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Hollywood Pedophile Issue

The Conspiracy Issue, as good as it was, covered a range of topics and only really grazed the surface. Deadman’s Tome wants to go deeper, and we picked a subject that would definitely raise eyebrows and deserves exploring.

Hollywood pedophile ring

There is a dark, ugly, and seedy underworld that thrives in Hollywood. Let’s expose it through fiction. Explore certain facts that are floating around, and create an anthology that would serve as a red pill for those that don’t believe.


Submit your original short story (fewer than 5K words) or flash fiction to

What do you get in return? $10 token payment and royalties (60% split evenly among the writers), if your work is accepted.

Deadline is August 15th, let me know if you need an extension.



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[TMG3] Madame Trudeau – Edmund Stone

Madame Trudeau

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“The boundaries which divide Life

from Death are best shadowy

and vague. Who shall say where

the one ends, and where the other


—Edgar Allan Poe

Madame Trudeau


Edmund Stone

  Lightning strikes filled the night sky illuminating the old house on the hill. Thunder made an unsettling groan afterward. Jonathan longed for such a night and this house was a ghost hunter’s paradise. The camera crew had been here a few hours, setting things up. They’d already reported crazy shit happening inside. Things staring through the window; a couple of items falling and crashing to the ground. Your typical haunted house nonsense. But he knew there would be more. This was the house Madame Trudeau haunted. The same lady who hacked up about a hundred people after inviting them in for wild orgies. Jonathan planned to have a séance tonight. What fun that’s gonna be! The crazy old broad would be sure to show her face. Maybe she’ll be holding the knife she carved them up with? If he could get that on film, he’d be famous. But he wouldn’t go it alone, oh no. He had invited some friends. He smiled, as headlights shined from behind him.

  “Right on time,” he said under his breath. The car came to a stop. A priest and a woman stepped out.

  “Padre, Jose! How’s my favorite drunken priest?” he said, as the two men embraced.

  “I’m fine, but I gave up drink for Lent. Well, after Mardi Gras that is.”

  “I’ll bet. And who do we have here?” staring at a striking brunette.

  “Oh, this is Evelyn Chambers, the…”

  “Chicago Medium,” Jonathan finished. “Jose said he was bringing a guest, but I had no idea it would be you. I’ve watched your show and I have to say, I’m impressed, skeptical, but impressed.”

  “Well I do have a large following. My ratings are through the roof.”

  “Yes, they are,” Jonathan said, looking at her legs and ample bosom. He assumed people were tuning in for more than her medium abilities.

  “So, this is the house, hunh? I’ve heard a lot about it.”

  “The Trudeau Mansion. Madame Antoinette Trudeau to be exact,” he said.

  “Didn’t she kill hundreds of men and women by luring them in under false pretenses? Made them think she was their lover, then murdered them?” Evelyn said.

   “They weren’t false. She delivered the goods. After a night of every sexual desire possible, bondage and whips to be precise, they were given as sacrifice to the demons. Who knows?”   

   “Sounds interesting, perhaps many demons have possessed the place, as it would be a welcome harbinger of evil,” Jose said.

  “Well, tonight my friend we will find out! My film crew is already set up inside. Shall we?” Jonathan said, motioning toward the mansion.

  A lightning strike filled the sky. The façade of the house lit up revealing the balcony on the second floor. A figure stood there, a woman, looking to be in her thirties. She had pallid skin and a powder blue dress with ruffled ends on the sleeves and collar. Her hair was pinned up giving her a formal look.

  “Did you see her?” Evelyn said.

  “Who?” Jonathan replied.

  “On the balcony. When the lightning struck, I saw a woman there. Very formal, eighteen hundred’s dress.”

  Jonathan looked over at Jose and chuckled. “You have done well, my friend. Very well indeed.”


  Jose and Evelyn followed Jonathan up a cobblestone walkway, leading to a massive porch. In front of them, there were a series of stone steps leading to the entrance doors of the house. They were impressive oak doors, at least ten feet high, with a stone arch at the top.

  “Welcome to Trudeau Mansion,” Jonathan said.

The door opened with a groan as lightning flashed again, illuminating the foyer inside the house.

  “God is restless tonight,” Jose said.

  A large room stretched out before them with ceilings vaulting to oak beams, also in an arch design. The place looked like a large cathedral. There were paintings on the ceiling of angels and demons in battle. Innocent humans were in between them, wearing hoods over their heads; their bodies naked. A herd of pigs were on the opposite side of the ceiling with a painting of Christ, directing the cloaked people toward them. On the other side of the room was a large throne; ornate and beautiful with jewels on the outer edge and red cushions in the seat and back.

  “Interesting décor. What’s with the throne?” Evelyn said.

  “Oh yeah. It was said, the Madame would sit there and watch the people engage in the orgies. Afterward she would pick the one she wanted. She had sex with them, slaughtered the poor asshole, and offered them as a sacrificial lamb. Pretty crazy shit.”

  Evelyn grinned at Jonathan. She looked away and shuddered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m getting weird vibes about this place. I mean, it’s haunted, I assume, so I would think the spirits within are trying to talk to me. Their usually curious of my presence, but it’s different this time, almost like they want me to leave.”

  “Some pretty nasty atrocities were committed here, so it wouldn’t surprise me if you had misgivings.”

  “It’s not like that. I feel like someone is trying to talk to me.”

  “The work of the Devil. He roams the Earth like a lion, waiting to devour the innocent soul,” Jose said.

  “You may be right. There is something evil here. Maybe some of the good spirits are trying to warn me?” Evelyn said.

   Jonathan considered her and gave her a skeptical look, thinking: with a body like hers, I’m sure the ghosts here are more than turned on.

  They continued down a hallway until they came to a room off the main corridor. There were three men and two women behind tables with equipment set up around them. Three of them had cameras of varying size. The other two had laptop computers set up on tables.

  “This is my crew. Ruby, Beth, Jimmy, Seth, and Will. They make the magic happen around here.”

  “I’m not sure if we need any more magic in this house. We seem to have all bases covered,” Jose said.

  “If we are to get some scientific proof, these are the people who will help. We have a table set up with candles.”

   “A séance? I’m intrigued. I thought you didn’t know I was coming?” Evelyn said, smiling at Jonathan.

   “Well, let’s say I expected a medium, but not one as lovely as you.”

  Evelyn continued to smile, clearly pleased by the compliment.

  “Now if you are all ready, let’s get started. Evelyn? Can you do the honors?”


   Jonathan escorted them to the table. They all sat down and held hands. Evelyn began to meditate. She flipped her head back and her raven black hair fell onto her shoulders and across her cleavage and Jonathan was instantly aroused.

  “Those from another past. Can you show us your presence?” Evelyn said.

   The candles went out, as the room was plunged into darkness. A low hum permeated the air and an energy rippled from all around. Lightning flashed through the windows and thunder crashed with a loud boom.

  “Where are you? Can you hear us?” Jonathan said.

  The noise from the hum got louder. A candle lit from the middle of the table shining on Evelyn’s face. The noise was coming from her.

  “What do you want? Why do you bother me?” Evelyn said in a low gravelly voice.

   Jonathan and Jose looked at each other, and then back at her. Their eyes widened.

  “Why do you haunt this house?” Jonathan said.

  “I do not haunt, only control the entities who live here.” Evelyn’s eyes rolled back.

  “And who are they?”

  “You fool, you do not know what you deal with! I am the taker of souls, the one who answers to the Dark Lord!” her head snapped to the side in a disjointed fashion. Her shirt ripped open, the buttons flying off. A lacy bra was the only thing holding her breasts in place. Her hair levitated out and suspended in air, as if caught in a high wind.

  “What are you?” Jose said.

  “I am the leader of the swine, the pigs who worshipped me!” she said.

  Jose and Jonathan looked at each other in puzzlement.

  “What do you mean?”

  Evelyn looked straight at him with her mouth open wide and her eyes white. “I am the harbinger of pain, my pleasure to bring it and yours to receive!”

  The ceiling began to crawl, as faces started to appear. Hundreds of souls, reaching and pawing, seemingly held back by an invisible force. Evelyn’s bra popped open and her breasts fell out in front of Jonathan and Jose. Blood poured from the ceiling and down her chest. Jonathan started to squirm, as his pants became tighter. To his surprise, he was more turned on by the blood than the exposure of her breasts. Although they were supple, and he longed to touch them.

  “Come to me, my lover,” Evelyn said with a deep voice, looking at Jonathan. He started for her, as he was unable to resist. Jose jumped between them and shouted,

  “I cast you out in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit!”

  Evelyn shrieked and fell back into her seat. Lightning flashed from outside, as the air rippled with energy. The seats and the table shook violently, then all stopped, and the room went dark, except for the glow of the cameras. Evelyn looked down at her chest and grabbed her shirt, pulling it together.

    “Where did all this blood come from and why was my shirt open?” she said, looking toward Jonathan and Jose. But before they could answer, she saw a woman sitting beside Jonathan. She was covered in shadow. The woman’s head turned toward her. Then the light from the candle lit by itself. He noticed Evelyn looking beside him at the empty chair.

   “Evelyn? What do you see?”

   “I…I’m not sure,” she said.

    The woman’s face was hovering over the candle. She looked as though she were melting, her skin sloughed off, revealing striations of black, necrotic muscle on her cheeks. Her teeth were black and eyes glassy. Evelyn was frozen, as the creature came closer to her face. A long black tongue shot out of the hag’s mouth and licked Evelyn on the face.

   “This vessel will do,” the lady said. Evelyn screamed, grabbing for her face. The candle went out, plunging the room back into darkness. The chair beside Jonathan fell back on the floor with a smack and he jumped to his feet.

  “Evelyn? What’s happening?” Jonathan said.

  “Aagh!” Seth called out from the other side of the room. He was clutching the headphones over his ears. The laptops and cameras flashed on and the screens began to fluctuate. A steady stream of static came across the view screen and one of the cameras popped and sizzled, as smoke trailed out the top. Beth and Will were grabbing for fire extinguishers. Jimmy was scrambling, trying to save as much equipment as possible. A loud hum resonated from the electronic equipment.

  “Shut everything down!” Ruby cried out.

  Another quick burst of lightning filled the room, as all went silent. Seth flipped the switch and the overhead lights came on.

  “What happened?” Jose said.

  “I don’t know, but I’m hoping we got it on camera,” Jonathan said.

  “I have a feeling your ghosts are demons.”

  “Right now, I don’t know what to think! Let’s check out the tape and see.”

  Evelyn hadn’t got up yet, she was clearly woozy, rubbing her temples. Jose brought her a blanket and covered her with it. She nodded to him in appreciation.

  “How are you doing Evelyn?”

  “Better, Jonathan. But I’m not sure what happened.”

  “Something must have invaded your body,” he said, as he helped Evelyn to her feet. “Roll the footage team. I want to see what we caught.”

  Ruby opened her laptop with one hand and waved the electrical-smelling smoke from the air around her head with the other. The other computers were ruined, but hers was still operable. She rewound the recording to where the séance started. Jonathan could see himself, Jose, and Evelyn. They all looked normal, except for Evelyn. She had small orbs of light over her head, hanging in the air like fireflies, only in a tight cluster. The orbs had tendrils dangling from them in a spiral pattern that encircled her. A naked woman materialized and walked over to Evelyn. She caressed Evelyn’s hair and pulled her shirt open and a moment later opened her bra. The woman spit blood from her mouth and onto Evelyn’s chest. She caressed Evelyn’s naked bosom, licking the skin up to her neck. Other people surrounded the table and started dancing. They all had cloaks covering their heads, but no clothing on their bodies. They all ran behind Jonathan and started pushing him toward Evelyn. Jonathan stepped back and put his arms up in a victory wave.

  “Do you know what this means? We have actual proof of a paranormal encounter!”

  “Easy for you to say. I feel like I’m the star of a low-grade porno movie,” Evelyn said indignantly. Jonathan looked at her blushing. He wanted to ask if she enjoyed it as much as he did, but thought better of it.

  “Jonathan, wait. There’s more,” Ruby said.

  The digital recording continued, as they watched. The people surrounding the table began to turn to pigs and ran into the wall, disappearing. After this, the recording went to static.

  “What happened? Why did it go blank? I didn’t see the faces in the ceiling! Where did the pigs go?!” Jonathan cried.

  “I’m not sure. Everything looks fine, maybe the camera in the hall caught something. I’ll take the crew and check it out. Come on, guys,” Ruby said. They left the room for the hall leading to the entrance door. Jonathan turned to Jose and Evelyn.

  “While their checking for problems, let’s discuss what happened, especially you Evelyn. I want to know what you felt. Those things were all around you, did you know they were there?”

  Evelyn considered him and looked to the ceiling. The paint rippled like a wave of water.

  “Did you see it?” she said.

  “See what?” Jose said.

  “The ceiling is moving. There is something behind it.”

  “I don’t see anything,” Jonathan said.

  Suddenly, there was a scream from the hallway.

  “Jose? Who the Hell was that?”

  “It sounded like Ruby.”

  They ran to the door. Jonathan was two steps ahead of him, as Ruby came running up. She was covered in blood and crying.

  “What’s wrong? Where is the rest of the crew?”

  “They…they, didn’t make it,” she said.

  “What do you mean? Where are they?”

  Ruby was crying so hard she couldn’t make a coherent sentence. The lights began to flicker and went out, plunging the hall into darkness. Lightning flashed, lighting up the hallway and the room ahead.

  “Jose, Evelyn? Where’s Evelyn?” Jonathan said

  “I’m not sure, she was behind me,” Jose said.

  “Take Ruby back to the séance room, I’m going ahead to see what’s going on.”

  “No…no, don’t go in there,” Ruby said.

  “It’s okay, I’ll only be a second,” Jonathan reassured her.

  Jonathan rushed to the end of the hall and into the main room. The lights were out, so he flipped the switch, nothing happened. Lightning illuminated the room and he shuddered from the ensuing thunder rumble. He saw a red hue coming from behind the murals on the ceiling. Did he see the demons moving? He did. They ripped the flesh from the humans they were holding, blood dripped from the inflicted wounds. Jonathan noticed the pigs were missing from the mural and the angels were huddled in a corner. They turned their heads to look away. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Worse yet, he didn’t know if there was a camera on this.

  Then blood began to fall around him, pouring from every corner of the room; in his hair, on his face. He felt his dinner in his throat, as he wiped it away.

  “Where is my crew? Guys you should be recording this!” Frustrated, he stepped into the large room. He pulled up hard with his foot, making a popping sound, like a suction cup releasing. There was something thick and sticky on the floor. The next step caused him to trip over something. What he saw made him wretch. It was the camera crew; their bodies were laid out on the floor; arms outstretched, and feet pinned together spread out in a circular pattern like spokes on a wheel. They were disemboweled with entrails hanging out in all directions. Body parts were strewn out everywhere, some human, but others were…pigs? Jonathan jumped back landing on a pigs head.

  The swine parts were in a random pattern around the bodies of the camera crew. He remembered what he saw in the mural earlier. The bodies being cast into the pigs by Christ.

  Blood soaked the floor and every other area of the room. Jonathan peddled backward, trying to get to his feet. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and slipped into the blood and muck, face first. He choked as the blood was now in his mouth. He started spitting and heaving. A wave of nausea overtook him, and he lost the contents of his stomach.

  Jonathan managed to get a hand on the wall and steady himself. With weak legs, he rose and stumbled along the hallway.

  “Jose? Jose, where are you? Ruby?” he said.

  Lightning illuminated the room up ahead, casting a shadow on the wall for a moment. It looked like Evelyn’s outline, but something else was there too. The thunder rocked the house along with Jonathan’s resolve. He fell against the wall; his body shook with fear. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand.

  “Jose, Ruby, Evelyn? What the Hell is happening? Would somebody please answer!?” he begged.

  “I’ll answer if you want to listen,” Evelyn said.

  Jonathan turned his head and rested it against the wall. He was afraid to move any further.

  “Jonathan, I’m waiting, come join me,” Evelyn said.

  He found the strength to lumber forward, his legs, gelatinous, not wanting to cooperate. Grabbing the door facing to steady himself, he walked into the room. A flash of lightning lit up the horrifying scene. Jose and Ruby were pinned to the wall, arms wide apart and feet nailed together, crucified to some makeshift cross. Evelyn stood below them. She was naked and covered in blood. A pig’s head adorned the top of her head. It was attached to a cloak that flowed over her shoulders.

  “There you are. I’ve been waiting. Lay down on the table.”

  He did as she said, he felt as though he had no power to resist. She undressed him, massaging his penis until it was erect. She straddled him and took him inside her. Evelyn put her hands on Jonathan’s chest. She worked up and down, grinding her pelvis into his middle in a rhythmic motion, moaning in a low drone. Her cadence intensified, and Jonathan groaned with pleasure.     Evelyn reached down beside her, producing a large knife. She raised her arms and brought the knife down into Jonathan’s chest.

   The blood erupted from him, as Jonathan, trembling, released his seed into her. She plunged the knife into his chest again and again until his sternum collapsed. She cried out in pleasure as she came.

   Evelyn got down from the table and drug Jonathan’s body to the hallway and down to the main room. Then she gathered the other bodies, bringing them to the same place. She raised her hands into the air and a blue fire came from the floor, swirling about the bodies. A demon gathered them, laughing as he did so. They all rose to the ceiling and disappeared.

   Evelyn walked across the room and sat in the throne. With the knife still in her hands, she slit both of her wrists. Blood flowed from the self-inflicted wounds, as she began to drift off to sleep. She looked around the room and to the ceiling. She saw Jonathan, Jose, and the rest of the film crew; cloaks around their heads. She smiled. The Madame was pleased.

Read this sweet book today
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[TMG3] No Longer Human – Arya Ashok Dixit

No Longer Human

Like the story? Throw the author some coinage!



The alarm clock was set. The clothes were packed. The note was written. Everything was ready as planned. I had managed to scrape together as much money as I could. It was only a matter of time before I put my plan to action. I decided to get a few hours of shut-eye before that.

A sharp sound pierced my ears with the intensity of a train whistle.

The alarm rang and I woke up with a start. “It’s time” I said to myself aloud. Saying it aloud made it seem real and the seriousness of it all hit me. No, I can’t hesitate now. It’s too late to change plans. With my mind set, I picked up my duffel bag and the letter.

I looked at the letter for a minute. It had been so hard to write. So painful. My eyes swelled with tears. No! Stop! Don’t open the dam again. Your feelings will flood your mind and it will drown you. I closed my eyes and shut the dam- although it was harder now that the time to leave was already here. I ran to my window- staying longer only made the pain worse. I jumped out of the window like I had done countless times before, but I knew this time I wasn’t coming back. Maybe I will someday, but that day was a long, long way off.

I plugged my ears with my earphones. The loud music pounding through them cut me off from the horrendous reality. I was in a different world – a better world- a world where things like money, debt and violence had no place. There was only bliss. Bliss and happiness. Bliss, happiness and best of all- freedom and no misery.

I arrived at the bus stop and sat on the empty bench. I glanced down at my watch. The bus would be here in about fifteen minutes. I waited, staring at nothing, when suddenly I heard footsteps. More accurately, feet dragged along the coarse ground. Who would be wandering about this late at night? I wondered. A huge muscle-bound man passed by me, drunk. Very, very drunk. Absolutely hammered. It was a miracle he was even standing on two feet. He was reeking of alcohol,  a stench so raw and concentrated that I gagged despite the distance between us. But that was not all- I recognised the man. The man whose face I could never forget in a million years. The face of the man who harassed, beat up and finally murdered my father over a petty debt right before my eyes.

My body trembled with hate- so much hate. Hate so primitive and uncontrollable that even before I knew what I was doing, I had whipped out my pocketknife and I was running, running towards him, charging at him with ever ounce of hatred I could muster. He turned his head groggily but even before he could comprehend what was happening, I drove my knife into him. I pulled it out and stabbed him again and again and again . Blood gushed out from the multiple holes I had punctured. His chest had stopped moving a long time ago, his eyes stared blankly at nothing but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My face was smeared with blood mixing in with the salty tears, my hands dripped with the thick red liquid, trembling even as I held the knife and drove it into him one last time. I collapsed next to him on the ground in exhaustion- exhaustion from all the crying or from the stabbing I couldn’t tell. I closed my eyes and my father’s face appeared before me.

I heard the bus rolling to a halt in front of the bus stop. I stood up, as though in a trance. I looked down at my hands. They were still shivering and still red. A deep, dark red which almost looked black. I was still in shock as I walked out of town. I walked, and walked for how long I do not know. I found a stream where I managed to wash my face and hands. I sat back down.
The realisation hit me hard. I had murdered a human being. No, I had murdered a murderer. He was no human being. And now, I realised, I am not one either.


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You Will Not Believe This

Do you like to read horror and dark fiction? Do you hate spending money? Well guess what? Deadman’s Tome is offering Deadman’s Tome Best of the Demonic and Deadman’s Tome very first issue for free.

Deadman’s Tome very first issue was under the name Demonic Tome. As a first issue, readers should expect a certain amount of roughness. With that said, the issue contains supernatural horror, werewolves, ghost hunting, and chilling dark fiction. If you like Stranger Things and Stephen King elements, then you ought to consider giving this issue a read. Why not? It’s free!

Download Demonic Tome 2008 PDF (very first issue)

We’re also giving away Deadman’s Tome Best of the Demonic – a collection of horror tales and dark fiction picked by readers and editors. This issue contains an assortment of speculative horror and supernatural horror.

Download Deadman’s Tome Best of the Demonic PDF

We hope you enjoy these two freebies.

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The Ancient Ones 2 Submissions Call

Announcing call for submissions for The Ancient Ones 2

All Submissions should meet this criteria:

Works: short stories

Genre: Horror, Dark fiction inspired by Lovecraft

Current Theme: The Ancient Ones – stories on Cthulhu and the Chtulhu mythos

Deadline: March 15th – could close early if filled quickly

Format: Attach the .RTF, .DOC, or .DOCX 

Word Count 5k – 7k words approx.

Payment: 60% of net earnings divided evenly among the authors.

Multiple Submissions okay.

 Submit a brief bio, we don’t care if you have no work history, give us a brief bio of yourself.

Send submission to

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Uxoricide by Bob McNeil


During a Thursday, around 3:43AM, a female and male sauntered towards the driveway of her Spanish Colonial-styled mansion. The woman, Neala Desdemona Johnson, was blonde, in her thirties. Her appearance was comparable to the models found in Playboy. Her male counterpart, Rod Silverman, who was younger than she, favored an actor, Johnny Depp. In an attempt to convey his libidinousness, the male stopped and put his arms around his girlfriend’s waist. This effort at warming the woman to the proposal of having sex worked. Under her red leather skirt, jacket and shoes, she felt a lot warmer. And Rod’s blue Italian suit felt tighter, much tighter.

Mansions were common to Rod Silverman. Being the son of an investment banker father and an art curator mother, he was used to wealth. Irrespective of his family’s moneyed existence, as a young, rising model, Rod was getting riches of his own. Among the profits of appearing in fashion magazines and going to trendy clubs was dating attractive, wealthy divorcees like Neala.

Over to the right of Neala and Rod, crouching behind some shrubbery, the forty-seven-year-old African-American former football star Orello Johnson was wearing a ninja outfit. Disguised by his black cotton Balaclava Ninja mask, anger monopolized his expression. Sans his gear, he had short dark coiled hair, straight features, oval eyes, somewhat narrow lips, broad shoulders, bronze skin and an Olympiad’s musculature. Certain women thought the man was handsome. His awareness of these females made his ego rival the Rungrado May Day Stadium for largest mass.

Unheard by anyone else, Orello whispered, “I should take the blood from her fake breasts, breasts that I bought for her. I am the man who inflated those trailer tires and parked them in my mansion.”

Upon amassing an armory of anger, Orello emerged and unsheathed his head.

“What, what, what drug made you come here, Orello?” Neala screamed. Cold, pale fear encased her from skeletal pillars to the flesh covering her. Letting her fingers unify into fists somehow made the woman resuscitate her composure. The girder for steadying her logic was in place as she continued speaking, “I thought the court explained your visitation rights to you. You can see our daughter and son on the weekends.”

Asleep and oblivious to the fight below, two olive-skinned children with sandy hair were in the right wing of the mansion. Their little bodies, which had the attributes from both parents, were content.

“Pray, puta, pray!” Orello’s reply had all the rancor of a Rottweiler before chewing on its prey.

“Hey, uh, uh, don’t call her that!” Rod tried to posture like a defensive lineman, but the boy knew that if a fight started, Orello would defeat him.

“Shut up, sex toy. Your trampish hole and I have some probing to do. Does this boy know that you drove him in my Charcoal Gray 1969 Ford Bronco? Does this boy know that you’re gonna screw him in the house that I pay mortgage on? Does this boy know that you spend my one hundred six thousand dollars every four weeks?”

“Yeah, I’m a trampish hole, but not your trampish hole anymore. You will never screw me anymore and that’s causing your rage. Well, you had this hole for a whole long time. Some days I was your pleasure and other days I was your opponent in a boxing ring. Did you feel like the Heavyweight Champion of the World after beating a woman, Orello? Other than bringing grief, what else are you going to give our relationship?”

Each word that she lunged turned into a shank stabbing Orello in the abdomen. Psychosomatic or real pain, either way, it hurt as if it were a weapon. Enraged by her, Orello wanted the discomfort of the scene to cease. Walking away was not enough, he wanted blood. Orello wanted to see the submission of defeated fighters. His psychopathic need, the desire to ingest violence, wanted a couple of servings.

Evil was never birthed out of nothingness. Orello’s family proved that aforementioned concept to be incontrovertible. All Johnson men were large. Ranging from the tall and muscular to the stout, they were huge. What they possessed in size, they lacked in compassion for women considerably smaller. Bullying diminutive females was yet another trait these men possessed. Johnson men were known for abusing women. The clan pounced on insecure women. A specific Johnson son named Orello saw his father abuse his mother. That fight left bruises upon his psyche. The bruises metastasized into a murderous adulthood.

With a quick motion, Orello stabbed Rod with his Bowie hunting knife. The blade rammed through the trachea of the Hollywood-model-handsome male. Gurgling sounds, instead of other pained utterances, came out of the victim. Akin to a cocaine high, Orello felt exhilarated.

Before she could run or scream, Orello grabbed Neala. Stifled by his left hand, her howl was hampered.

“As opposed to screaming, why don’t you say this? ‘For giving my boyfriend a means to meet God, thank you, Orello.’ You won’t repeat those words, will you? Even though you won’t praise the gift that my knife gave your man, I am going to give you the same prize. But, first, speak your last words, say them.”

“What will you do with our d–d-daughter and s-s-son? Don’t deny Sandy and Justice a relationship with their mother. Leave before the police arrive. I won’t tell them that you stabbed Rod. Orello, besides thinking about our babies, I am concerned about your other children from your first marriage. Consider Arnette and Jordan before you do another thing right now.”

“Arnette and Jordan are adults now. They hate you. Praise for killing you, not criticism, is what I will get from them. Frankly, as for our kids, being six and seven, they won’t remember you after a while.”

“Imagine our kids’ lives with you in prison then put the knife down.”

“You’re merely another wallet-sucking parasite.”

“Your cynicism will prevent you from hearing this, how-however, I did love you. I profited from your love, never the money. Baby, even after the abuse started, I thought my heart could love you so much that your evil would weaken and go away. No matter how much love I gave, you still found reasons to beat me. Honestly, if I didn’t divorce you, Orello, I would have killed you. Much as I desired your death, I didn’t try to kill you. Two things prevented me from murdering you: our children and my hope that our relationship would become something beautiful. Please, Big O, don’t kill any chance for our reconciliation.”

Believe it or not, Neala was expressing some truth, despite what Orello thought. For a corn-fed 19-year-old Indiana girl, armed with dreams of being a model, L.A. was like paradise. So, between waiting tables and auditioning, Neala thought success was a tip away. Some fifteen years ago, at The Datura Club, when she met Orello, her whole spirit knew they were going to be media town’s hottest twosome. And, yes, around the beginning of the relationship, she did love him.

Years later, she saw that love get tackled until it hurt.

A single portion of the plea was false as a faked orgasm and that was the part about any future reconciliation. Neala would have sooner French kissed Charles Manson than date or remarry Orello again.

A combination of cocaine, steroids, CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy) and genetics prevented Orello from comprehending Neala’s statement. Exceeding all else, the weapon in his hand was able to communicate Orello’s response. Quicker than his mind’s ability to realize what he was doing, Orello’s arm swung as if it were a scythe mowing grass. Known for its sharpness, the metal went straight through the victim’s neck. There was no way of concealing the sanguinary act, Orello realized. Blood shot out and stretched to greet his clothes. The knife was the bartender and it was serving blood. Unsinewed as a dishrag, Neala fell and a plasma pool widened around her outstretched body.

Soon, though, once the satisfaction of killing his ex-wife dissipated, elation died. Not much later, it became dread and nausea. Fear’s cold hand grabbed the killer’s spinal column.

Leopard-legged and madness-motivated, Orello ran into the darkness. Among his goals, not getting caught for his monstrous act was paramount. Through side streets, the murderer made his way to his new home. About half a mile separated him from his desired sanctuary. Midway to his destination, Orello reminisced about being the first NFL player to rush for more than 2,000 yards in a season. Considering that he was now much older and his stamina had changed since the mark he set during the 1973 season, the former running back was pleased with the amount of strength his legs still possessed.

Orello entered his residence which looked like a place that Elvis would have enjoyed calling home. Although it was large enough to accommodate two jumbo jets, Orello preferred his former home. Expensive divorce proceedings made him lose the other house to Neala.

Disrobing in the dark and thinking about all that took place, the murderer scrutinized his actions. Garments and the weapon went into a plastic bag. The evidence was going to be put in a place as unattainable as Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa and D.B. Cooper. Sneaker prints on the carpet were vacuumed away. Inspired by a childhood spent watching Basil Rathbone on television, Orello mused that he could stump Sherlock Holmes.

Later, in his bedroom, numerous glasses of screwdrivers with a little juice could not remove Orlello’s conscience. Emotion-sedating pills, the kind that could make an elephant sleep, were also unable to remove the disturbing murder from his dreams.


“Yes, I killed my wife! Yes, I killed my wife!” Orello cried out. Remorse was a touchdown vulture that stole his demeanor.

“From the first news report, I knew you stabbed that woman. Unfortunately, by a jury of your so-called peers, you were deemed innocent of that charge. Double Jeopardy prevents the judicial system from putting you in a court for that case ever again. This time, however, the State of Nevada will make these unrelated kidnapping and robbery charges kick your prick into the penal system for a long, long bid.”

Orello did not know who spoke to him. He opened his eyes and found out he was not in his home at all, but he was in a 6 by 8 grey prison cell, wearing blue inmate garb. The voice belonged to a Corrections Officer in a green uniform. A middle-aged, tall, muscular white male with short auburn hair was standing outside of the prison door. He was in front of the bars looking at Orello. There, on his cot, Orello realized what transpired.

“Whoa, I was having a real serious nightmare, man. Check it out, um, what I was yelling wasn’t true. I had nothing, nothing to do with Neala’s, you know, you know, murder.”

“Bad dreams aren’t all you have to worry about today, football hero. Your court case is being called again. Make sure you wash yourself well because the jury is going to screw you.” The guard walked away from Orello’s cell. A blitz of laughter struck the walls and bars of the building. Inspired by the officer expressing his appreciation for his own humor, co-workers and other inmates stormed with their chuckles. From afar, Orello could still hear the guard speaking. “Try to understand this, sports star, pretend today’s New Year’s Eve and you’re the only available toilet in Times Square. Justice is going to piss on you. Court TV will let everyone see you get wet. Disappointingly for all the abused women out there, you’re not going to get a lethal injection, or what I call the ‘Juice.’”

Denied comfort, a need to satirize another inmate’s sorrow was on par with escaping. Humor was a tunnel to a freer place. Everyone in that section of the prison enjoyed lampooning the once venerated football player. By laughing at Orello, these criminals and officers felt better about their parts in the melodrama.

Disorientation was exiting with its fog in tow. Memories of situations that brought Orello back into the judicial double arm bar pin maneuver were appearing. The criminal remembered that after fifteen years of freedom, he made a life-defeating mistake. In a Las Vegas’ Auction House, with a gun in his hand, Orello confronted men who allegedly stole some of his valuable possessions. Since he stopped the auction in an illegal manner, Orello was arrested. That June, he was charged with a load of felonies.

Imprisoned by the realization that his somniloquy confessed to a form of unlawfulness while facing another form, Orello sat up on his cot. Right then, his desire for cocaine made him imagine the taste of the white powder on his tongue.

That guard returned to the cell. For a while there Orello thought he was hallucinating, because it looked like Neala exited the Correctional Officer’s body the way steam would from soup. Previous to disappearing, the apparition, dressed in a miniskirt-short ivory-colored tunic, turned, smiled and laughed. It was the type of laughter that people would associate with villains. Hearing the manic cackle gave Orello the feeling icy stalactites were forming on his spine.


Entering that courtroom with an infamous murder case in his past did not make the accused criminal look nicer. There was a full meal of reasons to hate Orello Johnson. Each person in that room chewed on some reason or another. Nervous about the setting, the defendant fidgeted.

Compounded with all the legalities Orello had to battle, there was Neala’s ubiquitous being standing next to the jury box. Later, she was standing beside Judge Janis Copper. Other times Neala stood a foot away from the bailiff. No matter where the ghost stood, she laughed throughout the long trial.

“Can you hear and see her?” Orello whispered the query to Criminal Defense Attorney Harvard Moldova.

“Who?” The middle-aged white lawyer in the pinstriped suit replied. Indeed, Harvard did not know to whom Orello was referring. In addition, he wished for another client.

“Neala is standing over there and over there at the same time. Look over there to the right and left of the judge before Neala changes her position again,” Orello whispered.

“Are you trying to get an insanity plea?” Harvard asked. Nervously awaiting an answer, the brown-haired lawyer stared at a client who made him feel hatred.

“Insane, no, I am not insane. I was just saying that some of the women here look like Neala.” A plea bargain for Orello to stay in an asylum would separate him from his children and his assets. His plans would be tackled. Sure, seven hundred fifty milligrams of Depakote and about four hundred milligrams of Theophylline would make the prison bid bearable, but deadening his senses would prevent Orello from getting the ultimate touchdown–freedom.

“Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

Nervous about the setting, Orello continued tapping his brown slippers and biting the cuticle of his thumb. He wanted supernatural strength so he could race to a time before meeting his wife. If time travel were possible, Orello thought, he would jettison back to a time when he was loved by the American media.

“Yes, your honor, we have.” Harder than an assassin’s demeanor was the expression on the young, pale woman as she spoke, “Guilty, your honor.” Neala exited the woman’s flesh triumphantly.

His countenance became melted chocolate. All the flesh on his face dangled in a mass of sadness. Muscles that once maintained his structure buckled. Orello collapsed. His body and existence met the floor.

“Now, you’re gonna rot,” Frank, the father of Rod Silverman, screamed.

Age and despondency tormented the Silvermans. Every day the two conditions stabbed another part of them. Frank’s green eyes appeared murkier and sadder since the murder trials. His square jaw, which once gave him an appearance of a strong leading man, now hung as if the floor beckoned it. Over the course of the trial, his dark and full collar-length hair became grey. In his case, it was not the natural aging process. The loss of his son siphoned all vivaciousness from his being. Frank, in his sixties, could have passed for a man ten to fifteen years older.

Another victim of this siphoning process was Rod’s mother, Cheryl. Called the Elizabeth Taylor of the Hamptons, Cheryl’s beauty was admired for many years. Losing her son and finding alcohol turned her cinematic sultriness into a network of decrepit wretchedness. Wrinkles, warts and a disposition that would befit Edward Albee’s Martha replaced the woman Frank married. Undeterred by their divorce after the murder of their son, they attended all of Orello’s trials together.

Right alongside the Silverman family was Neala’s older sister, Daphne Ensler. Both were stairstep children, a mere year separated them. There, at age forty-eight, the auburn-haired buxom woman would sell her eyes and arms to get her sister back. Loss was an exclusive concern for the senior sibling, especially now since the murder of a family member and the death of her parents, Lars and Janet. On the day Orello stabbed Neala, he ran the blade through that farm couple. A little less than two years passed and both the mother and father died of heart attacks. Daphne’s heart was dedicated to her son, twenty-year-old Christopher, her husband, Jack, the contractor, and her career as a writer. Daphne’s books on domestic violence were acclaimed.

United, the Silverman family and Daphne Ensler stood in clothes befitting a funeral—Orello’s funeral.

Turning towards Frank, Orello saw the ghost of Rod Silverman appear, wearing the same type of tunic that Neala had, but his covered both knees. The ghost wore the expression of an individual who wanted to slaughter his slayer. If Orello were beef, Rod would have served the slices to sewer rats.

Even scarier than Rod’s expression was the presence of a brown-haired angelic woman with white wings and a yellow robe. None of the other apparitions scared him as much as the presence of this ethereal female. Maybe she was the devil, Orello thought. Yet, unlike any other known description of the fallen angel, she was not what the ex-football player expected. Materializing when she wanted, the creature was instructing Neala. Towering above everyone in the courtroom, she glared at Orello. Perhaps she was awaiting her moment to kill, the ex-football player concluded.


Orello returned to inmates and corrections officers tormenting him with words that felt like a bump and run. Such discomfort that was created by critical quips was not quite as painful as the visions of Neala, though. Without a logical schedule, the slain woman often appeared in Orello’s cell and laughed. Sometimes she was accompanied by Rod and that winged figure. Under those aforesaid circumstances, Orello awaited his next court appearance in two months.

Had Orello known how strange it sounded to others outside of his cell, he would not have yelled at his ex-wife. Testimonials from convicts and corrections officers agreed on this observation: Orello argued with a woman who was unseen and unheard.

In particular, there was this outburst from Orello that an inmate remembered. An unnamed eavesdropper said Orello bellowed the following: “Neala, Neala, appearing just to disappear won’t help you win this game. Stay so I can explain things to you or hide like a scared girl. Either way, I am going to win. I am Orello Johnson. Don’t you understand that in 1966, when your little ass attended grade school, I rushed for 1,709 yards, got me 22 touchdowns and earned the Heisman Trophy, the Maxwell Award, and the Walter Camp Award all during that same year? Hell, in the Rose Bowl, just three years later, I ran 171 yards. Plus, I got an 80-yard TD run. What’s a pale as bird poop phantom gonna do to this brother, huh?

“I played the pig on the gridiron. America cheered me. America revered me. The reverence was a treasure in my bank. My name became success. My persona became a multimillion dollar advertisement. Back when America transmitted racism through rabbit ears, I was on TV. In people’s homes, I was selling waste and they guzzled it like they liked it. Spread out on the big scene movie screen, I was a buffoon with the stadium-wide smile and audiences wanted more helpings of my trash.

“Soon I am going to play a role that’s better than being in a franchise. This role is going to give me the Oscar for bedding that Lady Justice Broad.”

“Next to ants, you’re a giant. Next to an ethical man, you’re dirt,” Neala stated before her figure materialized.

“What’s a ghost gonna do to this brick house, huh?”

“Yo, Orello, shut your hole or I’ll show ya who’s goin’ to knock your brick house down. Ya sound like you’re crazy talkin’ to yourself,” an unseen inmate yelled from another cell.

Not a soul but Orello could hear Neala speak. Realizing that his responses were what the inmates overheard, Orello imagined cement drying on his lips.

Left with nothing else to do after Neala disappeared, Orello tried to sleep, but even that provided torment. Since his incarceration for his wife’s murder, Orello had nightmares about castration, not just anybody’s castration—his castration. Nighttime hours, rather fittingly it seemed, were now reserved for new horrific scenarios to play in Orello’s mind. The drama that played throughout his nightmare showed Orello tied to a bed and all the women he abused cheered as Lorena Bobbitt and Neala cut off his genitalia with knives. Every night there was this sensation of metal slicing him.

Besides the vision of the mutilating duo, there was another sorority that prevented comfortable sleep. His need to nod was interrupted by seeing Velma Barfield putting a toxic chemical in his meals. A lot of dreams were spent being chased by ax-swinging Karla Faye Tucker. Sweat formed all over Orello after watching Betty Lou Beets and Aileen Wuornos shoot at him. Sleep was a murderess. Nauseated, nervous and pained, Orello rarely got more than three hours of sleep per day.


“The judge is getting ready for the game, Mr. Sports Hero.” Those words were the alarm clock and calendar that alerted Orello to the date and time of his court case. It was two months to the day since his last judicial ordeal.

Orello saw himself as the team captain standing in front of a blackboard, drawing diagrams and preparing to defeat the other team. Further contemplation on the subject of his pending court case made Orello come up with what he believed was a good game plan. He envisioned himself mesmerizing the judge. Based on all accounts, Orello was effective in getting field goals on females. Even going back to his youth, the opposite sex wanted the athletic male. Success increased the man’s appeal. Orello figured by letting his charm run with the ball, the female judge would personally lead him to the parking lot. During Orello’s shower and dressing ritual, the idea became erotic.


“Is there anything that your client would like to say before sentencing?” The forty-something-year-old judge asked. Her approach to the case was much like the ponytail holding her black hair—severe.

“Your honor, my client would like to make a statement.” Earlier Orello told his lawyer that he had some words to impart.

“You may proceed, Mr. Johnson.” Only Orello could hear Neala’s cackle.

“Ma’am, I’m a simple former athlete. There’s no law degree hanging on my wall at home. Ignorance is the reason why I decided to do an unlawful thing. Someone told me about an auction that was going to take place. Also, I heard that my stuff, stuff that was stolen from my home was going to be sold. Sure, now after learning about the law a little, I understand that I shouldn’t have gotten a gun to get my things. Nor should I have held the thieves against their will at the auction house. Emotions, such as anger and hate, inspired a reaction before I could think about the best action.” Midway to the end of his monologue, Orello thought he made the judge wet.

“Your honor, let me say this, I am sorry about my unlawful act. Certainly, you can understand that I was trying to regain my own possessions from some thieves. My approach, though a little too hardcore, was well-intentioned. Whether some would call me a criminal or a hero, all I wanted was my own stuff back.” Convinced that his monologue was working, Orello started to plan a release party, complete with strippers, hookers, celebrities, booze and drugs.

“This state was always my favorite. A lot of my football fans live right here in Nevada, and I have always been good to my fans. Nothing would ever make me do anything against this area.”

“Mr. Johnson, you have two minutes before sentencing.”

“O.K, try to get into my motivations and you’ll understand why I handled the situation the way I did. Thank you for allowing me to speak in this honorable courtroom.”

Talking got Orello out of myriad personal dilemmas in the past. As a result, he was convinced that his voice made eggs sizzle. Unless the judge was a blind and deaf lesbian, her body should be lava, Orello thought.

“Thank you again, your honor.”

“You are welcome. I hereby sentence you to thirty-four years.”

Nine years before the possibility of parole became a mantra in Orello’s head. Over again the sentence echoed. He had to serve all those years in state prison before being eligible for parole. The judge might as well have shot Orello. There was, of course, the possibility of an appeal. No matter the legal option, the process of fighting the judge’s decision would take something that Orello did not have—patience.

There, as per usual, Frank Silverman was in the audience taunting Orello with condemnation. Orello’s acquittal for the murder of Neala Desdemona Johnson and Rod Silverman was a dagger in Frank’s heart. Granted, the Civil Court passed a judgment against the former athlete for two wrongful deaths, but it could not make the Silverman’s pain of losing a son stop. $66.6 million dollars that the parents were supposed to receive

did not alleviate the lamentation either. Consistent excuses as to why the complete amount could not be paid pushed the blade further into Frank’s psyche.

Ritualistically, beside Frank, Cheryl and Daphne stood.

It was the civil case that forced Orello into questionable business choices. He made a porno film, wrote a book about his wife’s murder and did personal appearances, etc. The celebrity could not let people sack his fortune. So, desperation became his defensive line.

“The Devil is going to bake your hide,” The Silverman patriarch cried out.

Consistently absent, Orello’s four children saw no reason to attend any of the court proceedings. As far as they were concerned, after Orello was arrested, he died.

Anna Simpson, dissimilar to her children, watched all of Orello’s courtroom problems on TV. Wearing a red floral Muumuu, red processed hair in rollers, surrounded by cherry soda cans, barbeque potato chips and a remote control, her pudgy physique was

orgasmic while watching the defeat of her abusive ex-husband.

A Hispanic bailiff, who was about the size of a kickboxer, took Orello out of the courtroom. The bewildered criminal turned to Rod’s father and stared. That uncommunicative state was caused by the presence of three afterlife figures. Overhead, unseen by all except Orello, Neala, alongside some befeathered female and Rod, cheered repeatedly.


Once the case concluded and the lawyer told Orello they could appeal the decision, the cell seemed even smaller. Handicapping this jurisprudential game, Orello knew that no appeal would overturn his predicament.

Later that evening, psychotropic drugs were administered to help alleviate the sensation of cleats and knives piercing Orello’s brain and lower extremities. The pills were prescribed because it was deemed that he was suicidal.

Somewhere around twelve thirty A.M., his ex-wife returned. The abusive spouse knew that the woman who bore his child would trek his way once more. Orello wanted Neala to haunt him.

“Now I guess my sentence will be spent being haunted by you.”

“Why would I share another portion of my immortal life providing a source of escape from your loneliness? No, you’re going to detox from your favorite stimulant—attention. Get ready for withdrawals from the warm love of women, football fans and your children.”

“Please allow your spirit to forgive. Please give me that.”

“You’re right. I should give you certain things. Here’s the first thing I will give: information. Recent reports have proven that a woman is beaten every nine seconds. That calculation inspired me to give you a gift. Right at the point some malevolent man hurts a woman, you will feel the blows upon your body. Punches and slaps some unknown woman endures will affect your flesh. Why should women suffer unaccompanied by your presence? Aside from being suicidal, you will experience discomfort a prison doctor will believe is psychosomatic.”

“Your gene pool was as worthless as pigeon crap on a porch. Until I came into your soon-to-be-on-food-stamps life, you were a liability. How could you have such powers?”

“Try to work past your stupidity and listen. That night you stabbed the life out of me, I saw a Goddess.”

“Did you get high before coming here?” A titter accompanied the question.

“She called herself Nemesis. This Goddess and her minions hunt men like you.”

“What kind of weirdo name is Nem-ee-sis?”

Annoyed with the process of answering Orello, Neala’s eyebrows illustrated her anger before she continued speaking. “My wounded form, which you created, angered her. She said, ‘Get up, Gaelic girl. Your parents dubbed you a champion and a champion you will be.’ For my promise to become a fighter on the side of her legion, I was given abilities.

“Far from this dimension, in a stratospheric area reminiscent of ancient Greece, fifteen of my postmortal years were spent training. Taught by Nemesis and other ancient mystics, I learned about bilocation, dematerialization, levitation, metempsychosis, mesmerism, psychokinesis, radiesthesia, telepathy and a lot more. Thankfully, this ghost of an abused woman was given powers by those omnipotent sources. I was using those powers to get you in this prison.”

Binocular-eyed and confused, Orello stood and listened. Neala’s words were unexplored constellations. Lost in her utterances, Orello could not believe how much his

former wife had transformed. Besides the powers the creature gave her, Neala’s IQ increased. His former simple country girl morphed into some kind of Mensa member.

“Above all, being vengeful was not a simple lesson. My folks taught their belief in forgiveness. Unlearning that concept was the hardest.

“Rod wanted justice to come down on you with the force of a mudslide.

Repeated pleas on my part gave me the right to administer your sentence. Albeit simple, my first attempt at attacking you was by storing a meaty suggestion in your mind. Over and over, I repeated these words: ‘Take your gun and get what someone got from you.’ Easier than waving flesh in front of a piranha, you enjoyed the bait.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Ah, Orello, your anguish is the best dish for me.”

Coinciding with the final vowel, she disappeared in a way that would perplex Houdini. In her place appeared Rod Silverman and the other outer worldly lady.

Frustrated with the amount of time Neala used for her revenge, Rod’s interest was his family. Rod was also exasperated by Nemesis and her associates. He was mystified by these beings, living in levitating jewel-encrusted Grecian buildings. From their ancient ceremonial clothing to their arcane rituals that were on par with witchcraft, Rod disliked their oddness.

Instead of yelling at Orello, Rod wanted to punch him and watch his frame become bloody pieces of dismembered flesh. Almost Herculean impulse inhibitors suppressed Rod’s vengefulness. Incapable of expressing his rage, he let Nemesis speak.

“Orello, certain people say I am a demon and others call me a saviour. Neither description matters,” Nemesis stated in a synthesized and genderless voice. “What concerns my existence is seeing parasites like you suffer. All of my ethereal resources are dedicated to a single goal—the destruction of brutish beings. View your torment as you would a tragic play. Moreover, know that Neala and I will enjoy your every upcoming scene.”

Before Orello could respond, the figures disappeared. Defeated, he tried to understand his fate.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Orello yelled while feeling invisible fists pummel him. Doubling over as a result of the attacks, he felt bruises form. Again, being consistent with Neala’s plan, the protuberances were imperceptible to everyone else. “I’m sorry,” Orello screamed once more.

“Yeah, you’re sorry for being such a sorry has-been.” Approximating the style of a stand-up comedian, the guard paused for an audience reaction. Bolstered by the sound of inmates laughing at his put-down, the correction officer continued his critical jokes about Orello. “Don’t be sad, Superstar. You’ll have your football memories to enjoy tonight. The guard quipped outside of Orello’s cell. Laughter that was coming from all sides of the isolation ward became louder than the 1812 Overture. The guffawing made the sobs Orello emitted inaudible in the Lacrimae Rerum Criminal Compound in Nevada.

A prison that was normally known for misery was pleased about accommodating its newest inmate.

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March To The Grave!

Read Today

The warmongers are beating on drums, rattling sabers, and thirst for blood. A terror attack hits us at home, hits our allies, hits our friends. Fear scorches the flesh of a wounded heart, and anger grows inside, infecting, corrupting. We’re marching towards war, another world war, yet we’re actually already at war. Military forces are active in foreign lands, bullets are fired, bombs are dropped, and bodies… the bodies of men, women, and children collect.

Don’t contort my words, I know why we fight. I know why we feel that it’s right and even justified. I understand the complexity and not defecating on those that serve. Those that believe that in sacrificing their lives, they can make other lives better. To them, I say, I hope that one day it does, too. March to the Grave is not anti-war, it’s not pro-war, it’s a grim reminder of the horrors that follow, a reminder that war is a destructive all consuming beast of man’s creation that can, if left unchecked, devour all that is living.

Pete Clark, David J. Wing, Gary Robbe, Gerry Huntman, Phoebe Reeves-Murray, Deborah Sheldon, and Christopher Pulo all did a wonderful job illustrating the horrors of war. Because of that, March to the Grave is the darkest and most cynical issue of Deadman’s Tome, yet.

March to the Grave is available on Amazon Kindle and can be read for free through Kindle Unlimited. March to the Grave goes for $2.99 but will be available for Free Memorial Day weekend (Sat – Mon).

If you’re a veteran and want a copy, contact me using for a free digital copy.





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Read, If You Dare!

The well-received collection of horror that has driven people mad is now available in hard-copy! Book of Horrors I and Book of Horrors II are now in 6 x 9 print form! You can still enjoy the assortment of chilling terror on your Amazon Kindle or other eReader devices, but you can now read the accursed tome the way it was meant to be read.

Order your copy today

Book of Horrors I for $9.99 for $5 order today

Book of Horrors II for $9.99 for $5 Order today

Get both Book of Horrors I and II and save even more

Book of Horrors I and II for $19.98 for $10 Order Today

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Essentia Lake – KF Williams

Essentia Lake

KF Williams

The last time she was on the Fansi, her dad sat by her side. They laughed and talked all day as the small vessel drifted on the restless waves. The day was good, until the catch came in. The heavy waves beat against the side of the vessel tossing it around like a ragdoll. Her dad said the catch was heavier than usual. She tried to help him pull the net in, but the load was too heavy for them. His leg got tangled in a rope and he was dragged into the depths of the water by the heaviness of the catch. She never saw him again. Larai lost her dad to the Lake of Essentia.

That was her life. Everyone Larai loved either died or left her. She was only three when her mom and older sister Santi left in the middle of the night. Her dad woke her up that next morning looking distraught. She could tell he’d been crying and maybe even drinking. That’s just what he did. He showed her the note her mom left, even though she couldn’t read at the time.

Through the years following her mom leaving, her grandparents passed, her friends ran away and never returned, and anytime she had a love interest they’d stop contacting her for no reason at all. She figured she was cursed – maybe the Hera cursed her at birth – so she stopped getting close to others. She didn’t want anyone else leaving her. It was just her and her dad. That was enough for Larai.

“Morning, Larai,” Hect the Merchant greeted her as she entered his shop. “Ya heading to the lake today?” She gave a small nod. “Ya sure ya ready to be out there by yaself?”

“I’ve put it off long enough,” she replied somberly, grazing her green eyes over the fresh bread by the counter. “If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.” She placed a turt sandwich, a jug of hift juice, and a chew of smeer on the counter. Hect the Merchant always gave her a scolding look when she bought smeer. She picked up the bad habit from her dad and it was a hard one to break.

“Here’s the weather note for today.” He handed her a piece of tattered parchment paper. “It’ll be a good day for a big catch!”

“Thanks.” She read the note and the words Terrible storms today were scribbled on it in ink. She crumbled up the paper and tossed it to the ground before she walked out the door.

The aroma of day old muk soup being reheated in cast iron pots drifted through the stale air. The smell made Laira realize she hadn’t eaten much for the day’s first meal. She didn’t want to eat much of anything anyway. She just wanted to get the day over. This was the first time she’d be on the vessel by herself.

Laira kicked the smooth white pebbles as she trekked down the windy path through the dense trees. The thick blades of grass grasped at her ankles as she reluctantly trod along. The path always made her feel uneasy. She remembered the faces, cries, and pleas from the hundreds of people marched down the path to the lake to never return.

Thieves, murderers, rapists, and adulterers were sentenced to perish in the Lake of Essentia. If you were accused of a crime, whether you committed it or not, you had to enter the lake. The lake gave the final judgment. If one’s soul was allowed to surface during a storm, then they were an innocent and their soul was free to move on to the next life. If one’s soul was dragged back down into the depths of the lake by the evils, they were guilty of some wrongdoing and their souls were never allowed to move on.  

It was Laira’s job to collect the surfaced souls and help them with their passage. The profession was commissioned to her family generations ago and if she ever chose to marry and bare children, then the profession would be theirs. This was only her third time being on the lake and if she caught any souls today, it would be her first catch.

She kept an eye on the sky as she steered the Fansi onto the middle of the lake. Terrible storms today, the note read. The sky was a piercing sapphire blue and no clouds appeared on the horizon. She always took the weather note with a grain of salt. It didn’t look like she’d catch anything that day.

A half day had gone and Laira stared at her reflection in the mirror-surfaced lake for most of the time. She thought this was the most boring profession ever. Her dad would come home and spin tales of his adventures on the vessel, but she figured they were just stories to keep a little girl entertained.

Black storm clouds barreled in from the north. Tormenting winds slapped waves onto the vessel. Laira had to prepare to cast the net as soon as she saw the first soul nearing the surface. Hail stung her skin like a swarm of angry bees protecting their hive. A swirl of darkness pierced the belly of the lake and she knew it was time for the net to go overboard.

She threw the net into the treacherous water and waited for the first tug. The Fansi violently bounced on top of the waves as if a drunkard dancing to fiddle music. The rain saturated her brown locks and dingy clothes, but she held tightly onto the net. She felt a tug, then another, and another. The net was filling up fast. The weight of the net burned blisters into her hands, but she couldn’t let go. If she failed, she wouldn’t get paid.

She hoisted the rope from the net around the vessel’s pulleys and began to haul in her load. A force jerked the net back with unimaginable strength. Laira’s heart thumped in her chest like a monsoo drum. She fought against the force. Another jerk and she lost her footing on the slippery deck. The rope slid through her bleeding fingers before she caught the end of it.

Laira wrapped the rope around her arm and pulled in the net with all of the strength she could muster. The net broke the water’s surface and she could finally see the souls she was to guide through passage. The lake was still in a fury and the winds battered the Fansi. She fought to get the net out of the grasp of the evils. As she raised the net higher, she saw one more soul hanging on to it.

“Dad!” she yelled as her eyes welled up with tears. He wore his usual jovial smile and his eyes glistened at her. She was so happy to be able to help her dad through the passage.

The vessel wavered and the souls in the net screeched an awful sound. She pulled on the rope as she kept her gaze on her dad. The screeching became almost unbearable and Laira wanted to cover her ears, but that meant she’d have to let go of the rope.

Black waves tossed the boat as the evils tried to climb onboard. Laira needed to get the net on the vessel deck and then they’d be free. The evils grabbed her dad and began to pull him down along with the net. The screeching unsettled Laira.

“Leave him alone,” she yelled at the evils, but they continued to ravage his soul.

He was slowly losing his grip on the net and there was nothing Laira could do. The evils didn’t want to let the others leave. Laira watched while they devoured her dad and dragged what remained of his soul back into the dismal lake.

The sky cleared, the waves calmed, and the lake stilled. The souls in the net were no longer screeching. Laira gathered herself and pulled the net onto the deck. Her mom, grandparents, Santi, her friends, Drek – her first love, and many other faces she mourned appeared in front of her.

Looking at the pain and torment on their faces, she knew what this meant. She knew they didn’t leave her. She knew that her dad belonged in the Lake of Essentia.

About the author: KF Williams is a contributor to nonfiction digital magazines, loves writing flash fiction and short stories, and drinking a hot cup of joe for a quick energy boost. Work can be seen in an upcoming publication of Flash Fiction Magazine and on the author’s soon to be released website. Follow KF Williams on Facebook (, Twitter (, and Instagram (

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Turbo Slut 5K – Where Women Dominate and Perverts Die

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Turbo Slut 5K is an ultra-violent, hyper-sexualized, and brutally offensive tale of sizzling lust, savage revenge, and the triumph over some ruthless misogynistic scum f**ks told in six exciting chapters! Set in a dark and gritty cyberpunk dystopia, three FuckBots defy their programming and acquire a notorious reputation that earns them a hefty bounty of fifteen billion dollars! With such a price on their heads, the three voluptuous sex machines have little to no choice but to fight for survival!

Forget Little Women, forget Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, forget The Beauty Myth, Turbo Slut 5K is the ultimate pro-woman, man-hating story! The sort of story that radical, sex-negative feminists would wildly support, it they weren’t confused by the vail of shameless, pornographic debauchery. Fuckbots, programmed by misogynists to serve men for their pleasure, seek, kill and humiliate their Johns in various savage ways. Why? Because their on mission to murderize every single player in the sex trade game.