Fiendish plots. Nazis! Sabotage. Death. The Spy Smasher faces certain death yet again in Chapter 9 of the Spy Smasher!
(New) Hero and warrior! Captain America, Golden Age Serial, Chapter 15, fractals, artwork & stories at www.johnpirillo.com
This is the last chapter of one of the most expensive Golden Age Serials created by Republic Films.
Wouldn't it be fun if the movie theaters once again had a serial, a cartoon or two, maybe some news and a nice movie all at the same time?
I had it as a kid. Wish you all could have the same. It was fun and exciting.
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.
"A Journey to the Center of the Earth Story"
By John Pirillo
"Jesus!" Russ cried out after he slammed his forehead into an unseen protuberance in their passage along a new stretch of tunnel that Rwolf had discovered. "Rowlf!"
Rowlf looked back, his head ducked considerably, because of his extreme height. "Rowlf."
"Not what I mean." Russ gasped in pain, rubbing at the blood he felt oozing from his bruised and cut scalp. "My head...this!" He motioned with a bang onto his head.
Rowlf copied him, hitting himself in the forehead, and then grinning like an idiot child, if you can call the grimace of demon like face grin. "Dwis!"
"I give up!" Russ cursed, and then pushed past Rowlf, using his hand to trace the overhead rocks as he moved forward.
Everett patted Rowlf on his forehead in a friendly manner. "He's got a bugger up his butt. Ignore him."
"Wuss fwunny!" He made a disgustingly gross imitation of a bark of laughter, which caused both Russ and Everett to clench their ears tightly against it.
Rowlf shut up.
Russ let go, relieved it had stopped. He felt his forehead again. "We don't find some water soon; I'll be drinking my own blood."
"Dwisgwusting!" Rowlf snorted.
"You tell him, Rowlf." Everett laughed.
Russ looked back and gave them both a look of utter disgust, then turned back to the way he had been facing. "I think the glitter moss gets thicker ahead."
"Why would you think that?"" Everett demands, squeezing to Russ's side to look. "Oh."
Ahead of them a sprinkling of light that shimmered at a low in intensity was spread and then got brighter as the passage lengthened further down the line.
"Water." Russ said, smacking his dry lips.
"Wasser." Rowlf said, rubbing the top of his head.
Russ and Everett gave him annoyed looks. "We don't drink water through our head, Rowlf." Russ scalded their companion.
"Rowlf dwoes." He barked, about to laugh, then catching himself on their glares.
They fumbled the rest of the way, managing only a few more scrapes and bumps in pools of shadow until they reached the thicker clumps of glitter moss. This was a new breed from what Russs could discern. He felt it with a hand and the moss brightened. He took his hand off and it dimmed.
"On and off." Everett noted.
Then they both gave each other a knowing look.
"Light!" Russ grinned.
"Finally." Everett grinned back.
Rowlf rubbed his forehead, scratching it with his sharp clawed fingers, making a horribly grating sound that caused both Russ and Everett to squeal in discomfort. Rowlf froze.
Russ and Everett sighed with relief.
Rowlf scratched again.
Rowlf gave them one of his fiendish grins again. "Wah, wah."
"I'll wah wah you, you big armored insect." Everett threatened.
Rowlf started to laugh, but Russ got to him first and clamped a hand over his mouth."Really?"
Rowlf shook his head. Russ let go.
"I think we can make a simple flashlight out of this stuff." Russ suggested.
"Gotcha." Everett replied, figuring out the same thing.
They spent the better part of an hour, scrounging through the few things they carried in their pockets and slings, and then made a very crude flashlight for themselves and Rowlf. Rowlf immediately started playing his like a small child playing with a sparkler, swinging it round and round, making huge circles of motion blur light, which caused his eyes to blaze with awe. So he kept on doing it, making sounds that both Russ and Everett found charming and soothing.
A very simple sound. He purred.
"Just a stupid overgrown kitty." Russ commented.
"With armor like a tank." Everett reminded him.
"There's that." Russ agreed.
They watched Rowlf play with his light for several hours, then their fatigue took over and their eyes slammed shut. Rowlf, however, was not sleepy. He slept rarely and even then only for a few minutes at a time. He never seemed to grow tired. Just like a little kid, mused Russ, experiencing a brief pang of loneliness and regret, before he was slung off into the nethermost regions of sleep.
When he woke up, Rowlf was seated in that strange stance he usually assumed, where his knees popped up above his head and his arms slung out front like a ramp to his chin. He held a large stone, about a hundred pounds worth judging from its size, which was hollow. Inside the hollow was...
"Wahwah." Rowlf agreed, nodding at it.
Everett woke up. "I didn't do it, Sheila, she did."
Russ glanced at his waking friend. "Who's Sheila and what did you do to her?"
Everett gave Russ a blank look, and then discovered the water, which was a mere few inches from his prone position. Russ never got his answer. Everett thrust his face in the large bowl of water and drank so loudly that the passageway echoed his slurps. Finished, he rolled out of the way and Russs did the same.
Both satiated, they looked to Rowlf, who stood up with the bowl and proceeded to pour it down the top of his head.
"I'll be damned!" Russ said. "He does drink through that thick skull of his."
Rowlf understood enough to bark with laughter, spitting out water as he did into their faces.
"Disgusting!" Russ cursed.
"Wet and disgusting." Everett agreed, moping at the dripping water all over his face.
Rowlf set down the stone bowl, and then squatted again between the two men. "Nwow?"
"Now we find food." Russ said, gathering his things and standing, stretching as he did.
Everett sighed, and then forced himself up as well. His stomach made a sound like a laundry machine for a moment. Everyone looked at him.
"Mwonster?" Rowlf asked, plainly surprised at the sound, as he always was.
"Not this time, Rowlf, nor the last, nor the next time." Everett scalded him. "You have the memory of a rock."
Rowlf grinned that horrible grimace. "Twanks."
"You're welcome." Said Everett, smiling in spite of himself.
They plodded along the stretch of tunnel, which began to broaden and then they found themselves looking at a junction of four different tunnels.
But not just that.
Russ dropped to a knee with an exclamation of excitement. Everett joined him. "What is it?" Then he saw what Russ was looking it. A candy wrapper. Hershey's.
They jumped up and began screaming like school kids, thumping each other on the back, harder and harder, laughing so hard their lungs and stomachs threatened to burst, while Rowlf stood back, watching them, thinking they were dying or worse.
Finally, their fit of excitement subsided, and hard reality set in. "Could have been months ago." Russ noted.
Everett's happy face vanished into a scowl. "Damn you for being the practical one."
"Someone's gotta rub our faces in it."
Everett kicked the wrapper aside. Russ watched the paper flutter in the air and then land several feet away. Like two small children they both cried out and dove for the paper. Russ got to it first, and then ripped it in half, giving the other part to Everett. They both started to lick the wrapper, and then froze, as they realized what they were doing.
"We're idiots!" Russ said. "It's just paper."
"Yeah. Paper." Everett echoed.
Rwolf cleared his throat.
They both gave him a guilty look and without thinking twice about it, ripped their portions in half and gave it to Rowlf, who promptly shoved it into his mouth. He let out a huge sound of disgust, and then spit it out like a rocket.
Russ ducked as the paper shot at him splatting into the wall, where it was covered with a greenish kind of ichor. Rwolf's spit was green.
"That was a waste." Everett looked at the lost paper sadly.
"Sad. Sad. Sad." Russ agreed, then he greedily began licking at his portion of the wrapper as his friend did the other.
Finally, they ate the paper, swallowed it, and then rubbed their stomachs.
Rowlf gave them a look of alarm, which resembled a bear about to attack. "Youse kwazy!"
"Yeah." Everett agreed. "Dead crazy, for sure."
"Absolutely nuts." Russ nodded.
Then both men began scrambling on the floor, looking for more discards. They found a butt of a cigarette, then a spent bullet shell, then another and another. It led into the third tunnel.
They got to their feet and turned to face Rowlf, who gave them another look. Question?
"Something attacked them."
"Rowlf wheat swoon!" He said, rubbing his stomach area.
Both Russ and Everett made faces, and then trudged into the new tunnel. Whatever happened, one thing was constant, Rowlf never ceased to amaze them.
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