Bad Day Gone Good

It was one of those raw-boned October days in the midwest. The sky was a leaden gray and the temperature hovered somewhere down near freezing. Rain had been falling fitfully all day, sometimes harder but never stopping. A biting breeze blew the raindrops this way and that without cease.

Graham trudged down the street dejectedly. Trudged, because his POS car was sitting, dead as a stump, in his driveway. He sometimes thought that a scabarous coating of rust and a whole lot of congealed engine fluids were the only things holding the damned thing together.

As was often the case, he had put in a call and made arrangements to get the old beast running again. He had the money but it was money that could have been better spent elsewhere. Lord knows there were no shortage of folks out there with a claim on Graham's meager earnings. The wolf wasn't quite huffing and puffing the door down yet, but every day was a challenge keeping him at bay.

Graham cursed bitterly as his foot slipped on a sodden mass of leaf mold, nearly falling flat on his ass. Add a broken bone to the list of things he really did NOT need to deal with. His boots were worn and scuffed but still had decent tread in most cases. They were at least keeping his feet warm and dry.

Graham hunched his shoulders in his too-thin coat, glad that some part of him, at least, was warm and dry. If the baby hadn't needed milk, Graham would sure as hell not be out for a stroll on a day such as this. If nothing else, the mini-mart would offer him the chance to pick up some beer and a pack of smokes.

A stray breeze blew rain in Graham's flushed face and focused his thoughts nicely. It was only another couple of blocks and he would be there. Then he could look forward to the prospect of an unpleasant walk back home. As cold as it was, he knew his hands would not appreciate the walk. He ducked his head and forged on.

A long-dormant sixth sense suddenly prickled the hairs on the back of Graham's neck. He spun about, instinctively dropping into a defensive crouch. He smelled the threat before he saw the man, but there he was.

He had slipped out from behind a tall stand of hedges and was directly behind Graham just that neatly. Graham swore to himself, realizing that he must have walked right past the guy without the slightest inkling that the man was even there. Damn, he was getting old...old and sloppy.

The man was a few inches taller than Graham and maybe thirty pounds heavier but not all THAT threatening otherwise. He was looking rough, really rough, and fading fast. His skin was saggy and pale under a thick mask of dirt and whiskers. His eyes were red, sunken and a bit wild. His lips were pulled back thinly around the broken stubs of teeth in sore need of dental services.

Graham was hardly dressed GQ in his steel-toed work boots, jeans and a faded polo under his hooded coat but this fellow looked a hell of a lot worse off. His feet were mostly covered by grayish sneakers...no socks. His pants were of an indeterminate dark color under a crust of mud, grease and other substances. He wore an old army trenchcoat, belted with a length of fraying cord and, it seemed, no shirt underneath. His long, greasy hair straggled out from beneath a shapeless dark stocking cap. Yeah, looking in dire need of a VERY extreme makeover. He did have one compelling feature though.

Clutched in his grubby right hand was a pistol. It was an ugly, short-barreled automatic. The hand holding it was trembling but still more than steady enough to cause Graham concern.

Graham forced himself to hold the man's gaze. He heard a voice from his distant past harping on that a man's eyes would telegraph his intent more accurately than watching his hands would. It had been too long ago for Graham to recall if that had been good advice or not. It didn't seem a bad idea at the moment.

The man's voice was low, raspy and strained. "Easy there dude. Gimme your money, your watch and your rings and I won't have to use this thing." His head bobbed downward in the general direction of his gun before fixing Graham's gaze.

Graham cocked his head to the side, one eyebrow arched upward. "Uhh no. No, that is NOT gonna happen today, chief."

His assailant was caught off guard. "I don't think you got me, asshole. You must got a lotta money on ya to make you argue with me but I WILL shoot your ass. Now...give it up!!"

Graham straightend up slowly, his hands open and placating. "Oh no. I DO understand you. I am just NOT in the mood today...asshole. I got like eight bucks cash and a debit card that even I don't remember the PIN to most of the time. I just don't have the slightest intention of giving it to you. So, if you wanna shoot me, get on with it or I got better places to be."
The man seemed to be considering actually shooting Graham when something he had no clue of took place.

Somewhere from the deep recesses of his memory, Graham recalled himself as a far different man than he was now. He had been younger...buffer...and fearless to a fault. He had been young with no wife, no kids, no bills and no responsibilities. He had lived for the day and been ready to die at the drop of a hat. That Graham struggled up out of his monkey hind-brain and took control of him.

Standing just beyond his arm's reach was a threat. His left hand clenched into a fist and shot out and up. The back of his hand struck the man squarely in the face...hard and sudden. As the man cried out with surprise, his hands went instinctively toward his broken nose.

Graham stepped in and clamped onto the attacker's right wrist. He bent and spun, bringing the arm down and barring it as the elbow of his free hand crashed into the man's temple. The attacker crumpled to his knees, still conscious but only barely so.

Graham held the imprisoned arm outward and stepped over it. He dropped to his back and pulled, dislocating the guy's shoulder with a sickening pop. He rolled over the man's now-useless limb and knelt with both knees on his shoulder blades. He held both fists together and hammered them down with murderous force on the back of his attacker's head. Graham heard bone crunch and the man went lifelessly limp. It was over as quickly as it had begun.

Graham was breathing more heavily than he had imagined possible. His hands were shaking and his legs seemed unwilling to hold him up. His head swivelled left and right looking for any signs of anyone. The narrow street was as empty of traffic of any sort as it had been minutes before.

Acting more from instinct than plan, Graham rifled the pockets of the man. He came out with a jumble of items...a fistful of wet currency, a battered cell phone, three pocket knives of varying sizes, a pack of Camels and a dented Zippo. He transferred the items to his pockets.

He reached under the body and retrieved the handgun. He popped the magazine and locked the slide open. He retrieved the magazine and the ejected round. Damn! It HAD been loaded! Both gun and magazine were stowed away.

Graham knew he needed to get gone and fast. With an absent-minded kick to the corpse's ribs he started walking in the direction of the mini-mart. His breathing had calmed and his adrenaline rush was fading. As he walked on, Graham lit one of the Camels and sucked in the harsh smoke gratefully.

Puffing in time with his footsteps, he wondered if pawning the gun would cover the cost of the parts to fix his ride. Maybe this day wasn't going to turn out so bad after all.

A Latinum Library Review: What Happens In Vegas, Dies In Vegas

5 of 5 Stars A Worthy Successor Indeed

For ten years Kal Hakala WAS the Bureau of Supernatural Investigations' (BSI) top man, the longest surviving agent in its blood-soaked history. Now, he has left the Bureau behind to pursue the vengeance that led him to become an agent in the first place.

Kal assembles a dream team that includes some of the Bureau's best and most lethal field agents, past and present. Each has an agenda of their own but shares one common goal - backing Kal to the hilt in whatever play he makes.

That play begins with the need to require an artifact to power the super Tesla coil required to eliminate the uber-being that killed Kal's sister. Despite their best efforts, the team misses on their first try and must find a new artifact...somewhere.

Somewhere proves to be in the seedy world of Las Vegas' underground fighting circles. What begins as a dicey but do-able mission, quickly heads south of the border when Kal and company stumble upon something far more insidious than some unsanctioned prize fighting.

Now they must wage war across time and space in a desperate attempt to save the very fabric of the universe itself from unravelling. Kal and his team have NEVER, in their darkest nightmares, EVER faced an evil this malignant or this determined. It will take every weapon in their arsenal, every trick in the bag and a whole lot of just plain luck to snatch victory from the jaws of certain doom this time.
____________________________________

Near the end of my review of Mark Stone's debut novel, Things To Do In Denver When You're Un-Dead, I made the point that it left me "salivating for the forthcoming sequel". I am quite pleased to say that all of my salivation was not in vain.

From the very first page, Mark serves up a bountiful buffet of machismo, magic and mayhem that will sate the appetite of even the most discerning literary gourmand. Rich, savory and flavorful, the story will compel you to shovel it in by the forkful leaving you as fat, bloated and happy as only the best-prepared novels can.

Mark leads off with a combat sequence that strikes his readers with all of the subtlety of a sock full of sand. Rest assured that there is a definite method to this initial burst of madness. It reminds us that, in the world of battling Supernaturals, there is no such thing as a "normal" day. It remains every bit as bloody and brutal as we have come to expect. It also serves to introduce us to the thoroughly captivating ensemble cast of characters that comprise Kal's newly-assembled team.

Returning to fight at Kal's side, and often watching his back, is the redoubtable Canton Alsate. The acerbic Mescalero Apache is, perhaps, Kal's best and only acknowledged friend. Though still a "man on the inside" of the Bureau, friendship and a strong sense of what MUST be done, lead Canton to chuck it all and join Kal. In his trademark style the consequences of Canton's decision are a secondary concern to him at best. As Kal's mentor in all things blade-related, Canton provides a very nice blend of lethality, comedy and continuity to the story.

Returning as well, is the enigmatic cyber-spirit Ghost. Not unlike Canton, Ghost still serves the Bureau but he, too, finds his loyalty is divided. Kal's intimate knowledge of Ghost's origins binds them inseparably together. With this book we are introduced to a much more... evolved Ghost. As electronically adept as ever, we are also shown a Ghost capable of love, of fear, and yes...even failure. Ghost's electro-angst lends a whole new dimension to this already likeable character.

New to the story is Diana Pennington aka Winch. A former member of Kal's team, she has left the Bureau for an unsatisfying retirement managing her own gym. As Canton's on again/off again love interest and a card-carrying member of the Kalevi Hakala Fan Club, she signs on with no other enticement necessary. A sniper of phenomenal skill, Winch's cool, detached manner of reaching out to touch her targets with unerring accuracy lends an air of stability and common sense to the team.

Rounding out the roster is Rebecca McTavish aka Mouth. With the mouth of a sailor and the body of a porn actress, she is the Queen of Hand-to-Hand Suffering. The torch she carries for Kal never interferes, for long, with her dedication to tearing Supernaturals, or bad guys of any sort, limb from limb. Her unarmed combat skills and her absolutely steel inner core prove invaluable to the team time and time again.

With players this awesome, the inevitability of a damned good story is unavoidable. Mark pads his odds of that eventuality by flexing his writing skills in a very, very impressive manner. He employs a literary device that many new authors try, but does so with a precision and level of expertise that makes for a much more enjoyable read.

As the story heads onward, the viewpoint shifts from Kal to each of the other human team members on a chapter by chapter basis. The differing "voices" as well as the ability to "see" inside the heads of each of the characters fleshes things out in a way that no single aspect could.

As regards the plot of the book, I fear I shall have to leave you with the synopsis and little else. It is a yarn so intricate, so unique and, at times, so barely conceivable that any serious attempt to explain it would fail. Add to that the plot twists, cast of evil villains and varied locales, both in time and space, and spoilers would be unavoidable. I don't wish to diminish anyone's enjoyment by letting slip what comes to pass. It just wouldn't be fair (or as much fun). I WILL let this zinger out: Kal does finally have his day of reckoning with a certain Class V Supernatural.

Suffice to say, there is more than enough physical/magical combat, intrigue, suspense, and excitement that no reader could possibly feel slighted when all is read and done. It is a cracking good yarn from first to final page, no question.

In summary, with this book, Mark has cemented himself solidly into the position of Master in my self-created niche of Paranormal Suspense Thriller writing. His command of his art grows exponentially with each work of his that I read. Mark informs me that there are already, at least, two more books on the horizon. I have absolutely, unequivocally NO doubts whatsoever that, as gripping as this and his debut novel have been, the best work of Mark Everett Stone is yet to come. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up for a job well and properly done.

Tears For Devotion Lost

Winter...1523...the Diet of Worms seemed so very long ago to Antonias now. He'd been with Luther since the beginning. His breath was like steam in the winter air as he slipped into the night.

Though he styled himself devout, the all-consuming rage Charles had displayed was disconcerting. It seemed to Antonias the Diet was merely foreplay for the planned destruction of Antonias' friend and mentor.

For two years the mercenaries had hounded them. The shimmer of gold outshone the light of Truth to such men. As he fled, Antonias wept that he had no more devotion to give.

Love Long Lost

The wind blows cold through the barren land tonight. Colder still is my heart, rendered frozen and unfeeling from the loss of her.

Though time passes onward, my all-consuming love for her does not pass away. It ensnares my mind and ensorcells my dreams. Without her, I am an empty vessel...a broken vase holding only the dried sticks of despair.

The scarlet flower in my hand mocks me. It was her favorite and thus mine as well. I cast the petals onto the slowly flowing waters and hope the currents wend them to wherever her soul may reside now.

The Conflict Unresolved

He stood on the mountain top and waited. The sun was just rising in the east and a cold wind blew. His long, dark hair was loose and blew around his face like an ebon cloud. It had been too long since he had walked the earth. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

He so seldom took human form anymore. With all those available to do his biddng it was rarely necessary. He found it ironic that belief in him swelled ever more and more without any overt action on his part. The media, the books, the films seemed to delight in making him their subject.

It disturbed him that they portrayed him as some red-skinned...creature...with a ridiculous tail and horns. A goat-footed beast who drank blood and craved human sacrifices? Had they READ the Book? Did they know nothing of their history? It was absurd and insulting to him in ways he was unable to explain.

Michael was late. They were to both be here at the sun's rising. In spite of all of the conflict and Michael's refusal to side with him, he was still fond of his brother. Fond enough that he smiled, remembering that Michael was perpetually late. It seemed an unusual failing in one in whom He placed so much trust. It seemed His infinite ability to forgive weakness was as capricious as it always had been.

Lucifer would wait...must wait for Michael and the news he would bring. It was too important, too momentous for impatience to be indulged. Lucifer MUST have an answer...must know. Nothing else was tolerable.

He was drawn from his thoughts by the arrival of Michael. He came from thin air to striding purposefully towards his goal. As was his wont, he took the form of a tall, well-built man. His silver armor glinted in the sun casting sparkles across his pale skin and his close-cut blond hair gleamed. Forever the showman, Lucifer noted.

While he still felt great fondness for the arch-angel, he could not resist the urge to bait him. Michael had always been such a prig.

"While neither of us may age, dear brother, it does not excuse wanton sloth on your part."

A frown marred Michael's perfect features and his mouth formed a moeu of disfavor. "Leave off, brother. I was detained about our Master's busines."

Lucifer's left brow arched up and a wry smile came to his mouth. "In point of fact, not OUR master. And am I the only one who finds irony in this? While I am saddled with the epithet 'Father of Lies', so many, many untruths are spoken in which I had no part. YOUR Master should be disappointed in his servants."

Michael stopped some feet away, ignoring the obvious taunts. "I am here now. That is what matters, is it not? I can just as easily find need to be elsewhere."

The effect on his brother caught Michael at a loss. The bravado and bluster melted like slush in the spring. His shoulders slumped and he looked unwell.

"No. Do not go, Michael. I spoke in jest and perhaps poor jest at that. It is just...I meant...I must know! Have you spoken to Him brother?"

It was the angel's turn to take the upper hand and a broad smile curved his lips. "But, of course I have spoken to him, my brother. I speak to him many times a day. I assume you intend to ask, have I spoken to him of your concerns?"

Lucifer bristled and flames danced in his dark eyes. "It is your time to leave off Michael! We stand on ground of MY domain and I will NOT be mocked! This is of too much import to be so dealt with. Now you will TELL me what I wish to know."

Michael made a dismissive gesture. "You have no power over me. But you do speak right that what we discuss is of great consequence. Therefore I tell you this. The Lord, our God, instructs me to say that his counsels are His own and his intents not subject to your query. You shall continue in your role and He in His until the fullness of days shall come to pass. Upon that day shall all be resolved between you, but that day is not now nor will it be until He shall deem it to be. Thus spake The Lord, our God."

"NOOO!!!", Lucifer screamed in abject disbelief, "This can NOT be! Almighty, my ass! He has abdicated his right to be called such. I refuse to believe that He cares so little about these his creations. It defies all logic. Did you say to Him all that I requested of you?? I can not see how you would gain by altering my words but alter them you MUST have!"

Michael raised his palms in a gesture of placation. "I spoke your words to him completely. As He sees and knows all, He did not need my intervention on your behalf. He knows what He does, brother."

"DOES He?!? If He does then He must know that He HAS to intervene. For ten millenia, I have abided by the terms of our compact. But enough! Every year millions, MILLIONS of souls are given over to my care. My burden grows larger and heavier than He can possibly understand. They come and come and come. I have no need to entice or trick or cajole! They freely give themselves over to the covert and overt commission of the most vile perversions of His laws. This can NOT be allowed to go on."

"Oh He knows, brother, He knows. The loss of each and every one of those souls pains him so very much more than words can express. He knows."

"Then, surely, He must commit. He must end his voyeurism and rise up to action. He must take them in hand. He must MAKE them obey Him. He must USE as much of his vaunted power as is needed to take back their destinies. To do any less is...unfitting...of a supposedly loving and benevolent father."

"This He will not do and you know it. Free will...choice...stands as one of the unshakeable cornerstones of His plans for Mankind. He can no more MAKE them bend the knee to Him than He could compel you to serve him in the capacity of that He intended for you to be. This he can not and WILL not EVER do. You must realize this."

"THIS is what I realize and THIS will you tell your Master", he spat the last word like unto an obscenity, "You must tell Him that, while He chooses to embrace apathy and inactivity, I will NOT. I choose to re-double my efforts. I will foment blood and fire...death and destruction. I will foster hatred and greed and intolerance and any other debilitating emotion these petty beings are capable of expressing. I will make of His world a charnel house. I will make the hideous reality of it far, FAR beyond the worst Chtonic horrors of those foolish Greek sodomites! I will lay to waste His temples, inspire His children to curse and revile Him in their misery. If it is free will He so treasures, I shall exercise MY free will to mock and profane His tenets to my final breath. I will make ALL that He has created putrid, vomitous offal and by my oath, I will MAKE Him act or I will laugh as He watches it all turned to ashes and dust by the strength of MY hand. If He truly WISHES me to be the 'Architect of Suffering', then such unimaginably EVIL blueprints will I craft. THIS you may tell that dodderer. Thus shall enmity ALWAYS exist between us and with my final breath, STILL shall I curse His name!!!"

With a tremendous gout of flame and a clap of thunder so monstrous that the very rocks broke asunder, Lucifer was gone. Michael remained where he had stood.

On the smooth features of Michael, Commander of the Armies of God, Arch-Angel and Prince of Angels, there appeared a single, glistening tear. He wept not for the fate of Man but for the his beloved brother, once the Lightbringer and Scion of the Lord, and for all that he had lost. For deep inside of Lucifer, Michael KNEW still beat the heart of an angel.

A Truly Determined Man

He sat in his ramshackle dwelling and fought to quell the shivering. He was tired, so very tired. He chewed his morning repast slowly, savoring each meager bite. His hunger was poorly sated and he feared it would only grow worse unless he acted. There was no choice. He must venture out today and search for that which would sustain him for another day before the weakness seeped any deeper into his bones.

He wondered, not for the first time, why he did not just simply lie down and let the cold and hunger triumph over his will. Without her...without his precious young ones, what was the point. The aching of his battered body was as nothing compared to the sickness that burrowed ever deeper into his heart and his soul as well.

He did not blame her for what she had done, but that made it no easier for him to accept. He had watched the love in her eyes dim a little more each day. Her smiles for him were more forced, her laughter more seldom. Finally, towards the end, he could barely meet her gaze for her apathy and contempt for him were beyond hiding any longer.

He had returned one day to find her and the children gone. She left no note or explanation. In truth, there was nothing left to say. The empty closets, the empty pantry, spoke all that needed to be known. She...they...had left him, with no reason to suspect they would ever return. The uncertainty inherent in leaving was preferable, it seemed, to the stark reality of remaining there even one more day. No, he did not blame her but neither could he ever truly forgive her.

Unbidden, the tears stung his eyes. Inexorably he descended into a pit of self-loathing, despair and utter despondency. With each passing hour, each passing day, that pit grew just a little bit deeper and ever so much more difficult for him to dredge himself back up out of.

As had became the norm of late, only an inner spark of anger empowered him to go on. White-hot, the rage bubbled up and out like so much lava from a long-dormant fissure. What was he to have done differently? Had he not labored as long and as hard as he could to provide for them? Did he ever flag in his determination to better their situation?

He had given every last bit of his strength, his devotion, his resolve to the preservation of his family. That she had betrayed him, given up on him, taken what hope and joy remained to him was not in contention. Her inability to believe in him and his assurances was HER flaw...not his!

The anger took a very long time to pass. A strong gust of cold wind blew in through a chink in the wall and seized his attention. Blinking and rubbing at his reddened eyes, he drew in deep breaths of the frigid air. He was surprised to see how high in the sky the pale sun had risen.

With a huff of air and a strong surge of his muscles, he rose to his feet. He would not surrender. He would persevere. What he had lost, all that had been taken from him no longer mattered. What did matter was that another day had dawned in a cold, harsh world. He must harden his heart and become as cold and as harsh as the reality around him required.

After all, he was a man. He would...no, he MUST do as the men of his people had always done. He must fight and claw and scrape to TAKE what he needed from an unfriendly world. To do any less would be to desecrate the spirits of his forebears, of his brethren, of squirrels everywhere!!

With a near-manic burst of laughter, he scampered out of the hollow tree and across the crackling autumn leaves. Whatever indignities the world was determined to place in his path, they were not beyond the resolve of a truly determined man to conquer.

Sins of the Past

For over three decades, Aleksandr Trelescu had served as president and CEO of Sapphire Industries. But today he wasn't feeling especially presidential.

The voice on the telephone had been electronically altered but, nevertheless, the phrasing was unmistakeable. The thick Slavic accent impossible to fully mask.

It was her. She was alive! His heart beat a staccato tattoo within his chest at that realization. He had believed her dead. He would never have left Rumania had he known otherwise.

The call was brief, the message clear. Death was coming for him...soon. He wept shamelessly for the follies of his youth.

Tricks For All

He sat in his sagging armchair and ate soup. It was a thin, tasteless affair reconstituted from a can. Cranston didn't really much care what he ate, it was more a ritual than anything to be savored.

He spooned more of it in, dribbling it down his whiskery chin. His house was small, old and shabby much like its occupant. Cranston didn't care, it suited his needs. His ancient TV got poor reception, but his custom was to watch the local news as he ate.

The screen lit up with computer graphics as the blonde bimbo anchor spoke, "Remember tonight between 7 and 9 is the designated hours for trick or treating here in Central City. Be prepared with plenty of tasty treats for all those adorable little ghosts and goblins."

Cranston swore to himself. Was it THAT time of year again?!? He was single, never married and had no freakin' use for a bunch of grubby little bastards intent on getting something for nothing. Damn, he hated kids! Well they were shit out of luck at HIS house. He wasn't about to spend his meager pension on sugary junk for the worthless little scum.

Totally put off his feed, he stumped to the kitchen and deposited his bowl into a sinkful of unwashed dishes. He caught sight of the kitchen clock and swore again. Little pricks would be around any minute! Time enough to get ready for them though.

Slowly bending his creaky old body, he snagged the handle of a bucket and stood back up. Clunking it down in the crowded sink, he filled it almost full with cold water. Cane in one hand and bucket in the other, he tottered carefully to his front door.

With great care, he placed the bucket on the floor. Grinning to himself, he actually hoped there were some kids stupid enough to ignore the prominent "NO TRESPASSING" sign and knock on HIS door. He would have something special just for them.

He went back to his old chair and plopped down to watch an old movie. Time passed and, in spite of his planned prank, he was relieved not to be disturbed by hordes of costumed children. Only half an hour to go, he noted grimly.

It was if Fate had read his mind and decided to play a joke of Its own on him. He heard the giggling first, then the tread of small feet on the warped boards of his front porch. Sunavabitch!, he swore. Close but no cigar.

He heard a small fist rap on the door and hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. Well, at least the bucket wouldn't go to waste, he grumbled. At the door, he saw three figures through the thin curtain. He opened the door slowly.

He saw two children, a boy and girl, barely as tall as his waist. She was dressed in a pink frilly dress with a plastic crown and a cheap-looking cardboard wand with a crude glittery star affixed to it. The boy wore scruffy, ripped clothing and his face was smeared with greasy greenish make-up and fake blood. Behind them, a girl of perhaps 12 was standing. In ripped jeans and a tattered leather vest, her hair was spiked and teased into a wild mane. She wore exaggerated eye shadow and day-glo red lipstick. Cranston stared at them suspiciously.

The "princess" broke the silence with a sweet little voice that cracked as she asked, "Trick or Treat?"

Cranston grinned evilly as he took a firm grip on the handle of the brimming bucket. His voice was deceptively mild as he spoke. "Oh I guess I would have to go with...TRICK!!" As he roared the word, he swung the door wide open. With a swinging arc, he slewed the bucket around to drench the unsuspecting children.

The younger two were completely unprepared and were soaked, head to toe, in the deluge of cold water. The older girl dodged nimbly aside, but still got wet all down her side and on one leg. Cranston hooted with laughter as the youngsters shrieked with alarm and burst into tears. The older girl muttered and growled.

As he cackled with glee, the "punk" girl stepped forward, sweeping the others behind her protectively. She leaned forward towards Cranston.

"Waaay uncool old man! They're just a coupla kids! If ya don't wanna give nothin' out then FINE! But you need to get your head outta your ass and lighten up, ya senile old fuck!!"

Cranston reeled back under her verbal assault before regaining his composure. He snapped back, "And you need to get these whiny little urchins and your smart mouth off my porch before I give you my cane upside your thick little heads! Now scram!!"

"I hope Halloween has a trick for YOU before this night is over you...you...asshole!" With a hand gesture as old as time itself, the girl put an arm around either of the children and led them away into the night.

Cranston waited until he was sure they were off his property before slamming the door. He laughed again, seeing their horrified faces as the water flew. As he turned toward the kitchen, the toe of his left shoe slipped in a patch of spilled water.

With a startled yelp, his leg flew out from under him and he fell face-forward onto the dirty hardwood floor. The point of his chin struck with crushing force and bone shattered. His jaw popped from its socket with a sick sucking sound. As the weight of his body settled, the exposed bone drove relentlessly through his soft palette and lodged deeply into his brain.

Cranston's feet drummed the floor with an erratic rhythm before they stilled and he lay dead on the floor. It was certainly no treat for the hapless postman who discovered the old man's dead body the next morning.

Laundry Day

Aces Sheheen sat in his office at the Bricklayers' Labor Hall and fumed. How dare that weasly fuck infer HE was dirty?!?

Thirty years solidifying his power base...no pissant political appointee was gonna dick that up. Opening his safe, he took out a very specialized telephone book.

He came to a page with the innocuous heading of "Laundry". Perfect, since he needed this little shitstain on the undershorts of life gone.

"Paulie? A.D.A. thinks he got the horseradish to fuck with me!! Put him under the turf at Brawley Field by sunset...near the cheap seats!"

One stain...gone.

The Best Laid Plans

Tanaka stood amidst the smoldering rubble of the Puakoahanaliakua Banquet Hall.

"HOW did this happen again?"

"Pooka and me just figured fire juggling would offer the haoles an authentic, uniquely Polynesian experience here. And -"

"Three points, David. Firstly, we call Pooka the village idiot for reasons. Secondly, YOU are a haole. You grew up in Toledo! Thirdly, burning my business to the ground is NOT a uniquely Polynesian experience!!"

"Hey, it's WAY harder than it looks. Besides, Pooka set the drapes on fire, NOT me!"

A flabbergasted Tanaka roared, "You did this INSIDE the hall?!?"

"Did I forget that part before?"