Save 50% buying all Angel Hamilton stories in one collection! Racy science fiction fantasy. A detective every client wants to seduce.
The Complete Angel Hamilton
Angel Hamilton is a detective who just can't keep out of trouble, or stay in money. Between girlfriends who are bloodsucking vampires, and unicorns that he has to fend off, he spends the rest of his time battling supernatural creatures called the Hellbound, whose sole mission in life is to destroy him and all humanity.
This is a collection of all six tales that have been written in the Angel Hamilton series.
Follow Angel from when he was used as an experiment that opened his mind and eyes to the supernatural that exists among us
Experience the challenges he faces when he has to help supernatural clients who are in trouble with the Hellbound who don't want to be noticed as they set about destroying human lives and will do anything to stop Angel from helping the innocent.
Had you bought all these stories individually, it would have cost you almost twice as much! But now you can get all of them in one bundle.
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
Port Demons of India. A Private Eye Crossbones Tale by John Pirillo. "He had to get a life before they got his!"
Port Demons of India
A Private Eye Crossbones Tale.
By John Pirillo.
"Ain't nothing tastes finer than a fresh pinkie on a hot toasted bun." From the Port Demon's Cookbook for ignorant eaters.
Call me Crossbones. Everyone else does. Private Eye Crossbones to be exact, though I was born with the name Samuel Henry Cross, but that seems just too normal in the world I live in now, being as it is filled with demons, werewolves, vamps, sicks and the worst monsters of all Corporate Demons...the head honchos that now run the United States of Corporate America.
Seems like every time I show up somewhere, there's heads rolling, legs torn off, chests burst open and general mayhem and death and dying. Pretty sad situation for a guy who just wants to make a living, even if it is a lousy one. Being made the symbol for everything that's not sugar and nice is just downright frustrating to say the least
They used to hide behind Senators and Representatives, Presidents and Corporation Boardrooms, but now they are out in the open as the gap between the rich and the poor, the evil and the good has become so wide that any kind of monster can now slip through into our world and often does.
Seek out problems and never get paid for them.
Or find problems, get paid and then get my ass kicked and money stolen before I can spend it.
Such is the life of a Private Eye.
As a child I never stuck anywhere long enough to remember any names. Friends were like cold showers. They woke you up, but were gladly forgotten. Most of my friends hated me because I was so honest. If they asked what I thought of their toy. I explained in no uncertain terms exactly what I thought. Parents were afraid to let me into their houses because I would answer and ask questions they didn't want to even consider...like how many heads can dance on the head of a pin, why aren't marshmallows put in the mouths of victims of cannibals, and why do vampires only have two teeth. You know the ordinary kind of questions a young kid asks who's dumber than an outhouse.
And this is my story:
I took his hand.
"And what do you want from me?" I asked.
"Passage to India."
I laughed. "With that kind of dough you could buy a plane!"
"But I would be spotted immediately. I need a companion. Someone to take their attention off me. You will be both my bodyguard and my diversion."
"Deal!" I said, shaking his hand vigorously with my right, while reaching for the stack of thousands with my left.
"Oh and one more thing." He added, as he noted with amusement my fingers clutching the cash.
"You might not return alive."
"That's always the risk."
"No, I mean...you might return undead."
That stopped me for a moment, and then I shoveled the cash into my jacket pocket. "No problem."
The things we do for money.
Andy, who was a fabulously rich sort of guy in this crazy world where demons pretty much ran everything outright and in the open, had wanted someone astute and brave to help him with a very important operation.
To secure a safe passage to India.
An Englishman with an American name. Nothing special to look at, when you could see him. He could become invisible. How? Another one of those strange magical things that have happened since America slid into the dark abyss of Demonic Lords.
But getting back to that passage to India. To you folks, that might sound like a phone call, or an internet click of the mouse to secure such a deal. But nope. That just doesn't work anymore. Most people who fly don't come back the same. So smart folks don't fly anymore, they make their own boats, or submarines, and sail and fly the world incognito. Otherwise the Corporate Demons took notice of you. And once that happened.
Now to you folks, that might sound like a phone call, or an internet click of the mouse to secure such a deal. But nope. That just doesn't work anymore. Most people who fly don't come back the same. So smart folks don't fly anymore, they make their own boats, or submarines, and sail and fly the world incognito. Otherwise the Corporate Demons took notice of you. And once that happened.
Kazam. Kazoo, it's all over for you!
Yeah! It's that bad.
Now, I only had one regret if I didn't make it back alive. Sassie Lassie. My gal. My girl. My best friend who loved me like a dollar cursed by a dragon, but was afraid to let go of it for fear another dragon even bigger would step into her life and not be half so nice.
"Sass!" I celled from my cheap disposable, which was untraceable to me. Her I didn't worry about, because her father worked for the IDS, the Internal Demon Service, and they gave them a lot of legroom to screw up before the collected any souls or demanded pounds of flesh. And it also didn't hurt that he was part demon too, which I guess makes her that way too, except that he had a parent full demon and a parent full angel.
Yup. There are angels running around too, as if demons weren't enough to cock up the mess. All we agnostics, and unbelievers got faced with the glowing crowd who could cut a demon's head off with a flaming sword...and actually get away with it.
Why God didn't turn them loose on the whole bunch, only he knew for sure. Maybe he was waiting for the rest of us to earn some kind of karmic freedom to be worthy. Just a stupid guess. I don't know. No one's telling either. Not even the angels I manage to run into from time to time, or rescue.
Yeah. I do that too. Figure even if there's no real God, at least I can make sure that if there is, I'll have a safe passage to you know where once it's all over with. Sigh. Ain't life complicated?
I sat up in the airliner we were traveling in, my eyes hurting from the sudden leap to consciousness. I was kinda leaning towards happy with all the internal gossip I had been handling, but coming back to reality is always a hard blow, especially when it is a hard blow that wakes you.
I rubbed my head and gave Andy my worst stare. Which is another way of saying that I looked like a third grader who had just got a deserved spanking and couldn't open his mouth without making it worse?
"You're a creep, you know it?"
Andy's right hand wafted the cash he had given me in it.
I gulped. He smiled.
"Okay. I apologize. You're not a creep."
He relaxed and handed the mother over.
"You're a damned waffle butt!"
Andy broke into laughter. I couldn't' figure out why until I looked at the thousand dollar bills and saw they had turned into soft rose petals. "That just plain stinks."
"No, not really. Rose petals smell..." He smiled again. "...Heavenly."
I turned away from him so he couldn't see the death in my eyes. I didn't want to get on this guy's bad side, if he had a good one that is. "Wake me when we arrive."
He shook me.
"What now?" I groused, turning to look at him with my bloodshot eyes.
"We just landed."
I sat straight up and realized that we were the only ones still on the jet. "Damn! We gotta scramble and fast!"
I grabbed my overhead bag and he his under seat one and we ran for the debarking ramp, where the last of the passengers were descending. We hurried up and mingled with them. And a good thing too because the Port Demons, these big burly purple haired freaks with bushy eyebrows that held poison darts for weapons, were starting to deploy around the ramp. Had they seen us running to get in line, we would've been Little Needled Annie and kaput, fast throttle dead and stinking hurried off to hell in small chunks.
The Port Demons earned their pay and ate their captures.
I felt sweat beading my forehead and even Andy passed a few jewels as we descended. He eyed me. "Sorry for the joke."
"Forgiven." I told him, and then tripped him as he stepped off the ramp.
He stumbled into the nearest Port Demon. I nimbly caught him back and smiled big into the angry Port Demon's face. "My mistake. Please don't eat us."
I held up a chunk of meat I usually carried for such occasions. He sniffed it and snapped it with his fingers, and smashed it down his ugly maw.
I counted to ten, silently praying and urging Andy along as we closed in on the Sacred Door, beyond which Port Demons are not allowed unless they want an Angel to sear their bowels from them. Angels only at such places. A small disposition from God I heard.
Some kind of balance between good and evil, though again I couldn't understand why the Big Guy just didn't take them all out.
"Arrgggh!" The Port Demon cried out, causing the other demons to glare at him angrily. They hate it when someone else screams.
He pointed to his mouth, then to us. They didn't look at us; they looked at the thousands of black scorpions that were pouring from between his closed lips, causing layers of steam to cloud his face and small rivulets of purple blood to spill down his chin.
Then they got it. They dashed for us.
I shoved Andy through the doorway and dove after him.
The nearest Port Demon grabbed my right foot. Big mistake.
He got the bitter end of a nice little onion bomb I kept in that heel.
He screamed like a fat pig about to die, because he was, and then as the others stumbled over him, they all caught fire, then vanished in a holocaust of purple smoke and burning flesh.
I picked myself up and found myself staring directly into the smiling eyes of an Angel, who stood about nine feet tall with a flaming white sword. "Not bad for a human." He complimented me.
I blushed. "Don't tell the Old Man, I really don't want Sainthood or anything."
The Angel broke into laughter, and feeling like a scorned lover I hurried Andy along to the lift that would bring us to the walkway that would tread us to the dock where an advanced hydroplane would scoot us swiftly across the water to the main coast of India.
Oh by the way. India broke up in the early two thousands. One too many tsunamis and earthquakes did what Pakistan's nukes never could, it split the continent in half.
We ran the walkway, because the exercise leaving the plane had delayed us by ten minutes, and Air India never leaves even one minute late.
We quite literally leaped onto the deck of the hydroplane as it ramped up and shot away from the dock, which was great for us, because a whole squadron of Port Demon goons reached the dock the same time we made our leap for freedom.
So it was either the polluted waters of the sea or a searing death from the Port Demons, along with a few bites that would hurt like hell...pardon the pun...or landing safely on the hydroplane.
I got my footing perfect, but Andy insisted on dragging his heavy bag with him. I had dumped mine right away, knowing how balance was our only safety at that moment. As he started to fly head over heels back into the sea, I jerked him forward past me and tumbled after him.
I landed on top him.
"Get off me, you jerk." He warned.
I rolled off, and then gave him a hand up. I eyed the big black bag he carried. "What's so important about that thing that you'd be willing to die the thousand deaths or choke on polluted seawater?"
"Just get me the rest of the way to India." He warned me, and headed up the flight of stairs towards our cabins.
I had a corner cabin reserved for the lower castes. No bathroom. No carpets. No bed. Just a heap of blankets for the floor and a hole in the floor to relieve myself. He went into a luxury suite complete with dancing girls and loud Indian music and chapattis.
I could smell them as I laid down to resume my mystical musings, but all I could think of was chapattis and rice, pakoras and samosas, and Tikli chicken.
Then I went to sleep.
But Sassy would just not let me be. She interrupted my dream with an intervention. You could buy those from some of the Angels if you were pure enough. She stood before me in the dream, her arms crossed over her lovely breasts, her eyes steaming with anger. "Did you think you could get away from me that easily?"
"Sassy!" I protested. "I'm on a gig."
I waved the thousands dollar bills.
Cha-ching. Dream ended.
I fell into a peaceful slumber knowing that my loving gal's heart was once more settled in peaceful thoughts about our future together.
Man! I really do have to get a life, don't I?
News alert! Beware Baker Street Universe, the United States of Corporate America is coming to take you away!
The silence that had fallen was broken by the voices of hell as hundreds of demons launched from the innards of the Globe Theater and rushed them, their hungry eyes and claws reaching out to ravage them.
Have no fear I will complete this tale. I thought it a good point to break the story, since it has become much longer than I thought it would be to do another shot at my favorite Private Eye Crossbones.
Yup. I've changed his name. Seems more appropriate considering the state of America he has to deal with.
I will return to the Bane of Sherlock Holmes after I get a chance to catch my breath over the weekend, Meanwhile, look for a new tale of the Private Eye Crossbones in an hour or two as my fingers warm up the keys and they loosen into a semblance of a new and important tale in my Unisted States of Corporate America series of stories.
Any accidental or intentional finger pointing at corporate America is strictly on purpose.
Spread your Sauce, Mind your Mummies
"A To Hell and Back Story"
By John Pirillo
"Mustard....the only female of the squad, the DAA...Demon Asskicking Avenger... works as a programmer during the times off, expert language skills, can interpret any language in a matter of minutes or hours, gifted, never forgets a thing, hard for dating because of her innate distrust of men, though she loves her comrades in arm, she won't have anything romantic to do with them even though Squat has a mad crush on her and brings her a bouquet of flowers every day. Named Mustard because she puts it on everything she eats, especially ice cream. Emerald green eyes and loud blonde hair, frosted with strawberry."
Mustard sucked and sucked on the stick, juicing it for every drop of pleasure she could, her parched lips aching from lack of moisture. The stick had been part of a cactus that she had blown up, along with an assorted cadre of Mexican demons, the kind that manifested with huge Tequila bottle heads, multiple knifed fingertips, and a tongue that could lash you like a whip, then such you dry like she was trying to do with that sole survivor of the blown up cactus.
The first one had stepped out of the Joshua Tree, leaned against it, a cigarette between its horrid lips, and tipped its Tequila head and leered at her. "Girlie, wanta get lucky?"
She had blown its Tequila to bits with her Sig Hauser.
A second slid from beneath a shrub and sneered at her, its Tequila head lined with wrinkles. "That trick won't work on me..."
She kicked it in its privates, and then as it ducked to cover them, she smashed its bottle against her knee, shattering it. Her pants smelled like Tequila and blood. Demon blood.
She shoved the body away and it dissolved, like the other back into the soil.
She didn't hear the other five behind her until too late. She spun around to confront them. She even managed to personally smash three of them together at the same time. The same time as this MF the size of a small garbage truck rammed into her legs. Wham Bam, thank you M'am. It had said, leering at her as she laid there, her legs both broken.
She had sneered through her tears of pain and powdered him with a grenade, sending him and the other lusting demons back to the hell they had come from.
The desert became hushed and quiet again.
But now she wouldn't be hiking back to her Four by Four anytime soon. It might as well have been a thousand miles away. That was when she realized she'd have to crawl a lousy thirty miles in hundred plus heat to get back to Baker.
How in the hell...she almost snickered at that word...had she ended up in the middle of the Mojave Desert outside Baker, where the 100 foot tall thermometer reminded her of what she didn't have? Water. Cool. Shade.
How? She had been a disgusting freak and plodded out into the desert by herself, because Squat had proposed to her again. She was so disgusted at him...no, herself...that she had run out of their meeting place, jammed the pedal on her Four by Four and drove blindly, until she finally ran out of gas in Baker. That was when she decided to go to the Little Alien Store, buy some jerky, some water bottles and hike out into the Mojave. Screw the heat! Screw the demons! Screw Squat!
No, she had stopped. "Unscrew that bastard. That bastard!" She had wept, and kept walking, even though night was approaching. That's when she had been ambushed by the damned demons. Damn!
Both her legs were broken. She had to crawl to make progress. She'd made a lot in the three days since the incident. Also blown up more demons. She seemed to be a demon magnet. She would've settled at that moment for being a babe magnet...but it seemed too sexist, even to her in her more elevated spirit at that time.
"Spread your sauce and mind your mummies." Her mother had always told her, but she never understood the meaning of those words until this crazy incident. At the time her mom had been spreading tomato sauce on a homemade pizza, confusing the wisdom she was imparting. Or else maybe it was just because Mustard was only eight years old then and had no idea of what a double entendre was? Probably be the last thing she learned the way things were going.
"Where are those brats?"She wondered out loud. For the last day or so she'd found herself having great conversations with the sand, the occasional rattle snake, and scorpions that rustled her way for a peeksy. They never rustled away though. She hated them with a passion. Devil's work for sure she thought sourly, thinking of the last scorpion who'd she'd ripped it stinger off, then its poison sac and sucked its juices from its body for nourishment. That had been her last meal. The one before that, several days after her fight that broke both her legs, she'd grabbed a rattler by its throat, ripped off its rattler, pounded it flat, then extracted its poison sacks, and munched on it raw.
She was long past caring about raising a fire. It might signal the other demons out there.
She looked up again as she painfully dragged herself inch by inch through the blazing hot sands, over prickly rocks and fallen thorns, ignoring the red ants and the scorpions who popped from under rocks to raise their tails at her when she accidentally disturbed their homes. She wasn't hungry anymore so she let them live. They let her live.
She swept...if you can call moving as fast as an arthritic old lady almost two hundred years old fast...some fingers through her straggly blonde hair. It would need a good shampoo and rinse once she got back. If she got back. No when she got back.
The thermometer was getting bigger in her vision now. How far? Maybe another mile?
She felt as if the ground were moving under her. Ahead of her was a large Joshua tree with the shade in the right direction and about the right size. It took her most of the rest of that day to reach it and she collapsed into it, letting herself go at last. Tomorrow would take care of itself. Almost automatically, her hand snatched out for a huge scorpion that rushed her from the shade she had invaded.
She quickly tore out its stinger and poison sacs, then sucked it dry, spit out the remains and rolled over onto her back. She edged up a bit to look at her legs. They were twisted like pretzels. "What a mess you've gotten yourself into now." She sneered at herself, even though only she could see it...in her own mind's eye.
Where was Squat when you needed him? A soft spot had grown in her psyche towards the man. He was no looker. But what he lost in looks, he made up for in his gallantry. No man had ever bought her flowers every day. Every single frigging day!
She burst into laughter. It came out as a hoarse, broken choke that sounded like a dying horse. Or at least what she imagined one would look like.
She heard a sound. New. Loud. Closing in.
She tried to roll over to look. A large shadow swept by. A horse and its rider. She glimpsed them for a brief moment. They were looking toward where she was crawling, a cell phone on their damned ear, their eyes lost behind thick sunglasses that blurred any side vision which might have caught her in them.
"Damn!" She swore, which came out as "Sham!" Making her sound like she was drunk. Hell, maybe she was. Dead drunk.
She laughed at her own stupid joke, and then sighed, making a gurgling sound in her throat. Her legs didn't hurt anymore. She suspected that the nerves had given up from all the banging around she had done to them as she fought off the last of those damned demons. Who would have thought that any country would have its own demons? But they did.
She remembered when she was in Russia, the demons there all looked like polar bears with vodka glasses for eyes and leering smiles. In Florida they all wore Hawaiian shirts and had noses that trailed behind them. In San Francisco they all dressed like drag queens and smoked long cigarettes that stuck between puckered red lips. Some damn heterosexual had given birth to that crazy version. Some Baptist preacher, whom they had to rescue from his own stupid demons. He had such a hatred and fear of being gay that he had manifested it as real demons.
Last she heard he had been busted by reporters for engaging in homosexual behavior with a prostitute that had cost his church hundreds of thousands of dollars to cover up. Such hypocrites. Why can't they just admit what they are and love themselves anyway? Why do they always have to take someone else down because of their fear of admitting what they themselves were?
That's the danger of hatred. It's powerful. Very powerful. And what we hate we create, even as what we love, we create. What a damned strange world, she mused.
Hell! Demons were nothing if uncommon. Generated by all the stupid fantasies of the people who feared them, they came in all flavors, and all dangers. Some ate you. Some sucked you up like soda. Some sipped. Some nibbled. Some fried you. Some dissolved you. Some married you, then exposed themselves on the night of the...here she fell into a smile. Romantic, she wasn't. So she refused to even go there with that thought.
Men disgusted her.
Women disgusted her.
She wasn't into sex. She wasn't into sex. Not with anyone or anything.
Her mind began to reel, so she reeled it back in, blocking out the visions of horror that began to overcome her, of groping hands, of a large face with a friendly smile, and a woman. A woman too. She shook the thoughts out and the images, her whole body numb with grief, despair and a growing anger. The last kept her awake, even as the sun began to sink and the temperatures drop. She had made it through the last nights because her fever had been so high that she had sweated through the dropping temperatures, but now she had beat that she felt the drop intimately, as intimately as if she were being dunked in a cold bath of ice water.
She sighed, and then closed her eyes. What was the use? She'd never make it. No one knew where she was. They had probably all written her off as another casualty. Another lost comrade. There had been others. Her heart grieved even now for them...Soothsayer, a gentleman who always wore a tux and carried a machine gun that could saw through solid steel and demons like butter. There had been Marge the Large. A very heavy woman who used her weight to demolish the demons, immobilizes them, and then finishes them off with huge slaps of her karate hands. Deadly hands. Even if fat. And the last...Norman. Normal in all ways. Petite, almost feminine. Had he been born in Frisco, he might have become a drag queen back in the Haight Ashbury Days, but he wasn't and wore his femininity like a cloak, but without blazing it for all to see. He had been the most hurtful of the lost ones. He was kind to a flaw. His kindness had let a demon get through his defenses.
It had been a ten year old kid, sucked into a demon, which had assumed its form and acted like a normal kid. The kid inside the demon would surface, sometimes naughty, sometimes nice, but always wanting to be...just a kid. Norman had taken pity on it, and spared it, securing it in his home's basement.
They had found him a week later after he didn't come for their regular meeting. He had been shredded to pieces. They found him intertwined with the ten year old boy in a pool of red and green blood mixed together. He had scribbled with his blood. "I saved him."
And for all she knew he had, the kid, now demon skinless, laid there with a serene look on his face and an arm wrapped around Norman's neck, his face wet with streaks of tears he had cried before he had died of heartbreak.
Shaker had told her all of that after she had come back from the madness it had temporarily flung her into. She had a sensitive nature and the sight of that destruction...a good soul and a young child, destroyed by the loathing and hatred of the darkness of demons created by humanity. That drove her over the edge for a time.
As she considered those days she fell into a merciful sleep. She felt her body struck hard, as if by something huge. But she didn't care anymore. What was the use? She was dying.
She heard a voice keep saying, "Don't leave me now. Don't leave me now."
It made sense, but it shouldn't have been there. Not with all the pain and agony her body felt as it was roughly moved. Every nerve in her body screamed.
Finally, she woke up screaming, every cell in her body letting go of all the pain and anguish she had been carrying for years now and those last few days.
She felt something wet her cheek and opened her eyes. Her screams stopped.
It was Squat. Looking into her face.
"You ugly sonuva bitch!" She greeted him.
"I love you too, Mustard." He told her.
Then everything swirled into a deep, blissful darkness. One she could surrender too, knowing she would escape to the other side with a man who cared for her as much as he loved his own life. Maybe when she woke up she'd tell him something about that. Maybe. But then she became lost in a beautiful white light that surrounded her and enveloped her, healing her mind, heart and soul.
"Spread your sauce, mind your mummies." Mom told her for a brief moment, her big, compassionate eyes looking into hers, and then she was lost again in the light and surrendered to unconsciousness.
Time to rest and heal.
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.
Short Story. "The Dominion of Worms " A To Hell and Back Tale. Demons aren’t monsters. Just people who want to give the rest of us hell!
" The Dominion of Worms"
A To Hell and Back Tale"
By John Pirillo
It is said that for every child that is born, at least six more go to heaven. I don't know if that's true or not. Guess it depends on which person, culture or community you're living in. What they believe to be true is not necessarily true or the truth in any form. But we have to respect it. It's the law of common decency.
Truth is like silly putty; it can be molded pretty much anyway we want it to go. Maybe that's how politicians justify squirming out of the truth so often. Just a little twist here, a little pull there and it's still the truth, but not as recognizable, and maybe even more palatable to the masses they intend to deceive.
He sighed to himself as he polished his AT-gun. It was the newest model. Straight from headquarters. Which means he had built it himself. His name was Gunner. He could be one mean sonuva you know what when action called for it, but he preferred being out in the fields, laying in the meadows of daisies and peonies as they blossomed in spring. But then it wasn't always spring, and when it wasn't he was in his sub basement.
Yeah. Right. A basement for his friends and neighbors and the government, and a sub basement for him and his fellow warriors. Their job: Kill demons. Their life: Kill demons.
Least that seems like what it was these days.
He sighed again. He hadn't had much time of late to socialize with the neighbors next door. Their daughter Elena was a knockout with a mind that could put one of his AT-guns together with her eyes shut. Not that he would ever give her one to play with. He was more interested in seeing how she could manipulate his puckered lips, than his killing machines.
He sighed yet once more. Good thing no one was watching, or they might have thought him a pansy or a loser because of the melancholy he was going through at that moment. Not the kind that leads to suicidal thoughts. Never that. He loved life. That's why he had made it his job to kill demons. They hated life and everything about it, because they could never, ever really be a part of it. The Creator had not made them that way; they had chosen that dark path and a million others so they wouldn't have to be responsible for their actions.
Demons weren't monsters. They were people who had died and instead of going to heaven, chose to stay on earth and make it miserable for those who still had a real, living, breathing body. No, they weren't demons in the classical sense, though over time because of their darker natures, they started to resemble the very things that would have frightened them to death when they were alive.
They were just lost souls who had chosen to use the energy of Creation to bend to their selfish ways and over time had become further and further corrupted. You might ask yourself, he had many times, why God allowed them. Because He hoped that one day they would turn back to the path of Creation and not destruction.
Meanwhile, Gunner and his commandoes put to right the wrongs those misguided souls created and set them back on their merry way to God. Usually screaming and cursing, because it meant they had to finally face what they had done and been doing with their lives. It wasn't a pretty picture watching them go. But it was a job that had to be done.
Oh, and in case you're wondering. There is a hell. Earth. And about another infinite versions of it, made up by the lost souls who demonized their lives.
He and his fellow commandoes journeyed to those hells in search of victims of these perverted creatures to save them, to give them another chance at life.
It had all started when their boss had lost his daughter to a Head Honcho Demon, and then branched out into a more general service of righting demon work everywhere. There was so much of it. It appeared endless sometimes, but then it would, since so many people who crossed over, refused to go into the Light and into the true Creation and thus remained earthbound and eventually hell bound because of their dark motives.
Gunner didn't have any problem working with the souls who were just plain confused and lost. Those souls could usually be nudged back onto the path with a little patience and guidance. No, it was the mean ones. The nasty ones. The hateful ones who didn't like humans even when they were alive: the terrorists, the crazy gangbangers, the serial killers, the crooked politicians, the deceitful maniacs who perverted wealth and power to control and manipulate others. Those were the ones who opted out to become demons.
Yeah. Sometimes they just sighed up; straight and front. I want to be a demon they realized as they crossed over and saw the faces of past friends who had chosen to go t hat way, even though their friends no longer had the bodies of normal humans any longer.
Gunner stood up and stretched. He gazed at his arsenal a moment, taking in the double bladed knife he usually sheathed on his right hip, the slim gun with rapid firing magnesium pellets that could melt an ice demon, the looper, which cast thin wire that rapidly garroted any creature luckless enough to catch it around its neck or necks.
Mostly, they didn't use exotic weapons. It was his job to come up with them, because there were special circumstances, special demons that only one kind of weapon or another could send them off the planet and back in the direction where they should be.
He never asked where the dead demons went, but his silent comrade, the gorgeous one, whose name was so gentle, you'd never believe she killed demons for a living; she had said that they ended up on another planet, like ours, but where they had to learn their lessons. She called it a prison planet of sorts, but then he had joked and said, "And ours isn't?"
She hadn't laughed. Nor had she replied. He had remembered that to this day. Was his planet also a prison of sorts? Maybe just at a higher pay grade?
As he was musing over the philosophy of his thoughts, the door to his sub-basement burst open and a Charly...demons over ten feet tall...burst into the basement, brandishing hands with fingers shaped like knife blades.
He didn't bother to ask it to knock next time; he calmly raised his Sponge and fired it. The Charly was caught in a net of gooey energies. Sort of like Nano particles, but mixed with a kind of binary burgundy that kept it always moving in its narrow orbital shape, so that nothing could slip through it or break it, not even a ghost.
The Charly tumbled to the floor, its roar of triumph turning to a whine of self pity.
He stepped over to it and hefted his Sky Kicker. "I hear you get all the free food you can eat where you're going!"
Then he fired.
The Charly snarled and screamed as it was enveloped in a thick, piercing energy of white light, then it vanished, leaving only a slight brown stain on his beautiful tiled floor.
"Aw!" He swore as he looked at the stain and headed for his mop and bucket. "And I just cleaned it up this morning."
Then he began cleaning up the remains of the demon. Smearing it and the memory of it from his life and that of the planet.