And now this will kill you. Duke!"

Cain's loyal follower slowly plodded from his place in the crowd up to the foreground. Cain handed the man the pick and pointed at Victory.

"Kill him," Cain muttered, shaking in rage.

"It's cold blooded murder," Duke said, not lifting the pick an inch.

"It's an execution!" Cain screamed.

"Then you do it."

Duke flung the thing into Cain's hand with a flourish of disgust. Cain turned a dumb look at the pick into a hate filled glare at Duke. Cain's eyes seemed to be screaming "You're as bad as him."

"Fine. If no one else here has a sense of loyalty, then I at least still do."

He lifted the pick high over his head and looked straight into Victory's eyes. The man didn't flinch or cower. He just stared straight back.

"If you kill me, you only prove yourself wrong. If I die, then I've won."

"No, Victory, you've lost."

Cain brought the pick down in an arc with the force of a hundred angry bulls and split Victory's chest open. The first blow had been so hard that he wasn't able to remove the pick. Victory toppled over onto his back, with the tool sticking out of him. His dead cold eyes stared out at the rows of Oxen.

"My God..." Duke spit out, under his breath.

"We embraced each other, then, hand in hand, we built a fort, and a dozen other buildings with foundations of fraternity, and now he lies buried in the ash of a great city. My heart is shattered by sorrow. I have done this to my best friend because I believe in more than dreams. I believe in reality. And in reality things must be done, things which are dirty, and wrong, but which must nevertheless be done in order to make life better for everyone. If you like, I will step down as your leader. I leave my fate in your hands, my loyal Fellows, because I know you will make the right decision."

The Oxen seemed to be entranced by Cain. His enormous charisma seemed able to blind them to the fact that he had murdered a man before them. Suddenly, they began to call out on his behalf.

"Don't leave, Adrian!"

"Lead us, still!"

"We need you!"

"Stay, stay as our leader!"

Soon the whole group was shouting for him to keep his post. He smiled broadly, a deeply heartfelt, patriarchal, benevolent, theatrical smile.

"I thank you for your kind outpouring of support. I did not think that you would see my act for the righteous one it was. I felt that I would have to leave in order to preserve..."

"Do any of you seriously believe this?"

The spell was suddenly broken. All eyes turned from Cain to the new speaker. To everyone's surprise, it was Duke.

"Have you all forgotten that this man is a killer?"

"You! I thought you were loyal..."

"I followed you blindly before, but I won't follow you to destruction. You're evil, Adrian Cain! I quit as your loyal henchman. And I wash my hands of you."

With a contemptuous snort, Duke flung off his jacket and walked through the crowd, which parted before him. Just before he reached the exit a shot cracked through the air, and a hole erupted into Duke's back. A bloodstain slowly spread and he collapsed.

"Traitor! Traitor! How dare you defy me! I rule you all! I rule everything! You are only my slaves, and slaves do not defy their masters!"

Some of the Oxen in the very front of the room grabbed Cain and wrenched the pistol from his hand before he could get off any more shots into the crowd. He continued screaming, his true nature suddenly gaining enough strength from his anger to break through his carefully crafted facade. His god complex rocketed to the surface.

"Bow to me! Bow to me!" he screamed, as the Oxen tried to pin him to the floor.

The crowd was suddenly thrown into turmoil. Many of the Oxen had been loyal to Cain personally. Others had been loyal to Victory. Others were completely confused as to what they wanted, and what was going on. The Fellowship polarized and a riot broke out. While fists flew and weapons came out, Greg Barlow simply stood.

Greg was puzzled. He'd been loyal to neither one specifically, he had always been loyal to Cain and Victory working together. Now one was dead and the other was a raving lunatic.

Suddenly two Oxen fell to the floor next to Greg, pummeling each other. The one who was being beaten was holding a switchblade. The other one grabbed his head, lifted it up, and brought it down hard on the floor. His head cracked open and he was left unconscious. The knife clattered out of his grasp as his hand suddenly relaxed. The winner jumped up from the prostrate form and leapt back into fray.

Greg decided what he had to do. When an animal is wounded, you put it out of it's misery. The same was true for any group. He bent down and picked up the knife and walked obliviously through the fighting. He reached the front of the room where two Oxen were still trying to restrain Adrian Cain. He was still yelling out prophetic doom. The two men were facing away from Greg, trying to stop Cain from punching and kicking, but Cain himself was facing Barlow. He stopped yelling long enough to notice Greg.

"Barlow?" he said.

Greg thrust the switchblade through Cain's sternum. The tip of the knife touched the ground beneath him. Suddenly he calmed down and stopped fidgeting. The two Oxen no longer had to fight to subdue him. Before his mouth filled with blood, he choked out a few words. It was a crazy, meaningless, jumbled string of words, the dying words of an imbalanced mind.

"The current of time is racing, but the flow is aflame. I can see our eternity burning. And so Cain ends."

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 16

The phone rang. Dina knew that Vic would make no move to answer, even though it was her apartment. She answered it herself, then walked inside the living room and looked at Victory. He had become dark and brooding, an absolutely forbidding image. She could hardly blame him. His whole value system had been shattered. The noble vision he had spent years of his life trying to build had transformed overnight into a monster. Men and women whom he had trusted had betrayed him.

“It was HealTech,” she said, “I guess you gave them my number in case they couldn’t contact you at home?”

He made no reply. He hadn’t moved in days. Ever since they had gotten back from his birthday in the Poconos, and he had guessed the truth about the October Massacre, he had simply sat in the living room of her first floor apartment. She had one of those large, upscale apartments. It even had a small staircase which led to his bedroom loft.

She had spent all her free time, when she wasn’t teaching, with him at his apartment. She had tried at first to console him, but he seemed utterly closed off to the world. He hardly ever answered her, and when he did, it was in short, one or two word answers. To all appearances he simply sat and pondered life’s harsh realities all day and all night, although she suspected that he ate and slept when she wasn’t around.

“They say you haven’t come to work and your vacation has been over for a week. You haven’t even called.”

“I’m fired, aren’t I?”

It was the most he had spoken in a week.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“Good.”

“You’re glad about that? Why?” she asked with complete incredulity.

“It’ll attract his attention.”

“Whose?”

“Cain’s.”

They didn’t have long to wait. After a few hours, a pounding started to come at the door. It wasn’t knocking, it was someone forcibly trying to knock the door down.

Vic said quietly to Dina, “Hide upstairs.”

She didn’t want to abandon him, but she wanted to argue even less. She walked up to the loft. And just in time, too. The door suddenly cracked and groaned, then shattered inwards. Adrian Cain took one long step into the room. He was brandishing a small pistol. Two more heavily armed Fellows followed him. Cain seemed stunned.

“Victory?”

Cain slowly wove a circle around Halov, as though trying to view him from every angle and make certain he wasn’t simply a cardboard cut out. Halov defiantly turned along with his old friend, so that Cain could only see him from one view. Still, once he had completed the circuit, Cain seemed satisfied, despite the fact he had seen nothing new. He gestured with his pistol towards the couch.

“Have a seat, Victory.”

Halov sat down on the couch. Cain followed him a moment later, gently lowering himself onto the cushion so that his coat got wrinkled. A moment later he straightened out the blue cloth.

“I must admit,” Cain said, relaxing back into his seat, “I am spectacularly surprised to see you here. I guess you knew we would come for her when we didn’t find you at your apartment. Attempting to nobly sacrifice yourself to save your mistress?”

“Hardly,” Halov said coldly, “She abandoned me. She’s probably in Mexico by now, for all I know. I guess she knew that you would come for her. I left her alone for a few hours, and when I came back she was gone.”

“Is that so?” Cain said, clearly seeing through the deception, “I suppose you would want her back then. The Fellowship has enough resources to find her. Fellows, start by checking the house. See if you can find any…clues as to her whereabouts.”
The two armed Fellows that Cain had come in with prepared to move out of the parlor.

“Wait!” Halov exclaimed.

Cain waved his hand and the two men stopped dead in their tracks. Halov turned to his former friend.

“Adrian…if you care about anything I ever did for the Fellowship, if you ever cared at all about our friendship, if you have a conscience…promise me one thing.”

“What?” Cain asked, carefully shaping the word.

“Promise me that whether you or I live, no Fellows will ever harm Dina.”

Cain took a deep breath. He looked down at his weapon, then back up at Halov.

“I promise, whether you are living or dead, whether I am living or dead, no one in the Fellowship will harm her.”

“Swear by everything you hold dear.”

“I swear.”

“Swear by your blood.”

“I swear.”

“And your soul.”

“I swear by my soul.”

There was a long, pregnant pause. Cain was the next to speak.

“I never thought you would betray us, Victory. I never thought you would be so blind that you could not see anyone other than yourself at the head of the Fellowship.”

“Is that what you think this is about?” Halov nearly screamed, his eyes growing wet, “You think this is about power? I couldn’t care less about power, money, anything material. It’s about morals, Adrian. You’ve steered the Fellowship away from what it once was. It began by promoting values and hard work. Now it’s a violent, militant gang of criminals. You’ve started us on a road to evil, and once we tread that path, we can never turn back.”

“Oh, you are so much holier than I am, aren’t you Victory?” Cain sneered, “You’re just bitter because the Fellowship didn’t turn into your vision. It turned into something which you didn’t forge. All you did was stand by and watch. And you can’t stand it. You can’t stand being anywhere but in charge.”

Halov’s eyes narrowed to slits.

"I don't care about being in charge. Frankly, it's a burden I could do without. But what I do care about is seeing goodness prevail. That's why I made the Fellowship, Adrian. I didn't make it to fulfill any of my own greedy desires. I made it to see the right things be done. I hate evil whatever it's guise! But I hate evil most of all when something which I created has been corrupted and twisted."

"You're saying I'm evil?" Cain asked bitingly.

"Yes, Adrian, I am. And the worst thing of it is that you can't see it."

"You know what goodness is, Vic? It's loyalty, no matter what the cause, no matter who the leader, no matter what is being done. Loyalty is righteousness. Betrayal - that is evil. And you have betrayed us, Victory. Now you're going to pay the price."

Cain gestured to his two goons. They grabbed Victory, who struggled somewhat, but quickly realized the other two were far more powerful than he was.

"Take him back to headquarters," Cain said quietly, "I'll follow you shortly."

Holding him with crushing pressure, the two Oxen brought Victory out to their vehicle. Cain leaned back in the couch and put his pistol to his temple. For a moment he considered it.

"No," he said, "I'd rather have revenge than peace."

He stood up and turned around. Dina was standing at the top of the staircase. She seemed glued to the spot, not moving a muscle, not even blinking. He realized she was petrified, or horrified. She'd doubtlessly seen the whole thing.

"You're in no danger," Cain confirmed.

She didn't reply, but she seemed to snap out of her zombie-like state.

"Believe me when I tell you, Dina, I love Victory as I love my own family. What I am going to do now, I do for the world, for the children, for the Fellowship."

"No. For yourself," she said quietly, and turned and walked away.

He didn't bother pursuing her. He just turned and left. As he stepped outside he felt the bitter cold air. It cleared the anger from his mind for a moment, so that he could really analyze the situation. Victory was his best friend. And now he would have to kill the man. It always seemed as though his sense of honor made him hurt those he loved. But he was destined to do it.

"Oh, most damnable fate," Cain yelled to the wind, "Why dost thou mock me?"

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Life on Mars Redux



Okay, so I understand you may not consider this a "new post." You might even consider it a "cop-out" (ha!) But an interesting thing happened to me last night. I got an e-mail from an actual guy who works on Life on Mars congratulating me on the quality of this video. That's right, the post production assistant for this show, which I assume is something on par with an executive producer or director, actually let me know what he thought of the original, shaky version of this. So I was instantly motivated to use the knowledge of Windows Movie Maker I developed since then to make this redux. It's identical in every way except that it's not me taping my computer screen while playing a song on a CD player. It was actually all compiled and edited on the computer, and so the quality is much better. Here's to you, Life on Mars. May your series finale be better than your ratings were. Still the best show on television.

Friday, March 6, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 15, Part 1

A series of loud, impatient knocks came at the door. They were back at Fellowship headquarters. It had been two days since what had become known as the "October Massacre", so dubbed by the local news reporters. The disappearance of all the homeless people in Philadelphia had been portrayed as a mass slaughter by one new reporter, and he had pointed the finger squarely at the Fellowship and Cain.

Cain had, of course, vehemently and brilliantly deflected all of the media's accusations. He had pointed out that not a single body had been found, and so mass murder was not necessarily what had occurred. He also pointed out that the mayor had declared a curfew for the night in question, and so perhaps he had connections with whatever party had been responsible for the disappearance.

The other TV stations (all of which were owned by Fellows which was purely a coincidence, of course) chimed in their unequivocal support of Cain and the Fellowship, damning the idea that the Fellowship could commit such an atrocity. The reporter who had coined the term "October Massacre" was forced to resign in shame, and the whole idea of the "October Massacre" was dubbed a hoax.

All in all, public support was for the Fellowship. They were, after all, Philly's favorite sons. In the eyes of the public, the Fellowship could do no wrong. And the eyes that didn't agree were gouged out.

What it finally came down to, though, was that Cain had the Philadelphia police in his back pocket. Almost every police officer was a member of the Fellowship, including the chief. And that was all that mattered, really. If the Fellowship wasn't investigated, the Fellowship couldn't be proved responsible.

The knocks came again, this time erratically.

"Answer that, please, Duke," Cain said, not wishing to get up from his desk.

Duke opened the door and nearly staggered backwards in surprise. There, grinning up at him, was the most loathsome band of misfits he had ever seen. Each of them almost without fail was wearing spikes, chains, rings in some orifice or other, filthy paramilitary jackets or simply T-shirts, and countless patches with the names or symbols of underground bands on them. The one in front seemed to be the most disgusting, and was apparently in charge to some degree.

"Who are you?" Duke said so slowly that the maliciousness in his voice was increased tenfold.

"Hey," the leader said, "I'm Jason."

"Jason what?" Duke said, with the patience of a wet hornet.

"Just Jason. We don't believe in last names. That would promote the idea of clans and families and nobility. Wouldn't want that."

"Of course not," Duke said, his minimal patience waning, "And what do you want?"

"I want to see your boss. I want to see Cain. We all do."

The rest of his band nodded in agreement.

"Get out," Duke said simply.

"Who is it, Duke?" Cain said, his interest piqued enough by Duke's absence to come to the door and see for himself.

"It's Cain!" Jason exclaimed.

The group, despite Duke's glare, crowded around Cain and started shaking his hands, clapping him on the back, and congratulating him.

"Should I..." Duke began.

"No, leave them be...thank you..." Cain said, a bit confused, but happy, "Who are you people? Thank you...what do you want?"

"We want the same thing as you," Jason said, "Freedom for the working classes from the oppression of the bureaucracy and the wealthy."

"I want no such thing," Cain said defensively, "I am proud of our free trade society. You sound like a communist."

"Communist? Hell, no. We hate the goddamn commies," Jason said emphatically.

"Oh, good..." Cain started to say.

"We hate capitalists, too, though. And monarchists, and dictators and everyone. All governments. All that shit. We're anarchists."

"Anarchy?" Duke asked in stupefaction.

Both he and Duke noticed suddenly the strong preponderance of anarchistic insignia on their clothes. The circled "A" which symbolized anarchy was very predominant in the many patches which the anarchists wore. There were also sayings such as "No government, no shit, no problems."

"You're rather organized to be anarchists," Cain said wryly, treating it as more of a joke, rather than a threat, as Duke was treating it.

"Don't confuse anarchy with chaos," Jason warned, "We are organized with the goal of the destruction of all forms of government. People should rule themselves. When you get Daddy in charge, all your freedom disappears in a puff of smoke. Money, morality, family, military, these are all the things which Daddy uses to exploit and oppress the working public."

It was fairly clear, to Cain at least, that Jason was just regurgitating things he had heard. People like this particular group of anarchists tended to be excitable and attracted to oversimplification.

"You're welcome to your beliefs," Cain said with some distaste, "But I don't share them."

Cain turned away from the group and brushed up against Duke, whispering ever so slightly in the German's ear, "Get your gun."

"But you do!" Jason exclaimed, and he ran up to stop Cain.

Duke inconspicuously exited the scene. Jason was holding Cain by the shoulder, and Duke didn't like it, but he'd been given an order and meant to follow through with it.

"The Fellowship and us are like peas in a pod, Cain!" Jason said, "We're all about people paying their own way, and being free to do so. You and me are both looking to build a utopia! Why shouldn't we work together? I'll admit I don't like the uniforms, but we can work around it."

"Why are you trying to make this alliance now?" Cain said, "Why in all the time the Fellowship has existed, do you choose this particular date to proposition me?"

"Because," Jason said confidentially, "Now we know what you did a couple of days ago."

"What's that?" Cain asked innocently.

"The October Massacre," Jason said smugly, "We know all about it. And we like it! You're right. The homeless are just as bad as the government. In the future, everyone will work their own farm, and we won't have taxes or any of that bullshit. I've got it all mapped out. And there's no place in any of it for bums."

"You mean our dreams overlap?" Cain said, turning away briefly to make a simple gesture to Duke, who had returned, to cover the front door.

"Yes!" Jason said, "Let's get together and iron something out. I mean, you must not like the government. They take away taxes from workers. That's your whole thing, isn't it? Rights for workers?"

"My 'thing'?" Cain asked, turning angrily now that he was satisfied with the position of the armed Ox, "You don't even know what you're talking about, do you?"

"Hey, calm down, man..."

"Shut up!" Cain exclaimed furiously, "You do not have the right to speak! You are a child, complaining about how the government has ruined your life, when in fact, the truth is you just never had any work ethic! You're either stupid or lazy, but you can't possibly admit that, so instead you blame your problems on the system.

"There's nothing wrong with the system, you asshole! Anarchy is for weak-minded fools! You enjoy making these ridiculous little plans about communal living and farming, but you've never considered what would really happen if there was no government. The government brings us police. In anarchy crime would be so rampant, everyone would die! The government builds the roads and the sewers, and takes out the garbage.

"Anarchy doesn't work, and it never did. Even cavemen had chieftains! You say our beliefs are the same? They're not even similar! Your belief is that the government has no right to exist. My belief is that men like you have no right to exist!"

With that, Duke opened fire on the anarchists.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 14, Part 2

The judge was a fair man, but not a patient one. He did not tolerate much of anything for very long. The trial so far, therefore, had been quite quick and expedient. The judge quickly picked off the weaselly lawyers and witnesses with harsh questioning, and advanced the case as quickly as he could. It didn’t matter to him one bit that it was so high profile, that crowds had gathered outside and inside to protest both ways for it. As far as this judge was considered, profiles were bullshit, protests were bullshit, and fancy rhetoric was bullshit. All that mattered was justice.

He quickly reshuffled the facts of the case in his head. The mayor had been indicted. Evidence had been brought to light by an anonymous source. A manila envelope had been pushed under the district attorney's door a few weeks earlier. It contained the manifesto Hate, and a paper trail connecting it to the mayor. The mayor had immediately been indicted, arrested, and was now put on trial. He had been strangely silent thus far, and spoken little in his own defense.

“…So,” continued the expert witness, “We can draw parallels to the Diary of Jack the Ripper, Mein Kampf, and any number of neo-Nazi and racist manifestos. We see the distinctive flawed reasoning and praise of hate, Hitler, and violence. Also, we should all take careful notice of the way in which the author capitalized the first letter in every use of the words "my" and "me." This is a fascinating trait, especially considering his otherwise atrocious grammar and spelling. I can't quite explain this, although it indicates a messianic complex, or possibly just delusions of grandeur. This author probably thought of himself as the heir to Hitler. So, in conclusion, I would say that it may have been faked, but it is eminently probable that it is genuine.”

“Thank you, professor,” said the DA, “You may step down. For my next witness I wish to call the defendant to the stand.”

The mayor was sworn in by a black bailiff. The bailiff was frigidly cold as he spoke to the mayor. For a single instant, as the mayor raised his right arm and repeated the oath, the bailiff looked at his arm as though it were a crawling mass of maggots. Then the instant was over, and the bailiff returned to an exactingly professional attitude. The mayor took his place behind the stand.

"Sir, one of your nicknames is 'The Bachelor Mayor'. Is that accurate?"

"That that's my nickname? Or that I'm not married?"

"That you're unwed, sir."

"Yes, that's correct."

"In fact, you are well known for being very shy around women, almost to the point of being afraid of a romantic relationship. It's also well known that this apparent meekness and chivalry has won you many votes with your female constituency."

"Why are you bringing this up, here, now?" the mayor said in genuine bafflement.

"Yes," the judge agreed, "Please keep your remarks within the bounds of the case at hand."

"I do have a point, your honor, if I may be given just a few moments."

"This better be good, Mr. Prosecutor."

"Thank you, your honor. Now, then, Mr. mayor, is there any particular reason why you are so afraid of women?"

"I don't see the point of this stupid question," the mayor said angrily.

"Please, sir, is there a reason?"

"Natural shyness," the mayor said angrily.

"No other reason at all?

The defense counsel suddenly stood up.

"Objection, your honor. Relevancy?"

"Yes, we've already addressed that issue, counselor. Please keep on the ball. And, Mr. Prosecutor, if you don't make a point soon, you will regret wasting the court's time."

"All right, sir, I'll get right down to it. Mr. mayor, some men are afraid of getting intimate with a woman because there may be something about their naked appearance which they are ashamed of. It could be a scar, a skin condition...a tattoo. Do you have any such marks?"

"Yes," the mayor said, hanging his head in shame.

"What sort of mark?"

"A tattoo."

"What is it a tattoo of?"

"A snake. Coiled around a swastika."

The crowd seemed astonished. Even the judge's eyes were wide, partly with astonishment at the prosecutor's skill, and partly with astonishment about the tattoo.

"A snake with it's body coiled around a symbol of universal hatred. Where is this tattoo located, sir?"

"On my right arm."

"I have made a thorough search of all photographs and videotapes taken of the mayor in public, and never once has he been shown without his right arm covered. If anyone were to see such a tattoo, it would have been political and quite possibly literal suicide, by which I mean some vigilante may have decided to kill him. Sir, is it true that you shun romantic relationships in order to keep your tattoo a secret from the public?"

"Yes, that's true," the mayor admitted.

"Deceit," the prosecutor said, raising his finger, but adding no further remarks to qualify that single word.

The prosecutor then went to the table with material evidence, then sauntered back up to the bench. He held up Hate, first turning so that everyone in the courtroom could see it, then pointing it like a blood soaked knife at the mayor.

"Mr. mayor, do you know what this is?"

A shadow of a smile played across the mayor's face for half a second.

"After the two hour lecture which the last witness just gave, I could hardly not know what it is, couldn't I?"

Had it been almost any other situation, this would have generated a few laughs from the crowd. The mayor was known for being flippant and funny, like a latter-day Kennedy. As things were, though, no one could do anything except shake their heads in quiet disgust at the mayor's sickeningly inappropriate attitude.

"I assure you," the prosecutor said in a Siberian voice, "That this is no time for levity, Mr. mayor. Now will you please tell me what this is."

His gorge rose as he enunciated the word "this", and he held the manuscript as though it burned to touch it.

"That," said the mayor, licking his teeth, "Is the Hate manifesto."

"Could you please read it for the court?"

"You don't have to do that," the judge cut in.

"No, I want to. I want to fess up to everything. I'll read it."

The mayor began reading, without a trace of emotion leaking into his voice at first. Soon, though, he was distinctly depressed, and by the end of the document he was almost too choked with tears to read the final line. But he did so anyway.

"That was Hate. Written anonymously, isn't that right?" the prosecutor said, not waiting for an answer, "Thank you, you may step down. I would now like to make my closing remarks.

"There is a very good reason why this monstrous document is unsigned. I have never run across such a singularly loathsome object as this either in the waking world or in my darkest nightmares. My stomach rises and my eyes water at the very thought of the contents of this manuscript. In the opening the writer suggests that those of sound mind and judgement do not read it. I was very sorely tempted to follow that advice when I caught a glimpse of what was within these pages. But I did not, I read every perverted line, every sickening word, every twisted letter. And I found in it a mind capable of genocide a hundred fold. I found an author whose words make Mein Kampf look like a children's story, and whose ideas make Hitler look like a saint.

"My great grandfather liberated a Nazi death camp and he told me in every sickening detail about what was there. But that detail was not nearly so sick as the details I find in here. Sometimes...not often, but sometimes...thoughts and words can be greater sins than mere action. This manifesto is nothing less than a crime of thought! It sets out to murder within the mind of it's reader the very compassion which makes us human. A murderer deprives someone of the body which makes them human. The writer of this manifesto attempts the very same thing, but not in the body does he try to murder us, but in the soul. The writer is no less than this man."

The DA pointed a damning finger at the mayor, and although everyone in the room was expecting it, there was, nonetheless, a collective gasp of horror. The prosecutor had more to say, though, and he continued on.

"If the law could prosecute a man for his thoughts, the writer of this manuscript would deserve nothing less than capital punishment. But, sadly, the law can not. The law can prosecute a man only for his actions. And thankfully we find this man guilty of more than thought crimes. What we find in Hate is not only a testament to unholy malice, but also a confession of disturbing crimes: assault, arson, murder. The police records confirm these unresolved crimes, and thank God we can resolve them today, finally. Just may be slow, but it always triumphs.

"Before passing judgement on this man, keep in mind that determining intent is an integral part of our justice system. A man who knocks over a candle is not prosecuted as harshly as a man who douses a building in gasoline and strikes a match. If these were the thoughtless crimes of a mischievous juvenile, we would show mercy. But they are not. This man's intent was to hurt people for no reason other than the color of their skin or the religion of their forefathers. He set out in this world to bring pain and suffering to human beings, and he did so not only unflinchingly but also taking great pride and joy in the evil he was doing.

"In conclusion, I can think of only one defense for the defendant which might earn him mercy, and I wish to refute it now. You may say that he has changed, that he has served this city, and that it has been a long time when he committed these crimes, and a different life. But I tell you that men do not change. Once a man begins down a path of hate, he can not turn back, he must follow it to it's deadly conclusion. And the conclusion will no doubt be deadly for this man. The prosecution rests."

That was it. The jury deliberated for several days and returned with the verdict: guilty on all counts.

The judge said, “Mr. Mayor, before I pass down judgement, do you have anything to say in your own defense?”

“No,” the mayor said calmly.

“And you do not know who brought this evidence to light?”

The mayor said nothing, did nothing, but stood ramrod straight.

“Or will not say. Anything at all?”

"Yes, your honor. I would ask the court, not for mercy, but for my dignity. Please put me before a firing squad so I can face death like a man rather than just be gassed or electrocuted."

"In this case, gassing would appear to be a fair punishment. However, it is not the punishment this court will pass down. It is not for the accused to choose his fate, so your request will be denied. You have been found guilty of hate crimes, corruption, arson, and murder, all of which are deathly serious crimes. Therefore, as is the court's prerogative, you will be hung by the neck until dead."

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 14, Part 1

"Unlock it," Cain said with a stiffly commanding tone.

The guard knew enough to be quietly obedient. He unlocked the cell door for this unscheduled, unorthodox visit, and then he hastily left. Duke trailed Cain into the cell. Every cell in the block had been emptied, thanks to a little Fellowship clout. They were utterly alone with the prisoner.

"You betrayed me, Cain," the prisoner said, "You broke our deal."

"A deal with the devil is made to be broken. You served your purpose and now you'll get proper justice. Take pride in the fact that you helped promote tolerance for once and not this."

Cain grabbed the prisoner's right shirtsleeve and angrily tore it off, to reveal a faded tattoo, worn by unprofessional attempts to remove it, but still unmistakable. It was a snake coiled around a swastika.

"You're a monster, Cain. You're a monster for what you do."

"And you're a monster for what you believe!" Cain screamed.

"I believed it once! I denounced it a hundred times, and suffered a million times trying to remove that stain from my soul and my arm. It still hasn't come away completely in either place."

"Yes, I see you tried to scrape off your tattoo with a knife. But it's not that easy. It takes laser surgery. And how could a high profile mayor explain to a doctor the tattoo that needed to be removed? So you were forced to keep it. It's still there...and you still believe."

The mayor smiled strangely. It wasn't smug, it wasn't condescending, it wasn't even joyful. It was a smile of comprehension.

"You know, you and I are the same."

"We are not!" Cain fairly roared, "Our beliefs are polar opposites!"

"Oh, yeah, Cain? What do you believe?"

"'The greatest of evils and the worst of crimes is poverty,'" Cain said.

"George Bernard Shaw, yes," the mayor said, picking up on the quote, "And I once believed that certain supermen were gods, and sub-humans deserved nothing but death. Ideologically different, right? But the things we do are the same. Murder, blackmail. Just in the name of one thing or another. Maybe you truly believe, maybe you don't. Either way, you still commit those crimes. Just as I did once. It's like the way Stalin and Hitler used to condemn one another. They both did the same things, but they did them in the name of different ideologies."

"I've had enough of you," Cain said slowly, "Faith is a man's core. Actions are secondary. And you will be punished for your monstrous faith."

"No, I will be punished for my actions."

"Faith," Cain said, "Come on, Duke."

And they left.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

Eternity Burning: Chapter 13, Part 3

***DISCLAIMER: EXTREMELY VIOLENT CONTENT AND DISTURBING IMAGERY***

Clea awoke with a start. She was young, only a teenager really. That was what made her poverty so tragic. She was dressed in dirty clothes, which had been very fashionable once, but which had been worn away with time. Her clothes and her body were almost analogous. Clea had once been beautiful and fresh, but after so many years of harshness, her beauty had been sapped.

She looked down at her chest. A man in a blue jacket had plunged a long, sharp knife right between her breasts. Then he had pulled it out. She had lost so much blood that soon she lost consciousness, too. But though the man had left her as dead she was not. Suddenly, though, she wished she was.

Breathing was next to impossible for her. A great mass of something was crushing her, filling the air all around her. She pushed at it and realized with a sickening thud that the mass was all bodies. She was surrounded by rigor mortis flesh.

She screamed out, but her voice was muffled, once again by the terrible corpses. Her heart was racing and fear coursed through her body. She was chilled to the bone with a terrible thought. What if she had been left here, thought to be dead, in a pile of bodies which would never be moved? She would soon asphyxiate, her lungs crushed by all that death.

"I'm alive!" she screamed, then she moaned in a low voice, "I'm still alive. Let me out."

Suddenly her fears were assuaged. She could hear movement above her. It sounded strangely like metal rattling. Well, the noises didn't bother her. She was more excited that the bodies were now beginning to move. She could feel gradually less and less weight on top of her. Soon, she knew, she would be free.

After a long, tense period of waiting, she could see light. She wanted to scream out for help, but then she realized it might be dangerous. During the time when she had stopped panicking and began thinking, she realized it might be the man who had stabbed her moving the bodies. If it was him, and she yelled out, he might really kill her this time. The decision she made was to play dead until she had been dug out of the pile and then break away.

For some reason, the movement and noise stopped. She looked out through the small hole that the light streamed in from. There was a crazed looking man with a beard who was giving orders. He was apparently in charge. Alongside of him were several men and women in blue jackets like the one of her assailant. Then she saw him. It was unmistakably the man who had attacked her. His face had been etched in her memory.

Her pulse and breathing quickened. She'd been right. These people meant to do her harm if she revealed herself. If she played possum she had just the tiniest sliver of a chance to escape with her life. She began bargaining with God, sending unspoken prayers towards Heaven, and wishing she had led a more Christian life.

"We can't dig a grave for every single one of them," the bearded leader was saying, "We can't even really dig a mass grave for all of them. There's just no room. Where are we going to bury them? Veteran's Stadium?"

"We can't do this, though!" another one was protesting with the leader, "It's sick."

"No sicker than what any of you have done tonight," the leader admonished, "You've all made your beds. Now sleep in them. Come on, get back to work! Dawn's coming soon."

Clea wondered what they were arguing about. She knew that they were talking about disposing of all the bodies, but if the leader had shot down the plan of burying them...what were they going to do with them? What were they going to do with her?

Through her little peephole she could see what they were doing if she strained. They were chaining the bodies together. Every cold, dead wrist was fettered to another cold, dead wrist. She felt a sudden chill in her heart. Escape wouldn't be possible even if she played possum and waited for them to leave. She'd be bound by all the bodies and...and what?

Suddenly it occurred to her it made no sense for them to chain the bodies together. The thought had apparently occurred to another one of the blue-jacketed people. He was tall and strong looking. He took the one who Clea had identified as the leader aside and asked him a question. Since "aside" was closer to her, she could hear what they were saying.

"I don't understand this," the tall one was saying with some kind of foreign accent, "Why don't we just throw them in the river? Why must we chain them together?"

So that was their plan. They were going to use the Delaware River as a watery charnel.

"No, no," she said quietly, fearing to raise her voice above a whisper.

"It's the only way of covering our tracks, Duke," the leader said.

He said it in a tone which sounded to the untrained ear like he was confiding in the tall man. Clea, however, recognized it as a tone of strained patience, the way an intelligent man who wanted something treated a dumb man who had it. She had heard that tone often enough in her life.

"I don't understand," the tall man, Duke, said.

The leader gave an almost imperceptible sigh. Clea recognized the relationship between Duke and the leader. The leader patronized Duke and Duke did things for the leader. The leader was so condescending towards the other man that Clea felt sorry for him for a moment.

"We've got a lot of bodies here, Duke. If we just chuck them in the river, some of them are bound to float, or to flow downstream and turn up somewhere. If just one of these bodies is found, the police'll probably trawl the river, and then they'll have us.

"What we're doing though, is chaining them all together with weights in between. That means the buoyant bodies - the ones that will float - will be dragged to the bottom by the heavy bodies. And the chains and weights will sink into the muck at the bottom of the river, and drag the bodies into the river bottom, too. In a way, we are burying them, we're just sinking them into the wet river mud rather than digging holes in the hard ground. Get it?"

Duke nodded. He was beaming with pride because the whole idea was just brilliant, and he was a part of it.

"Good. Now get back to work, Duke. I need your strong hands."

The leader clapped Duke on the back with a paternal show of appreciation. Clea found herself growing desperate. She had to do something, or she'd soon be fish food. The weight above her was light enough that she could probably move it all and dash away. It was her one shot.

With a heartstopping heave, she tried to move the bodies above her. She found herself strangely weak. She was barely able to move. Colored spots began to appear in front of her eyes. Suddenly she remembered how much blood she'd lost. She was half dead.

Then the bodies above her began to move on their own. The blue-jacketed men and women were moving their eerie load. She tried to escape but found that she had exhausted her last reserve of strength, and fell into a state straddling reality and dreams.

She felt the chain clasp around her wrist. Later, she felt the strange tug of dozens of bodies beckoning her into her untimely watery grave. Dragged down by corpses she suddenly screamed out, demanding life again, but it was too late. Her eyes opened, wide as saucers, and her tortured lungs sent fiery pains into her chest. She was in the water, surrounded by her grim companions. There was no escape from the canopy of mud.
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