Angel Hamilton, Private Angel: The Einstein Equation. At Amazon 99 cents. Private eye or angel, which one was he? Urban fantasy and science fiction.
Angel Hamilton, Private Angel The Einstein Equation
Now available at Amazon for 99 cents.
Angel Hamilton is a detective who survived the Einstein Equation.
Shot like a cannon ball from our world across the universe, he returns altered. He now sees things. Things that go bump in the night. Gods and goddesses. Demons and monsters.
Now he is the go to guy for the supernatural...both monsters and humans.
Today he's going to help a woman who needs a divorce. But it isn't just any kind of divorce. It's super natural!
A humorous urban fantasy that delves into the mysteries of life and love while at the same time challenging what is real and what is not.
A fun ride that takes the reader from the realms of real science to the world of the supernatural where science just might be dangerous to use, but to ignore it might cost you your life!
A magical and humorous blending of mystery with elements of science fiction and urban fantasy rolled up into one very tasty bundle.
Angel Hamilton, Private Angel The Einstein Equation
Now available at Amazon for 99 cents.
Excerpt from the story:
It was long. Very long. A metallic tunnel of high tech paneling and equipment that made my ears hurt, my skin itched and my throat was drier than the Mojave Desert.
I wanted out of there.
But I couldn't leave.
The loudspeaker droned soothingly. "It's all right, Angel, just the preliminary warm up. You'll feel better in a few moments."
"That's what they all say until you die." I quipped at the unknown voice.
Laughter came from the speaker. "See, you're all ready doing better."
"Screw you!" I hollered.
Then the energies went into the subatomic and super subatomic. The Unified Field force tunnel was ready to slam me into another dimension. Why I had volunteered for this stupid experiment, I'll never know.
Well, actually I did. I was a butt poor college student who wanted enough money to finish up his law degree and go out and make a difference in the world. Maybe kick a few criminal butts, knock heads with some police officers and generally have a good life.
Such are the musings of the deluded. Never happened.
I felt every atom in my body accelerate.
"Counting down." The loudspeaker announced.
"Just get it over with." I growled between grinding teeth.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
One moment I was standing in that long tunnel of hyper-electronics, the next I was slamming through a tunnel of pure white light with no end in sight.
It was like living out 2001 by Stanley Kubrick minus the spacesuit and the spacecraft.
Damn it was a good ride!
Angel Hamilton, Private Angel The Einstein Equation
Now available at Amazon for 99 cents.
A detective for the new age. Brilliant, sarcastic, funny and ready to take on the world of hellbounds!
Angel Hamilton, Private Angel The Einstein Equation
(New) They dove for treasure, but found something lost in time. Danger and adventure in The Lost Crystal of Atlantis "A Samuel Light Story" By John Pirillo
The Lost Crystal of Atlantis
"A Samuel Light Story"
By John Pirillo
"It's all in the way you look at it, Jimbo." Samuel told his friend, as they examined the rock crystals hanging from the ceiling of the cave they were exploring off the coast of California. They had taken a boat out and scuba dived in the rough waters off Catalina, searching for the entrance.
It had been a fluke for them to discover it, but Samuel had done so by accidentally touching this old man in a rest home. He and Jimbo went every Sunday to perform for them. Samuel played guitar and sang. Jimbo played a harmonica and sometimes a lap piano and sang with him. It was all the rage. They were constantly being invited back and to other homes associated with the ones they visited.
It wasn't like they needed to do it, they loved doing it. They both had a lot of respect for the mileage older people put in, from their own adventures, which sometimes involved a bruising, or broken bone here and there. Hey! It's what friends were for, getting adventured and broken. Right?
Not really, Samuel thought, as he mused over their present predicament. Their scuba tanks had run out of air just as they discovered the cave. In the most unlikely of places, beneath a sunken Spanish Galleon. If they survived this adventure, they might very well become solid gold business men with a line of credit to make Bill Gates envious. Not happening. Samuel thought again. It wasn't his destiny, karma to get rich. Not that he wouldn't appreciate the gesture from God, but he knew well enough from what he had already seen in his visions and experienced in his past life regressions to know he had a lot of work to make up for that he had skimped on in prior lifetimes. Times when he had been wealthy, but had hoarded it when people around him were suffering and he could have helped them. Times when he had controlled vast sums of money and had conspired to keep the masses from sharing in the offsets of that wealth so that many were driven into extreme poverty.
No. There was a price to be paid for being wealthy the wrong way. You paid for it down the road. He always laughed when Jimbo read the newspaper and bitched about those rich sonuva bitches that got away with hoarding their money and socking it to the homeless and middleclass, but Samuel knew better, he was living the kind of life they also would someday, once they'd gotten their feet rightly on the path to enlightenment. They too would one day become helpers, instead of hinderers to their fellow man.
Jimbo didn't duck enough. His head struck the ceiling of the low cavern. A spark of light struck into the darkness for a moment. Jimbo rubbed at the hurt spot on his head, and then saw something in the darkness that caught his eye. It wasn't real clear, but the light filtering through the water pool they had exited from was enough to spot it. He flicked on his headlight.
"Don't waste the energy."
"As if it would much matter at this point." Jimbo grumbled. "No food. No...Air."
"Always the pessimist."
"Better than pretending to be an angel all the time."
"Who's pretending?" Samuel laughed.
But on Jimbo's scowl, he backed off.
Jimbo ignored his friend and bent over to pick up something.
"Look at this Sammie." Jimbo said, clutching a different sort of crystal in his palms. Samuel shone his headlight on it, the one he and Jimbo both used to scour the depths when they went into the darker regions.
The stone's interior shone like gold.
"If it smells like, looks like, and feels like..." Samuel said with a smile.
"Then it must be..."
"Gold." Samuel finished.
They broke into laughter, and then somber again, they sat down on the crystals...gold crystals that lay abundantly about them. They had found not only a sunken Spanish galleon, which Samuel was sure was loaded with treasure, but also a new kind of gold. Pure and crystalline. It would fetch billions on the stock market and in the market place. They would never live to collect any of it.
He glanced over at their empty tanks, and then at Jimbo, who was also thinking the same thought. "When I get back, I'm going to waffle that scuba dive dealer until he looks like Godzilla with potholes."
"Not really." Samuel disagreed.
"Nah. Guess not." Jimbo said sourly. "Stuck here without oxygen, or a single thing to eat. Wouldn't you know I'd die of starvation?"
Samuel laughed. "I could think of worse ways to die."
"Not me." Jimbo groused, angrily muttering to himself, kicking some loose crystals across the cave floor.
Samuel got up and headed towards the back. "Well, since we're stuck here, we might as well keep moving forward, since we can't go back."
"Your logic just continually astounds me, man." Jimbo said, climbing to his feet. He groaned, rubbing the back of his head that had struck one of the dangling crystals before he had flicked on his head lamp.
"Damn crystals have the bite of a shark."
Samuel laughed again, but made no comment, knowing full well that Jimbo had enough of them to fill a ballpark without his helping him.
As they went deeper Samuel stopped. Ahead of him Al and M were dancing, their eyes bright with laughter.
"Why you stop?"
Jimbo peered around Samuel's head. "See nothing."
"Doesn't mean he's not there. M's there too."
Jimbo sighed. "Now that's one doll I'd love to get a dish of."
M burst into laughter, let go of Al, then ran over and gave Jimbo a kiss on his cheek. Jimbo jumped back, as if struck by lightning. "What the hell was that?"
"She just kissed you, love buddy."
"But I felt it. I never feel anything those invisible friends of yours do."
"Probably don't remember."
Jimbo scowled at Samuel, asking him to back off. "Probably some kind of underwater, underground gnat with my luck."
"Think what you want." Samuel commented, and watched M shake her head, then laugh and go back to Al, who took her right hand and led the way deeper into the cavern.
"I think we're going to make it." Samuel said, as they followed.
"Yeah. You and what magic is gonna make that happen?"
They both froze when they took a turn in the cavern. Before them was a gigantic crystal of pure gold, that seemed to vibrate with life. "My God!" Samuel barked without realizing it.
"What's wrong, pal?"
"It's from Atlantis."
"How can you tell?"
Samuel closed his eyes, and saw the same thing. The giant crystal set in the floor of a massive temple, with people clad in pure white smiling at it, talking happily, then one after the other stepping towards it, then vanishing with pings of pure white light.
Samuel spun around, his eyes bright, his face feverish. "The Atlanteans used it to teleport from one part of the world to another."
Jimbo suddenly leaned back against a wall, and made choking sounds.
Samuel felt more and more light headed.
"The oxygen." He gasped.
Jimbo nodded. "Gone."
He fell, eyes shutting after he landed on his side.
Samuel felt himself teetering and then saw Al glare at him and shake a finger. "Don't you go there, Samuel Light!" He told him in no uncertain terms.
Samuel gave Al a helpless look, but Al wouldn't relent.
"How do we get out? Tell me! We're..."
Samuel had to sit down. He felt even fainter.
Al glared even more. Even M joined in, shaking her head.
Then Samuel's eyes lit on the crystal ahead of him, only a mere few inches away. He placed a hand on it, and it lit up brighter than an amusement park carousel. He turned around with difficulty and grasped Jimbo's arm. "Jimbo, you gotta wake up."
Jimbo didn't stir.
"Jimbo, I've got two double whoppers to go and a giant size fry."
Jimbo's eyes fluttered open. "Am I in heaven already?"
Samuel was too weak to joke back. "Help me!" He pleaded, and then began pulling Jimbo towards the crystal. "Imagine we're home." Samuel told him.
"I can't. No ruby slippers." Jimbo gasped, and then began coughing for air.
With a great will of effort Samuel pulled Samuel as hard as he could and they both flung against the giant crystal. It lit up brighter still and they vanished from the cavern.
Samuel woke up on the floor of his apartment in Vegas to the sound of bacon frying. It smelled great, even if he didn't eat it anymore. He sat up. Jimbo was in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs, toast and homemade fries. He turned and looked over at Samuel.
"I would have gotten you up, but you looked so purty down there with your beauty sleep, I didn't want to ruin your party."
Samuel sat up and groaned. His right side ached like hell.
"And yeah, Sammie, we must have fallen several feet."
Samuel grunted and got to his feet. "How can we fall up, then down?"
Jimbo ignored him and placed a platter of bacon, eggs, toast and fries on one side of the kitchen table, then one without bacon on the other. He grabbed a half gallon of orange juice and two glasses, and then filled them. He sat down and kicked the other chair out, so Samuel could sit.
Samuel sat down, and then his taste buds lit on fire. He began digging into the food. Full, he shoved back from his empty plate, cradled the remaining juice between his hands, t hen said again. "We flew up, and then fell. Doesn't make sense."
Jimbo grunted, a guilty look on his face.
"You didn't fall down, partner."
Samuel suddenly got it. "You brat! You fell on me!"
Samuel could've strangled him at that moment, but instead he raised his glass of orange juice for a toast. "To no more sunken caves and Spanish galleons."
Jimbo clinked his glass against Samuel's. "Ditto on everything but the boat."
Samuel gave Jimbo a stare that might've shriveled another soul. Jimbo shrugged. "Hey, we gotta pay our bills, don't we?"
"When do we leave?" Samuel asked, afraid of what he would hear next.
Samuel groaned loudly, then flung himself from his chair and headed for his bedroom. "Where you going, partner?"
"Where any sane man who was just teleported a thousand miles and clobbered by his best pal would go?"
Samuel didn't answer. He went into his bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and dirty clothes and all, dropped onto his foam bed. He went out like a light. Day done. Night welcome!
The Baker Street Adventures, written by myself, is now available at Amazon in a beautifully bound paperback for $14.95 or ready for download as a digital read for $1.99.
Over 400 pages of great reading. Hours of fun and excitement, kick back and enjoy time.
Buy it at Amazon now and guarantee yourself hours of reading pleasure.
I've posted an Amazon review below to give you a reader's viewpoint of the novel.
Hells a Poppin
"A to Hell and Back Story"
By John Pirillo
Weed's history is not so great. He joined the Marines in 2010. A high school grad with no desire to excel in anything, somehow he had managed to at least pass with a score high enough to bag him a gig with the Marines. But that wasn't good enough. He had to be the top rifleman in his squad, and the best man in martial arts, the only person to survive (a phone) combat scenario that no one could possibly win, but he had.
So for his efforts he had been awarded a stake in another job. Going to hell and back. Yeah. War's hell, but some wars are in hell, or with hell. And that was his best window of opportunity yet. With just a knife, wide open eyes, and a lot of luck. Luck does count! With luck he had managed to kill three demons that had over run their platoon on a mission in Afghanistan.
The natives had screamed all night about demons coming, and not one of the Americans had bought it then, so instead they bought it later.
Gunfire. Grenades. Rocket launches. Hellfire missiles. None of it worked. The demons were smarter and better armed. Invincible in their stealth mode. They could move invisibly through the ranks and decimate them.
He had seen Jenks, his Captain, a likable fellow with two kids back in Arkansas, a stake in a reasonable farm to retire to, and yet he had been the first one to buy it. He had awakened to the scream, thrown himself out the pup tent, a small hotdog shaped slip of a tube of cloth they all rigged beneath the dirt so they could remain hidden from probing eyes.
He had seen Jenks stabbing at something in the air, and blood spurting, but nothing visible. Jenks had stopped screaming when his head exploded, squashed like a watermelon by a vise like force invisible to the eyes.
Hammer had been next. He was the wise cracking machine gunner of the group. Never missed. This time his weapon was useless. Bullets spun out of the gun at over a thousand rounds a second and everyone struck. Blood spurted in a thousand directions, but in a few moments he was hanging upside down by the hot flaming tube of his gun, his guts ripped out.
Joyce had been last. She had run out in skivvies and had both legs torn off before she could even raise a grenade to toss.
He had been lucky. Luck had been with him.
He had torn through the frigid night, racing like a pig with the butcher after him, and it was. With ten sets of claws, a thousand teeth and an appetite for extreme death and violence. Though at the time he had thought it was some kind of special weapons force that had invaded their platoon. Someone sent in from the crazies running the local wars, but bought from China or Russia.
When it caught up with him, its breath was fetid and hot.
He whipped round, saw nothing and was ready to keep running when he felt two clawed hands grab him by his waist and raise him slowly. He did a stupid thing. He pepper sprayed it. It worked!
It coughed and threw him down. Sounded like a mountain lion going to the bathroom with multiple hemorrhoids. But it was there.
He kicked up a footfall of sand with his boots and for a brief second he saw something that almost stopped his heart, which would have been a blessing at the time, because it was racing so hard it was likely to stop on its own accord anyway.
It was straight from hell. Literally. It stood over ten feet tall. It had teeth by the dozens protruding from its lower jaw over its lips and eyes that were slanted like an Orientals. In fact it was orange all over with a green fur that bristled with shades of red and orange. Its whole being exuded some kind of darkness that etched a line around it. A kind of outline of evil.
He had reacted, not from instinct, but from sheer disgust.
He had thrown his knife. The one his father had given him. The silver one. For Christmas
The knife struck the demon in its chest as it was fading from view and it roared horribly. So hard and furiously that he was blasted from his feet. He rolled over and came up to his feet, scrambling for his second blade. If one could do that.
He threw it.
It was also silver. The second one his father had given him for his birthday. He'd said. "You growing like a weed, son. One day you might have need of a week trimmer. Picker. Something to stop wild things."
Weed had never asked what his father meant, even though he had given him this strange look, as if he were seeing something not there. His family was like that. Some called t hem voodoos, people struck by local magic and cursed. Others called them occultists or psychics. He just called them family.
The demon, for he could tell that now. As it died its form became more and more visible and more and more disgusting to look at. Its blood shot forth from where the two knives had struck over its heart and showered the ground. It spun around and two more demons were marked and visible by the blood.
They had been rushing Weed without him realizing it.
He was dead for sure.
But when the first demon's blood struck them, a funny thing happened. Not ha-ha, but creepy strange. Like Twilight Zone, Lovecraft and Outer Limits Stephen King kind of strange.
They caught on fire.
All three demons exploded in a geyser of blood and fire, which shot straight up towards the cloudless sky, a Vesuvius of grossness and evil that showered back down and struck the desert floor, spearing it with body parts and ichor.
He just stood there, wiping the crap off his face, grinning. Laughing.
He had lived through the worst nightmare of his life.
He walked through the smoking remains and retrieved his two knives.
He kissed them both, ignoring the ichor on them, then wiped them clean on the back of his combat fatigues and sat down. He thrust the small black box hinged to his belt in front of him, keyed in a code, then activated it. A gentle beeping came from it.
Satellites overhead spun and turned, snaking slowly around to sip the binary data flowing into their hungry throats.
Ten days later he was back at Nellis, with the rest of the survivors of that night. Not from his platoon, but the others, who had also been on similar missions. He never learned their names. A very tough older man stood up from the midst of them; walked to the front of the room they were seated in silently and turned to eye them.
"Life is tough."
"Yo." They all answered.
"And then you die."
Everyone was silent. They knew what he meant, but were not going to agree with it.
"Last night you saw something, didn't you?"
Everyone was silent. Where was this going?
"Something that just should not have been."
Everyone nodded, but still remained silent.
"Something that shouldn't be on our planet."
Weed got tired of it. He stood up, scratched his ten day old beard. No one had a chance to shower or shave yet, and it was starting to get to him. "Sir, I don't mean to rattle your cage or anything, but these men are bone tired. Shit-faced with death and ready to drop. Will you just say it?"
The tall man turned to face Weed, his face stern as a block of ice. "Your name, Marine."
"Your real name."
Everyone broke into laughter.
The tall man listened a moment, then raised a hand for silence. Everyone got a frightened look on their faces as he scowled at Weed.
Weed didn't care. He'd seen all his friends murdered in front of his eyes, limbs torn off, guts ripped out, and necks broken. What more could anyone do to him now?
Everyone rose to leave.
The tall man pointed at Weed. "You. Here!"
Weed waited until the others had left, all looking back at him, fearful for what might happen. Though none knew each other, there was a deep bond between them.
"Sir." Weed saluted.
The tall man broke into a grin. "I'm no sir. Sarge will do."
"Sarge, sir!" Weed said with a returning grin.
"Sit here." The Tall Man pointed to a chair near him.
Weed nodded and slumped into the chair, feeling his fatigue rolling over him like a wave again. His eyes fought to stay open as the Tall Man spoke.
"I need you."
"Everyone needs someone, sir."
"Not for what I need you."
Weed's eyes continued to close.
"I'm going to hell and I need you to go with me."
Weed woke up and barked with laughter. "Hell, Sarge, I've just come back from there."
The Tall Man's smile vanished. "No. You haven't."
Then he told Weed what he knew.
Weed's eyes no longer threatened to sew themselves shut. He felt adrenaline rushing through his system, his hair standing up on the back of his neck, and his mouth drier than the Iraqi desert. "Damn!"
"And then some."
Weed shook his head, then stood up and offered his hand. "If it will save more souls from going through what I saw ten nights ago....?"
The Tall Man rose and took his hand. It was warm and firm. Like the grip of a long lost friend.
"Then I'm in. Sarge."
Sarge smiled. "Now go get cleaned up, then chow down. We've got a lot of work to do before we go to hell."
"Yes, Sarge. I'm sure we do." Weed laughed. "I'm sure we do."
Weed walked out of the meeting room, an ominous and foreboding feeling gripping his heart. He had the feeling that he had just chosen to step into the biggest stack of doo doo any Marine could ever step into.
Death and Destruction
"A Rocketman Story"
By John Pirillo
He was taking a pounding that's for sure. The swashes were beating the hell out of him and he wasn't able to do a thing about it as long as his power pack was recharging. A couple dozen more charges of their hammer guns and it was all over.
How in God's name had he gotten stuck in the missionary position to the merciless bastards pounding his suit into atoms?
"A swash is a slang term for Nazi foot soldiers." Einstein told him as he sat at the edge of the cliff overlooking Lake Lucerne.
"Beautiful view, pops."
Al ignored his tease and went on. "The tropes are the super swash, genetically enhanced super soldiers capable of pounding you into the ground with one fist behind their back."
"I wonder if they still sell raspberry chocolate down there."
Al ignored this comment as well. "The zoms are civilians who have had their minds wired to remove all sense of self. They are still whole beings, but no longer in control of their senses. That is why we try not to kill them whenever possible. Instead we try to turn them."
Harry turned to eye Al, who was tamping his pipe onto the rock beside him, and reloading from a pack he pried from his jacket.
"Zoms are nominally still human people, just altered so that they have no control over their own body."
"A term I picked up..." Harry paused, trying to remember where he had heard it, and then shrugged. "From somewhere...somewhen."
Al nodded in a kind of fatherly way, and then scooted closer to Harry, examining his eyes. "The time dilation still hasn't worn off."
"Tell me about it. I feel like a taco turned inside out."
Harry turned to Al. "You really need to get out more."
Al laughed, and then tapped Harry on his right knee with his pipe stem. "Your next mission is critical. You must not harm the Zoms, even if they block your way to completing the mission. If it comes to it, you have to turn back."
"What if they're about to kill me?"
Al was silent.
Harry sighed and took a deep breath. "Life sure sucks sometimes, doesn't it?"
"Now that..." Al smiled. "That I understand."
Harry sighted the landing position in the cross hairs of his scope and began banking his rocket suit in that direction. He hadn't seen a single Swash jet since he had entered lower Lithuania, which could be a good or bad thing, depending on your sensibilities. He took a quick suck off his water stem, then clicked it shut and eyed the landing trigger. It was square on. He initiated thrusters and his suit slowed, then turned in a quick arc and landed him on his feet. He bent somewhat to absorb the impact, leaving a deep groove in the pavement he had landed on.
"Glad that was you and not me." He told the pavement, and then headed for the rendezvous point. He was meeting with a resistance leader, a pretend Zom, who was known to be faulty by the Swash, but ignored as long as he continued to do his job, which was loading and unloading weapons.
Harry's job. Rocketman's job was to make sure that loading and unloading came to a quick and timely end. The Allieds were mounting a quick thrust into the region in an effort to sweep out all the Zoms and return them to their own control, so they could join the resistance, which was spreading across Europe, however slowly.
Harry dreaded sometimes the work he did, because it kept him from returning to America, where the brain of Hitler ran everything. New Nazi New York it was called. The skyscrapers, the Empire State Building and the Monarch Building were now the headquarters for the Nazi party in America, which now led the war on the rest of the world.
When America fell during the last days of World War Two, it had ushered in a long period of subjugation and experimentation by the Fourth Reich, the reborn Nazis, led by a brain only Hitler, who lived through a robotic counterpart. It was Harry's determination to end that body that drove him on every mission in this alternate timeline.
Sometimes he missed the real timeline, but these days he wasn't so sure any timeline was real anymore than the other. No matter which one he lived in, he was getting shot at, battered and bruised, and the love of his life was dead.
But funny enough, the person he missed the most, was Jet, who had survived in the first timeline to be his best buddy and helper, but in this one, somehow didn't exist.
Harry parked his rocket suit inside the designated building, and then headed for the meeting place.
"Raspberry." Harry whispered in the ruins of what was once a beautiful church, its gothic spires marred by bullets and bombs, its beautiful stained glass windows shattered, its pews broken and scattered across the interior of the once magnificent structure.
"Chocolate." Came the counter answer.
Harry grinned, and stepped forward, and then as he lifted his hand to shake with the other person, he almost had a heart attack. It was Jet!
The person facing him gave him a blank look. "Who is that man?" He turned to see if he had been betrayed by Harry, someone hiding in the shadows perhaps.
Harry's emotions battered him. "Don't you know who I am? Your best friend. Your battering ram. Your personal line of envy."
Jet, a tall and well muscled black man, with deep brown eyes and a face marred by a slight scar on the left side of his neck frowned. "I've never seen you before in my life."
Harry didn't see the scar at first, but when Jet turned to look to his right, he did. Harry tensed. A Zom! Then he relaxed. Of course he was. He was an underground Zom, one who the rewiring had failed in.
"Where's your suit, Captain?"
Harry ignored the question and came closer, looked into Jet's eyes. The man stood stock still, as if frozen in place for a moment, and then he backed up. "I need to see the suit."
"Why would you need to do that?" Harry asked, his worry radar going full blast now. Something didn't pickle right in his brain. He gave Jet a closer examination. "The man I met was supposed to have a scar on the left side of his neck. Yours is on the right."
Harry ran for the exit of thee building, just as ten Swash entered, carrying their hammer guns ready to fire. Harry dove out a stained glass window that had been shattered to his right, and landed on his back, rolling to his feet. In seconds he launched himself swiftly towards the hiding place of his suit.
He felt, rather than heard the hammer guns fire. Their weaponry was so powerful that it fused the air about him, causing the skin closest to the blasts to blister from the intensity of the heat caused by their searing beams of energy.
He dove to his right, then threw himself into a cellar, crawled swiftly across it as quietly as possible, then levered himself to another window, and crawled out. He looked round, listened a moment, hearing nothing, he ran towards his hiding place. He reached it, just as the sound of alarms rang out and Swash lanced the air about him with their hammer guns. He landed inside the hiding place in a ball, rolled to a stop at the foot of his suit, then climbed inside of it. He clamped it shut, sealing it against the outside, then turned it around to exit.
That was when a trope stormed into the building and landed a hammer like punch to Harry's helmet. Harry stumbled backward and with the weight of the suit so great, he couldn't maintain his balance. He fell onto his back, just as the swash burst inside.
"The Fuehrer wants the Rocketman alive." The trope ordered, and then grinned. "But he didn't say in what condition...alive."
Stunned by the blow still, Harry shook his fog away and launched a mini-rocket into the midst of the swash, blowing up half of them, but the rest plowed through the death and destruction, trailing guts and blood, then dove on him and began pummeling him.
He could no longer move, or resist. Several of them had placed some kind of magnetic clamp to his arms, causing them to seal together. He was helpless as a baby. He couldn't fire rockets, couldn't get out. In other words his ass was cooked!
Harry looked at his charge. Not enough to launch horizontally without frying every circuit. And no way to know if the magnetic clamps did anything else than hold his arms together. He might become a flying torpedo and hammer himself to death against a wall, his stabilizers and softeners running at low ebb.
He watched his charger begin to renew his power supply. It was a new one altered from the last by Tesla, who had used a new form of energy to power it.
"It will make you nearly invincible." He had promised.
"Yeah." Harry quipped to himself, unheard by the swash or the trope. "At least my suit. Meanwhile, I'll be turned into soup inside this bell!"
The Trope shoved the remaining swash aside and grinned into Harry's face. In a very bad imitation of German...even though he was German...he said, "And now I shall smash your face into atoms."
"I thought you needed me alive!" Harry joked.
"Not you. Just your brain."
"Then you better aim a bit lower, as now you're aiming right at my brain pan."
The trope gave him a confused look.
Harry's suspicions were confirmed. The trope couldn't see through the helmet plate glass. It was too dark inside the room. Harry glanced at his charger. Almost full. "I bet you're so strong you could handle me all by yourself, even if I had my arms free."
The trope grinned. "Yes. And still take your brain."
The trope laughed, and then smashed Harry's midsection, breaking the clamps.
The suit rang like a bell, even more so than when the swash had been pounding him.
The trope yanked Harry to his feet as effortlessly as if the Rocket suit was just a suit of clothing, instead of armor and stuck his face into the Helmet's glass, peering inside.
Harry's eyes went round with horror.
The trope had no pupils.
The trope swung its fist back, preparing to complete its death stroke.
Harry smiled, and then flicked a switch with his tongue.
A horrible screeching sound rang throughout the building. He had planted the resounders shortly after he landed, just in case. It was the just in cases you had to be the most cautious about, not what might be's.
The trope clamped its ham sized fists over its ears and screamed, joining the screams of the swash.
Harry saluted the soldiers. "Say bye-bye."
The trope gave him a blank look. "Bye-bye?"
Harry launched a mini-rocket into the trope and the swash, launching straight up and through the ceiling of the church. He wasn't there long enough to see them explode, or hear them scream. As he raced from the building's roof, he turned to the south and there below him stood the zom Jet.
The zom stood there watching him fly off, making no move to fire the hammer it held in its hands. Just watching, a hand over its eyes to watch him as he blasted into the skies.
Harry's heart pounded in his chest.
"I'll be back, Jet. I swear it!" He promised, his eyes watering from the pain of leaving the only real friend he had ever had. He blinked the tears away, and then accelerated across the skies, towards Switzerland and home base. Away from death and destruction. And away from a friend who meant more to him than life itself.
"I will return." He swore to himself, as he fired the rockets that steered him north towards the Alps.
"I will, Jet. I swear it by everything I hold Holy. I will return for you. Or die trying." He said, his eyes misting even more as he shot up above the clouds and became a speck of light to those below.
The zom, who might be Jet, dropped his weapon and put fingers to his eyes. They were wet.
"Why? He asked no one, and then leaving his weapon behind, he marched away, a lone figure in a land of war and destruction.
An Interview with Lord Graystone, the Jungle Lord
By John Pirillo
For those of you who are just jumping into this interview, a brief review of the first one.
Lord Graystone is the survivor of a horrible accident, who grew up in Fairie, raised by a bull dragon. Much of his physical prowess and sensibilities come from living in those fierce jungles, which are not only enlivened by lions and crocodiles, but also prehistoric beasts straight from Jurassic Park. This is no surprise, considering that stories that originate here usually take on some kind of physical substance in that parallel universe, which I have named The Baker Street Universe in honor of its heroes.
The man, for surely he is, though quite a remarkable one, is fiercely loyal, powerfully strong, and has a brain as finely tuned as Sherlock's, with a memory equally as daunting. Not a man to make an enemy of. Fierce in battle, fierce in loyalty. Those are his attributes.
When last we spoke, I was about to ask my first question of the interview. I had a certain reluctance at the time, because of his known fierce nature, and surely wanted to accord him the respect such a powerful man of jungle and city deserves.
I pressed the record on button of my phone app, and then leaned back in my chair.
"It is my understanding that you were abandoned as a child. Is that true?"
I waited for him to explode in my face, for it was a very, very personal question and what I had written about him, as you will see, is far different from what actually happened, though close in some ways.
He considered my question a long time, his face clouded with emotion, and then he spoke clearly and precisely as those of a Victorian Manner are wont to do. "Sir."
"Call me John, please." I requested.
"We have not known each other enough to be on first names, sir." He answered, his face bewildered by my boldness. I had asked of him a question as equally as important as asking a fair young maiden of her virtue. Not appropriate. My first mistake.
But to his credit, he smiled. "I will call you, Mister Pirillo. You may address me as Jungle Lord." Here his smile broadened. "Or Lord Graystone."
"Very well." I agreed.
He nodded, and then spoke. "My mother and father were quite famous during the early reign of Queen Mary, who was merely a child at the time, ruled more by her counselors and advisors, than by her own hand.
"I was born to them during the siege of the Demon City."
"Yes. The Demon City was raised from the depths of Qwan Chi, an island off the coast of the mainland by a dark wizard for the purposes of using its inhabitants to terrorize and control the populated world."
"I am not familiar with that war." I said. "Perhaps you could enlighten us with more information about it."
"Is this relevant to my interview?" He asked, his face studying me for honesty, as he usually did to all I have noticed over time.
"Yes. It will put into more perspective how you have grown up and the effect of your childhood upon both your physical stature, as well as your intellectual prowess."
He almost laughed, and then stopped. "You're beginning to sound a lot like Holmes."
I blushed. "That would be an honor."
"Indeed." He agreed, saying no more.
He looked out at the Eiffel Tower, his hand holding a glass of the sparkling grape juice I had given him. He sniffed it, his eyes rolling with pleasure.
"My father and mother met during the war. She was a nurse, and he was a...how shall I describe him...a scientist of the dark arts."
"He practiced dark magic?"
"Oh no." He quickly shook his head. "No, merely the equivalent of an archaeologist or historian of your times. He went there to survey the ruins, and to understand how it had been raised. It was important to her majesty's armies at the time, as they feared the Chinas would rise from the ruins of that dark place to take on the world in another war, as they had in the previous three."
"There have been three wars?" I asked in astonishment. I had no idea.
He frowned. "Yes. Horrible wars. As you know they far outnumber our own Europes by a factor of ten. We could slay them by the millions and hardly make a dent."
He frowned even deeper. "But such slaughter has never been our intent, or that of the queen, as young as she was. We merely sought assurances."
"And what happened next, after your father arrived on the island?"
"He met my mother." He answered, his face brightening with that memory. "It was love at first sight. I remember that much of their history, though everything else, I'm afraid, is taken from other sources, other memories."
He looked sad momentarily, then took a deep breath and resumed his story.
"It was the middle of April, a time when the island would become freezing cold. The natives there used that time of year to catch fresh fish and store them for the summer and spring months, trading them for valuable supplies from the mainland Chinas."
"So how did your parents meet?"
He smiled. "In a dig."
"Really? Doesn't sound very romantic to me."
"Oh, it wasn't. From what Challenger's father told him..."
"Challenger's father was there?"
"Oh yes, indeed. He and Watson's father served in the military. Both men were highly decorated and renowned during that time."
"That explains how John entered the service then." I assumed.
"Oh no. John entered for his own reasons. To serve. He has always led a life of compromise and service. I honor him for that, and that is one of the biggest reasons I have joined the fellows of Baker Street in their administrations of justice throughout the realms."
"I see. So the dig then..." I urged.
He went on. "My father was young and foolish. She was also young, but very, very smart. Bright as the moon at night and the sun during the day. It was told to me that she had memorized every page of the Gita, a famous biblical yarn from the India Isles."
"That's remarkable. It's quite a dense book to read."
"You've read it?"
I nodded. "Yes, but a lot still remains a mystery to me."
"And rightly so, as it has arcane knowledge within it, meant only for the enlightened."
"Wizards and magic?"
At that point of our conversation in the interview my cell phone battery chooses to run out of charge.
I shall post further of this interview after I have had time to digest and review what was said later on.
I remain your humble and loving author and interviewer.
(New) Death comes in many shapes. Shake, Rattle and Death "A Weird Tale" By John Pirillo fractals, artwork, stories and videos www.johnpirillo.com
Shake, Rattle and Death
"A Weird Tale"
By John Pirillo
Mark glanced at the oddly shaped man, wearing a long overcoat and scarf that came up to his chin and a huge hat like something out of a cartoon that cratered over his forehead, hiding the eyes staring out from the shadowed, darkness beneath it. Something about the sight of the man sent him into a repetitive siege of violent coughing.
When he finally stopped coughing, he looked at his hand he had put over his mouth. There was blood on it. “Damn!” He thought to himself. He pulled out a hanky and cleaned his hand quickly before some pedestrian could see it.
Then he realized the odd man was still there, still staring at him.
There was something unusual about him. He wanted to put a finger on it, but it kept eluding his grasp. Finally, he shook his head and looked away. Nonsense he thought to himself. He had better things to do with his time. Which at this moment was he had way too much of.
He muttered angrily to himself. He had lost his job, his girlfriend and he had just gotten out of the doctor’s office after the paperwork came back from his last exam. He had lung cancer. Life sure sucked!
He lost his job, because he had failed to read the fine print on a contract he signed for his boss. Had he done so, he would still have his job. He lost his girlfriend because he didn’t think she’d find out about his one night fling. She had. He lost his health, because he had smoked since he was ten years old. He had lung cancer. In advanced stages.
He coughed real hard a moment into his right hand, wiped the blood on his hanky, and then looked up.
A fat old man sat down next to him. He stank from too much sweating. He glanced at Mark. “Whatever happens next, don’t believe a word of it.”
Mark gave the fat man an odd look.
“Okay, so I don’t have wings. But take my advice anyway.” The fat man insisted and got up to leave.
“Wait. Who are you?”
The fat man looked back and smiled. “Gabe. Everyone calls me Gabe.”
He took a turn at the end of the walking path and vanished from view.
“I will trade you.” The oddly shaped man said in a deeply melodious voice.
Mark almost jumped off his bus seat at the sound, and then his heart beating wildly, he turned to see the man staring at him. The eyes were more visible, but there was something odd about them, almost as if they were more like telescopic lenses than true physical human eyes.
“Speaking to me?”
The man nodded.
“Trade what?” He finally asked, being obviously expected to ask that question. But not before he glanced at his wristwatch for the time. The bus was late. No escape there.
“It will be late by ten minutes.” The oddly shaped man spoke to him.
He looked up. “What?”
He looked up, startled now so much that his heart was beating loudly in his chest. So loud he could hear it.
“You’ve been eating the wrong foods for years now. Your arteries are like the 405 freeway in Los Angeles in the morning. Your heart valves look like melted chocolate; they're so coated with fat and cholesterol. They are half way shut down by the corruption constantly coming through the arteries. You will be dead in twenty minutes. Which is ten minutes later, the time the bus arrives.”
“I didn’t actually need that much information.” Mark responded, so aghast at the remarks that he couldn’t think of any other reply at that moment. “Besides which I have lung cancer. I’m going to die anyway. So what do I care?”
“The one is curable. The other is not.”
The oddly shaped man came and sat down on his bench. He scooted to the far edge, almost falling off.
“I will not harm you.”
“Look, mister, I don’t go that way.”
The oddly shaped man laughed. “You think I’m interested in your body? To play with?”
“Whatever you call it, I’m not going there.” Mark answered, starting to sweat with fear now.
“Do not mock death!” The oddly shaped man warned.
“I’m not…” Mark froze. “Death! You’re Death?”
The oddly shaped man nodded. As he did his hat slipped too far forward a moment, revealing a skull head. Death knocked his hat back on again and hid the mistake.
Mark stood up. “I’ve got an appointment with you in Samarkand.”
Death laughed. “I think because you made me laugh, I’ll give you two more minutes.”
Mark was looking around, but no one was noticing. People were walking up and down the sidewalks, busy, their attention on their shopping, their partners, their personal thoughts, not a strange man and a stranger on a bus bench. It was almost as if he had become suddenly invisible. Strange.
“Why then, I’ll give you four.” Death laughed.
Mark dropped back to the bench. “I don’t believe you.”
Death pointed at a pedestrian making an unsafe jaywalk across the busy Las Vegas Boulevard. “He has five seconds to live. Four after he is struck which will be…”
A taxi swings around another car, and doesn’t see the pedestrian. He strikes the pedestrian who flies up into the air and lands in front of an oncoming bus, which rolls over him, then brakes.
People freak at the accident and begin screaming.
“How’d you know that?”
“Death. Yeah. Yeah. I know. But I thought God was the one who chose our moment of death.”
“In a matter of speaking, yes. But you forge your own deaths by every thought, word and deed you do. This pedestrian ignored the laws of physics when he stepped into the flow of moving traffic. God does not strip man of free will. Only man can give up that up.”
Death laughs again. “You’re funny. But kind of shallow.”
“Touché. Another couple minutes then?”
“Only if you trade with me.”
“Your body with mine.”
“You mean I can be death and do all the things that you do?”
“That is correct.”
“I don’t know, sounds kind of fishy to me. A Daniel Webster and the Devil kind of thing.”
“You mean Doctor Faustus, don't you?"
Death scrunched closer, his bones making knocking sounds, which Mark noticed for the first time. "Look at it this way then, Mark. When you are me, and I am you, you can grant yourself an eternal life if you want?”
“I thought you said God did that.”
“Oh, I have some leeway. Even Death has free will with some limitations, of course.”
“Of course and yet. Yet I have to grant you…me…eternal life?”
“Why don’t you just point your finger at yourself and give it?”
“Because I have to be in another body. I can not do it to myself.”
“Then if I switch with you and grant you immortality, I’ll be immortal then?”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Simple trade. You let me have twenty-four hours in your body. I let you have mine to use all its powers as you choose. With limitations, of course.”
Death pulled out a long document. “It’s in the fine print. Nothing big. Stuff like can’t use my powers to score with the opposite sex; can use it to create bullion…”
“Oh. Uh...pirate’s gold.” Death looks at the contract, touches the fine print and it arranges. “Need to update that to read as gold.”
“Well?” He looks over at Mark.
“There’s gotta be a catch. How do I know you’re not going to keep my body and I die anyway?”
Death stands up and plants his feet firmly on the pavement. He raises a hand over his heart. “I swear in the name of the Almighty that you will not die on my body when we switch.”
"I don't believe you."
A sudden burst of lightning strikes the pavement within inches of Mark. He scampers away.
"Okay, I believe you. But what about in my body?”
“I swear that as well.”
Thunder smashes across the skies accompanied by lightning. Pedestrians all look up at the sudden gloom and light.
Mark’s jaw drops open. “God did that?”
“Yes. He always does when I tell the truth.”
Another bolt of lightning hammers the skies and thunder explodes.
Death looks at his watch. “You have thirty seconds to decide.”
Mark glanced around. Everyone that was walking past acted as if he wasn’t even there. No one looked at Death, even though he sat right beside him.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Just one word of advice.” Death told him.
“Death only gets to take a holiday once every thousand years.”
“Oh. I see. So if I don't switch bodies with you now, you lose your opportunity to get a holiday?”
“Okay. What’s next?”
“Just sign here and here.”
“Sounds fair enough.”
“Sign here and here then.”
Death held out a pen. Mark took it. For a second he saw the fat old man across the street shaking his head urgently, making slices across his neck.
Mark shuddered. “Vegas. So many freaks here.”
“Hold my right hand. And close your eyes.”
Mark did. Death poked a bony finger into Mark’s hand. It swelled up with a big red mark, which quickly faded.
“Can I open my eyes now?”
“Count to three, then open them.”
Mark began counting. “One. Two. Three.”
He opened his eyes. Death was no longer seated next to him.
“Oh well. I guess the guy got tired of telling all those lies.”
Mark got up, but as he did he made these strange clanking and clinking sounds. It was then that he looked at his arms and hands. He was wearing all black. His hands were skeletal.
“Wow! It really worked.”
He looked around. Death was nowhere to be seen. Then he saw someone who looked familiar hitting on a cute lady across the street. He walked across the street. A car almost hit him, but at the last moment veered away from him into another lane.
He stopped beside Death, who was now wearing his body. “Hey! Now what happens?
Death looked his direction a moment, gave him a really, sly smirk, and then returned his attention to the young lady.
Mark reached a skeletal hand to grab Death, but it passed straight through him.
“It won’t work.” The fat man said as he walked up.
Mark turned around and his right hand held a scythe. He thought of using it to defend himself.
The fat man backed off, fending Mark off with his hands. “Whoa! I may be an angel, but I can still bleed.”
Mark lowered the scythe. “All right, so you’re a fat angel. Where were you when I needed you?” Then he remembered. “Oh. Well look, I signed a contract. I’ve only got twenty-four hours in this body.”
Mark suddenly vanished.
He found himself kneeling on a hill, his scythe out and pointed towards a battalion of soldiers fighting below against terrorists. A jet roared in from above and fire leaped across the fighters, engulfing all of them.
Mark stood up and what remained below were charred bodies and smoking ground. “Holy Crap!” He shrieked.
He stood there taking in the carnage. Men were screaming in pain. He saw one soldier trying to stand up, but he had no legs; another was crawling along the ground with one missing arm; two men lay on top of each other, their bodies twisted and crisped by flames. One of the soldiers looked up and then screamed. Mark could be seen by him.
Mark, for an unknown reason, lowered his right arm. The soldier’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed. He saw some medics rushing to the man. When they reached him, one felt for a pulse then shook his head. They ran on to the next fallen soldier as the sound of flames and screams merged together across the battlefield.
Mark heard a sound beside him and turned to see Gabe seated there, a sandwich in his lap. He was just unwrapping it. “What? A man’s gotta eat and so do angels.”
Mark frowned. “I thought angels were supposed to be compassionate.”
“We are. Didn’t you put that young soldier out of his pain?”
“That was you?”
“Of course. You’re too new to this death thing to sort it all out yet. I’m here to help you.”
“Well, I’ve only got about twenty three more hours and I’m free of this.”
Gabe took a bite of his sandwich and shook his head. “Nope. Not the facts at all.”
“But I signed a contract!” Mark complained.
“Did you read the fine print?”
Mark started to answer yes, and then he remembered he had only skimmed through the details. He hadn’t read it at all.
Mark groaned and sat down beside Gabe.
“Only for a thousand years.”
Mark growled angrily, and then smacked his knee, causing it to shoot off into the distance about ten feet, before it boomeranged back into its socket again.
Gabe offered half his sandwich to Mark. “Look on the bright side of it, Mark, you’ve got me to keep you company for the next millennium.”
Mark stood up then and shrieked to heaven all the anguish and despair that flooded out of him. As he did lightning and thunder smashed across the skies.
"Oh yeah. That lightning thing. Wasn't." Looks upwards. "Him at all. You got conned just like all those girls you Don-Juaned."
Gabe shook his head and looked down into his lap. “Now where did I put that mustard pack? I always forget something.”
Looks up at Mark. "Just like you."
Gabe laughs so hard, he sprouts wings on his back, and then launches into the air, soaring towards the distant sun, his laughter trailing behind him.
Mark sighs, and then eyes the food that Gabe left behind. He reaches for it, and then puts it into his mouth. It falls through this lower jar back to the ground again.
On the battlefield the medics look up for a moment when they hear the distant sound of a man screaming, and then they get back to work.
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