Dead Man's Hand

This is the start of a new mystery, which I dedicate to the one and only Hippievixen.

c.LK2005

I
"When will it end?" asked the quiet voice from the corner.
"Why are you in such a hurry?" came the reply. "After all, you've got all the time in the universe."
"You're treading on a fine line, Hornbet, and once you cross it I will take personal pleasure in seeing that you suffer."
Hornbet smirked like a fox amongst the chickens and carried on polishing his collection of pistols.
"That may be so, my dear friend," he said whilst blowing down the barrel of his shiny new Peacemaker, just another prized possession won on the cards table, "but until then you have to do my bidding."
"Why did you choose this infernal town? There's nothing here but dust and tumbleweed. What do you hope to gain?"
"I love Texas, pardner. As for Corpus Christi, my old man advanced with Taylor to Fort Brown from here back in '46. That'd be the year I was born and he died. It's a good place to continue my winning streak as any."
"I hate it!"
"You just hate the name. All small towns are the same. As long as there's licquer, loose women and a poker table, it's fine by me. So you shut your mouth now and pass me my waistcoat."
The tall, lean man moved out of the corner of the rented room and walked across the creaky floorboards. He picked up the fine silver silk paisley patterned garment and helped the gambler put it on.
"See, that wasn't hard, was it?" Hornbet's irony contained an unlimited air of self-confidence. "Just remember: if anyone asks, your name is Ace."
"I'm not likely to forget," came the reply as they walked out of the door.
In the scarse light of the hallway, the eyes of the man with the pseudonym shone with a brighter silver than Hornbet's waistcoat and a menace that was barely contained.

(to be continued)

 

(c) LK2005
II
The street, if you could call it that, was buzzing with activity. Suddenly a young man rushed out of the barber, whilst another man followed behind, trying to hold him back.
"I believe you have something there that belongs to me," said the young voice.
Hornbet carried on walking toward the saloon. He was in no mood for confrontation. His mind was on 52 other things.
"Isn't that the man you beat yesterday?" asked Ace. "Looks like you've made another enemy, Hornbet. Keep it up!"
"Keep your peace, you devil" snapped back Hornbet. "I've got no time to whip his hide. The game's starting soon."
The gambler had almost made it to the saloon door when the young man rolled up a long and meaty ball of phlegm from his throat and spat it with vigour in Hornbet's direction, clearly missing him.
"What are you doing? Are you mad? Let it go. Papa's waiting for us at the ranch..." the other young man was pleading with the spitter.
"The hell am I returning without that piece of iron. Papa's gonna skin me alive if he finds out I've lost his prized pistol whilst gambling in the saloon! Hey, stranger! I'm talking to 'ya. Gimme back my dad's gun and I'll pay ya 20 bucks!"
"It's not for resale," hissed Hornbet as he pushed the saloon doors to go inside.
"Then maybe perhaps you'll show us all that you're man enough to carry it. Something that I seriously doubt, you being a yellowbelly coward an' all. Only good for one thing and that's cheating decent folk out of their trappings. An' the only good cheat is a dead cheat!"
His brother tried to pull him back, but the challenger pushed him away and took a gunslinger's stance.
Hornbet stopped and his eyes narrowed. His spurs were the only thing that was heard as he stepped back out into the street. The whole town had grown silent.
"Will you be needing my help?" asked Ace.
"I will not be needing anything," replied Hornbet with venom. "Ain't nobody south of the north pole that's faster than me."
"Then maybe I can help the young man to even the odds a bit," said Ace with a satanic smile.
"No, damn you. I order you not to interfere."
At the word 'order', Ace's smile was replaced with a grimace and his silver eyes looked at Hornbet like a meal that was being saved to be devoured later.
"Let it be known," declared Hornbet loudly, so that every person present would hear, "that I have given this young man every opportunity to return to his home and that he is the one challenging me, forcing me to defend..."
The sentence was not finished when the young man clumsily drew. He hadn't raised his firearm midway when two bullets were launched from the Peacemaker that Hornbet was holding. The gambler himself leaned over to the right side and at the same time his black hat went flying off. The crowd that had gathered gasped, but it wasn't at the near miss, for the gambler's bullets had found their mark on the young man's throat and he grovelled on the ground in agony as his brother cried above him helplessly.
Ace picked up Hornbet's hat and placed one of his long nailed fingers in the smoking hole that had perforated it.
"Throw the damn thing away. I've no use for it now," said Hornbet, annoyed.
"Pity the lad missed," commented Ace.
"You two gentlemen hold yer' horses! I'd be wantin' some words with you if you'd care to follow me," it was a much older voice and Hornbet looked really impatient now.
He had no choice in the matter, however, for the voice belonged to the law, represented in this case by Sherriff Howard P. Hardway.

(to be continued)

 

(c) LK2005

III
"I'll be quite frank with you," said the sheriff. "I don't like what you do. Vermin like you think they can ride into a quiet little town like this one and act how the hell they want."
Ace's silver eyes lit up as he gazed at Hornbet, hoping he would feel intimidated.
"Guess we don't see eye to eye, Sheriff..." Hornbet replied.
"Just Sheriff will do."
"But then again we live in a democracy and a man may speak his mind," continued Hornbet. "Way I see it, I drew in self defense an' there's a whole darn street full of witnesses and a black hat with a bullet hole in it that can verify that testimony. So, 'less you have somethin' to set charge and keep me here, I would appreciate if we could take our leave."
"I'll be keeping my eye on you, Hornbet, you can count on that," said Sheriff Hardway. "As fer you, stranger, what is your name and your business in this town?"
"They call me Ace and I'm... accompanying Mr. Hornbet through his tour of this state."
"I see," replied the Sheriff. "And did Ace's father give him a full name, or is he just named after a card?"
"Modeus," replied Ace with a leer.
"That be a weird name if ever I heard one and it goes without saying that it be an even weirder company you're keeping with. Now git the hell outa here and make sure I don't catch you getin' involved in any shannanigans on my territory."
Hornbet flew out of the door to get to the saloon in time and Ace laboriosly strolled behind.

Sheriff Hardway picked a ring of rusty keys that were hanging from the wall behind his crammed desk and went over to one of the two cells.
"Come on Big Eight, you must have sobered up by now"
He was talking to a massive Indian who was crouched on the cell floor, holding his head.
"Head's spinning!" said the Indian.
"That's called a hangover, Big Eight. I'd thought you'd be used to that by now."
Hardway released the Indian from captivity and as Big Eight got up, it was evident why they called him that, since he was eight feet tall.
"That man has evil spirit with him," said Big Eight.
"I agree that he is not a man of God, but the only evil spirit around these parts is the one you guzzle at the saloon. Why d'you have to drink so much whiskey, Big Eight? You know it's no good fer you."
"Sheriff Hardway is good man," said Big Eight. "He rescued me when I was boy, but he must watch his back. I can tell the evil spirit and it was here. I can still smell it."
"That be the wind you were blowing from yer behind all through the night. Now git yerself outside fer some fresh air. See if anyone needs some help fixing somethin'."
He watched the big Indian stumble roughly out the door and though he didn't say it, he knew he was right. For even though he wasn't from Big Eight's tribe and didn't have the same spiritual guidance, Sheriff Hardway had also felt that there was something very evil about those two strangers.

(to be continued)

 

(c) LK 2005

The locals in the street were truly shocked and intimidated by the whole event. Up until then they had read about gunfights in other towns, but they knew this was the romantic fiction of overactive minds. Most gunfights happened in the form of an ambush, away from civilization. One thing that was immediately noticable was how everyone moved out of Hornbet's way as he strolled toward the saloon, as if he was a legendary bubonic plague derived from tales of medieval Europe.

Inside the dusty saloon the toothless owner welcomed the hardened gambler with a baby's smile. He poured some worthless tequilla for him, which was realistically denied. After all, Hornbet would rather have taken a dump in a urinated glass and consumed it in all its glory. He had to have his wits about him and every person who truly deserves the title of gambler knows not to mess with their concentration.

He opened an insignificant door and entered a room where the big boys play, away from the village idiots who just want to pass the time by pissing their wages away. Only quality entered that room, because real money was played there, and the toothless bufoon that owned the establishment soon realized that he was going to entice his prestige clientele by opening that bottle of single malt whiskey from Scotland that he had been saving for special occasions.

Hornbet considered himself lucky that the assembled menagerie of addicts had waited for him and Ace took his post by standing away from the table and by the door.
"Those who are not here to gamble should really fuck off!" said Fullodds.
Fullodds was an English gentleman who was based in Virginia and whose predecessors had made a fortune by transporting Africans to America to be sold as slaves.
"Are we here to gamble, or are we here to preach?" asked Horbet. "I appreciate your having waited for me, considering my personal intrusion, but I believe we're all here for a common cause, and that's to play cards, unless I'm mistaken. Now everyone's welcome to have their protector with them, as long as they stand aside of the game."
"Cut the bullshit," said Passline, who was also the mayor of Corpus Christi, "now set yer ass down, Hornbet an' les see what yer made of."
Joe Le Vin, who was a known arms dealer that traded with the Mexican army beyond the Rio Grande, shuffled the cards. As they were dealt to each player, Ace's eyes looked like a sidewinder, as he stood staring from the door.

(to be continued)

 

(c) LK2005

V
The sun had set when the cranky stagecoach rolled into town. Some passers-by loitered to satisfy their curiosity at the new arrival. Two rough looking men with beards got out and then they helped a smaller, well dressed city-type man to get down. Laybehind, the hardened driver was busy unloading their cases with the help of his eldest son, who always accompanied him through the wild frontier for protection. As soon as Laybehind had finished his task and the stagecoach sped off, the gathered locals caught a glimpse of the expensively clad newcomer and were so perplexed they didn't know what to think. Though he was dressed in a grey suit and bowler hat that one would expect a congressman to be wearing, the stranger could not have been more than 15 years old. What was more unsettling for those present was that the color of his skin was distinctly different to the two men who assisted him. The people of Corpus Christi knew that America was advancing rapidly as it bore momentum toward the 20th Century, but not even the imagination of Twain would have prepared them to see the day when a young black boy would come to their town with two white servants in wait. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to state that the gossip spread through the region like a Kansas tornado.

The three males entered the motel where Hornbet was staying and found the owner snoozing on a chair. One of the men made a cough and the owner who became startled fell off his perch and collided with the unswept floor.
"What in the goddamned blazes-?" he stopped when he saw the customers.
"I would like 2 rooms, please," said the boy. "One for my men and one for me. And I would also like a bath to be prepared, for my journey has been arduous."
The owner didn't know whether to laugh, or reach for his repeater rifle under the counter.
"Say boy, I don't know what day it is, but it sure ain't April Fools Day. Now get on goin' through the door and keep goin'. We don't serve your kind here."
The boy reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out an ornate leather wallet. He opened it and slowly pulled one banknote after another, laying them out neatly on the dirty counter. The owner's eyes increased with every twenty dollar bill, until it they reached a point where if another banknote was brought out then both his eyes would pop out of their sockets. It was a miracle, for sure, because the owner had suddenly found enlightment at the prospect of such an irresistable enterprise. The owner's attitude was reversed and the newcomers were welcomed with open arms and a whiff of halitosis.
"Will you be staying long, sir?" asked the owner.
"As long as it takes to find what I'm looking for," said the boy.
"Oh good," grinned the owner, rubbing his unwashed hands, whilst showing them the way up.

(to be continued)

 

white scorp, your writing is dark, brooding, and mesmerizing, all at the same time.

oh yes, and hilarious!

some of your paragraphs bring giggles until tears run down my cheeks! big eight, for example!

*lol*

thank you for dedicating this texas-inspired story to me

 

(You are most welcome, Hippievixen. I hope I can live up to your expectations. I have reached a higher sense of perception by drinking copious amounts of Guiness, so this should be mildly interesting, as the plot thickens...who knows what the outcome will be?)

(c) LK 2005

VI
They had been in for three and a half hours when the door to the back room swerved open. One by one they all filed out, looking depressed as if they'd lost a close relative. No one dared to say a word to them as they left the saloon. Only Fullodds, the Englishman remained behind, leaning against the bar. He watched as the triumphant Hornbet marched out with a well satisfied grin. Somehow he had also managed to regain his black hat with the bullethole in it. Ace, the tall man that was always around with him had been ordered to find it again. The cheapskate vulgarity of the victor annoyed the Englishman even further. He rubbed his reddened face, wondering how they had all fallen apart. Hornbet's luck was unbelievable and there was no way he was cheating; Fullods would have caught him out for sure. There was only one thing left to do and that was to forget what happened. Fullodds would ride to the next town and try to regain his losses by challenging some country bumpkins where he would be guaranteed a winner. Right now all he was concerned about was getting a proper drink.

He asked the toothless buffoon behind the bar to serve him an ale, expecting to be disappointed. It was the second time the Englishman misjudged the situation however, for the owner with the vacant smile was an enterpreneur and had managed to get a case of bottled beer with a shipment from Georgia. For a brief moment Fullodds forgot about his misfortune as the frothy golden liquid was poured into a tall glass for him. At last, things were heading in the right direction. Every gambler knows that luck swings in circles and if the only appreciation he was going to have that evening was drowning his sorrows, so be it. The barman, being proud of his professionalism, gave a blank smile. It was blank because as was mentioned before, it lacked the necessary element of dentures. Sometimes things happen in life that are totally unexpected and yet may seem befitting to the given situation. Fullodds didn't know what to make of the small monkey that was jumping around the bar, but since he wanted to clear his mind from his defeat on the cards table, he decided to relax. The monkey opened his mouth and gave a small screech. Then it offered its tiny hand to the bitter gambler. Fullodds gave his finger to the monkey, who grabbed it and, seeing that there was no food in it, moved away.
The Englishman, who was in a bit of a daze, turned his back downheartedly to gaze around the saloon. People were smoking and spitting tobacco. Wenches were plying their wares for business and in a corner a blind man was playing ragtime tunes on a worn piano. Nothing could have prepared the stout Englishman, (who had faced countless close escapes in his lifetime) for the demonic scene when he turned back. The true manifestation of evil and the ether it exhumed caught him completely by surprise and he shut his eyes in disbelief at the sight of the unmentionable.

There, for all the world to see and witness, an act so monstrous and unheard of, unsheathed itself like an invisible serpent from a nether plane. The monkey was basking in all its glory with its genitalia dipped in the Englishman's glass. Fullodds almost shrieked with horror and disgust.
"How appalling! Bar-keep! What the Nicholas Nickleby is happening here?"
The monkey scarpered off, out of sight, cackling all the way, as the gap mouthed bar tender put down a glass he was wiping and came to his customer's assistance.
"What appears to be the problem, sir?" he asked.
"Problem? It's a lot more than a problem my dear fellow," replied Fullodds. "Your despicable pet has avouched my disgust by dipping its bollocks in my brew!"
"Excuse me?"
"Your monkey. That untamed man-rat has immersed its bollocks-"
"Its what? I don't understand."
"It's bollocks, man. Oh you collonials. Its down below. You know. Its thing! It put its thing in my drink."
"Its what thing?"
"Its love sack, you melon! The thing it makes babies with! For crying out loud! I lose a fortune and on top of it I get to drink monkey's testacle flavored beverages! What kind of a sick place is this?"
"Begging your pardon, sir, when you said bullocks I thought you meant something else. I can assure you that the ape does not belong to us, but please allow me to serve you another drink on the house."
Fullodds saw things more realistically now and calmed down as the barman poured another beer for him in a new glass. He even began to see the funny side to it. It would definately make an interesting conversation in the future.

He has almost forgotten about his loss when horror resurfaced. This time there was no denying his ill fate as he stared at it as clear as sunlight. The irredeemable tentacles of terror had returned to haunt him. The monkey had come back and was mockingly dipping its smooth gonads in the Englishman's pint. Fullodds drew his Browning revolver.
"A man would get shot for less in the empire!" he stated.
"Woa! Steady on, limey," said a cowboy who was standing close to the bar. "Someone might get hurt!"
"I wanna know whose is the monkey!" yelled Fullodds. "An Englishman never loses his temper, but this boat has gone too far! Is that your monkey?"
"Hell no. What the hell would I want with a monkey?"
"I don't believe this," said Fullodds, by now the saloon had grown quiet, apart from the piano twinking in the corner. "What kind of a sick minded joke is this meant to be?"
He walked over to the Indian who was standing at the end of the bar. He looked up at him and with an uncontained temper screamed the same question. It was then that Fullodds's temper subsided a little, for the Indian was actually sitting. When he stood, the Englishman had to crane his neck to stare up at Big Eight. The Indian had followed the sheriff's advice and had stopped drinking whiskey. He was drinking tequilla. Fullodds summoned all his strength.
"Is that your monkey, perchance, springing all its mischief loose?"
"Me have no monkey," replied Big Eight.
"Then whose is it? It has to belong to somebody. It didn't just decide to leave the jungle and come here for entertainment, did it?"
"Me not know," replied Big Eight. "Try asking piano player. It might belong to him."

Fullodds looked at the musician and though the man was obviously blind, the injury was by now far too deep to succumb. He approached the piano, leaned on it and coughed. The music stopped.
"Yes?" asked the blind man.
"Listen, old chap, I have a bit of a problem."
"Yes?" asked the blind man.
"Do you know that your monkey has been dipping its nuts in my beer."
"I'm afraid I don't know it, but if you whistle a couple of verses I might be able to play along with it."
Needless to say that the Englishman promptly left Corpus Christi and was never seen again.

(to be continued)

 

(c) LK2005

VI
Although most of the population of Corpus Christi were up from the break of dawn, like most godfearing people, Hornbet did not rise from his bed until it was noon. Such is a gambler's lot and the only meaning time has for them is to make plans for the next poker game. As was usual by now, Ace greeted the heartless gambler with profanities and threats, but all Hornbet was concerned with was to have a good scratch of his family jewels. The bed he was sleeping on was for certain infested with a microcosm of lice and other protoplasmic creatures.
"That was a hell of dirty trick you played on the Englishman last night," he said, without looking at his companion.
"Hell is right. What am I supposed to do? I'm bored and I had to have some fun," replied Ace.
"I didn't summon you here for fun. I have my reason and all you have to do is follow my bidding. Then you can go back to where you came from."
"It's obvious that you don't really know what you're messing with. Each day that I remain here becomes a complication. Soon he will send someone down here and then..."
"And then, nothing. Stop trying your tricks with me. They won't work. You must have figured out by now that I'm craftier than a coyote. Now pass me my hat. I'm going for a shave."
Hornbet placed the perforated black hat on his head and walked outside the room where he left his boots. In the corridor he caught sight of the black boy that had the room next to his. The boy, dressed with a morning shirt and a silk cravate, stared intently at the gambler.
"What the blazes are you gawping at, boy?" asked Hornbet.
The door across the boy's room squeeked open and his two employees walked out. They pushed back their long black trench coats to reveal the shining hardware that was hanging from their gunbelts. Hornbet snorted and returned to his room to put on his boots.
"Too much heat for you?" sneered Ace.
"This place is falling apart. I don't know what this world is coming to. Help me put these boots on."

Later on, when the barber across the road had shaved the gambler and carefully waxed his curly moustache, the whole town was stirred by loud screams of agony which even managed to impress Ace. As everyone rushed outside to see the source of the commotion, they were confronted by a horde of Chinese workers who looked as if they were dying. They were screaming and holding their stomachs as if they were about to burst.
"AAAIIIEEE!!!" they were all shouting in a high pitch.
Some were puking up, whilst others fell down and shook violently. Sheriff Hardway ran out into the street to investigate and told young Nina from Pasadena to find the doctor. The root of the problem became evident when Big Eight suddenly appeared, being chased by a posse of railmen who were shooting wildly at him. They were the crappiest shots Hardway had seen in his life, because Big Eight was as big as a grizzly and only a blind man could miss him. The sheriff fired a gunshot in the air and brought the process to an end, when the Indian stood behind him for protection. The railmen stopped to catch their breath in the hot Texas sun and their leader launched a tirade of almost incomprehensible insults.
"Hang him!" was the only thing that sheriff Hardway understood for sure.
"There'll be no hanging here," said the sheriff."Now explain what happened before I haul your ass in jail."
"It's that damn Injun you should throw in jail, sheriff. He tried to poison us!"
"What the Davy Crockett have you done now Big Eight?" asked the sheriff.
"I poison no one. I just make chilly," repied Big Eight.
"That weren't no chilly, you Bigfoot!" screamed the railman."That was a firecracking ringburner. You could run a locomotive with that, you son of a bitch! We hired this idiot to feed the Chinamen who are building the rail lines and his damn well poisoned them all. Where am I gonna get workers now?"
The sheriff hanged his head down. He was regularly having to deal with Big Eight's honest mistakes.
"Now, Big Eight. Can you remember what you put in the chilly?"
"I put meat and I put beans, but there was not enough chilly, so I use kerosene from lamps."
"You used WHAT?"
"Chilly has to be hot, sheriff. And kerosene burns. So me thought it would make good chilly!"
"I swear that your mama must have dropped you when you were a baby, Big Eight. Get yourself inside the saloon and order yourself a saspirilla an' let me deal with this. Now, the doctor is here, gentlemen and I'm sure your men will be alright with some medication. Leave Big Eight to me. He's a few chips short of a stack, but he's not a bad bloke..."
The sheriff pacified the railmen and managed to get the big Indian out of the deep hole he had buried himself in. One other thing that caught his attention, however, was the young newcomer and the way he was staring at Hornbet from the entrance of the hotel. It was as if he knew him and that could spell only one thing: trouble.

(to be continued)

 

I enjoyed this very much man. Its Dashiell Hammet meets Alan Furst multiplied by Scott Fitzgerald. I loved the dark, Lost Generation aspect to it. Its GREAT hardboiled fiction. Congratulations man.

 

Mucho gracias senor thrawn.
It pleases me that you're enjoying the trip.
More on the way soon...

 

(c) LK2005

VIII
The girls from the saloon were enjoying the live urban drama that was unfolding in the street from the upstairs balcony. Noon was a time of rest for them and they could really get a scrubbing down from the toils that each night bore. Even by their standards the tragic comedy that was manifesting in Corpus Christi was a touch on the unimaginable: Oriental men running about screaming in pain whilst their guts ommited their contents from almost every orifice, an Indian giant being chased for poisoning, a discontented Englishman and his phenomenal encounter with a monkey of unknown origin, a peculiar tightarse bowlegged gambler wearing a hat with a bullet hole and always followed by a tall man with the most evil looking eyes that have a strange silver hue, and the intimidating wealthy newcomers looking distinctly out of place.

Juicy Lucy, the most buxxom wench of the bordello had eyes only for one.
"He's too young for you, Juicy Lucy," said one of the girls. "Why, he's only a boy!"
"And he's of a different color," said another one and they all giggled. Only their giggle wasn't exactly a girly one, or a shy geisha one either. It was more like a cackling of a sordid bunch of used slappers, which in all erstwhile essence pretty much summed, well, it wasn't as if they were pretending to be something else.
"Shut your big fat piss flaps!" swore Juicy Lucy. "I'll spit on the next whore that says anything nasty about this poor little darling."
"Golly wee bucket, I do believe Juicy Lucy is in lurve! Why, look at her getting all hot and wet for nothing but a n..."
"Right, that's it you bitch!"
Juicy Lucy grabbed her by the hair and threw her over the balcony. The girl screamed and the others tried to pull her back. The enraged woman held on with mighty strength, clutching on to her locks, whilst the girl that was hanging from the balcony screamed like a pig.
"Let go of her, dammit!" shouted the others.
"Nooooo!" screamed the girl that was hanging, not wanting to fall.
"What's goin' on here?" shouted the toothless saloon owner, who came to see what all the fracas was about.
"Nothing," said all the girls together, looking as innocent as Tom Sawyer going into a bush with Huckleberry Finn.
"It sounds like Soddom an' Gomorrah up here. Keep 'yer peace 'fore I whip yer sorry ass backsides. This is a respectable neighbourhood an' you'll scare away the clientelle."
Just then a short shriek was heard. It was then that they remembered that Juicy Lucy had let go of the other girl's hair. They slowly dared to look over the balcony to see her fate and it was gruesome to the bone. For though the girl had the fortune to land on something soft, she also had the misfortune that it was the cart that had been sent round by the sheriff to scoop up all the splodgy diarrhoea that had been mass-produced by the poisoned Chinese railworkers.
"That is gross!" said all the girls.

(to be continued)

 

IX

(c) LK2005

Life is strange. Just when everything becomes almost predictable, it takes a different turn altogether. Looking at events like a fly on the wall, someone would be tempted to be amused by the happenings at Corpus Christi, from a sadistic point of view, of course. Reality made an unwelcome wake up call when Laybehind's son rode into town looking like death. His father was sat up next to him in the coach, all pale and staring out into space and looking for the worst part as if he had passed away. When the carriage stopped, some of the more hospitable folk of the town went over to help, but the son broke down and nobody could get any sense out of him. Laybehind was still alive, yet he was petrified beyond voluntary motion. Sheriff Hardway could not believe what was happening to this little town and wondered if this was all a test from the Maker. As far as he could make from the lad, something very tragic had happened at their house, which was a couple of miles away.

At once, sheriff Hardway collected some able bodied men and the doctor and they all rode like the devil to reach the house. By the sound of it, he knew they were already late, but they might still be able to pick up some tracks. He was already trying to figure things out in his head. The Laybehinds must have been raided for some reason. Who knows? Perhaps Laymore owed money, perhaps they knew something that they shouldn't. They were already expecting the worst when they went through the door. Expecting bodies to be shot, or even with their scalps missing, though there was hardly a chance of the latter happening any more. Each man, but the sheriff, fled from the house in absolute repulsion, even the doctor. The picture they had seen sizzled into their brain, making their knees weak and making them lose their orientation. For a long time sheriff Hardway remained motionless. He wanted to move, but couldn't. Nowhere had his mind even imagined such a barbaric sight, never mind comprehend any reason. They were all dead alright and even a man like Hardway, who had seen scalped corpses, couldn't make any sense of who might be responsible for such a depraved act. The bodies were scattered all around the room, as if they had been thrown away like unwanted toys. A gaping red hole was in each one's chest where their heart would normally be encased. They all shared a similar look of unmentionable horror, their last memory in existence. There was no need for a doctor. This wasn't an act of man. It had to be supernatural and the sheriff didn't have a clue how to combat it, except to consult Reverend Passline.

(to be continued)

 

X

(c) LK 2005

There was something very eerie about St. Celestine, the church of Corpus Christi. Although from the outside it looked as homely and as welcoming as any of the churches south of Kentucky, it was only when a person actually strolled inside that they noticed an architectural marvel that surely had to be a mathematical illusion. Anyone walking up the hill would see a normal building made out of wood. There was nothing outstanding about it. But when parishioners stepped inside, the first thing they noticed was the chill that permeated their bones, no matter how hot the weather was outside. Somehow the builders managed to construct the inside with stone, and the aisle stretched out far down to the altar like a French cathedral. Paintings of saints lined the walls, whose eyes followed anyone who entered like predatory guardians.

Sheriff Hardway took off his hat as he entered and he could see the Reverend Passline kneeling in prayer in front of the simple wooden cross that was hanging above the altar. The cross itself looked so old that it was phenomenal how it still held together and there were certain stains on it that the good sheriff could have sworn that they looked like dry blood. Then again it might have been another illusion created by the erosion of time. For a moment the sheriff's mind was sidetracked by the presence of another man who was kneeling next to the reverend. It appeared as if they were quietly chatting about something and it was only the lawman's cough that suddenly stirred them to look around.
"Sheriff Hardway! What a pleasant surprise!" said Reverend Passline, rising to greet him.
The sheriff wished he could smile back at the holy man, but the recent circumstances had raised a barrier of austerity around him. It was only when the priest's companion rose to his feet, however, that the sheriff was momentarily speechless.

The stranger looked authoritative and had an aura of someone in command. It was not surprising, as he walked down the aisle with the reverend, for he was wearing a high ranking military uniform. The thing that confused the sheriff wasn't the absolute white hair and beard of the stranger, nor the unsignia of a general that was on show. It wasn't even the walking stick with the polished brass head of a pelican for a handle. For although the uniform had the same design of the US military, it was neither the deep blue the yankees wore, or the charcoal grey of Dixie. Whatever color the uniform had once been, it had now faded to a dusty white. As if the wearer had been rolled in flour. Sheriff Hardway had a difficult time diluting the curious look from his face.

"Sheriff Hardway, please meet General Stickman," said the reverend.
The sheriff stretched his hand out, almost hypnotised, but the general ignored it.
"Pleased to meet you, sheriff," said the general instead.
"The general is in command of a great army," said the reverend, "and I am actually very honored for his visit to our humble little town, since he is very busy with things."
"Actually, reverend," said the sheriff, "I was wondering if I could have a word in private with you."
"Oh, feel free to speak about anything," replied the reverend. "The general is in my most trusted confidence and anything you say will not filter through these walls, as you well know."
"Actually I came to speak to you about a macabre event and I don't think it would be delectable to such esteemed company, father."
"You have come here about the massacre at the Laybehinds's residence."
"My! How did you kow that?" asked the sheriff.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways, but this is no great mystery, for the word has reached every nook and cranny of Corpus Christi."
"I am truly baffled, father, for I have never encountered such criminal insanity! It was the most horrible scene I have ever seen and I don't know where to turn for guidance."
"You have come to the right place, my good man. I will consolidate your problem and perhaps we can find a way to fight the evil that has descended upon us all."
The reverend looked at the general who was walking toward the exit.
"I'm just taking a little fresh breath of air," said General Stickman, and as he opened the door the sheriff was positive that he saw a glow emanating from the noble man's head. Then again it could have been the shafts of daylight that were piercing in from the opening.

(to be continued)

 

XI

(c) LK 2005

"Get a move on," whined Hornbet.
Although he looked pretty stupid wearing a hat with a bullet hole in it, nobody would dare laugh at him, except the sheriff of course, but then again he wasn't a humorous man.
Ace squinted his eyes and a deadly cunning expression clouded his visage. His silver eyes lost their glow. It wasn't clear to Hornbet, who was concerned about getting back to the hotel for a catnap before the next poker game, but Ace was transcending beyond what human beings would call the materialistic plane. Hornbet knew what he was doing when he had called Ace into service a few days ago, but in all essence he was an amateur. He dabbled in arcane knowledge only to achieve his goals and it was obvious he didn't know as much as he should. Ace had almost broken through the latent spell that had been cast to cloud the gambler's mind. There was an object and it looked small and shiny. In spiritual form, Ace wondered through the myst, and he followed the radiance of the article which was the reason why Hornbet had enslaved him. He was almost there, but the fog in Hornbet's mind was too thick. He tried waving it aside when...he was electrified by something that happened back in the human world.

He collapsed on the floor in sheer agony. It was as if all his teeth had been pulled out with a pair of pliers.
"What is wrong with you?" Hornbet was standing over him now, shaking his head. "You'll never give up. Will you? Don't think I'm fooled by your tricks. Now ger'up an' ger a move on. I need my beauty sleep."
The silver glow returned to Ace's eyes and as the pain lessened he was able to calculate. That unearthly pain that would have sent a mortal straight into his domain was meant as a warning. The cause of that warning was at the end of the street, casually walking toward them.

Hornbet gazed at the old general in the white uniform with a baffled look.
"Who the darn blazes is that?" he asked, but Ace ignored him.
As the old man came nearer, the whole town seemed to slow down to a grind. It looked as if they were walking through thick maple syrup, until eventually everything ground to a halt. That is everything apart from General Stickman and Ace. Neither of them opened their mouth to speak. That would have been far too primitive a concept. Instead, the hue of their eyes changed and vapors undetectable to anything living on earth were released to convey what they had to say. Impossible as it may be to translate such a conversation, it can be summarized thus to get a basic idea of what went on:

(to be continued)

 

(c) LK 2005

"Well, look at what we have here! If it ain't an archdemon! Now how do you suppose it got here?"
"Cut the irony, archangel. You know already I did not choose to be here. And what's with the white military uniform? Talk about keeping a low profile!"
"Never mind that. It's you that owes an explanation. Why are you here?"
"I don't owe you nothing, Michael, but if you must know, that human has brought me over here."
"I must admit that even though the seraphim reported this to the Maker, and unlike your kind their word is never deceitful, I still find it rather difficult to accept. No demonlater has the power to invoke an archdemon and you know that Asmodeus! Oh, and talk about calling the kettle black, Ace Modeus? You must teach me the art of subtlety sometime."
"Yeah, right. That was his idea and frankly he's going to regret it when the time is up."
"I see. That is rather inconsequential compared to the fact that you're trespassing on the treaty. This world is not advanced enough yet to become a battlefield for our conflict."
"Great! And what are YOU going to do about it?"
"It's not what I'm going to do! It's what your Master will do to you, once you get back."
"That will be for me to deal with. So how come they sent you? I thought Gabriel always got the dirty jobs."
"He's a bit indisposed right now."
"Oops! Trouble in paradise! He's always welcome to join the winners of course, if things don't work out!"
"Always the confident one, ain't you, Asmodeus? He is on the winning side already. You still haven't answered how you got here."
"Why should I? What is it to you?"
"Perhaps I can help you return."
"You'd like that! Truth is I would, too. He has the book."
"Which book?"
"THE book."
"Don't be ridiculous. The only books that are in existence are poor substitutes in Greek and Latin. They're more likely to send a man to hell than conjure an archdemon."
"He's got an original copy written in Arabic."
"Impossible. Our agents destroyed all copies of it."
"If you're talking about the Church then I hate to break the news to you, but some of the agents you so trust play for both sides."
"Is it true? We allowed them the Necronomicon to satisfy their pulsating human curiosity that is so self destructive, but no there can't be any copies of the Al-Azhif! It would destroy everything!"
"It is not a copy. This was written by the hand of Alhazred."
"Then it must be destroyed."
"Guess it must be. You'll be doing me a big favor and I won't be getting disturbed again by your Maker's monkeys."
"Hold on! There's something else isn't there? He brought you out, but how can he control you? What charm is he using?"
"Not telling you."
"Tell..."
"No."
Bright light!!!
"He's got the heptagonal moonstone!!! That was supposed to be guarded by the neutrals, the librarians!"
"I wish you wouldn't do that! It hurts!"
"Shut up! I have to think."
"Maybe you can get it off him. That would release me."
"You moronic entity! Don't you realize what would happen if either one of us touched it?"
"So? Use gloves!"
"I think you've been on earth too long. This is no joking matter. What is this mortal trying to do?"
"I don't know. No, no, no, really, please, no light! I almost had it when you interrupted me!"
"This explains the attack on that family. The stone and your presence here has caused a rift. Hell is leaking."
"I know. It's sad, ain't it?"
"We can't bring the conflict forward. Procedures have to be maintained. If we don't patch the rift and return you to the 8th dimension it will upset conformity."
"What do you suggest I do, archangel?"
"Try and get into his mind again. If we can locate the object he seeks before he does we'll gain the advantage of negotiation. Then you can do what you want with him. I'll be around if you need me."
"Whoopee fucking do!"

Time returned to its normal flow and everyone in Habeus Corpus found themselves suffering a hangover. Hornbet rubbed his eyes. He could have sworn he saw an old general walking toward him. He snapped round and saw him walking away. How did he pass him without...? Hornbet was confused, but he was also tired.
"Come on, you crafty devil," he yelled at Ace. "I ain't got all day you know."
"Coming..." replied Ace. His silver eyes looked at General Stickman as he walked to the saloon. One thing was certain in the demon's scheming mind: the Maker didn't know everything that happened on earth any more.

(to be continued)

 

(c) LK 2005

XII
It was afternoon when Sheriff Hardway was taking a stroll with Reverend Passline through the one main street of Corpus Christi. The Reverend was still trying to console the lawman from the demonic impact of the recent carnage. Their conversation was brought to a halt when a frantic Nina from Pasadena rushed over, all excited.
"Sheriff!" cried Nina from Pasadena, "We have us some visitors!"
"Bless the jam on my perspiring toes! When will it end?" exclaimed the sheriff. "Pretty soon we'll have more strangers than inhabitants in this here town!"
Both men looked around, but saw no horses or carts that didn't belong to Corpus Christi already. They then stared at Nina from Pasadena as if she had been playing a prank on them. It was uncharacteristic for the grown girl to lie, but she satiated their confusion by adopting an awkward smile and pointing up in the air. It was then that they realized that a giant shadow had crept over them, even though it had been a clear and cloudless day. As they craned their necks up they could hear a buzzing, whirring noise, which they hadn't noticed before. They found themselves unable to express even a sound, along with everyone else that was looking up. They weren't sure that they were witnessing a miracle, but it was pretty darn close to one, anyhow. Most of their minds comprehended that what they were seeing was a hot air baloon, or something close akin to one. It was bullet-shaped and on the sides of the cabin protruded whirring propellers, the source of the monotonous noise. Everyone gawped as the airship glided to the edge of the town and they all gasped as the propellers stopped and the door of the cabin was opened. Something was thrown out into the ground, which looked like some form of anchor that had a cable extending back to the mysterious baloon. A deep metalic noise, like a starting train, emanated from within the cabin and slowly the giant contraption was reeled in to the surface. By now the whole town had gathered and they all waited with abated anticipation at what would step out of the cabin.

When the occupant of the craft did eventually show himself, a wave of awe spread through the town, but then they realized that they over-exagerrated. The person who had been flying the craft was indeed human, but the mystery remained, since they couldn't see his eyes. They were hidden by thick, dark goggles that were strapped around his head, on top of which was a large checquered, beret-like cap. He was wearing some kind of single-piece navy blue boiler suit, which had baggy pants that were tucked into knee-length cavalry boots. His hands were covered with leather gloves and a rather long Miskatonic University scarf was rolled around his neck. Afraid to approach the visitor, everyone craned their neck like a feeding giraffe, to get a closer look as he took his goggles and hat off. Sheriff Hardway's eyes popped with recognition and he zoomed in to greet the strange man.

The sight of their sheriff embracing the mysterious arrival was comforting to the hearts of the town's occupants, which had been pulpitating with fear, but they were now contending with the curiousity of how he had made such an acquaintance.
"Come over Allmy," (Author's note: Pardon the Freudian slip.) said the sheriff, "I want you to meet everyone. Reverend, this is my young nephew, Allmy Numbersoff. Allmy is a professor of ancient languages at Miskatonic University. Allmy, this is Reverend Passline, whose brother is mayor of this town."
"Pleased to meet you, young man," said the Reverend. "That contraption of yours pretty much gave us simple folk quite a scare down here."
"I know, she's awesome, ain't she?" replied professor Allmy. "We teamed up with some German scholars at the end of semester and decided to experiment with some theoretical designs that they've been working on. It goes without sayin that I was the only fool on campus brave enough to test fly it, but it also gave me the chance to see my uncle Hardway. Still, there are some problems relating to barometric pressure, but if we can find a way of calculating air density within a confined area and subdividing it with..."
"As you can see, Reverend, my nephew is the brains of the family," interrupted the sheriff, before everyone could fall asleep from his nephew's lecture, "He's also the only male in our kin who didn't become a lawman."
"I can see why," exclaimed Reverend Passline. "The young man is a genious!"
"And who is this?" asked Allmy.
"Ah! Forget my manners," replied Sheriff Hardway. "Allmy, this is Nina. Her father owned a ranch near here. They came from Pasadena to settle here twenty years ago. Nina, meet my nephew Allmy. He's a professor at..."
"Yes, sheriff," interrupted Nina, "I heard you the first time."
"She stretched her hand out to shake the professor's, who in turn twisted it and brought it to his lips.
"Achante, mon cherie," said Allmy, grazing the thin hand with a tender kiss.
"Ass-a-what?" snapped Nina from Pasadena, pulling her hand back.
"That would be French," laughed the sheriff. "Forgive my nephew, Nina. He speaks so many languages and he does like to show off. Tell you what, why don't you show young Allmy the town, help him get acquainted a bit. In the meantime, you wouldn't mind if we took a look around your sky-travelling craft, would you, nephew?"
"Go ahead, as long as you don't touch anything," replied professor Allmy. "I don't have any way of getting you back down if you release it by accident."
The sheriff and the Reverend were like kids with new toys, but somehow Allmy felt he had within his grasp the greater prize.

The professor had many affairs of the heart, but nothing had made him feel this way before. He was looking at Nina from Pasadena and admiring her soft milky skin. Her blonde hair was tied in a bun and shoved underneath her cowboy hat. Back in Arkham, he had never seen such a tom-boy before. This was a lass that could take care of herself, and Allmy could envisage the idyllic family. He stared into her crystal eyes. Eyes that could make diamonds weep with envy. This was a strong and beautiful Texas bred gal with a repeater rifle strapped to her back. A lioness that could not be tamed and someone that he could adore and explore for the rest of his life. Oh, and get laid with, too.

(to be continued)

 

I continue to love reading this thing lol. I like the switch fom a more dark brooding tone to a slightly ironic comedic one. Its really great, and I cant wait to read more man! Conitnue posting! Ill save all my suggestions and so on for the end. Though theyre all cosntructive!

Great writing!

peace

 

I'm glad you're enjoying it Thrawn, BTW that picture would be ideal as a cover!!! Looking forward to your suggestions. There's a lot more to come from the lunatics of Corpus Christi. Cheers, bro.

 

I think its really funny. bizzare. a tad too much repition in the conversing.itd be cool if they got more offensive to each other..thats really fnny watching them bicker!!! or get slowly building with repressed rage it reminds me lots of the hitchhikers guide.... cool!

 

Thanks Keramptha. I must admit that I'm a bit of a thriller/horror fan, but at the end of the day there's so much real horror in this world that if we forget to laugh then we really would go crazy. BTW sorry about the repetitions . I do it for myself, more than anything, so I don't lose the plot, eg. I didn't realize that I gave the same name to the priest as I did to the mayor earlier on. So I decided to cover that up by making them brothers. That way they could have the same surname. Phew. What us writers have to suffer!