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Daredevil Season 2 Minor Complaint


Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching a good, solid beat down and Daredevil delivers that in droves. From street thugs, biker gangs, to Irish mafia, our blind hero proves over and over again that he can kick total ass. Ninjas can barely touch him, and even the sharp edge of a katana can’t stop him. 

What annoyed me, and perhaps it’s just me, but the second half of season 2 was a constant ninja show. Cloaked Asian warriors would sneak around and fail, charge from the shadows and fail, and even surround and detain and yet fail. I understand Daredevil is of comic origin and some elements are going to seem impractical, hell, even impossible. The idea that hundreds of trained ninjas armed with katanas can’t even take out one blind guy is hard to believe.

But Daredevil is the hero, he is to overcome these impossible odds, while The Hand, the mysterious ninja group, continues to send waves and waves of assassins to dispose of our blind warrior. These ninjas take on Daredevil like three, four, sometimes six at a time just to end up crippled.

I get that it makes for an exciting show of surmounting impossible odds, but there comes a point where you got to ask how the fuck does the Hand recruite so many ninjas?

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Zombie Life Ain’t So Bad

Zombie life isn’t so bad. Undead Greg delivers a pitch to those willing to make the greatest decision of their life. Join the undead, the winning team, and live a life of no responsibility, no drama, no stress, no pain, and best of all no need to work ever again! Granted, Donald Trump may try to deport you to Mexico, but, it’s worth the risk.

Undead Greg is a perverted, politically incorrect zombie that would love to eat him some Halle Berry. Show him love and he’ll grant you immunity for when the apocalypse comes.

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Bleeder Resurrection: Exhuming the Corpse


            Blades of pale light pierced through the gray hazy sky that loomed with a deep saturation over the desperate city. The cries of many washed under the sounds of traffic and the occasional roar of thunder. The light splashed against the glass of the Richard Keller building–a towering scraper that rose towards the heavens in narrowing stacks of steel and glass—shielding those inside from the toxicity of the air, the cacophony that plagued the inner city, and the scorching heat of an afternoon sun.


            Nava sat in a cushioned chair with no intention to stay longer than needed, and delivered Mr. Keller a steady gaze that sought for truth behind the lies. Keller, with legs crossed as if talking business, tapped the end of a metallic pen against the mahogany desk.


            “So are you going to tell me or not,” asked Nava, agitated.


            “I already told you,” said Keller, glancing away for a moment with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know a damn thing about that property.”


            “But you own it and must have some sort of record of who leased it last,” asked Nava, more of a statement than a question.


            “That piece of trash property,” said Keller, foolishness stretching across his wide wrinkled mug. “The last company to lease that dump went out of business years ago. With the economy decaying around us, there isn’t any use for my organization to inspect it anymore.”


            “I don’t buy that for a minute,” said Nava, the tips of his fingers pressed together, and his elbows dug into the padded arms of the chair. “You know more.”


            “Good lord. The moment the police decide to get balls and do something about this slum of a city the moment you would stop sniffing around in useless bullshit,” said Keller, holding the pen loosely between his clinched fingers, pointing the tip at Nava. “You have some nerve coming in here and expecting something close to respect. The police don’t run this joint any more than the drug dealers and the pimps. You represent trash overdue for throwing out.”



            “Times are tough, very tough indeed, but without our help it would be much worse,” said Nava, holding back. “What do you know about the operation that took place on your property?”


            “I don’t know a damn thing,” said Keller, leaning back in his chair.


            “Stop with the lies. We know it was a military operation, and we know that you keep watch over your possessions. A man like you would demand some sort of compensation for the time spent on your land.”


            “If that were true,” said Keller, raising an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t find a damn thing. Nothing in the books, nothing close to the type of evidence you would need to tie this to me.”


            “Time will tell,” said Nava, smugly. “Once we get the information we need, we’ll meet again.”


            “You mean from the engineer gone rogue? You won’t have the time. He’ll be dead before he reveals anything more than he already has,” said Mr. Keller.


            “Is that a threat,” asked Nava, leaning forward.


            “No,” said Keller, clicking the pin. “It’s a matter of fact.”


            “Enjoy your remaining moments of freedom, because when this is through, your ass will be in jail,” said Nava. He rose from the chair and stepped out from Mr. Keller’s office without another word.


            The lieutenant walked with anger seething between his teeth. He thought, for a moment anyway, that something useful would come from the lead, but instead he found another dead end. A man dressed in a dark suit walked by, brushing against Nava’s shoulder. Instantly the two stared at each other. Nava, distracted by the case, thought little of paying any respect to the gentleman, whereas the suit gazed with narrowing green eyes, piercing, scanning, and judging. Before Nava could say a word the suit entered the elevator. Nava dusted off the sleeve of his gray short sleeve shirt, and the motion caused his the thin chain that held his badge to wiggle slightly.


            Nava exited the front and felt the humidity almost immediately. Standing at the steps, he could feel his pits gushing with sweat. He wiped his forehead, and swallowed through a dry mouth. Herds of people walked along the sidewalks in various clusters, making it difficult to enter, and much more rewarding to leave. Nava bid his time for a quick phone call before daring to cross the consistent current.


            “Pick up you old bastard,” said Nava, softly as he eyed the women walking by. “Hey Roberts, it’s me, Nava. I tried the lead you gave me and got nothing. I hope you start rethinking your plans for retirement.” Nava ended the voicemail and closed his cellular phone. After taking a moment to clear his head, the lieutenant stepped into the moving crowd and followed suit. Like the rest, he stayed clear of the darker areas of the street, avoiding the alleyways with pretentious ignorance to the muffled sounds of fighting. Crime infested his poverty-stricken city, slowly but surely causing the once beautiful city he grew up in to plummet into a chaotic nightmare that no amount of arrests could prevent. It soured on his tongue, generating memories pregnant with regret, but Mr. Keller was right; the power of the badge faded into shadows as the change in times released a tormenting sense of desperation. An economic meltdown like the world had never seen brought this powerful nation on its knees, and those willing to threat with nuclear attacks and other disasters didn’t hesitate. The further the depression hit, the more increasing the stakes for a better life became. Thus, hundreds of people were tossed out of the corporate sector to test their wits against the bleak, desolate streets that rendered the more desperate individuals into prostitutes, drug dealers, and worse.


            Nava strolled along the crosswalk with his fists deep into the pockets of his khaki cargo pants, while reliving the awkward moment when Captain Roberts decided to retire. Nava stopped to the abrupt squeal of a military truck and stepped towards the building. Rows of men and women branded with the patriot duty to serve in the world’s finest military force lined the cab of the truck.


            The National Guard stormed to the sidewalk, grabbing anyone that looked of age, and carried them into the truck. One by one they’re loaded into their harvester of sorrow like cattle for the slaughter.


            “At this rate you would think our way of life would be a little better,” said a homeless black woman.


            “If they had any sense, they would clean out the alleyways,” said Nava. He watched as the armed forces proceeded to board the truck. A crack of lightning smeared from the sky and released a downpour onto the city.




            Scampering over a pile of shattered stone and metal that gleamed in the light of a full moon, Abigail reached for the top with only minor cuts. She clasped the rusted rebar in her small, dirty hand and pulled herself over a rough slab of metal. She dusted her hands, wiping the residue against the denim of her jeans. She peered through the darkness of the opening–a gaping wound in what used to be solid floor—for any signs of movement. With the exception of the settling dust, there was nothing. Her gut fell deeper, pitting lower than before in hopelessness, but she leaped down anyway. The sound of her red converse hitting the floor was followed by a slight girlish groan.


            Except with the occasional stress of the crumbling structure, the air was snuffed of any sound. A cool breeze emerged from the pit below, penetrating her soft exposed skin with a dryness she felt before. With her hands clinched around her arms, Abigail walked slowly towards the grave of her guardian. Buried under layers of clutter that weighed more than he did, Abigail could only rely on her gut feeling that he would some day return. She dropped to one knee and felt her smooth fingertips along the thorn of the rose she brought with her. She could feel the sharp natural instrument slicing through the layers of flesh, and though she connected with the tease of pain, she dared not to press deep enough to draw blood. With a moment of wishful thinking distracting her, Abigail placed the rose along with the others.


            Though distant, the sound of men approaching sent her scurrying away for cover. She ducked under a metallic table that sat against the wall and waited with a curious eye. Obeying shouting commands, a group of men climbed over the ruins opposite of her entry. They struggled with reaching hands that scraped across the folds of sheet metal and steel. Profanity flowed from their mouths in thick waves, growing more potent on each attempt, while the sound of a starting engine roared behind. Only two of them made it over the scrap pile, and they watched as a bulldozer scooped what it could, leaving a small opening for the others to use.


            All of them wore ragged clothing in desperate need of washing, and they approached as if haunted by some heavy burden. Some of them held knives, some grasped tightly onto lead pipes, but they all carried the intent to kill without the slightest sense of remorse. Abigail crawled deeper into her cover upon glimpse of the one in front. A cryptic symbol burned into the flesh of his forehead, searing the brand with a bold dark scar that represented, in one glance, an ever-moving entity of soullessness. The man, Malkovak, had haunted her before, rendering her frightened beyond imagination, all the while hoping that someone would help her.


            “I can’t believe it took this long,” said Malkovak, the voice resounding deeply.


            “She’s clever,” said the other.


            “That she most definitely is,” said Malkovak, stepping towards the cluster of roses.


            “Do you think he’ll still work,” asked the other.


            “If our Lord deems it so,” said Malkovak, his voice lifted with a hint of pleasure. “And I believe he does. First we should bring in our sacrifice.”


            Two cloaked individuals pushed a woman dressed in torn rags and bound in chains towards the rim of the pit. She squirmed and cried out for forgiveness, offering them her body as a compromise, but they were only mildly amused.


            “Nzulmbi,” muttered Malkovak, kneeling down, inspecting the recently added rose.


            “Nzulmbi,” said the others in complete unison.


            “As children to your blessing, we call to you so that we shall not be forsaken,” said Malkovak, pulling out a curved dagger from under his coat. “For an ounce of sympathy and protection, we offer rivers of blood.” The others repeated the phrase, their voices collecting into a morbid choir.


            Malkovak rose with the dagger slicing through the woman’s chest vertically. Blood splashed along the blade, staining the sleeves of his wool suit. A crimson tear gushed as if it were an open faucet, saturating her little rags. Malkovak pressed the blade against her neck, teasing her with a slow slicing motion that ate more and more of her flesh with growing hunger. A thin line of blood emerged from the wound, and Malkovak produced a little smirk. He pushed the screaming woman into the pit, watching as her body fell helplessly onto piercing rebar.


            “Bring the equipment,” said Malkovak. “It’s going to take more than a bleeding woman to get him out of this.” He walked towards the table.


            “We should thank her,” said the other.


            “Then allow me,” said Malkovak. He reached under the table with fast hands and clinched firmly onto Abigail’s arm, pulling her out with complete ease despite her attempt to fight. “How easy this is,” he said. “We’ve got both of you, together. This will be a glorious day, indeed.”




            His cell phone buzzed. “You got anything,” said Nava.


            “No,” said Vivian, disappointed. “My source gave me nothing. A bunch of bullshit.”


            “Well, it turns out Keller isn’t going to talk about it. This has to be the longest light ever,” said Nava as he slammed his palm against the steering wheel.


            “If you’re on Main Street then you’ll be there for a few minutes. I suggest you get comfortable,” she said, stopping with an air of silence. “Wait, you already talked to Keller.”


            “Yeah,” said Keller, heavily. “He wasn’t much help. But I swear we will get him for something. I know it.”


            “Well, your intuition is right,” said Vivian.


            “Why is that,” asked Nava, releasing off the break, slowly coasting behind the other slow responsive driver.


            “He’s dead,” said Vivian. “I just heard that someone called in a body in the Keller building, and it was him. Do you know anything about it?”


            “I don’t know shit,” said Nava. The light changed to red, catching him just before crossing the intersection. He slammed the steering wheel. “Wait. Before I left his office he gave an obscure threat. He pretty much warned that anyone that talks would die.”


            “Nava, you should wait for me before you do anything,” she said.


            “Sorry Viv, that isn’t going to happen,” said Nava. He floored the pedal and crossed the intersection, swerving between the vehicles for narrow openings that were closing by the second. He closed his cell and tossed it to the passenger seat. He grabbed the steering wheel with strong grasps that bleached his knuckles, and drove aggressively through the busy streets, navigating down side streets whenever traffic became too dense.


            He drifted into the parking lot of a grungy apartment complex where roaches and rats were regulars, infesting the floors, crawling behind the walls, and thriving off the filth of the junkies, bottom feeders, and other slugs of life. Nava kicked in the flimsy chain linked postern and ran up the gravel steps. He stormed up the stairwell and stopped with heavy breathing by Levon’s door. He knocked and waited, and knocked again, but the stall of time played on his nerves. Nava pulled out his USP .45 and knocked one more time before trying the knob. Stubborn, but a good solid push forced the rotting particleboard to swing open. Nava stood on the threshold with gun raised, while the door pivoted against the wall.


            “Levon,” said Nava, cautiously. “It’s Nava. Please tell me you’re in here.” Nava stepped deeper into the studio apartment, navigating a narrow trial that dug through the piles of junk and garbage composed of computer parts, fast-food wrappers, magazines and things collected over years of living. The bed, cluttered with paper plates stained with food residue, was empty. The computer chair, marked with white streaks going down the rim of it, was empty. The room, with the disgusting filth that hid in the closet, was empty of anything other than a few insects. A foul stench wafted into the air, and it lingered in from under a closed door. Nava neared and tapped lightly against the door.


            “Levon, are you in there,” said Nava. He opened the door with gun pointed and ready.


            “Jesus Christ,” said Nava, covering his eyes as he walked away.


            “What’s the deal? Can’t a man take a shit in peace,” asked Levon. “Fuck, man.”


            Nava leaned his back against the wall parallel with the opened door. “You have two minutes to finish up before I pull your ass off that seat. Don’t make me do it. Don’t you dare make me fucking do it.”


            “You invaded my home,” said Levon, hollering from the bathroom. “I should be asking you to leave.”


            “You have two minutes,” said Nava.


            “What’s the deal,” asked Levon, closing the magazine.


            “I have reason to believe that someone is gonna try to kill you, and you and I don’t need that,” said Nava. “Just hurry the fuck up. I would think a gun in your face would finish the job.”


            “Hold on,” said Levon. “Almost done.”


            A muffled release of air went almost undetected, but the shattering of a computer monitor brought Nava down with his hands wrapped around his weapon, aimed at the doorway.


            “Don’t be breaking stuff,” muttered Levon.


A dark suit walked by with only a second of exposure. Nava shifted to the other wall, pressing his back against the strained surfaced. His gun aimed at the small stretch of wall aside of the doorway. A hole punched through the wall, sending a bullet down where Nava once was. The lieutenant returned fire, projecting an acute burst of thunder that startled Levon.


            “Alright, alright,” said Levon. “I’m fucking done.”


            “Hurry,” said Nava, trying hard to maintain focus on the target.


            Levon stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a dirty, black guayabera and very relaxed cargo pants. Nava grabbed him and pulled as he walked closer to the doorway. With an itchy trigger finger, he peered around for an angle that would answer his lurking, nagging curiosity, but after several attempts all he could do was brave the confrontation.


            Nava’s gun pointed straight down the hall, waning slightly. The suit stared, his eyes dull like the approaching reaper with weapon for execution. Rounds were fired from both directions. Nava landed with his shoulder bashing against the floorboard, he checked himself, unsure of any inflicted damage. Not a drop of blood from him, but the stalker had a different fate. A splatter of blood marked where he stood, and a kicked in door pointed in the direction to follow. Nava pushed himself off the ground and pointed the gun as if their executioner would jump out for another attempt.


            “Levon,” said Nava. “We’re leaving this dump.”


            “Fuck,” said Levon. “What the fuck is going on, man?”


            Nava paced backwards with Levon nearby and didn’t shift from his position until a quick escape was within a few steps reach. The two raced out from the contaminated complex, and Levon followed Nava to his ride.




            “I’m glad you decided not to finish him off,” said Vivian, accusingly. She leaned against the interrogation room wall. A hand wrapped around a relaxed arm as she bit her lower lip. Her dark short hair was slightly long at the front, a few strands settled with sharp tips right above her left eye. A tight forming police uniform hugged her petite frame, bending over her small bust with parted collars that exposed the pale skin and beginnings of a plain white shirt.


            “Believe me,” said Nava, unfolding a chair. “I wanted to.”


            “Why is that not a surprise,” she said, looking away from him. “You should’ve waited for my help. Perhaps you wouldn’t have had such a close call.”


            “No thanks Viv,” he said, cupping his hands with elbows placed on top of the metallic table. “If I waited a minute longer then Levon here wouldn’t have made it.”


            Levon didn’t look at any of them. He stared at the tiled floor, lost in his own thoughts.


            “He seems broken,” she said. “You really think you can get anything from him.”


            Nava glanced at her with a slight smile, and tapped the middle of the table, pulling for Levon’s attention. “Levon, since I saved your life, I feel that it’s only fair to ask you a few questions.”


            “If that guy is after me then it would have to be because of what I know,” said Levon, leaning forward with brilliant beady eyes that shown through his dirty mug. He placed fingertips against his weathered, tainted lips and seemed a hostage of his own delusions. “They know,” said Levon. “Despite your efforts to silence the story, they know. Don’t they?”


            “That’s what makes it so important that you tell me everything you know about the operation that took place at the old piping yard,” said Nava, gently.


            Levon stiffened and pressed a finger against this temple. “I know you want what’s in here, but at the cost of my own life, at the cost of yours? I don’t think you understand that some things are better off left alone. Don’t tamper with something you have no business with.”


            “Levon,” said Nava. “If you don’t help us then how can we help you? Don’t you want to be protected?”


            “Besides we already have the whole department wanting to snuff us,” said Vivian, disregarding their only witness. She walked to the table, pressed her palms against the surface, and leaned forward. “I don’t want to work narcotics again,” she said, shaking her head. “So just spit out the fucking information.”


            Nava glared at her, but redirected his focus to drilling the confused, smelly, disgusting man. “We’ll protect you,” said Nava, laying on genuine comfort. “We know you were involved with creating him.”


            “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. I didn’t do anything more than help design a system that could, if used correctly, function as artificial organs, secreting huge doses of serotonin, epinephrine, endorphins and other chemicals into a host, a breakthrough that would revolutionize our current concept of medical science. If someone had this in them, their body would perform ten times more efficiently. Athletes could become the perfection they dream of. Soldiers could become the soldier their country needs them to be. I didn’t know what the company we shipped the technology would do with it. If we did, I wouldn’t have anything to do with it. But, then again, there were rumors. There was this gossip that something big, something evolutionary was in the works.”


            “What company did you ship it to,” said Nava.


            “Sekume, but the name of the company won’t matter. It was a front for powerful wealthy men to pool their resources together without detection. But this is really just a rumor. It probably isn’t true. But there is a name, Aidan Agamat. My associates would refer to him a number of times.”


            “Agamat,” muttered Nava. “Sounds familiar.”


            “He’s a financial advisor for Jackson & Pearson,” said Vivian. She parted her lips, thinking about the difficulty it would be to pin a man with such reputation as the one responsible for the monster’s manifest.


            “So you shipped the technology to him,” said Nava, doubtful.


            “Yes,” said Levon. “I’m telling you. You should stop now and prevent a lot of unnecessary damage from happening. The more you look into this the more difficult it will be to do anything with it.”


            “Then we best keep this to ourselves,’ said Vivian, glancing at Nava. “Hopefully we won’t get pulled from the assignment.”


            Nava rose from his chair and left the room with Vivian following behind. She tugged on him. “Look, I know you’re worried about finishing this, but we’ll get something.”


            “Trust me. I want nothing more than to bring the asshole responsible for this to justice, but we can’t do it without doubling our efforts,” said Nava, rubbing his face with his hands.


            “I could see what I could get out from those connected with the cult,” said Vivian. “It’s worth looking into.”


            “Sure,” said Nava, narrowing his gaze. “Just don’t let your guard down and take someone with you just to be safe. I wouldn’t walk those alleys alone, not again anyway. You should take Darren with you.”


            “What makes you think you’re going to be doing shit alone,” said Vivian.


            “Don’t worry about me. I’m just gonna ask him a few questions,” said Nava.


            “But what about the gunman,” asked Vivian, placing her hands on her hips. “You think you’re going to face him alone? We should hit the streets together, double our efforts that way.”


            “I’ll be expecting him, so I already have the advantage,” said Nava, trying his best to sound convincing. “Besides, he’s a pathetic shot.”


            “Stubborn ass,” said Vivian, shuffling her feet.




            Torches set ablaze crackled hungrily in their iron fixtures, fighting the suffocating darkness with orange hues that dominated in areas of interest, leaving the corners and various portions to disappear into the darkness. A cage held high above the ground by a chain that extended up into the shadows rocked to the weight of their brave hostage. With water-rimmed eyes, Abigail sat against the bars of her tiny cage with arms wrapped around her folded legs. She feared their intent, knowing that they would surely kill her and not with a kind hand. No, her captures would treat her like all their other victims, but because of history, they would increase the glorification of her sacrifice. Horrid thoughts plagued her mind, saturating it with a heavy mess. During the intense moments, when tears of dread trailed down her cheeks, she fixated her view at her only salvation. The Bleeder, like some forgotten relic, looked weathered, battered and broken. His body, the fractured, blood stained remains of it, was stretched out between overhanging boards that housed a number of cords that snaked one another into a pit of mechanisms below.


            The chamber was underground, that Abigail was certain, but the exact location she wasn’t sure of. The smell of rot penetrated the earthy, musky scent of water stained bricks and mortar, dried oak, and dust. Without much to do, all she did was set her eyes onto her once giant undefeatable guardian, trying to see beyond the shattered wielding mask that covered a ruined, mutilated face.


            Three men dressed in all black entered from the side door, pacing towards the machines. Malkovak followed them. With a hand on his chin, he seemed favorable to the progress, but weary of the amount of time it would take to test it.


            “Finding the parts was hard,” said the taller assistant. “But you were correct with the leads.”


            “Of course, it is a rarity for our seers to mislead us,” said Malkovak, voice steady and even. “Besides, the branding on the equipment inside him could only mean one thing. How is he responding?”


            “His vitals are, well, not much of anything,” said the shorter assistant.


            “You can’t measure something like him, he’s a creation of our Lord,” said the taller one. “We just finished patching him up.”


            “You hear that,” said Malkovak, glancing over his shoulder at Abigail. “It sounds like it is time to feed our messiah.”


            The assistant pressed a few buttons and turned a few dials and blood gushed through the cords, feeding into the Bleeder’s corpse. Thin streams poured out from the patchwork, but overall the carcass contained the fluid long enough for it to absorb the needed nutrients. After a slight groan, the Bleeder clinched his right fist with bleeding fingertips.

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Therapy of the Dead Chapter 3

The door closed behind him and locked instantly. Cosmetically, the room felt alien from the previous, a boring drywall surface replaced the glamorous wood, a partially stained cement floor replaced the fine wood and luxurious carpet, and fluorescent lights replaced the royal illumination for a sight impairing, flickering, ghostly aura. It was a shadow, an unwelcoming cousin, of the hotel lobby, hallways, and library. Even the scent was a rapid change, a staggering essence of filth and unwashed rooms.
He checked the handle of the door again, to make sure that his stay was demanded of him and it was of no use. The handle wasn’t giving into his forceful attempt. Cautiously, Patrick proceeded down the narrow hallway until he came to a crossway that seemed to bear the same results either direction. He took a moment to pause, as he checked the contents of the folder for any additional information. There weren’t any photos of this area that could have been used as a warning, but there was a post-it note on the back of the eagle photo reading, “The hallway is not of importance until you find number six.”
            Glancing up from the folder and with no idea of what to look for, Patrick scanned the area for a reference of what a number six could mean. There were fire exit signs, a broken elevator with a busted door, knocked over mop buckets, and a stained that looked a little too much like blood, none of which looked recent. He walked on with an eagerness to find an answer to the puzzle. There were markings on the nearby wall, a black panel with a faded set of numbers and text reading, “Rooms 1-6.” He took another glance at the aged blood colored stain and proceeded with a nervous footing. It was in his mind that he knew he didn’t want any more of this job, that the tasks he was to complete were not just a waste of time, but a weight on his safety and sanity.
            He stood before a crusty, paint faded, weathered wooden door that had the number six on the floor and a marker of where it would have been. The knob was nasty, with a layer of filth and metallic decay; it was something of a health hazard, a possible source of contagion. Patrick was disgusted and hesitated for a brief moment and sighed, heavily, “This is something not for me. What am I doing here?”
            “You’re the new guy right,” was heard from behind. It was a male, tall, pale and with very long blond hair. His stance, attitude, and gear were something out of a metal rock band from the 80’s. He stood staring at Patrick through dark broad aviator glasses, while smoking a cigarette. The scent of smoke was of a sudden realization; the man must have come from the opposite room without detection.
            “Uh, yes, I am the new guy. You mind explaining a few things. I mean this is out of the ordinary by far,” Patrick replied.
            “Hey, there is a lot I can’t explain.”
“By the way my name is Patrick, Patrick Brody. You mean you don’t mind the weirdness. I just saw a puddle of blood down the hall, and after seeing what I have I’m worried.”
            “Yeah, those stains are there for a reason though, not anything I can’t handle. Hey, I would like to elaborate but you said it best, there is a lot of weirdness. I used to wonder if it was really real, but now I just take it as it is, a paycheck, and a pretty big one too.”
            “I wonder if that would be possible, right now I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster that I would like to stop. I’m sorry, what is your name?”
             “Oh, wait man. I can’t give you my name. Haven’t you read the rules, I purposely blanked out your name, it is cool, but we go by ID numbers here. I mean, you don’t want me to announce that a Patrick Brody works for a company that deals with ghosts and monsters do you? That would make us both look foolish. So here you go, my ID number is 738105. I’ve been here for a year now, so if anyone knows the ropes around here it would be me.”
            “You mind telling me what is going on here exactly, ghost and monsters. I understood spirits.”
            “Yeah, ghost and monsters. I didn’t believe it too, only sang about them, but they are totally real. Something kind of messed up is that they aren’t the things we expect. You have no idea what you will encounter, but hey watch out for the headless ones. They are tough; it takes two magazines of an automatic to kill them. Hey, I know you don’t believe it but just go through that door and the next five or six after and you will see for yourself.”
            “Why so many doors?”
            “You think this place wants us here, okay look I spent too much time here already, it’s Saturday and I got a gig, catch you later,” said the rock star as he walked away.
            “Wait, what if I need your help,” Patrick quickly replied.
            “Consult your manual, it has all the information you need to do your job, see ya.”
            Patrick allowed the breath to pass through his mouth. The odd individual left too fast for him to even consider catching up, leaving him with the door and the mystery that was waiting to be revealed. He used the sleeve of his coat to turn the knob, destroying the fine material. The knob was stubborn, resisting what would normally do the trick, as it had obviously not been used in quite sometime. Flakes of rust feathered towards the water stained cement, while the bulk of it scrubbed off onto the fabric of his sleeve, but the effort was worth it.
            The door cracked open, exposing a typical hotel room. An empty room with a fallacy of decoration in a sad attempt to distract from the boring wallpaper, a spread of ruined carpet from wall-to-wall. A bed was placed at the wall and extended into the middle, while two end tables rested on either side. The style of the tables was laughable; it was a weak attempt at something Victorian with a false implication of elegance, a charm that would only work on those who had never seen true elegance. On top of the tables were glass lamps, blaring, fighting the darkness, and leaving only a faint shadow at the farthest corners.
            Patrick stepped into the room and noticed the lights. It was a curious find. He checked the table to see if there was any indication of a previous client.  There was only a small Bible, cute in size but traditional in image. There was some uneasiness in the sheets, along with an impression on the pillow, giving him reason to check behind. He eyed the dark corner with suspicion, but without any eagerness to investigate further. Instead his eye found another door opposite from the first, while glaring at the shadow he crept toward the door.
            “There are things you shouldn’t see, unless your mind is free,” came a whisper from the corner.
            Brody gave no response, as there was uncertainty, instead he continued towards the door with an outstretched arm. The knob was in better condition that the previous, but the same couldn’t be said about the door, there was an engraving of a fist telling of a time of intense aggression.
            “You’re one of those Shade guys, passing through like you have entitlement. You can just rot! You save nothing as there are more than what can be saved,” said the shadow. The white of his face peaked into the dim light. The white of his eyes shone through, exposing the full amount of fear he held for this belief. It was an image that was hard to fight, like staring into the eyes of a victim of an utmost fearsome ploy, invoking questions, but the desire to be saved was seemingly not there. Patrick took a deep breath and allowed his wired nerves to ease, “You live here?”
            “It was only to be a temporary stay. It wasn’t supposed to be permanent but that changed. That changed so rapidly, didn’t it old friend,” he said while clinching tightly to a glass pipe. A flare of light flashed from his other hand and Patrick quickly snapped back into his role, knocking the devices from the starved man. The frail fiend stared with sunken, dreadful eyes; the mouth was cavity-infested giving Patrick a better understanding of the degree of the addiction. It was a sad sight, but a touch of a feeling that the experienced psychologist remembered.
            “You don’t need it. You never did and still don’t. You have a family or any friends?”
“Family, they shunned me. They will do the same for you. What you see past that door will create for you the same fate.”
“Okay, I understand that you have an outlook on this that places the obstacles behind the door at fault. You have seen some horrific things, you must have, but you know that there have been others that managed to deal with it, cope.” Patrick placed too much emphasis on the last word that it triggered an angered response; something only an amateur in his profession would do. He regretted giving air to the cut and dry solution, but it was done, and all he could do was either sulk or let it go. Patrick found himself somewhere in between. It is never a good idea to diagnose your own psychosis, but Patrick was stubborn, materialistic, and obsessive of the image he projected and fully believed that he was capable of relieving himself from these depressive moments.
“Cope, you cannot cope with what labels you insane,” said the crack fiend. Like a splash of water to the face, the words were projected with such dire tone that it brought Patrick out of his self-obsessing.
The addict continued, “How do you explain a walking corpse, how do you explain a room that breathes, a floor that bleeds, things that no one should ever see. The sad thing is that it isn’t a movie, it is real and you can’t speak of it, you can’t live with it as you will forever have the fear.”
“You can still cope, the same way a victim of rape manages to. They fear, not of what you fear, but they fear the past and horrifying revelation that it could happen again, along with the emotional tear that it leaves behind,” Patrick said.
“A rape victim? I’m not a rape victim! Why the hell are you trying to make sense out of this? There is no making sense out of what is there.”
“I was comparing the ability to cope, it takes ambition and willingness to not allow the past to haunt, to not allow the images to torture you. You are in control of how much you’re affected by it, and getting high isn’t going to ease that, it will only make it worse. Why don’t you leave this place, step outside and check into rehab, you can get this under control.”
The man squirmed in his corner, “You make it sound so easy. You make it seem like it is just as simple as making a decision, but I can’t leave. Leaving is what will place me into a ward, and I am not insane.”
“You are not insane and I believe you, I have seen some bizarre things along my journey here, and all of them I will never speak of either, because I am aware of what little audience there is for it. I know, just as you know. Why punish us for it? Why allow them to win, if anything know the truth and learn to live comfortably with it. I mean its better to live and try than to die and fail, right?”
The hateful glare dissolved into something passive, almost agreeable. He rose from the pocket of darkness and exposed his ragged form; the drug had taken a lot from the man, rendering him into skin and bones. It might be too late for a full recovery, but Patrick would do everything he could. Helping people was what he loved to do, and from the warm feeling it brought a better sight on his ability. It was challenging, but that is what allowed him to be so passionate about it, as there was something significant at stake. A faint smile formed across the man’s mouth; unfortunately it exposed more of oral destruction.
“Now, I have to go in through that door, but I expect you to take me up on this okay. You know better than I whether or not I will come back, but I’m not afraid, not as much as I used to be. I want you to make an attempt okay. Here take this card; it has my number plus a number of a very good and very respectable rehab clinic. Call me ASAP, you got that.”
“Thanks, I’ll do it. What you said was right, but its hard, you will see, it will be very difficult and I really wonder… sometimes on how I can change it.”
“You can start by making that phone call, here is some change for a payphone, if you can find one these days,” the man took the change, plus the extra wad of cash into his boney hands before nervously stepping out the door. There was a moment of gratitude, but Patrick was modest and willing to do what was needed to get the man much needed help. He checked the hall to see that the frail figure wasn’t faking. The warm sensation of good washed over him in a series of awesome waves, but soon was replaced by the previous surge of unease. He was alone in a place that was a fierce enemy of sanity, and with only a vague warning to go off of. With a subtle but constant pulse of doubt, he went for the door.
This one was easier, minus the unnoticed lock, which gave a fight to come loose. There was another room, much like the previous but empty of any people or decorations. The bed was the same color as the previous; the carpet was the same texture and the end tables where identical. There was another door on the opposite wall. Patrick took a moment to clarify that it was a different room before proceeding towards the next door. His shaking hands cupped a knob that was in better condition than the previous, but was attached to a weathered door that has seen better days.
The door exposed another duplication of the previous room, minus some details. This time was there were no sheets on the bed; only a comforter with a large dark red stain. Patrick studied the sight and noticed that the blanket was nowhere in the room and that the blood was a recent addition. The light was too dim to analyze as there was only one lamp and dimmer than the previous. Relocating the lamp so that it shone on the mattress, there was a sudden air bubble in the gore. A slight gush of red flowed onto the material leaving Patrick with a spineless reaction. He cowardly moved away and prepped himself with a sense of comfort.
“I’m not seeing that,” he whispered. He felt his flesh chilling. A tingly feeling traveled through his spine, causing his nervous system to shiver as if it was freezing. His body convulsed, while he stared at the gruesome oddity with his back plastered to the wall. He couldn’t help but to whisper, “There is nothing strange, nothing to fear; I’m only on a mission to talk to… ghosts.”
He bolted towards another door to find an empty room, very similar to the previous cosmetically, but without the slightest indication of human presence. The carpet had to have been laid out in the past decades, as its color had faded into a dull grey. However, the stains of various body fluids and drinks were gone. There was another door and it looked a lot like the very first with a number six on it and a crusty knob. Patrick walked to it with wonder, but the door was treated as a safe zone, he predicted it was going to be there and that it would possibly send him to another similar place. He focused his attention on the foul knob and it opened with surprising ease. The door cracked open as soon as the knob was released, slowly pivoting on the hinges. There was an empty hallway, blanketed by blackness, riddled with rot, and damaged by time and neglect, along with an infestation of spider webs; the distance it traveled was hard to tell. The light from the pathetic electronic screen of his cell phone was his only guide, throwing a wave of dim pale light upon the nearest objects. Patrick stepped through the doorway, proceeding further, and his only known comfort locked behind him.
Patrick gulped but continued without the desire of checking the door to see if it was just a clever trick brought on by the crack head. The intent was there but the surrounding nothingness disoriented his direction, further killing any desire to push deeper, but he couldn’t just stay where he was. He used his hand to feel for a wall, reaching across the unknown, a wet substance made contact with his fingertips. Jerking his hand back the dim light revealed that it wasn’t blood, but some sort of clear liquid. He continued to guide himself along the wall, which served as an anchor to his safety. He tapped on the wall like a blind man trying to find his way; he tapped into a mess of filth; spider webs, pockets of cool air which turned out to be craters along the wall, something hairy and moving, and the occasional lantern. The latter find was a symbol of possible clarity, but age had rendered the once useful device into an icon of satire. He cleaned off the dust and the cobwebs to find nothing working on the wall mounted antique. The next two lanterns were the same way, scorning the belief of anything working in this abyss. The fourth one was in better shape; the surface of the bronze creation was not as dusty and aged, revealing signs of recent use. There was actually an indication of it being pretty modern as it had a series of electronic buttons. Nothing amazing as it was just a simple button, but a definite change in cosmetic and acute design in comparison with the others.
            A slight push on the tiny button washed the hallway with waves of bright light, strong enough to fight the shadows of the farthest end of the long, never ending hallway. A wave of cockroaches moved along the wall, taking shelter in the various holes and craters, the rats were a little braver and waited for his presence to run scared. The spiders were plump in size from all of the insects, and looked capable of moving up on the food chain possibly feeding on much bigger game. Patrick walked cautiously, avoiding anything that looked remotely harmful, while trying to ignore the scent of dust and rotten wood.
            At the end of the hall was a door, cracked just a little at the hinge to reveal what the curious eye was willing to see. The light from the very distant lamp had dissolved into a faint shadow, hiding his presence from the things that he observed. The sight was of a kitchen area lit by a strong pale light, the counters were covered with garbage and unwashed plates, along with body parts and blood, which dripped from the island. On the island piece was a being of pure unbelief, rolls after rolls of fat constructed the body; stubby, bloated, and infected legs were poised in the air. The skin was pale; revealing the constricted veins that spanned across the grotesque form. There was another that squatted in between the legs, shifting fold after fold, searching for a sweet spot to fest from; but it had no head, neither did the other. An indication of where a head used to be was all that was there, a bloated neck with a set of teeth that constantly throbbed as if breathing.
            The sickening, pseudo sexual action went horribly wrong when the neck of the squatted thing expanded, parting into folds like that of a man eating plant. Without sparing a second, the damnable creature began shredding through the fat, all the while aiming for a certain pleasure. Blood sprayed along the walls like that of a frantic water hose; chunks of fat and gunk were devoured. The poised victim screamed, without a mouth, it screamed a horrid stomach flipping sound, while the other consumed it as if it had starved for years. Patrick couldn’t believe his eyes; he stumbled against the wall, making a sound that was sure to trigger a reaction. He didn’t care to glance back. He didn’t want to look at it while in motion, as the mere idea of something that large moving was gross. He bolted down the hallway, not caring for the occasional web, not thinking about the startled collection of rats, he ran for his life towards door. His hand on the door, he gave one peak and saw only a blur of shadow, he didn’t wait for it to become clear. He opened and for a moment doubted his safety, and he stumbled onto the floor.
            The floor was cold and damp, not like the carpet he previously had known to be there. His mind was disoriented, it was possible that he passed out but he somehow managed to stay alive. His hand moved to feel along the floor only to cup a handful of something wet and gritty. His scared eyes instantly opened to find that he was in a field of grass. It was a front yard of some sort, with a large house of decay. The front door was closed, sealing him away from the encounter with only the protection as strong as wood. The brick exterior of the house was the victim of a strong over growth of vines, while the color had faded into a dull mix of brown. The wooden shutters had collapsed and the windows boarded up hiding the horror that was within the decrepit walls. 
            Patrick brushed off his clothes and turned to see his car parked in the driveway. It was curious, but a relief as he didn’t want to stay here any longer, though he had little idea of where he was. He opened the car door and stepped into his ride, instantly checking the backseat for any unknown intruder. He was skeptical of his own surroundings. He pinched himself to make sure he could feel pain and though it was clear through pain he wasn’t dreaming, there was something that needed clarification. He needed to know if what he saw was real, but not now. Fear detoured him from instantly opening that front door. He sat thinking about the crack head, about what he said; it made no sense for a wooden door to shield him from what chased him. He grew tired of waiting in indecision, hoping that his fear would subside, and with a spike of encouragement he went for the door to find a solid wall behind it. Cold to the touch, the surface was real but behind it there was a faint thud, evidence that there was reality in what happened. For a moment he shared thought with the crack head, it was maddening to even believe it, but the facts were constantly presenting themselves, rudely awakening his known-to-be true biases.
            Patrick retreated to his car and backed out of the driveway and used the GPS navigation system to help find his way back to a known highway. The house was in a forgotten pocket of land along 514, a street that after many needless lights would take him to Fifth Avenue. He followed with his own known directions without any sudden surprises, which he was expecting. He shared the idea that he did fear more than ever now, as he didn’t know what to fear. He couldn’t allow his own eyes to be a ground of sanity, as apparently things could change instantly, and it was something he couldn’t find a reason for. There was truth and an obvious purpose but it was so hell bent and way too backwards to even attempt with a clear mind. He didn’t doubt his ability, as he was sure he could do it, but it was the job itself, the overall effect it would eventually have on him. He dreaded the very thought of continuing.

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New H P Lovecraft story to be Released

If your a fan of H.P. Lovecraft and you want a complete collection of hisbwork, we’ll then plan to be in Chicago April 9th because “The Cancer of Superstition,” written by Lovecraft in 1926, commissioned by magician Harry Houdini. A Houdini memorabilia collector found the book and is selling it to the public.

As a fan of Lovecraft, I would love to get a copy, but I don’t see myself heading to Chicago anytime soon. Like many, I’ll wait to aquire a copy either online or wait for it to be published in one of many anthologies. For me, it’s not about the physical copy as it is for the experience of the story. Some people really enjoy physical copies, especially originals, but I highly doubt the seller is handing out the original without a heavy price.

Either way, a new Lovecraft short story hitting the scene is awesome.

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Zombies and Burgers

Salt and grease make for delicious brains. Don’t believe me, just ask Undead Greg about his brain preference. He wanders into a fast food chain, and ended up kicked out for scaring kids! All he wanted was a burger, just one burger, but no. Apparently, the sensitive temperament of the children is much more important.

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World’s Worst Porn Recruiter

Join Undead Greg, a zombie too inebriated to chase you down, as he listens to the worst porn recruiter ever, finds a British woman that hates her life so much she vacations with ISIS, and much more.

This is podcast is designed for mature audiences. If you’re triggered, remember that a zombie doesn’t care about your feelings.