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uglymanchronicles · 4 years ago

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Ugly Man Chronicles: Reignition Book 2 Chapter 1: I Woke Up Like This

HEY GUESS WHO’S BACK

It’s time for Book 2: Friends Will Be Friends.

“Cover art” by @steveman

Pain has a way of fading from the forefront of your mind when you’ve been feeling it long enough, becoming a sort of discordant background noise; still present enough to make every other experience difficult and miserable while not being the focus itself.

What Evan was feeling wasn’t that. His missing eye, his severed fingers, his masticated ankle and now his left tit were all parts of a very noisy argument, each agony clawing at and clambering over the others to try to be the loudest voice in the room.

His stomach felt nearly concave. The signals from the few uninjured parts of him were so fuzzy and indistinct that he might as well have had two tin cans and a piece of twine for a nervous system. He could barely breathe. His throat felt like it was the size of a swizzle stick. His face burned from where his own gore had dried on his skin, combined with the grit of… sand?

He opened his eye just in time for a shovelful of more sand to hit him directly in the face. He sat up, coughing and moaning.

“Shitting dicks!”

Evan turned his head towards the unusual exclamation. Eyepatch was standing a couple of feet from him, a shovel rattling to rest at his feet.

Evan tried to take in his surroundings. It was still dark. He was outside. There were stars in the sky but a very faint hint of pink on the horizon. He couldn’t see a road. His Volkswagen was parked about thirty feet away. There was very little vegetation. He was sitting in a hole a couple of feet deep, half-covered with sand and dry dirt.

“You call this a grave?”

That was what he meant to say, but what came out of his tight, sticky-dry throat was something like “Yyyccchhhggggghhh.”

Evan planted his hands on the sides of the grave and pushed himself up. He still couldn’t move his right foot and his fingers were still gone, but at least he was alive. He managed to drag himself out of the grave and onto his left foot, then held out his hand toward Eyepatch. “Ksss.”

His would-be killer gawked at him. “What?”

“KSSS!” Evan wheezed emphatically, gesturing at his car. “KRR KSS!”

“Oh. Oh!”

Eyepatch fumbled in his pockets, then tossed Evan a familiar, clinking mass. Evan would have caught it, but the bundle slipped through the gap where his fingers were supposed to be and clattered into the dusty dirt. Evan glared at Eyepatch, who hissed awkwardly through his teeth. Grumbling, Evan bent down and retrieved the keys, then hop/stumbled towards his car and opened the trunk. Under the fold-out workbench, he found a blessedly full gallon jug of water. Popping the lid off, he tilted it back and began to guzzle it down. Only a little more than half was actually going in his mouth, but the overflow washing off some of the blood and sand felt good. After the jug was nearly empty, Evan reached back into the trunk and came up with a handful of five-inch-long protein bars, which he tore open with his teeth and took bites out of as many as he could at once. Then he sat down on the bumper and chewed.

There was a period of several minutes where nothing was said or done, except for Eyepatch idly kicking the dirt as he looked on while Evan grunted and noisily devoured a few thousand calories in an almost primal fashion.

Evan burp-retched after the eighth bar, wincing as the pain in his wounds began to play itself in reverse. Food. It’s powered by calories, of course. How… pedestrian,he thought, grumpily.

“So,” he said, finally, causing Eyepatch to jump, “are we done?” “Huh?”

“You’re not gonna try to kill me again, right?”

Eyepatch sheepishly exhaled out of the side of his lips. “Nnno. I pretty much confirmed that you’re not who I thought you were.”

“What gave it away?”

“Well, the wallet full of fake IDs—very convincing ones, by the way, remind me to ask who made them—didn’t do much to dissuade my ‘hired goon’ theory, but then I saw what you wrote on the Finder’s Folly,” Eyepatch said, slowly walking around the grave. “Plus, the stuffed giraffe sorta hinted at someone who doesn’t kill people for fun.”

Evan’s chest tightened. “What did you do with Mr. Nex?” he asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

To his credit, Eyepatch at least attempted to muffle the snort. He crouched down by the grave and reached into the dirt, coming up with a dirty but intact floppy yellow bundle of cloth. Somewhat tentatively, he walked towards Evan, holding the stuffed animal out in front of him like a man reaching out to pet a dog he’s not entirely convinced is friendly.

Evan looked him over for a moment. In the light, he… well, he didn’t look much different. He was wiry and weatherbeaten, like a well-seasoned scarecrow. He carried himself with a sense of potential energy, like he was constantly about to make a sudden move, but he didn’t seem particularly tense. His hair was a medium brown that mixed with some gray around his temples, with a mustache-less goatee and thin eyebrows to match. Stubble connected his facial hair to his sideburns, but Evan couldn’t tell if that was a styling decision or a lack thereof.

“I figured it only made sense to bury him with you. Seemed like the least I could do, considerin’.”

“That’s… almost sweet. Thank you, I guess.”

Evan slowly reached up and took Mr. Nex from him, tucking the giraffe under his arm. A moment later, he reached back into the trunk for another, smaller bottle of water. Eyepatch slowly sidestepped until he was at the other end of the bumper, then sat down, keeping his eye on Evan the whole time. Eventually, he spoke.

“…this is pretty awkward.”

Evan swallowed and chuckled darkly. “I’m pretty sure this is something on a whole other spectrum of socially uncomfortable,” he said. He flexed his right foot; the tendon seemed to be back to a functional level, and he was starting to be able to discern light out of his left eye. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have my fingers, would you?”

Eyepatch stood up and patted his pockets in turn, pausing when he reached his right side. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a bloody handkerchief wrapped around something. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

“Didn’t think it was good to leave obvious evidence behind.”

“Shit, we left that room a mess.”

“Don’t worry about it, I gave the manager a couple thousand to cover it when I checked you out.”

“Decent of you.”

“Well, it was on your card.”

“Bastard,” Evan muttered, though there wasn’t much actual vitriol behind it. He unwrapped the fingers, comparing them to the stumps. After rinsing off the raw, gooey spots with water, he held the fingers against the aching wounds. Neither man spoke for nearly a minute, then Evan pulled his right hand away and flexed his left hand into a fist.

Eyepatch whistled. “Damn, simple as that? Good as new?”

“They kinda feel like they’re asleep, but I think they’ll be good soon.”

“How come you can do that?”

“It’s not really a ‘can do’ thing, it just happens. No idea. I’m still learning.”

“Is your nipple gonna grow back?”

Evan looked down at his left pec. Where there had been a pert pierced nipple was now a sunburst of scar tissue. He poked at it, cautiously. There was no titillating tingle, only the blunt yes/no sensation of pressure on his skin. “God damn it!”

“What the hell’s up with your tits, anyway? You got some kind of hormone imbalance? I’ve seen chicks with implants smaller—”

“It’s all fucking muscle, okay? I’m just built thick! My whole family is!”

“Huh. You got a sister?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Evan bit into another protein bar. All things considered, he’d come out of the whole encounter mostly intact—he could basically see out of his left eye by now—but the loss of his nipple really bothered him for reasons he was embarrassed to think about. So rather than think about it, he decided to talk.

“So who are you, anyway?”

Eyepatch seemed to consider the question for longer than necessary, but eventually he said, “Titus. My name’s Titus.”

“I’d say it’s nice to meet you, Titus, but nice meetings don’t usually involve a shallow grave.”

“Hey, that grave was plenty deep for the circumstances, thank you very much. It’s harder to bury a guy in sand than you’d think,” Titus said, a hint of wounded pride in his voice. “Plus, after I dragged your heavy ass out here—”

“In my car.”

“…in your car, because I drive a motorcycle, two feet is all I really had the energy to manage.” Titus winced and put his hand to his left side. “Plus, I think you bruised a couple of my ribs.”

“You fuckin’ bit pieces off me, ripped out my eye, and shot me with my own gun. You got off easy.”

“I don’t patch back together like some kinda… meat machine, though. And don’t forget how you squashed my fuckin’ nuts.”

“Oh, sorry, next time I’m yanked out of the time stream I’ll think of a more gentle way to deal with it,” Evan snapped.

That seemed to shut Titus up for a moment. He stared at the sand for a little while, then asked, “So what’s your name?”

“Well, you said you saw all my IDs. One of them’s real.”

“The card I paid with said ‘Evander G. Abrams’ but that’s a fake name if I’ve ever heard one. I’m guessing… ‘Babak Ervin’.”

Evan burst out laughing. “Oh man, I hardly ever use that one! You had it right the first time.”

“Seriously? But it’s such a…”

“White name?”

“That’s not what I was gonna say, but since you brought it up, yeah, kinda, unless you count Holyfield. What the hell ethnicity are you, anyway?”

“Wow, you don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“I just watched a man I thought I wrongfully killed climb out of a grave and piece himself back together. You’ll have to excuse me being a bit indelicate.”

“You don’t strike me as that type who’s ever delicate.”

“Hey, fuck you, pal. This whole thing ain’t been a picnic for me, either. So your name really is Evander?”

“I just go by Evan.”

“Fine then, Evan it is.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Okay.”

“Alright.”

“…do you hear that? Sounds like an engine.”

Titus cocked his head, then froze. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

Titus jumped off the bumper. “We gotta get outta here. Now! Close the trunk!”

Evan stood up, mainly to keep Titus from closing the trunk on him. “What’s going on?”

“Some very unpleasant people are on their way! Oh shit, you can see them, look!” Titus pointed towards the horizon. In the near-dawn almost-light, Evan thought he could see a plume of dust moving their way. “Get the keys and let’s go!”

“Okay, okay! You’re bossy for someone who just killed me,” Evan grumbled, walking around to the driver’s side.

“Well clearly it wasn’t that big of a fucking deal, so quit your bitching and drive or we’re both gonna be cactus food!”

“Jeeeesus,” Evan muttered, getting into the car. “Augh, you fucked with the seat and the mirrors? Seriously?”

“START THE FUCKING ENGINE.” Evan jammed the key in, cranked it, put the car in gear, and pressed the gas. “What way’s the quickest way to the… uh-oh.”

Skrrrrrr. Vzzzzzzz. Ssskrrrrt.

“Come on! Why aren’t we moving?!”

“Because you drove a VW Bug God-knows-how-far into the fucking Mojave! We sunk into the sand! I can’t get traction!”

“Aren’t Bugs off-roaders? I thought these things were supposed to be good rally cars!”

“The classic ones, yes, and if they’re kitted that way, yes! I don’t even drive this thing in the winter in central Ohio!”

“Well do something!” Titus sounded like he was on the edge of panic. Evan swung his door open. “Get behind the wheel. I’ll push. And if you leave me…”

“I’m not gonna, Christ! Just do it!” Titus shouted, clambering into the driver’s seat. Evan crouched down behind the Bug and leaned his back against it, digging his heels into the sand. He threw his weight against it as Titus floored the gas, but all that got him was his calves sandblasted by the spinning wheels.

“Okay okay okay, stop stop stop!” Evan yelled after two knee-straining, back-breaking minutes of pushing and listening to his engine whine. “This isn’t working! We gotta try something else!”

“Well what do you suggest?” Titus screamed from the driver’s seat, nearly hysterical. “We have a rapidly shrinking window of time within which it is okay to be here!”

“Who are these guys, anyway?” Evan asked, squinting at the five—he could make them out clearly now—figures rapidly approaching them. He could hear the roar of engines. This didn’t make him feel a particularly strong sense of urgency—Maybe he was tired. Maybe he’d already subconsciously decided they weren’t going to get out of there in time.

Or maybe a small, sadistic part of him was enjoying watching the man who’d mutilated him grow more and more frantic.

“The Billiards MC! A bunch of drug-running shithead bikers! Real vicious bastards!” Titus yelled, flinging open the car door and nearly falling out. He crouched by the car’s forward fender, drawing his pistol and glancing nervously over the hood.

“And they’re coming for us why?” Evan asked, slowly stepping around the front of the car. The roar of the motorcycle engines was growing louder.

“It’s a long story, but the Cliff Notes version is I blew up their meth lab.”

“Huh. Lot of that going around lately,” Evan said absently. “So you don’t think you can take them?”

“Jesus Christ, no! Even with my power I won’t be able to get far enough away to keep them from fillin’ me fulla holes! You gotta do something!”

Evan had already intended to, but that little spiteful corner of his soul wanted to make Titus sweat a little more. “And why is that?”

“Because I can give you what you’re looking for!” Titus yelled, anger edging out the fear in his voice. “’Take me to a friend who can teach me about magic’! That’s what you wrote on that damn lamp! That’s me! I know some shit! I can teach you!”

‘A friend’? That’s what that translated to? Evan grinned. “Well, hell, all right then! I guess we have an—”

The bullet smacked into his left shoulder and went clear through. He could see the bikers now, and it turned out one of them as actually two—and the rider was sighting down a rifle over the driver’s shoulder. Mostly for effect, Evan grabbed his already-healing shoulder and dove behind the car next to Titus. “Okay, so—these guys don’t have some kind of pool-themed power set, do they?”

“What? No! No, that’s stupid! No, they’ll all just normies with guns and knives! Their founder’s name is William Yard! Bill Yard! Billiards!”

Evan’s face went slack. “That’s… that’s actually kinda clever,” he said, grudgingly. “So are they going to try to shake you down, or are they ‘kill on sight’ mad at you?”

Titus peeked up through the driver’s side window. “Good question… I put a couple of their guys in traction and stole a couple hundred thousand bucks in addition to the whole ‘blowing up the lab’ thing…”

“A ‘couple hundred’ thousand?!”

“Yeah, and that’s not easy as it sounds, either. You know how much cash that is, especially when it’s in small bills? I had to balance three duffel bags on my bike and--”

“Sorry to interrupt, but that’s not really pertinent right now!” Evan hissed. “Should we—well, you start shooting now?”

“They’re probably gonna try to get me to give back the money, but that’s already long gone.” Titus exhaled heavily and sat back against the door. “Look, maybe if we go out there you can at least keep them from surrounding us completely. I’ll try to talk to them, but I’m guessing that’s gonna go to shit pretty quick. After that it’s up to you, okay?”

“Alright, fine. Just get clear and I’ll do my best. Put the gun away and let’s get out there.” --------------- The plan worked, insofar as there was an actual plan. When Titus and Evan stood up and walked around the car with their hands up (Evan still holding his ‘wound’), the bikers stopped in a semicircle around them instead of completely encircling them. His hands still raised, Titus stepped forward to, as he’d put it, ‘work my magic’.

“Heeeyyyy, guys! Great timing! I was just—” Blam-kssh!

Evan jerked forward, almost forgetting that he was supposed to be wounded. “…you did not just shoot my fucking window out, you son of a—"

“Hey-hey-hey whoa whoa whoa!” Titus cut in, holding a hand out in front of Evan. “There’s no need for any of that, 8-Ball, we can come to—”

“Where’s our fucking money, Finnegan?” 8-Ball said, his gravelly voice oddly quiet. He seemed to Evan to be the leader of this little band, and he looked for all the world like “Biker #1” right out of central casting. He was heavyset, bordering on fat, but was obviously packing some serious muscle under his leathers and huge bushy beard in addition to the .44 that was smoking in his hand. His namesake, set in the mouth of a fanged, fiery-eyed skull, was tattooed on the front of his bare belly, which Evan had to admit was a pretty striking commitment to a personal aesthetic.

“I’m getting to that, I’m getting to that!” Titus said, pleadingly. “My friend here, he can cover it—”

Evan whipped his head towards Titus, clenching his teeth and glaring. “—here, Evan, let me introduce you to the gang…”

Titus was doing something with his eye. He seemed to be gesturing towards each of the bikers with rapidly movements. Look at them.

Evan decided to play along and tried to size up the bikers without making it obvious that he was trying to calculate the best way to hurt each of them.

“There’s Stick…”

A skinny, pimply guy. Probably the new kid. His bike was too clean, his jacket too shiny, and he didn’t even have a gun; he was holding a Louisville Slugger that looked like it’d never even been used to hit a baseball.

“…Felt…”

A bit on the short side, but nearly as broad as Evan at the shoulder. His curly, short-cropped hair blended into his beard, his chest hair, and as far as Evan could tell, his back hair. He was gripping some kind of jerry-rigged pump-action sawn-off that looked almost as likely to hurt him as whoever it was pointed at.

“…I think that’s English under there…”

Definitely the odd man out. Full racing suit and a mirror-visored helmet. Even his—their? Evan couldn’t even tell—bike was unusual. While the rest of the Billiards rode some variation on the theme of a chopper, English’s bike was a sleek-profiled racer. They were holding some kind of machine pistol in one hand and were idly twirling a switchblade in the other.

“…you’ve already met 8-Ball, and that’s Scratch there with him…”

If 8-Ball was a cookie-cutter biker extra, then Scratch was a perfect “white trash girlfriend”. She was the one who’d shot Evan earlier, and was still holding her rifle as though she intended to swing it up and fire it at any second. She was a very unhealthy-looking skinny, with damaged, stringy hair, prematurely wrinkling skin, and less than an optimal number of teeth. She seemed to be trying to make up for that number in visible track marks and scabs, though. She was open-mouth chewing something that Evan couldn’t identify and was trying very hard not to think about.

“…and hey, who could forget Pockets?”The last member was wearing an open face helmet with goggles and a leather vest over what looked a military flight suit sewn with a truly Liefeldian number of pouches. Evan supposed they were full of spare magazines for the two Glocks he was holding, because he was making clinking noises whenever he shifted his weight.

“…now that we’re all introduced, why don’t I let you guys work out with Evan how you’re going to get your money back, with interest?”

“He ain’t even got clothes,” Stick sneered. This was true; Evan was still in his now blood-splattered heart-print boxers. “He ain’t got the money.”

“Not on him right now, obviously!” Titus snapped. Evan could see him starting to sweat and his fingers were beginning to twitch. “Look, just let us get back to town and—”

“And nothin’,” 8-Ball rumbled. “If your boyfriend really has the money, well,” he raised his gun again, “we can just dig through his car after he’s dead.” There was a chorus of slides cocking and safeties releasing. Titus made a tch sound.“Well, if that’s how it’s gonna go,” he said, spreading his hands to the side, lowering his head, and freezing. Evan watched intently, eyes wide. Was he about to reveal some other magic?Titus raised his head and grinning at 8-Ball. “Scratch said mine’s bigger.”

Scratch gasped and started to stammer, 8-Ball turned to her with a look of hurt and anger on his face, and for a second, the whole gang was looking away from Titus. In that instant, he vanished. Less than a second later, Evan heard an ‘oof’ from the direction of the grave he’d occupied just half an hour before. Evan wasn’t sure whether to be amused or angry before 8-Ball yelled, “Kill these motherfuckers!”

“Not in front of my fucking caaaarrrrrr-----”

Protect the parts that will incapacitate you if they take too much damage, Evan thought, crossing his elbows in front of his chest and ducking his head behind his forearms. A distressing number of bullets were missing him and hitting his beloved Bug, but there was plenty of lead to go around. The noise was almost worse than the actual pain of getting shot, but Evan quickly noticed, to his disquiet and disgust, that he could tell who hit him by the shape of the bullets punching into his flesh.

Most of the hits were to his abdomen and thighs; his arms turned out to be sturdy enough to keep any lead from getting to his brain or heart, but a well-aimed shot from Scratch blew off a non-trivial chunk of his skull and made both his ears and eyes ring. And sometime during the hail of gunfire, Evan’s favorite boxers were torn from his body, fluttering limply to the ground as a pile of sad, defeated-looking rags.

Then, as the cacophony started to die down, one last blast from Felt’s shotgun knocked Evan’s left leg out from under him and he fell face-first into the dirt.

“Did we get him?”

“How the fuck’s he still movin’?”

“Christ, you see the size of his pecker?”

Evan pushed himself up on his forearms. He hurt, yes, but he was also angry. Angry that his first actual lead had been such a pain in the ass. Angry that he’d lost his boxers and his nipple. Angry that he’d woken up in a fucking hole in the ground and now had to deal with the problems of the guy who’d put him in it. Angry that his dick was getting scraped up from dragging on the sand.

“Go finish ‘im off, Stick.”

Evan raised his head to see that scrawny pimply prick walking towards him, smacking that pristine bat against his bony palm. Evan just knew he was going to say something fucking stupid.

“Eenie, meenie, miney—”

Stick’s obnoxious, outdated, barely-situationally-appropriate pop-culture reference was interrupted as Evan’s right hand swung up and clenched around his balls.

Let us step back for a moment and examine Evan’s fighting capabilities. He was not, at this point in his ‘career’, a martial artist. He was, however, a multi-faceted athlete. From boxing to cross-country running to gymnastics to baseball to wrestling to swimming to soccer to ballet to pole dancing, he had, since he was very young, explored what his body was capable of and refined his control over it until he was certain he could rise to any physical challenge. He was fast, precise, and flexible, and his recent bulking had only added to what he could do with his fine-tuned control over his body.

He was also the carrier of a deep, uncomfortably intense anger. And that, coupled with basic medical training from night classes studying to be an EMT, meant he had spent a lot of frustrated, sleepless nights thinking of very particular and very precise hypothetical methods of hurting people.

And now he had a little shithead’s nuts in his hand, and punchy, angry music playing in his head.

I can feel it on the back of my tongue, all of the words, getting trapped in my lungs

Stick screamed. Evan screamed. And then Evan yanked downward, tearing away a handful of denim and bloody flesh. As Stick folded up, Evan launched himself upwards, swinging his still-clenched fist up into the shrieking kid’s stomach. Then, now on his feet, he grabbed Stick’s sorry excuse for a ponytail, yanked his head back, and delivered a straight-armed downward punch across his jaw, sending him into the dirt in a gurgling, squirming heap.

Heavy like a stone, waiting for the river to run

Evan dug the balls of his feet into the sand and launched himself towards Pockets, who just happened to be the closest biker standing. The bepouched man was struggling to retrieve a fresh magazine for one of his pistols, but his hands were shaking violently. He screamed in terror as Evan bore down on him, head down and kicking up dust like a charging cartoon bull.

With all that metal he's wearing, it’ll be hard to land an incapacitating blow from a standing position. Get him on the ground.

Evan hit Pockets's waist with his shoulder and wrapped his arms around him, lifting the screaming man easily into the air. Still running, he whipped his passenger backwards, then swung their combined weights forwards, knocking the wind noisily from Pockets and winding up on top of him.

I wanna LASH OUT I wanna LET IT OUT

Pockets was screaming for help now, but Evan was hitting his stride and let the momentum of his own personal violence carry him seamlessly into his next move. With his left hand, he grabbed Pockets's helmet and yanked his head to the side, and brought his right elbow down hard where the neck joined the shoulder. Pockets made a wheezing sound, and Evan was back on his feet before he even went slack.

‘Cuz I can feel it on the back of my tongue, on the back of my tongue

Felt was closest, now, and had recovered from the shock of Stick's barehanded castration enough to start attempting to do something about the naked madman brutalizing his fellows with his bare hands. Unfortunately, he decided his best move was to try to load another shell into his shotgun as Evan rushed at him.

His core’s really thick and his center of gravity is low. I probably won’t be able to knock him down easily and body blows won’t cut it. Alley-oop.

Oh, hard to hold this fire inside me

Felt finally slid the shell home and cocked his shotgun, but by time he looked up, Evan was no longer on the ground. He’d swung his left leg forward and up and over across his body, launching himself into the air and twisting around his own vertical axis. By the time Felt realized what was happening, Evan’s right leg had swung around and his right heel hit Felt right in the temple. The hirsute man’s eyes glazed over and he slumped sideways to the ground while Evan landed on all fours and pushed off again, scrabbling at the dirt with his fingers as he lunged along the ground at surprising (to himself, at least) speed.

English stood between Evan and 8-Ball and Scratch. With that full-body suit and that helmet, they’ll be too hard to drop quickly. I’ll save you for later.

Oh, I know, sometimes it’s frightening

Evan hit English in the thighs with his shoulders and set them tumbling over him as he scrambled towards the uncouth couple. To his credit, 8-Ball stepped protectively in front of Scratch. Evan stopped his scuttling, planted his hands in the sand, and swung his legs around. He pointed his toes and kicked 8-Ball in the thigh, but the big man merely grunted angrily and grabbed Evan by the ankle. But as he hauled Evan’s leg upwards, Evan’s other leg came up with it and hooked around the back of 8-Ball’s head. Then Evan tensed his abs, swung himself upwards, and punched 8-Ball square in the face.

Hard to hold this fire inside me

8-Ball let out a yell and released Evan’s ankle, and the Ugly Man brought his other leg around the biker’s neck. He swung himself up further and started to rain blows down on 8-Ball’s scalp as the big man staggered backwards. The sand slipped under 8-Ball’s heels and he went down under the force of Evan’s next punch, but as he fell he managed to wedge an arm up between Evan’s leg and his own face. By the time they hit the dirt, 8-Ball had thrown his considerable weight to the side and swung Evan beneath him, pinning Evan’s thigh to the ground with one beefy forearm. Then he lunged up Evan’s chest and wrapped his hands around his throat.

“You ugly donkey-dicked motherfucker, you’re gonna pay for what you did to my boys—” 8-Ball’s walnut-knuckled fingers were ridiculously strong. Evan grabbed at the callused thumbs, trying to pry the hands off his throat, but 8-Ball’s considerable weight and strength were making it difficult to get any leverage. The two men struggled and grunted and swore at each other until a shadow fell over them.

Evan jerked his head to the side, but the bullet came close enough to his cheek to spray it painfully with flying dirt. 8-Ball looked up and yelled something at Scratch, who was trying to get her rifle lined up with Evan’s forehead. Evan could only guess at what they were screaming at each other, given that all he could hear in the wake of the gunshot was a high-pitched whine, but 8-Ball’s attention was momentarily diverted.

Oh, I know it’s not really like me to

Evan tucked his knees up, braced his feet under 8-Ball’s prodigious gut, and pushed. For a moment, the dawn sky was obscured by 8-Ball’s eponymous tattoo, then there was a brief scream, an oof, and a thud.

Evan got to his knees to see 8-Ball doing the same, panicking over Scratch’s limp form. She looked about as well as you’d expect a 120-pound woman to look after she’d just had a 300-pound man tossed onto her. Her head lolled around on her shoulders as 8-Ball shook her gently, pleading for her to come around. Then Evan, in a move he would later consider to be one of his most heartless, jumped on 8-Ball’s back and slung his arm around his neck.

LASH OUT

8-Ball tried to reach over his shoulders to claw at Evan’s face; Evan, meanwhile, was trying to remember how long you could keep someone in a rear naked choke without actually killing them. After a few seconds that seemed to take several hours, 8-Ball’s blunt fingers stopped scrabbling at Evan’s face and he went slack. Evan breathed a sigh of relief and let up on the pressure.

His shoulder exploded with a hot, wet pain that snaked down his right arm like molten lead. An urgent, insistent pain. It actually hurts! Does that mean I’m already running out of gas?

English’s switchblade was sticking out of his back. It clearly hadn’t had the effect the mystery biker had in mind, because they jerked back as Evan surged to his feet, snarling. His left hand shot out and grabbed the lapel of English’s racing suit.

I can feel the cork come out of the bottle

And then he yanked hard and swung his head forward.

I can feel the cork come out of the bottle

Again. A spiderweb of cracks formed on English’s mirrored visor.

I can feel the cork come out of the bottle

Again. Now there were more cracks than solid plastic.

I CAN FEEL THE CORK COME OUT OF THE BOTTLE

The knife popped out of Evan’s shoulder as he drew his fist back.

LASH OUT

English’s visor shattered under the force of Evan’s punch, and, from the sound of it, so did their nose. They collapsed in a heap as Evan released his grip. And then it was over. Evan stood in the breaking dawn, naked, covered in blood, muscles bulging and chest heaving from exertion, surrounded by prone and groaning, and in one case, weakly screaming, figures. He’d won. “Yes! Yesyesyesyes!” he hissed to himself, pumping his arms and shaking his hips, dancing to the fading music inside his head. He froze when he glanced up and saw Titus watching him over the edge of what was formerly his grave. Evan cleared his throat, absently brushed some of the sand off himself, and walked over.

“There. It’s done. Can we go?”

Titus sat up. “That was some ugly fuckin’ poetry in motion, my friend,” he said, taking Evan’s hand and pulling himself out of the grave. “So where do we go from here? Cap ‘em all, dig a few more of these babies? Ooh, think we can get ‘em to dig their own?”

“No,” Evan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Get their guns and let’s get out of here. I think we—”

He was cut off by another long, weak scream from Stick, who was on his knees with his forehead pressed to the ground, hands clamped around his groin.

Evan sighed again. “Or I suppose I should do the good guy thing… still, get their guns and make sure none of them—Goddammit, dude, stop staring at my crotch,” he muttered, blushing.

Titus clucked his tongue disapprovingly. “Jesus, some guys have all the luck.” Evan fixed him with a withering gaze, scars wiggling around his face as he pursed his lips. “Most of the luck,” Titus corrected himself.

---------

“Stop crying, you big fucking baby,” Evan said. “I didn’t even damage your testicles; I just tore the skin on your scrotum. It’ll be fine. Maybe stay off your bike for a couple days. Now bite down on that cloth, this disinfectant spray is going to sting something fierce.”

Titus smiled contentedly at the sound of Stick’s muffled scream, then turned back to Scratch, gesturing with his gun. “Hand it over.”

Scratch, still acting slightly dazed (though Titus wasn’t sure if this was as a result of the fight or just whatever she’d chosen to inhale that morning), clutched the rifle to her chest. “No way! This belonged to my daddy!”

“No, it belonged to my daddy and you stole it from me, you tweaking skank,” Titus said, yanking the rifle away from the pouting Scratch. He gave the gun a cursory inspection, nodded to himself, and looked around.

The Billiards MC were sitting together in the dirt, holding cold packs to various injuries and looking sheepish. Evan had retrieved a spare pair of shorts, to everyone’s relief, and had seen to each of their injuries with an efficient, if not entirely sympathetic, manner. He assured them, with an air of faint menace, that nothing he did would be permanent beyond a few scars. Their weapons, on the other hand, were sitting in a pile several yards away. On the other side of Titus, who now had several guns about his person and a mean look in his eye.

“Alright, he’ll live, and, regrettably, probably be able to reproduce,” Evan said briskly, wiping some blood and other fluids off his hands as he strode away from Stick’s prone form. “Now… what are we going to do about the rest of you?”

The Billiards regarded him uneasily. Titus started whistling tunelessly, spinning a handgun backwards and forwards in his fingers. Evan stared off into the middle distance for a moment, lips pursed to the side, and then snapped his fingers and jogged back to the Bug. He returned with a worn black duffel bag and tossed it in front of 8-Ball. It went whumpf. “I think that should cover the damages Mr… Finnegan? Caused you,” he said, mildly.

“What?” Titus shouted, staring at Evan with his mouth open, “you’re paying them?!”

“Call it an exchange. Or maybe it's just a ‘I don’t want this stuff in my car’.”

8-Ball was cautiously unzipping the bag, as if he thought it might explode. Once the zipper was open enough for him to peer in, he very reluctantly leaned over the hole and peered inside. Then he swore loudly.

“Holy shit! This—” He unzipped the bag the rest of the way, hauling out plastic-wrapped bricks of powdery white substance. “—this is—holy shit,” he finished, stupefied. “Pockets, check this shit.”

Pockets crawled forward and produced a small knife from one of his namesakes, deftly slitting one of the packages open. Then, with the precision and care of a watchmaker, he produced several inexplicably unbroken test tubes, petri dishes, and a handful of tiny vials of varying colors from his pockets and began arranging them in the dirt. Titus and Evan shared a look that said: how is this the weirdest part of today?

After a few minutes of things foaming and fizzing and changing color, 8-Ball spoke up. “So what’s it cut with? It better not be fentanyl or we’re gonna have a problem. Selling it. Because that ain’t ethical,” he added hastily as Evan’s knuckles cracked like shifting gravel.

“…nothing.” Patches said, in the hushed tones of a lepidopterist finding an extinct butterfly in his backyard. “It’s… pure.”

“No fuckin’ way,” 8-Ball and Titus said at the same time.

Pockets dipped his finger in the powder and rubbed some on his gums. “Bluh… yeap. Whoa. But this can’t be coke. There’s too much here, it’s… you know what, fuck it.” And then he sprinkled some on the back of his hand and inhaled deeply.

Five minutes later, Evan and 8-Ball managed to get ahold of him and wrestle him to the ground. Pockets was vibrating slightly and cheering and laughing at nothing, though it was slightly muffled because Felt was sitting on his back.

“Well, uh, that’s good enough for me,” 8-Ball said, wiping his forehead. “And we can just have it? You sure?”

“Yeah,” Evan panted, bent double. “Get it out of here. Just don’t do anything stupid with it.”

“Where’d ya even get it?”

“Took it off a gang I beat up in Albuquerque.”

“Wait, that… that wudn’t the Five-Tens, was it?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, we heard they basically broke up a couple days ago! All their guys are in jail or the hospital! Everyone said it had to be rival dealers, but nobody died! I heard some of ‘em were sayin’…”

8-Ball trailed off, staring at Evan with a fresh look of awe and horror. “Yer him. Yer the Ugly Man.”

Evan said nothing. He merely grinned. It was a good menacing grin; he’d spent a few hours practicing it in the mirror. The key was the slow parting of the lips, then the widening; the startlingly white and straight teeth behind the split burnt umber lips, the way his jaw didn’t quite fit together properly, the way the scars seemed to squirm around his face like a nest of worms, the way the edges of his mouth threatened to engulf his ears—it was a masterpiece. That, combined with a slight tilt of the head to drop his eyes into the shadow of his brows and a quiet, guttural chuckle, created a total effect that seemed to dip Evan’s face into the uncanny valley.

8-Ball shuddered. “Jesus. They… we thought they was just all high outta their minds! We didn’t think you was real!”

“Oh, I’m real, all right,” Evan growled, the grin snapping back to a scowl as he grabbed 8-Ball’s jacket. “Now you’re gonna take that coke, and you’re gonna do whatever you want with it, and you’re gonna leave us alone. I don’t give a shit if you sell drugs to people completely capable of making their own bad decisions. But here’s the thing—I’m gonna keep my ears open, and if I ever hear about you shlubs extorting a grieving family like the Five-Tens did I will come down upon you like the wrath of the worst god you can think of. Do-I-make-myself-clear?” 8-Ball managed to nod.

“Good. Now get the hell out of here and spread the word,” Evan said, pushing him away. “Oh, uh… and help me get my car out of the sand.” ---------------------- “Man, you are something fucking else,” Titus laughed dryly. “Trading them drugs you stole off of some other scumbags so they’d stop fucking with me. Of course, beating the shit out of them first probably helped.”

Evan made a slight exhalation of acknowledgement, keeping his eyes on the road.

“So I was thinking—I think we can work something out. You scratch my back, etcetera? I help you find out the things you want to know, you help me with some of the more… hands-on aspects of my work?”

“You mean catch more bullets for you?”

“That might come into play, yes,” Titus admitted, hesitantly, “but think about it—without me you’re just gonna be bumbling around until you trip over something weird, or worse, using dumb cursed crap to try to find out answers and maybe tearing a hole in the fabric of reality in the process.”

“Can that actually happen?”

“See, this is what I mean. You’ve got questions, I’ve got… well, we’ll see what I’ve got. More than you’ve got right now, that’s what matters. We can make this work, kid.”

Evan sighed inwardly. It was a lead. And Titus seemed like he could be at least interesting to be around; he’d just have to make sure to keep an eye on his wallet.

“Let’s get something to eat and talk it over. Healing makes me hungry.”

“There you go! That’s the spirit.”

They drove in silence for a little while longer, only minutes away from the edge of town. Evan started to relax. Maybe this could work.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to ask… what the hell’s wrong with your dick?”

Evan groaned. Or maybe not.

#my writing #chapter #urban fantasy #Ugly Man Chronicles: Reignition #Ugly Man Chronicles #action fiction #superhero

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my-greatseo-love · 4 years ago

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disneyprincessmodelworld · 7 years ago

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La chronicles: is it the black one?

A: hey let's go.

L: *looks at me*

Me: *shrugs* okay I'll bite. Go where????

A: I told you we were going to that poetic vibes tonight.

Me: no oo oo. No you didnt.

A: yes I did.

L: babe, I'd remember if you said something.

A: uuughhhhh

Me: *gaps* woah. He growled.

L: I think that was more like a grimace.

Me: hmm maybe?

A: oh geez to the love of. Don't you all check your calendars???? You accepted the invites.

Me: no I didn't I would ......... Oh

L: oh? Well I sure didnt get ... Oh.

A: oh oh. Yes oh. Now get dressed let's go. I'll be in the car

L: *looks at me* hmm.

Me: did you think that calendar invite was real?

L: nope thought he was kidding.

Me: some bf you are.

L: hey you didn't think it was real either.....

Me: yeah but I'm impressionable.

L: *rolls his eyes*

Me: i wonder if that chick with the thick girl poem is going to be there.

L: why you interested?

Me: nah I just wanna ask her to explain this chicken and waffles mess.

L: you have lived in the south!!!

Me: not by choice muffin. Not by choice.

A: *screams in from the garage* what the hell is taking so long we have probably missed three poems by now.

*L and I head to the car*

Me: is this a white establishment or a black one?

A: black I'm assuming per the flyer why?

Me: oh they on cpt. We good. We have a good hour and fifteen minutes before that thing starts.

A: oh my god.

L: you did not just say that?

Me: what? I'm serious.I've yet to see a black poetry event start on time. I'm black. I can say it.

A: lord. I'm leaving you here.

Me: nope I've got on shoes you stuck with me now.

..............

Just got here.

Headlining poet isn't even here yet. They say they starting in about 30 minutes.

Told them so. 😂🤣😂😂🤣😂😂

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lovedripdrop · 1 month ago

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urielsgate · 7 years ago

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Old Works - My Vampire Chronicles Affair

Just thought I would share something I wrote for a VC collaborative work back in 2009 . Truly enjoyed slipping into Armand’s wicked and yet quite irresistible mind, dark schemes and damaged personality. So yes, I plead guilty: always had a soft spot for the auburn haired cherub. Always will.

NSFW - Yep, you have been officially warned.

ANDANTE CANTABILE

Candles, sweet, pungent wine and rippling satin.

My nostrils caught the familiar blend as soon as we entered the grand salon. I closed my eyes and absorbed each scent lapping at my skin in warm, sensual waves. It was the ancient fragrance of lavishness, the golden ghost of a time and a place when happiness had seemed perfect and eternal.

I took a long breath in and slowly drifted my thoughts and gaze upon Lucas. The ghastly pallor of his Bauta played a striking contrast to the austere elegance of the long dark mantle and obscured any trace of amazement as he took a full circle to measure the sumptuousness of the venue. The heavy opaline Venetian chandeliers had been brought back to their ancient glory and it wasn’t to the artificial violence of modern electricity but to the suave light of hundreds of pure beeswax candles and to the exquisiteness of a Baldassare Galuppi’s harpsichord concerto that the soft grace of the mythological-themed frescoes reverberated across the plaster vaults of the palazzo. “Pretty high-class shit, huh?” He concluded and I wondered whether the remark was meant to strike me as smart or whether that was just some trivial attempt to sound downright offensive. Whatever the case, I was not impressed. “Old money.” I mumbled moving away from him. “Something, my dear, you are forevermore destined to contemplate from a great distance indeed.” “Well, you never know. I could still marry some rich Italian chick and join the club.” He pushed his mask back to better study the place. All around us swelled a pulsating multitude of brocades, almost unbearably vibrant colors and deep red laughing mouths glistening underneath the eccentric masterpieces Venice’s most celebrated mask artists and costumiers had fashioned exclusively for the event: the Grand Masquerade Ball della Marchesa. I swam across this perfumed sea of blood, smiling behind my funereal camouflage every time the tender, inviting warmth of a masked figure pressed against me through the dark fabric of my cloak as I slowly moved deeper into the crowd. I felt Lucas cursing under his breath behind me. He didn’t seem to enjoy the occasion as much as I did – our promenade among the most decadent nobility of Venice.

“Don’t worry, Lucas.” I turned back and whispered close to his ear. “No one here knows you’re just an unsophisticated debutante.”

“I guess they don’t know much about you either, right?” Through the gaping sockets of his mask his eyes gave me a rather apathetic glance.

“Be practical, Lucas. They know what I need them to know.” I bowed to the few familiar faces I recognized behind the peacock feathered masks as we walked slowly toward the heavily gilded Neo-classical mirrors paraded at the far end of the salone. And there we were, side by side, the boy and the vampire, both silently gazing for a fleeting moment at our reflection frozen within the golden framed surface. Lucas grabbed a Murano glass chalice from the buffet and snorted bitterly over the rim. My eyes indulged for a while on the suggestive sight of his partly exposed throat as each avid mouthful of wine he took dangerously magnified the darker outline of the veins pumping beneath his olive skin.

“Gently, Lucas. How about savoring the few gratifications life’s got to offer instead of punctually flushing them down your system all the time, hm?” The truth is I was quite thirsty myself.

“For the record, this is how I enjoy life.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.

I was getting quite bored at this point and made no mystery of it. I walked away and left him there on his own.

“Where are you going?” The perturbed tone of his voice almost completely muffled by the sudden outburst of laughter mounting from the group of rather inebriated damsels now dancing and giggling between us.

I didn’t even mind to stop nor turn back. “The time has come to let the Bauta teach you her precious lessons, Lucas. Enjoy the party. From this moment I plan to do the same.”

I caught the cascade of invectives oozing from his thoughts and chose to ignore it completely. Or so I liked him to assume.

I directed my steps toward the narrow gothic-moresque stained glass windows where, amidst her panoply of exotic cushions and devoted courtesans sat the venerable host of the evening. As soon as she raised her gaze, la Marchesa smiled to me in invitation.

“I would recognize those auburn locks under any disguise.” She laughed gracefully. “Come my child, let me see you. Come and give me one of your kisses.”

I untied the mask just for her and leaned to gently brush the softness of her aging cheek with my lips. She smelled of expensive cosmetics, rose and honeysuckle cologne and liqueur. Pure Italian patrician blood. Powerful, elegant and inherently devious.

“Good evening, mia Signora.” I murmured.

“And a very good evening to you, my dear. What a pleasure to have you among us tonight. Ah but you’re cold, come and sit with me for a while.” She patted the seat beside her.

I obliged and sat with her on the sofa, acknowledging her guests with distant politeness. “I wouldn’t have missed your Ball for anything in the world.”

“Ah, you’re tongue is almost sweeter than your face. I wish my nephew was as adorable as you are. Look, there he is, with that horrible woman he imported from America.” She sighed. “Tragically, my Giovanni never developed good taste in anything.”

Indeed. I knew him quite well, the handsome and dissolute Giovanni. He had introduced me to his lovely aunt some months before and everyone apparently assumed he and I knew each other either from university or some other conventional contingency. The truth was quite different, of course. I had met him at one of those private gathering where humans surrender to their most licentious instincts and perform what they perceive as an emancipation of the flesh and the senses. The sad but I must say also rather entertaining truth is that this appears to be nothing more than yet another desperate delusion mortals need in order to endure the insignificance of their existence. For a while I enjoyed this sort of speculations – I sat in a dark quiet corner of the room and observed the spasmodic amalgam of bodies coupling like famished animals, the respectable wife disheveled by the crude, powerful thrusts of a perfect stranger under the close scrutiny of her consort, the despotic politician sobbing his pleasure under the vicious castigation inflicted by some well-remunerated street boy, until the place was drenched with the thick smell of sweat and semen, which inevitably left behind the unmistakable and inexorable fragrance of their despair.

I smiled to Giovanni and he raised his glass in response and I wondered if he planned to introduce his latest American trophy to his little secret itch for younger boys. La Marchesa gently held my hand and drew closer, lest others overheard her whispered confidences.

“Let him have his fun while he can. I know all too well how and when decency should be restored.” She gently smiled to me.

How I loved her practicality. Her status and prestige would not compromise to nuisances such as sentimentalism of any sort nor compassion. It fascinated me to realize she had lived all her life without even wondering what regret was. What a superb teacher she is. I know Venice and I will miss her terribly.

Couples were swinging to the hypnotic cadence of some modern composition and as the conversation now coasted toward more unexciting subjects, the arrangements of an imminent wedding, the restoration of a villa near Chioggia, the ever so fashionable rumors about common enemies, I felt the time had come for me to escort Lucas away from the curvaceous nymphet who ever so generously fed him a couple of her pretty colored illegal pills. Once again I embraced la mia Marchesa, kissing her under the reproachful eyes of her most intimate friends and, politely, took my leave.

I followed Lucas and the girl outside. The white pebbles along the garden paths glowed beneath the torches flickering radiance and the night smelled of moist grass and mint. For a while I watched him fooling with the girl until she left to go back in, possibly to fuel their psychedelic cocktail with a couple of wine glasses. Others came, all boys this time, they started to chat and laugh and eventually offered Lucas some more oblivion in the form of a joint and he quickly forgot about the young lady’s graces he nearly planned to probe in not so platonic terms. His mind was a spectacular mess and it took all my determination not to laugh out loudly when, in the end, he realized who the dark, motionless shadow sitting on the stone bench under the weeping wisteria tree was and shuffled his way to meet me.

“Hey.” He waved.

“Hello, Lucas. Are you having fun?” Luckily, the Bauta screened the quivering smirk on my face and I made sure the tone of my voice didn’t betray the slightest shade of amusement. He was gloriously stoned.

“Yeah, great party.” He crashed on the bench. “Look. Huh… I’m slightly drunk, I think.”

“Drunk? Lucas, you’re delirious!” I lost all composure and laughed openly. “Don’t worry, I’m not in the mood for admonition. I’m not your guardian, remember?” I admit I stressed the last sentence with deliberate malice.

“Cool.” He crossed his legs and began to torment his mask. His hair had fallen loose from the black velvet ribbon I had personally fastened at the base of his neck and I could only partially see his face. “I’m reading your book again, you know.” He said.

Yes, I knew of course, but pretended this left me placidly indifferent. Which ultimately was the truth.

“Can I ask you something?” Suddenly his eyes flashed with a boldness I rarely had noticed before.

“Go ahead.”

I felt his stare travelling down on me. “From what I gather, I’d say you used to be the kind of guy unlikely to turn a cold shoulder to whatever kinky leisure got in your way, you know – at least until you joined that coven of vampire freaks.”

I lifted my mask and arched a brow. “You do realize this doesn’t sound like a question at all, don’t you?”

“No, no, I mean, yes. Look. Let me put it this way, ok? The thing is no matter what the books *don’t say* about it, I know for sure vampires enjoy sex even more than mortals do. So I reckon you must be like Lestat and Louis when it comes to…”

I smiled. “Fornication?”

Oh I loved the chaos storming across Lucas’ hallucinated brain. “Well, you do, right?” He laughed and leaned closer.

“Is this some sort of drug-induced incoherent proposal, Lucas?”

He blushed fiercely and straightened his back. “Christ, wait, no, that’s not what I mean!”

I laughed and made a small gesture with my hand as if to say ‘go on, I’m not going to dismember you just yet’. Lucas took a deep breath before giving it a second try.

“Ok, here it is. I know you like to act cool and detached but if you think back on when Marius sent you to those brothels – and you had plenty of chances to experiment different stuff there, right? – Well, I was just wondering,” He paused and smirked. “What did you like the best—girls or boys?”

Somehow I knew where this was about to lead and so I simply told him the truth.

“As a matter of fact I enjoyed both. Immensely. However, if I must take sides, I’d say my preference goes to the games I played among the soft-eyed male youths who ever so skillfully initiated my body to endless ways to receive and deliver pleasure.”

Lucas bit his lip and mentally revoked fragments from those passages our passionate philanthropist David Talbot has so scrupulously collected a long time ago.

“I like that part of your story.”

“Yes, I can see that. However let me warn you: words can offer only partial, nebulous impressions of what reality is, Lucas. You should have been there to fully appreciate the rigorous training I underwent.” I gave him a slow, knowing smile.

“Hm…” The sinful young one chuckled. “I wish someone made a movie about this.”

Now. That was quite a fascinating consideration.

________

After the ball we wandered the city, mingling with the vivacious crowds of Campo Santa Margherita, listening from the Ponte della Donna Onesta to the exuberant recitation of a Carlo Goldoni’s Commedia and finally roaming the caliginous silence of the deserted alleys near the Arsenale until we both craved to return to the quietude of the island.

I helped Lucas stepping out of his outfit and then closed the door of his room behind me, leaving him to deal with the all too human consequences of a night of ��excess. I went downstairs and partially disrobed, still reflecting on the conversations we had exchanged. And just when I was about to seek my beloved armchair and the comfort of the fireplace, a sudden gust of intoxication overwhelmed me. It didn’t take any effort to figure out where it came from. I lifted my gaze toward the ceiling, sharpened my senses and smiled knowing all too well what my young guest was up to in the intimacy of his bedroom. I closed my eyes and pushed my perceptions until I could almost envision his figure leaning against the headboard of the bed, the muscles of his abdomen tensing under his probing fingers, his mind quickening once again the torrid visions of my initiation within the brothel walls Marius had delivered me to.

I didn’t fully realize the potential of the game I was playing until I unlocked my most intimate memories to let them flow from my mind into Luca’s in a torrent of vibrant visions. I pulled him with me in a backward journey across the centuries, leading him to the dim-lighted voluptuousness of that Renaissance harem and resurrecting its beautiful host of boys and the enticements of their kohl-adorned gaze and ruby, ever smiling lips. I guided his hand to the soft dark curls at the root of his organ and tortured him some more with the spectacle of supple limbs surrendering to my will and caprice. He felt, as I revoked it, the hot tightness pulsing around me when the boys let me ride them until pearly tears of pleasure dripped slowly down the perfection of their inner thighs. And then, as I pushed his fingers down the throbbing need between his legs, he envisioned me, a mortal auburn-haired adolescent, withering under the ministrations of the prettiest boy of the house. Lucas gasped at the sight of me sustaining this Adonis’ powerful domination, this splendid creature who triumphantly laughed like a young god above me and pressed my wrists into the perfumed carpets, grinding at each deep thrust his sculpted hips hard against me while others softly whispered my name and claimed my mouth and nipples, their fists vigorously pumping till the very last drop of bliss was drained out of me.

I knew I was pushing him to the proverbial limit. I sensed Lucas’ blind lust gushing thick and feverish through his blood stream, yes, I could almost smell it as his hand worked faster and faster toward deliverance.

He came with a loud, delicious cry.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. I sank back into the embrace of the armchair, pressing my tongue on the small wound freshly carved in my lower lip in a rush of impulsive fascination. How long it had been since I last savored the taste of achievement. I felt magnificently inspired. Not even I could have predicted such a heartening finale to our first official night out in Venice and now an entire constellation of potentialities shone before me as I mused upon the tantalizing prospect of turning Lestat’s rustic and impetuous protégé into perhaps my most ambitious project.

I lazily moved my hand downward and acknowledged the consequences of my little experiment with an idle caress.

I could already foresee more entertainment to come.

#vampire chronicles #vc fandom #vc fanfic #the vampire armand

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dollielyell7816-blog · 8 years ago

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PROPANE Relevant Articles.

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lisboeta1 · 6 years ago

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April 11th is National Pet Day! Come celebrate with us! Pets of all shapes and sizes enrich our lives and bring us joy. Some of our favorite authors have included beloved pets as characters in their books. After all, pets bring people together! If you enjoy stories that feature furbabies, fish and pets of a more unusual variety, have we got a sale for you! For a limited time, only on our website, the ebooks featured below are on SALE, at a discount of up to 75%. Grab one – or more than one – of these today and discover your next amazing read!

And while it’s our party, we’d love to gift YOU with your choice of ONE of the books included in our Pet Day Celebration Sale. Sign up for our newsletter to enter! Share the giveaway via the blog post for another entry!

We’ll choose four winners, one paperback book each. Open Internationally. Follow this link to enter the GIVEAWAY:

AFTER THE SCRUM by Dahlia Donovan

Sherlock is one of those pets who is larger than life. He has more personality than some of his human counterparts. Sherlock is a service dog that recognizes impending anxiety attacks in his beloved human and quickly attempts to comfort or distract.

AT WAR WITH A BROKEN HEART by Dahlia Donovan

The pets of At War With A Broken Heart are some of my favourites in all my stories. We have Rabbit, who’s a fox, and Fox, who’s a rabbit. Still with me? I love the not-fox and the not-rabbit. And lastly, Haggard, a loyal and intelligent service dog, who lives for his human. Haggard was trained specifically to help a retired military veteran dealing with survivor’s guilt and post-traumatic stress. A blue merle Australian Shepherd. Beautiful, clever, and funny. He’s the perfect companion.

THE TRAIL TO YOU by Lindsay Detwiler

My mastiff, Henry, appears in all of my novels simply because I love him. I’ve always wanted to write a book, however, in which he is a more integral part of the story. In The Trail to You, Henry is a main character; several of the chapters even follow his journey. When his owner, Ronan, returns from a deployment to find his best friend Henry missing, he will set out on an epic journey to get him back. Ronan doesn’t expect that Henry will lead him to the path he was always meant to find, however. Even though my real-life Henry has never been in this situation, there are many true-to-life traits of the character in the book. For example, my real Henry is obsessed with cupcakes and would love Cupcakes of the Abyss as featured in the book. This story celebrates the magic that happens when a human and dog bond, a magic I’ve come to know firsthand with Henry in my life.

THEN COMES LOVE by Lindsay Detwiler

I used to say I was an aspiring crazy cat lady, but now that we have five cats, I think I’m definitely there. Charlotte Noel in my chick lit series Then Comes Love shares my love for cats. When she moves into the nursing home and her daughter is forced to adopt her five cats, chaos ensues. One of the scenes in the book where the cat is stolen by a neighbor is based on a real-life event with my own cat; a neighbor of ours ended up snatching our cat by mistake, and after looking for her for months, I happened to see her in their window.

OUT OF THE PENALTY BOX by Genevive Chamblee

Hockey captain, Christophe Fontenot, is tall, blond, and sexy with a “massive” personality larger than the area he pulverizes his opponents. It stands to reason that this stacked with muscles hunk’s furry companion would be his four-legged match. Claire, a slobbering but lovable Bullmastiff, is a rags-to-riches canine sort of speak. Nearly starved and beaten to death as a pup, Claire was rescued by Christophe. With nothing in his heart to give other than love, Christophe spoiled her rotten with gourmet treats, hugs, and special-order plush toys. Now, Claire’s pastime consists of sunbathing by the pool and chasing Allie, Christophe’s pet gator. Yeah, it’s like that in bayou country. Read more about Claire in Out of the Penalty Box.

BREAKING DOWN by Megan Lowe

In Breaking Down Buttons comes along at just the right time for Jax. In her he sees a lot of himself and identifies with her. At a difficult time for the youngest Ryan, she becomes the family he feels he has lost. The relationship between Jax and Buttons is pure love, of two “abandoned” souls coming together to form a family. I think it proves that pets are as much a part of a family unit as any person can be.

BLUE, Dragon Runner Book 3 by ML Nystrom

Toto and Sam were my son’s childhood dogs. My son had turned four years old when Toto joined our family. She had such a variety of DNA, I have no clue of what breeds she had in her. Her version of a doggie hug included walking up to you, pressing the top of her head into your chest, and staying there until you petted her. She was just short of sixteen when she passed. Sam came into our lives with a sadder story. A rescue group found him in a box abandoned in a parking lot. By some miracle, he was still alive and won the doggie lottery by coming to live with my son and me. Sam was a boxer/pit bull mix and the biggest cuddle bug ever. Toto helped Sam tremendously on how to be a family dog. They would play hard in the backyard, eat together, and sleep curled up next to each other. Very often all four of us would crowd in my bed. They took up more than their fair share, and I learned to sleep on a tiny piece of the edge during those times.

TIME FOR LOVE, Timeless Love Book #2 by Laura N. Andrews

Thor is loved by his two daddies, Nicholas and Caleb. A German shepherd cross husky, Thor’s light blue eyes can sparkle with mischief and shine with intelligence. He’s both cheeky and smart and loves to have his dads chase him around and dote on him. His favourite things in life are sleeping in their bed and running and swimming at the beach.

OCEANS AWAY by Skye McNeil

In Oceans Away, Gideon Taggart has two Australian Shepherds, Diesel and Dallas. As an owner of a blue merle Aussie and lover of the cute wiggle of the breed, I had to incorporate a little of that into this story. Diesel and Dallas are quite the pair. They help Gideon around the farm with chores of chasing anything that moves. Both dogs also get into trouble when it comes to the woman in Gideon’s life: Ireland Leighton. I won’t give too much away, but I will say that slobber is involved with these cuties. Since Ireland and Gideon live on farms, animals are abundant, and pets are equally as involved in their day to day routine. If you’re an animal lover, Oceans Away is sure to bring a smile to your face and a desire to hug your furry best friend.

HEARTS ABROAD by Skye McNeil

In Hearts Abroad, Callum Archer has a basset hound named Sherlock. As you can probably guess, the dog is slobbery, lazy, and loving to all. Once a hunter, Sherlock now spends his days lounging in his favorite dog bed near Callum’s desk and chases squirrels every so often. He prefers leisurely walks around the mansion or playing with Callum’s two daughters to hunting these days. Sherlock isn’t the only fun pet in Hearts Abroad, though. Enter Oreo, a black and white tuxedo kitty who also happens to love chicken lo mein and crawling wherever he desires. While Oreo belongs to Londyn Bellerose’s roommate, the chubby cat tends to walk all over Londyn and even hide in her luggage. He’s the epitome of a curious cat who just wants you to sit down long enough to pet him. Both Sherlock and Oreo bring the characters in Hearts Abroad to life. Plus, a little fur makes a story warm in all the right places. Check out Hearts Abroad to learn more about Sherlock, Oreo, and the humans who make the story come to life.

FINDING MARNIE by MV Ellis

They say dogs are man’s best friend, and in Finding Marnie Luke puts that theory to the test when he gifts his love Marnie a gorgeous female puppy who is in need of a home. Marnie is going through a rough patch in her life, and wanting to help, Luke thinks the new puppy will be both a distraction, and a source of uncomplicated and unconditional love–something Marnie’s in desperate in need of. It’s fair to say that her life hasn’t been easy–in fact, at various points, including when she was very young, it has been marred by hardship and tragedy. As she points out, it wasn’t the kind of upbringing where she had a pet, or anyone, to love her, or whom she could love in return. Luke’s hunch is right, and Marnie falls instantly in love with her new dependent. If only opening her heart and accepting her love for Luke could be so simple.

THE JEWEL CHRONICLES – DESERT JEWEL & SNOW JEWEL by Natalina Reis

In the Jewel Chronicles series, Princess Milenda has a special kind of pet. His name is Mjusi and even though in Afrika they call him a forest lizard, he’s actually a young dragon. Mjusi’s relationship with Milenda is so much more than that of a pet and its owner. They’re best friends who grew up together and would do anything for each other. He might be green and iridescent—and at times cough up smoke—but he was Milenda’s only friend growing up and was always there for her through thick and thin. They found each other in loneliness and filled an empty space in each other’s hearts. Such is the power of a pet’s love.

The Jewel Chronicles

Hot Tree Publishing Pet Day Sale

National Pet Day Book Sale April 11th is National Pet Day! Come celebrate with us! Pets of all shapes and sizes enrich our lives and bring us joy.

#book sales #books #dogs #holiday #marketing #pets #romance #romance books

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