The Son of Casablanca

A Little Good Blood Makes The Grass Grow.

By: Rocky M. Magana 1

A Little Good Blood Makes The Grass Grow.

By: Rocky M. Magana 2

A Little Good Blood Makes The Grass Grow.

By: Rocky M. Magana 3

A Little Good Blood Makes The Grass Grow.

By: Rocky M. Magana 4

A Little Good Blood Makes The Grass Grow.

By: Rocky M. Magana 5

“After all these years I see that I was mistaken about Eve in the beginning; it is better to live outside the Garden with her than inside it without her.�

-Mark Twain

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This book is dedicated to the girl who doubts that love is enough; I hope this story proves to you once and for all, that in the end it's really all there is.

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A Brief Letter To My Most Beloved Friend.

(The Introduction)

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The greatest misconception about faerie tails is that people actually think faerie's have tails at all. I have never in my life met a faerie that had a tail, and believe me I have met a great deal of faeries. Don't mistake me though I'm not saying that it is beyond the realm of possibility that there is a faerie out there somewhere with a tail as long as a city block.

Anything is possible when it comes to faeries. You may stare at me strangely when I talk like this... Stare all you want, stare until your eyes fall out of your skull and you're forced to wear a pirate patch for all I care; just be careful dear brothers and sister not to become one.

There are a far more pirates in the world than you realize, and you must guard against them at all times. These pirates do not desire rubies or gold like the old pirates did; these pirates come to steal, kill, and destroy your imagination. They are the devil himself. They are grownups who say things like “You can't color the sky green and the grass blue” or “Elephants can't fly over the rainbows” and worst of all, they demand that you “stop behaving silly.”

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They believe that honor is found in responsibility; except their idea of responsibility is that everyone should forget the dreams they had as children, and betray all of the fantastic things not of this world. They want you to work very hard at a very serious job, like a bank for instance.

They do not believe in Faerie Land, Narnia, Neverland, or any other place of that sort. For them it is an impossibility to stumble into an enchanted wardrobe, and come out the back into a magic wood. You can do nothing with men like this but pity their lack of responsibility.

A responsibility that we all have to nurture and care for the wonderful and beautiful dreams that our Creator has placed in our brains.

I believe G-d gave us faeries and the idea that they might have tails for a reason. Many men have great intentions, but most of them are ruled by arrogance which leads them to act irresponsibly.

You say there is no such place as Faerie Land. I say you presume to know an awful lot about everything in the universe (which as I recall is a immensely large place, even bigger

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than the word immensely.)

We must quit telling G-d what He has, had, can, could, would, or will do... He can make as many Faerie Lands as He pleases.

It is okay to chase the unquenchable urges we have in our hearts to pursue these places, and share them with one another. How else will we keep alive our vibrant hopes that our souls might escape the pirating clutches of Hell?

Finally I implore you dear friends that as you read this and even afterward when the years have passed and all other tings have faded, when even this story has faded from your mind and I am dead and gone; even in the twilight of your life, be silly and love one another!

And dance... always keep hope, and be humble. Love is wisdom.

I wisdom you all very much –Rocky “El Toro”

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Part I: The Son of Casablanca (A Melodramatic Story About Love At First Sight.)

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Chapter I Where it all began. “Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward. They may be beaten, but they may start a winning game.�

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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O' to perceive even the tiniest bit of truth, Is to understand, you understand nothing, Until you learn you have nothing to teach, You will be a teacher of nothing.

For the older a man grows, The less proud he becomes, And thus it is our lives great joke, As we lay on our deathbeds at the end, We are at last ready to begin.

Upon this restless sea we sail, Hoping to sink this ship so frail.

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The fable I lay out for you is a story of the fantastic, but it is also a tale of things divine, and thus very serious business. Also contained in these pages are the details of some incredibly dark and lonely deeds. But even in these terrible missteps, there is love.

Immovable, and undeniable love.

In the end, isn't that the only real kind?

Anything less wouldn't be love.

This first part of our story does not brood a fair and happy ending, only a terrible conclusion.

Our adventure begins in a far off land. A land so distant, that it lies beyond the furthest ocean, beyond the furthest mountain, beyond the sun, even beyond having a name. When somebody does need a name to call it, they simply call it “The Land” but that is not its name, it's simply what it is. It isn’t on your atlas, but that doesn't mean it’s not on the atlas.

It's here, you just have to know how to look for it.

That Dear Reader is where I come in, I am here to show you the giant that rests right under your nose.

Imagine a pamphlet. When the pamphlet is

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folded, we only see the gist of the subject on its cover, but not the meat and potatoes of what's inside. However, once the pamphlet is unfolded, we learn the deeper facts of the topic.

Our world is the same way, these seven continents we roam are only the gist and not the entrĂŠe. Once unfolded, once you see the whole of it, you realize the world so much more fantastic and scary than you would ever of thought to give it credit for.

Enough about pamphlets, I take you now to a foggy town named Golgothae; it was a place of dark magic and mysterious crimes. A place with an ancient curse over it. A curse so evil, that it makes everyone living under its canopy behave like wild lusting beasts.

There were and still are no good-hearted people in this town, save for one family by the name of Fellini. The head of the Fellini family was a stout man with twenty brothers and no sisters named Casablanca. Casablanca was happily married to an extremely plain woman by the name of Antiguenine. Antiguenine was barren deep into her twenties. No matter how often she tried (which was often, for she was a good wife) she could not conceive a child.

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However, on the 15th anniversary of her first communion, mercy touched her womb and blessed it with a son. The next nine months were a series of happy days where tomorrow was better than yesterday.

At last when Antiguenine thought her heart would burst from joy and that she could bear no more, she went into labor.

The whole house was hurled into a frenzy of excitement. All twenty of Casablanca's brothers ran to and fro trying to help, but they were not quite sure what to do so they just kept running into each other. First knocking the bowl of hot water from ones hand, and then crashing into another, spilling the clean towels on the ground. It was a series of minor calamities until at last the exasperated father threw them all out of the house and made them wait in the backyard, where they smoked their cigarettes and listened for signs of new life.

Although the brothers Fellini had no way of knowing, the labor went smoothly for Antiguenine. She barely let out a peep through the whole process.

Once mother and son had been cleaned and prepared for visitation, the brothers were

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allowed back in the house to see their new nephew who was the first of the next generation of the bloodline.

Little did they know, that due to the nature of Golgothae, and the great plague that followed in the coming years, there would be only five children born to this generation of twenty, and this baby was the only one who would live to see his third birthday.

If they would have known how precious this child was, how he was the sole hope of the survival of their family name, they would have been much more reverent than they were. But these were days where darkness had not yet impeded their household.

Seeing how easy Antiguenine and the child were getting on, one of Casablanca's least serious brothers let out a hearty laugh and slapped him on the back proclaiming “That boy's head must have been greased by the hands of G-d!�

This was true, for although he was a handsome baby, his skull was shaped like a light bulb, which made the fact that he fit out at all, let alone with such ease, quite the miracle. 1 As I have told this bit over the years, I have gotten quite a bit of negative reaction from women. I do not know if this anger and 1

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Man and wife quickly realized their baby had the spirit of a saint. All that was missing was the glow from the halo over his head and one would have thought that this child was St. Francis of Assisi incarnate.

Overcome with thankfulness, they named him Grato.

That night there was a great feast in the Fellini household, for this child meant that G-d had not ignored their plea's. That he was the giver of their hearts most intimate desires.

Standing at the head of the table Casablanca stood to give thanks for the meal, bowing his head he spoke with a sincerity reserved only for prayer “Father of all things, I thank you on this most important of occasions for looking upon me with favor and granting me a child formed in the womb by your very hands. Even though I am but a wretched sinner, you have seen fit to give me the title father. A title shared by you. Forgive us for our sins, and show us your grace and mercy. A mercy that is self evident by the bounty you have set before us. We thank you for this meal, it is more than we deserve. We thank you for first speaking disbelief is fueled by envy or not; but if it is, then perfect. After all, what good is a faerie tale if it's not marvelous enough to envy?

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light into being. We thank you for separating the waters of the earth from the waters of the sky, so that the rains might nourish creation.

We thank you for calling land out of the water for us to dwell upon and work with our hands.

We thank you for calling plant life out of the soil and for creating animals to sustain our lives. We thank you most of all though Father for not fully cursing the earth upon our rebellion in the garden; we thank you that despite our great wickedness you still allow the crops to grow. Thank you for the divine knowledge you have placed in our minds that teaches us how to make these crops fruitfully produce out of the ground year after year.

Thank you for all of the men throughout history who have worked the earth, and thus passed down their knowledge to each generation so that it could reach us today. Bless the man who owns the land from which our food has come.

Bless his workers who diligently plowed the earth and tended to the livestock. Bless the harvesters, who by the pain of their back and the sweat of their brow, we eat today. Thank you for the shippers and merchants who have brought this food great distances to our table,

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and equally so, bless every merchant and shipper who passed down the knowledge of commerce the ages. Bless the hands that have prepared this meal, for what greater gift can one give than the continuance of life? Lastly we thank you for this food, may it nourish and sustain us; giving us the strength with your help, to live righteously in humility and grace.

Amen.�

And then they ate, and sang deep into the night.

Although child and mother could not attend the meal themselves, they could hear the sweet musical thunder of celebration echoing throughout the hallways.

As a baby, Grato hardly ever cried, and when he did, it was only because someone else was crying. This attribute stayed with him as he grew into young adulthood; if anyone around him showed the slightest notion of sorrow, he was beside them, matching them tear for tear.

As beautiful of a crier as he was, all the tears in the world could not compare with his laugh. He had a lovely laugh.

You may think that it's funny describing a boy as having a lovely laugh, and it was. But it

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served him well, for when he laughed even wicked men found it difficult to be in a foul temper.

Despite all his magnetic qualities, Grato had only one true friend; his uncle Augustus.

Augustus was the 7th youngest of his father’s brothers, and the greatest friend a boy like Grato could hope for.

Augustus was born crippled at birth with an upside down heart, and misshapen legs that looked like contrasting tree branches; one was as thick as an oak, and the other was frail like a weeping willow.

Using a crutch Casablanca carved for him from a large piece of birch, Augustus managed to hobble around in great pain.

He cried a lot, and thus found himself in Grato's company almost constantly.

Like all young men, Grato had dreams, he dreamed of fantastic adventures that would take him far from home. He thought about things too, strange things that nobody else he knew thought about. Thing like when Chr-st was crucified, did the animals know? Did the whales in the deepest parts of the ocean cry?

Did the eagles on the mountain tops beat their

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chests and tear out their feathers?

He thought about a lot of things, but most of all he thought about falling madly in love with a girl and running away with her.

But deep down he knew he could never leave his family... or so he thought.

On Grato's 18th birthday, Augustus grabbed him and the two set out to paint the town red. It was Augustus's misguided intention to let his nephew sow his wild oats, but only to a degree.

He was there to make sure the boy stayed within the parameters of temperance and virtue.

Grato wore his Sunday best; a pair of brown trousers and a canvas shirt. Grato slicked his hair back. He usually only did this for funerals, but this night was special, for this night, he became a man. Which is why he slicked his hair back even though nobody was dead.

Grato and Augustus began their night by dining at a local pub named McDevil's. The proprietor of the establishment shared its namesake however it was not named after him.

After gorging on wild boar and splitting a pint of McDevil's finest ale, Grato and Augustus paid their tab and waddled out into the street bloated and full.

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And that Dear Reader is when it happened!

For the first time in his life, Grato saw her...

She was breathtaking. Her skin was olive.

Her face reflected the freshness of an apple just becoming ripe but not yet picked; hanging at the tip of the limb, plump and juicy, ready to be devoured, threatening to fall to the earth.

The whole world stopped spinning, the earth stopped it's orbit, the cosmos came crashing down, and the galaxies shuttered and did a double take.

Grato was instantly in love with her, she was both the fruit and the tree in the garden.

Who was he kidding she was the garden itself.

If she were to fall, he would gladly fall right alongside her. Just as long as he was beside her.

Love at first sight is a dangerous thing, but then again so are a lot of things worth trying (space exploration or deep sea diving) He drank in every inch of her. Her eyes were dark, deep, and full of fire so hot that they'd give a volcano a sunburn. Her lips, O' Dear Reader those lips. There are no words that can describe her lips. They were two plump virgins, fair in color, sweet in speech. Had they

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ever been tasted by anyone except when in prayer?

She wore a black cloak that covered her whole body. Grato mused that it was because of her virtue that she did this to prevent weaker men from stumbling into sin by lusting over the holy and divine nature of her better parts.

Who was she? Surly a girl of such extreme beauty could be nothing but the offspring of the most pious. His heart danced like a ballerina, and his mind raced like a thoroughbred.

But Grato's joy was short lived. Like most good things, as quickly as she came, she was gone again. She made her way down to the corner of Crystal St. (which is the main intersection in town) where she turned left, and escaped out of sight.

She was gone, a phantom, an evanescence in the fog. Grato's heart broke into a million microscopic pieces that fell into the pit of his stomach.

There was nothing left to be done now but cry.

Grato felt foolish at letting her get away, but what else could he do? He had stared at her as hard as he could, and she didn't even notice.

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Not even a glance.

With plan(A) right out the window, he was forced to resort to plan(B) He soon realized he didn't have a plan(B).

Plan(A) had seemed sure fire, why would he ever need a plan(B)?

Then something happened, Grato's brain turned on and said “Run after her you stupid knucklehead!”

“Wait a second, brain, what are you jabbering on about?” thought Grato.

“Run after her, or I'll give you cancer!” demanded his brain.

Grato thought hard trying to decipher the code that his brain was speaking in “Run after her? How am I supposed to do that, my heart is broken?”

His brain was exasperated with his idiocy and was the verge of having an aneurysm.

Kicking him in the back of his eyeballs, his brain screamed “With your legs for Christmas sake!”

Grato strained the capacities of his being trying to untangle the riddle.

Vehemently wishing that his brain would leave him alone to pout in peace like a real

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man, Grato seriously considered cracking open his own skull so he could punch his brain and give it what it had coming...

But then Grato remembered something.

Something important.

“Wait a second.” he thought.

Grato strained himself some more.

Whatever it was, was on the tip of his tongue.

He could feel it, tingling on his taste buds... and then at last it just blabbed out of his mouth like a seven year old with a secret “I have legs!

By George, I have legs, two of them!”

Most men don't have the stones to chase down happiness when it comes their way. They simply behave like the cowards they are, letting it pass by. They wallow in their bad luck, eternally pitying themselves over the one that got away.

But not our boy Grato, not on this day.

Wasting no time, Grato did what all men when do when they meet the girl of their dreams. He instantly forgot about his best friend and chased after her as fast as he could.

Bobbing, weaving, and at times shoving his way through pedestrian traffic, Grato turned onto Crystal St. just in time to see the object of

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his desire walk though the front doors of The Black Ivy Social Club.

The Black Ivy Social Club was a place of ill repute of the worst kind. His father would be very disappointed if he knew Grato was even considering going into a place like this. His words echoed in Grato's mind “It's not a safe place, it's very dangerous... you must promise me you will never go in there.”

Even as he thought this, two men burst out of the front doors and into the street brawling.

The first man punched the second, and the second returned the favor. Soon the fight was over, it ended with a hole in the second mans gut, and a bloody knife next to his body.

“It's a moral black hole, a little Sodom and Gomorrah that embodies every circle of hell... swear an oath to me that you will never go in that place under any circumstances... it's not safe.”

But Dear Reader, love is not safe.

Grato had kept his promise until now. I say now because, now Grato's promise was the furthest thing from his mind. Now all he could think about was her.

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Chapter II Sometimes saints wonder into Hell. “Man is the hunter, woman is his game. The sleek and shining creatures of the chase, we hunt them down for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.�

-Lord Alfred Tennyson

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There is cherry on her lips, And passion in her hips, She has the stars in her eyes, And the supernatural between her thighs, Mercy is a thing she doth hath, Cross her and you'll feel her wrath.

So tread gently to ease her fears, And act quickly to cease her tears.

For those tears can break the goblins heart, And drive two lovers far apart.

However upon the dawn of true vision sight, You shall see she is a lying light.

The depths of her bosom are not pure, Her wounded heart beats unsure.

Do not deceive yourself my son, For wondering wonders come undone, At the first taste of bitter trial, You'll see the blood behind that smile.

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W at business could this perfect example of h

Catholic virginity have inside The Black Ivy Social Club? The answer Dear Reader is none; girls have no business in such places.

“Surely she must be lost” assumed Grato.

Never underestimate the power of selfdeception, and Grato took a heavy dose of it.

Resolving himself to the idea that she had no idea what sort of place this was; she had mistakenly wondered through its doors, and now it was too late. By now she was in the clutches of a filthy scalawag who was putting his paws all over her.

“The torment from this intrusion must be unbearable to her.”

He could almost hear her muffled screams for help, between grimy kisses from her attacker. It was a call to arms. A great lion rose up in Grato's chest.

Clinching his fists he declared “How dare this brute put his hands on a woman; but to put them on my woman? This will not be borne idly; not as long as there is air in my lungs to breathe, and strength in my limbs to fight!”

His love was on the verge of being brutally ravaged. It was up to Grato to stop it. The coals

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of chivalry stoked within him. She would not be deflowered. Not on this night. Not on any night before their wedding night. It was his flower to pick. Her floral aroma's and beauty were a secret garden intended for him alone. No one else was allowed to rummage around or plow the soil in his garden. The warm earth in this sacred place was reserved for him, and only he would plunge his hands into it.

Without giving further thought to the wisdom of his decision, or the accuracy of his daydream, Grato barged headlong into The Black Ivy Social Club, ready to box the ears of anyone within ten feet of his future wifes virginity.

Once inside, Grato quickly realized that The Black Ivy Social Club was nothing like anything he had ever imagined imagining. It was more sinister and alluring than he could have ever fathomed. The glowing eyes of the clubs patrons were empty in a way that makes you feel lonely when you look at them. The robust scent of tobacco smoke hung in the air like an anvil. It was reassuring and familiar. It smelled like home, like his fathers den. The first whiff of that smoke was disarming.

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Thus the trickery of the place was able to roam free and uncontested.

Directly to Grato's left was an enormous bar that stretched the entire length of the establishment. A buckshot scattering of ghouls and drunkards sat on stools along the bar looking for something that was lost at the bottom of their mugs.

Free standing in the middle of the room a variety of rowdy gaming tables that were populated by cheaters and odds beaters.

However the centerpiece of the joint was a small stage whose edges were lined with gold lanterns, like strategically placed stars.

The rambunctious laughter of women echoed. The sound of their boisterous charms was deafening. There must have been two or three girls for the lap of every man.

These ladies kissed and caressed freely, encouraging the patrons to spend more money.

They were good at making you feel important.

Even the most soulless pirate felt like Casanova in this place. It was a carnival, morgue, and brothel all rolled into one.

Grato now knew why his father had instructed him not to come in here “No man� he

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thought “can enter a place like this and leave again with the entirety of his soul in tact.�

Yet Grato made no move for the door. He was on a mission, and he would not leave without her. Grato surveyed the room, but there was no sign of her; she had vanished into thick air.

Grato searched and searched, but found nothing. He checked the gaming tables; nothing. He looked behind the bar and on every stool; still nothing. Finally he spotted a doorway cloaked in red curtains that had a sign above it that read VIP. Confident that it was beyond this doorway that she was being abused, Grato stormed through the curtains and into the first room of many in a long hallway.

The room was empty.

Turning to leave, Grato suddenly heard a loud crash and the cry of a woman coming from the room at the very end of the corridor.

Wasting no time, Grato raced down the hallway and kicked the door in.

But instead of finding his true loves purity being torn asunder by a minion of hell, he found the mayor (who was a middle aged

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chubby man with thin hair and poor complexion), being tickled with a feather by a morbidly obese woman.

It was the mayor who had screamed and not the object of his desire. Apologizing for the intrusion, Grato tried to erase the disturbing image of what he had just seen from his mind.

Quickly checking the other rooms, he saw many more things he wished he could unsee.

But in all of these, there was no sign of the girl.

Discouraged, Grato returned to the bar and slumped into an empty stool.

The Bartender was not a kind man, but he had a charm to him that people often mistook for trustworthiness. Grato was one of these people.

Timidly, Grato raised his hand like he was still a child in class.

Nobody noticed.

“Excuse me.”

Still nobody noticed.

Clearing his throat, he tried again only this time with more bravado “Excuse me!”

The Bartender glanced up from the mug he was pretending to clean.

“Did you see a girl walk in here?” asked

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Grato anxiously.

Grinning slightly The Bartender flung his towel over his shoulder and leaned in “A girl?

Yeah, I seen a girl, tons of 'em.”

“I'm looking for a particular girl.” replied Grato.

The Bartender grinned in a way that was very unsettling “If it’s skirt you want, look around man, we got it all. Blonds, brunettes, redheads, black, white, blue, Asian, African, Indian, Arab, Eskimo, skinny, fat, flat, voluptuous, old, young, and if your a real scumbag, very young. It's a bleeming buffet!”

Unhumored by The Bartender's attempt at being witty, Grato pressed “The girl I want is wearing a red scarf and a black cloak.”

“Oh you mean Islabella, take a number.” said The Bartender subtly mockingly him.

“Why?” asked Grato.

The Bartender crept in even closer to Grato's ear. Too close actually. It felt almost as if there were ghosts in this mans voice and they were on the verge of haunting Grato's ear drums. But if he had knowledge of the girl, it was a haunting he would have to risk. The Bartender whispered in a way that made you

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think he was doing you a favor “You see all these shifty eyed blokes drooling on themselves?”

“Yeah.” said Grato.

“They are all here for Islabella. All of them.”

Hearing this might discourage most people, but not Grato. He was too busy daydreaming about his lover to pay attention to anything else.

Her name stayed in his ears; ringing, singing to him...

Islabella.

It was her name, and just the sound of it made Grato's toes tingle. Islabella...Every syllable of the word was a drop of manna.

“What a name, what a name!” thought Grato.

He longed for her.

Islabella.

Islabella.

Truly it was a word he would never tire of saying.

Putting the cart before the horse, Grato nearly jumped across the bar in excitement “Where can I find her?”

The Bartender poured Grato a stout beer

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that smelt of musty shadows “Have a seat, she'll be out soon enough.�

It was impossible for her to come out soon enough. Now was not soon enough. An hour ago was not soon enough. His whole life was not soon enough. He was born for her.

He was tormented by the anticipation, it was chewing him to pieces.

Grato didn't like the idea of spending more time than he had to in this place, but it was the only way to meet the girl of his dreams.

What great sacrifices we make for love Dear Reader.

Seconds later, all the lights in the club went out save for the golden lamps on the stage.

They glowed in eerie isolation from one another, like orbs drifting through the fog.

The whole congregation erupted in a chorus of cheers as she stepped out on stage. The moment he laid eyes on her, Grato could feel himself changing. He had never seen a woman like this before. For all the wholesome purity her face reflected, her body was something utterly different.

Her Jezebel curves were flawless lines that complimented each other perfectly. Her hips

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were hypnotizing, swaying back and forth like a pendulum. She had the heaving chest of a goddess. They were supple mounds, crafted by the hands of Heaven, that moved in complete defiance of her hips, but at the same time in unison. Her legs were two parallel running fantasies with no end.

She was nothing like Grato had imagined “Have you really fallen in love with a whore or belly dancer or whatever she is?” thought Grato “What will father think? O' how treacherous it is that this vile heart would deceive me! A man may live his whole life and never convince his heart that it loves a woman, but once he has, how can he ever take it back again? Surely, I am ruined. Woe, woe, to the boy who loves the woman with painted lips! I wish I would have just thrown myself off a thousand foot cliff for my birthday! Why, O' why, can't I help myself from loving you? But I do, I love you, Islabella!”

The girl with the face of Mary and the body of Aphrodite danced upon that stage all night until the stars yawned from exhaustion.

Grato found that the longer he watched her, the deeper he fell in love.

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Her heinous, hypnotizing, hips, had more than done their job. Guilt and desire battled for supremacy within him, but in the end there was no victor, only a victim. His name was innocence, and he died a young man and far before his time.

Surveying the crowd, Islabella soaked in the wanting lust that oozed from their vitreous humours. Once her performance had completed the full measure of its design, she retired backstage.

As she exited, Grato noticed that she carried herself differently now than before. On the street her head was up, her shoulders were straight, and her eyes were locked on to the path before her, like someone who is about to be martyred and is at peace with it. But now she more stalked than walked, and every movement was sexually charged and seductive, like a cat hunting mice.

In one voice, the villainous patrons cried for an encore. They begged, they pleaded, they threatened to storm the stage and drag her out by her hair, but she never came. Honestly it was probably it was probably for the best. Grato was so worked up that he might have had a

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stroke if he were exposed to her exposures much longer.

She rested quite leisurely backstage in her room, reveling in the thunder of appeals for more of her beauty. They rumbled through the walls and made the rafters groan. It made her feel wanted.

Once the crowd realized that there would be no encore each returned to their respective debaucheries.

There was zero chance of Grato leaving without proclaiming his love for Islabella. Even if he wanted to, his heart would not allow it, it would refuse to pump the blood to his legs necessary to complete the task. Hearts are stubborn like that.

Grato racked his brain “I must find a way to get an audience with her.�

A quiet man in a place like The Black Ivy Social Club is a sore thumb. For all the gears he had turning, churning, and burning in his brain; in the end it was not his action but rather his inaction that proved to be most useful to him.

This is how it went down Dear Reader; The Bartender, had secretly been watching Grato and saw in his face that he truly loved Islabella.

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Reveling in perverse joy at the prospect of watching Grato get his heart broken, The Bartender set his great joke in motion. Using his most kindhearted and deceptive voice he said “You’re really taken by her, eh?”

That was a gross understatement.

Instantly Grato took the bait “Like a kidnapped newborn, I am helpless in the arms of love; it has snatched me from my safe and happy home, and carried me into the cold. I am its brutal slave, and I must fulfill its every nonsensical whim.”

“I don’t know what that means, but she's sure good to look at.” said The Bartender smiling.

Another understatement.

“More than good, more than great... I know now for what purpose my eyes first opened.” said Grato feverishly.

Feigning a few moments of contemplation, The Bartender at last slapped his hand on the bar and said “I like you chief, how would you like to meet her? ... For a small gratuity that is.”

Grato's head spun around so fast that it almost came unscrewed and fell on the floor.

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Dear Reader has a human heart ever skipped, fluttered, raced, and stopped beating entirely all at the same time? If not, then Grato was the first.

Almost before The Bartender could finish what he was saying Grato had emptied the contents of his wallet onto the counter.

“Money is nothing...I can't breathe without her... I'm drowning in an ocean of hopelessness.”

“You talk with a fancy tongue... you should stop it...” said The Bartender stopping midsentence to scoop up the money; flipping through the bills, before continuing his statement “It may work with most skirts, but not with Islabella, she's a hard nut to crack... just hang tight awhile and I'll make sure you get your audience with your love.”

After all the patrons had retired for the evening, The Bartender signaled to Grato from across the room where he had been mopping the floor and said “Follow me and keep your mouth shut.”

Grato jumped down off the stool where his feet had been dangling like a schoolgirl, and hurried to follow The Bartender who was

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already exiting backstage.

The Bartender led Grato down a dark and narrow corridor in the back of the building. The hall looked like the kind of place where sheep are led to be slaughtered. Red paint was chipping from the walls, and the stone floor was coated in a slippery mist of sweat and other bodily fluids. It smelled of stale sex and fresh blood. Chills pricked up all over Grato's skin.

His soul wanted to vomit.

However at the end of this dreary passage stood a immaculate gold door. Two brass lamps stood one on each side illuminating its splendor. The face of the door was adorned with luxurious carvings of men and women on horseback who were kissing and doing other things lovers do beneath the light of a large moon.

The women wore large gold hoops in their ears, and sapphires in their noses. Their faces seemed to be more alive than anyone real that Grato had met, with the exception of Islabella, which only made it all the more fitting that this door would be the gateway that led to her.

The doors border was carved into the likeness of weeping willow where the branches

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reached down to the small of the women’s nude backs, tickling them. The immaculateness of the door caused and ejaculation of wonder in Grato.

As he studied the woodwork, the forms on it suddenly sprang to life and started moving.

A breeze swept through the willow branches, and they danced.

The horses neighed.

The women moaned.

But the men remained silent.

The moon grew bigger and bigger, until it threatened to swallow up the lovers.

Suddenly out of thin air; a pair of eyes appeared upon the face of the moon. They were fierce, beastly, eyes that glowed brighter than the moon they were on, brighter than the gold that coated the door, brighter than the lamps next to the door. It was true a light. The kind that blinds you and strikes you dead if you look into it. Which is exactly what Grato did, but he did not die. He almost died, but he was spared by the grace of the moon.

Just before the glory became so strong that he was about to burst into flames, two black pupils emerged, partially eclipsing each eye,

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deflecting just enough of its splendor to save his life.

Studying the eyes intently, Grato tried to decipher their meaning.

Without warning, the beastly eyes welled up and cried.

Mammoth tears fell on the passionate lovers atop their steeds like raindrops. Undeterred, the lovers paid no attention to the rain and continued their drenched lovemaking as the world around them flooded.

Grato was befuddled “Why didn't they notice the moon crying on them? Why was this terrible moon crying in the first place?�

Then something remarkable happened, the eyes shifted their attention away from the lovers, and fixed themselves on Grato. They burnt a hole straight through, and looked inside him, dissecting and searching his very being.

It felt hot. Grato's palms were sweaty. He wanted them to look away more than anything, but they were undeterred in their fixation. He wanted to turn away too, but he couldn't, he was a prisoner to the eyes...

And then as fast as they came, they were gone again. The door was open and The

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Bartender stood in the threshold, looking queerly at Grato “You okay Mac? You're not gonna die or something stupid like that are you?”

Grato face was soaked in sweat. He wiped his forehead dry and did his best to gather his wits “Yeah I'm fine.”

In the background, Grato could see Islabella sitting at her vanity brushing her silky hair. It tumbled down her shoulders and swayed carelessly, caressing her skin.

Grato was more than fine. His heart rate shot through the roof and he nearly blacked out.

“You don't look fine.” said The Bartender becoming uneasy.

Without turning to give them a proper greeting, Islabella spoke up in an annoyed tone interrupting them “Cornelius, what have I told you about knocking?”

Grato assumed that this must be The Bartender's name, unless it was a very odd pet name she had for strangers, but this seemed even more ridiculous than calling someone you've never met your one true love.

Islabella carried herself with the air of a princess who was put out by such interruptions.

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She had no time for novelties like small talk.

Without introducing herself to Grato, she resumed her grooming. Neither man moved.

They stood there silently like a bunch of morons. When she saw that they made no move towards the door, she slammed her brush down on the vanity and snapped coldly “What do you want?”

“My friend wants to meet you. This is... what's your bloody name is again?” replied Cornelius.

“Grato.”

Mocking Grato, Cornelius chuckled “Grato? ... Really? ... That's a pretty dum...”

Islabella spoke up, cutting Cornelius off in mid-sentence “It means grateful you uneducated swine.”

“She speaks Italian?” thought Grato.

Turning to face the two men, Islabella's eyes found Grato's for the briefest of seconds “That's correct right?”

She looked younger now than when she was on stage or on the street “The fog and smoke must have played games with my eyes” he thought “she can't be a day over 17.”

One thing the elements didn't play games

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with was her beauty, for in the light of the room, she looked prettier than ever.

Grato didn't know what to do with himself.

She had actually looked at him. He wanted to smile, laugh, dance, jump for joy, and scream in terror.

Forcing the giddiness down inside him, Grato put on his smoothest persona “Why yes, that is correct...” thinking that he needed to follow up with a witty quip of his own, Grato racked his brain for something suave to say.

However when he opened his mouth, these stupid words came out “Is Islabella the language of Heaven for beautiful?”

The line did not have the effect he had hoped for.

Instead of making Islabella swoon and want to make out with him, it caused a slight gag reflex. She had given him a window of opportunity to prove himself honorable and worthy, and he slammed it shut with a slimy one liner.

Luckily For Grato, Islabella was wiser than your average belly dancer. She knew that Grato wasn't actually the kind of person who says something like “Is that the language of

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Heaven?”

She also knew what Cornelius was up to, and it infuriated her.

So despite Grato's best efforts at blowing it, Islabella decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and give him a second chance. Plus she secretly longed to humiliate Cornelius as repayment for all the tried shenanigans he tried to pull.

Knowing that all he wanted was to see her crush the poor boy, she decided instead to reverse the game.

A very serious tone came over Islabella's voice “Leave us Cornelius, I'd like to get to know our new friend a little better.”

This stupefied Cornelius.

Grato was a sheep amongst wolves.

Would Islabella really raise the city gates of her heart (or at least her body) and let him in?

She was a hunter, he was prey.

She should eat him alive.

Why was she hiding her fangs?

Dear Reader, never underestimate the joy of cuddling beneath a nice, warm, wool, blanket.

Fangs will not keep you warm at night.

Cornelius knew nothing about love, but

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Islabella did; even if she didn't know it yet.

Somewhere deep beneath the years of hurt, beneath being used and abused, she longed to be loved unconditionally by someone for no reason other than that she was worth being loved.

Cornelius's mind was sufficiently boggled, and Islabella drank in every second of it. She may have hidden her fangs from Grato, but she bore them two fold on Cornelius.

Sinking her jaws into Cornelius's pride, Islabella ripped him to pieces with her words “Cornelius you pathetic fool, pick your jaw up off the floor, it's not a good look for you.”

Cornelius stammered to retort; blubbering like a retard “But, but, but...”

But the words were not there, for if you know even the littlest bit about love, you know that no words, no matter how eloquent they are can tame it.

Love is more than empty words and feelings, it is a lifetime of actions and decisions that breed trust, which in turn breeds intimacy.

Words can be selfish, love cannot.

To be in love you must prize the other person so dearly, that you desire even their

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nastiest faults above your greatest virtues.

Islabella was not there yet, but she knew that way to the road that lead there. Unknown to her, she was subconsciously contemplating taking the first steps in loves long journey.

With a cold wave of the hand, she dismissed Cornelius from the room “Goodbye Cornelius... I have no need of you anymore.�

Hanging his head like a chastised child, Cornelius exited the room quieter than a church mouse.

It may sound strange, but once Cornelius was gone, Grato wished more than anything, that he would come back again. Grato was as naive as they come, and he suddenly found himself all alone with the most beautiful girl in the world. He had no idea what to do.

Have you ever been there before? It's terrible. You don't know how to act or think, you're scared of even breathing; afraid that if you do it wrong you'll ruin everything.

Grato was stranded on an uncharted island, while a wave of molten beauty by the name Islabella bore down on him. He had no words to either repel or welcome this volcanic woman, so he forced out a ridiculous string of syllables

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that barely made a statement “I like dancing, you tonight… good.”

However, one thing men constantly underestimate is how observant women are, they usually know a man’s mind long before he realizes he even has one.

“Thank you” said Islabella, standing to her feet “so you're smitten with me then?”

Tradition has it that the girl is the one who does all blushing, but not in this case, Grato's face was as red as a bucket of blood poured out on a Soviet flag.

Still unable to coherently form a sentence, Grato did away with words for the moment and shook his head yes.

Looking him dead in the eye, she took a gazelle-like step toward him “I've seen you and your family of saints around town.”

Grato's heart leaped into his throat. He reached behind him for the door knob; clutching it, he contemplated making a run for it.

She took another step closer, and bit her lower lip slightly “What would they say if they knew you were in the bedroom of a gypsy?”

It may sound funny, but sometimes all it

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takes is the littlest unknown fact to spring our nerve into action, and so it was with Grato.

Unleashing his grasp on the doorknob, his tongue was free to speak “I didn't know you were a gypsy.”

Reading his body language, Islabella found that he was more confident than before. He looked like a man and not a sheep.

Crossing her arms, she said “Well now you know; are you still smitten with me?”

“No... I've never been smitten with you.” said Grato.

Islabella raised a justified eyebrow at the strange response. Undeterred by the question mark on her face, Grato continued his statement “What I mean is that I only said yes a moment ago because your beauty held me captive, I was speechless; it was all that would come out. But I'm so much more than smitten with you; I'm madly in love with you.”

Obviously this last part seemed ridiculous to Islabella.

Tossing her head back, she scoffed at the idea “Madly in love? Men don't know the meaning of the word.”

As understandable of a reaction as this was,

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it still hurt Grato. He marched across the room, stood face to face with her, and made his mind known (for now more than ever he realized he had one.) “I know the meaning of love.”

Holding firm to the years of hurt, Islabella fired back “I seriously doubt that. Lust and ownership are not the same things as love.”

These last words of contempt were something Grato would not tolerate without refute.

Taking her by the arm, he looked deep into her wonderful eyes “I've known love all my life.

Not lust like those other guys out there, but real, true, love! I wonder have you ever known such beauty?”

Smack!

Her hand landed square across his face.

Pulling her arm away, she scolded him “How dare you, you self-righteous child, you come in here talking about love and my life; you know nothing about my life!”

Reeling from the slap, Grato rubbed his rosy cheek “How old are you?”

Confounded, she dropped her arms to her

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side “What?”

Gentleness returned to Grato. He took her by the hand, it was trembling. He repeated himself “How old are you?”

She tried to pull away, but Grato pulled her back.

Her eyes searched his face for legitimacy.

Speaking softly, she was momentarily disarmed “Why does it matter?”

Sliding his hand along her wrist, up her arm, to her cheek, he wiped a newly formed tear away. For Islabella tears were an endangered species; after years and years of hibernation, they were finally coming out of hiding.

“It matters.” whispered Grato sincerely.

Islabella hated crying more than anything.

The years of abuse had taught her one thing, crying does no good.

The years of hurt scorned her “People only let you down, they always have. Don't trust him, he's just like the others, he will hurt you.

Remember what it was like before? Remember the darkness, the betrayal, the disappointment?

We've seen his kind, he only wants one thing, and he'll stop at nothing to get it. Do not trust

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him, he'll hurt you too. Do not trust him. If you give in, you'll never see him again.”

But there was still a tiny piece of hope that had survived in her heart after all these years, and it fought back against the hurt saying “Still, there's something different about him, he's kinder and gentler.”

But hurt rallied back berating her “They all are at first, but they change... You remember that awful businessman don't you? And what about the cab driver? Or the doctor? Oh you remember the doctor, he made sure of it.

Remember all of those terrible things he did to you with those horrible instruments? Just take a look inside your thighs if you've forgotten.”

“But he says he loves me, oh' what it must be like to be loved.” replied hope.

“He is lying, you stupid worthless girl!” screamed hurt, fed up with hopes foolishness.

Gazing into his pupils, Islabella looked for the truth; not the emotions of the situation, not her preconceived notions that were based upon past injustices, but the pure, honest to G-d, truth.

And it was then that she saw it; like a glimmering jewel at the bottom of glassy sea.

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“No he's not lying, he loves me!” cried out hope in ecstasy.

“He knows nothing about you.” reminded hurt.

“Still, he loves me anyway.” fired back hope.

“He won't once he knows your past, you're spoiled goods.” said the hurt in a last ditch effort to pull hope asunder.

“I might be spoiled, but he loves me. Look how beautiful and honest his face is, and how he shakes whenever I touch him. He loves me!” proclaimed the hope like a trumpet blast; vanquishing hurt to the pits of hell.

And that Dear Reader is how Islabella's heart opened and began to allow itself to receive love “The truth is I don't know how old I am... I'm about your age I guess.”

Grato was not prepared for that answer “You don't know your age?”

Another tear crept out of hiding, and crawled down her face “My parents sold me to a man when I was very young, so young that I can barely remember their faces anymore, I wish I could just forget them all together. The man took me to a place that was much worse

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than this place, and he left me there... he said this is your new home, you don't have a name, you don't have a life, you are my property now.

That’s the night the men started coming. I was scared. They wanted terrible things from me, and when I didn't do it, they beat me and forced me to do it anyway. I cried and cried for help, but nobody came, only more men, more bloody lips, more black eyes, more...” stopping midsentence, she pulled his hand from her face and turned away “One day, I stopped fighting, there was nothing left of the scared little girl... I figured if they want me, they can have me, but on my terms. It took years of clawing and fighting to get where I am now... Don't you see, you don't want me, I'm no good, I'm all used up.”

Hearing her say all of this made Grato's ears want to bleed. How could someone do this to another human being? A creature made in the image of G-d? An immense longing rose in Grato; he wanted to justify his gender, to prove that not all men are monsters... just most of them.

Without warning, he jerked her into his arms, and pressed her breast against his. Her

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heart was racing; it resonated inside his chest.

Looking into his eyes, with his warm breath beating down upon her, she felt a great geyser bubbling within her.

His breath was like that of a gods. It gave life to her animated corpse. Real life; emotional and unreasonable in love.

Breaking her stoicism for the first time since she was a child, every last one of Islabella's tears came out of hiding and she wept greatly.

Kissing her tears, Grato's warm godlike breath dried her cheeks as he tried to comfort “You're not all used up... They may have hurt you, and abused you; but Islabella, I love you, and I am never going to hurt you.”

Trying to believe him, she swallowed back just enough of her emotions so that she was able to speak “How do you know? Never is an awfully long time.”

“Good, then I'll have an awfully long time to love you... I'll love you forever, even if it means my death.”

Sniffling, she wiped her nose with her forearm “You'd die for me?”

“Of course; but I'd rather live for you.”

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Islabella's heart was utterly drawn to him.

Sometimes Dear Reader, this is just how it works; sometimes love wins. No matter how hard we push against it, no matter how loud we rage, love refuses to budge.

We say “I hate you.”

Love responds “I know you don't mean that.”

We say “go away.”

Love says “I'll never leave you.”

With Islabella's armor gone, she was helpless in these uncharted waters. She tried to keep afloat, but like all young girls, she quickly sank into the depths of love.

When she at last gave up her struggle, she laid her head on his shoulder “You are evil for making me fall for you” running her fingers through the wilderness of his hair she continued “you say all of these enchanted things that make me love you, knowing that your family will never accept me. I am an unbearable shame... the family whore.”

Angry, Grato stood forehead to forehead, looking straight into her eyes “Don't ever say that, you are my love, and if my father won't accept you, then curse him. Curse my whole

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family. Curse the day I was born! I'd rather die tonight at your feet than live one more day without you. You are not a whore. I want you to say it. Say I am not a whore.”

“I am not a whore.” said Islabella skeptically.

“Say it again.” demanded Grato.

“I am not a whore.” repeated Islabella.

“Again.” ordered Grato.

“I am not a whore.”

“Again.”

The forcefulness in his voice aroused something in Islabella she intertwined her fingers with his, and bound them together like the roots of two trees “I am not a whore, I am a beautiful and intelligent woman.”

Think what you want about kissing, rubbing, and all other things sexual; I tell you this, although it's a small action on the surface, there is no greater titan of the heart than the meeting of two hands that are holding each other for the first time.

For in this simple action is all happiness summed up.

In the dim light of her bordello, Islabella

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was happy, and she was at home for the first time. Her heart felt like it was going to fly away.

Softly kissing her on the lips, he dried the last tear on her face and said with a smile “Let’s have none of that, we're in love.”

Each time she heard him say he loved her, those magic words spoke a little more life into her heart. With a devilish smile, she wrapped her arms around his neck and started kissing him.

The joy they found in each other’s lips lasted all night. Even after the sun had awoken, and his army of rainbows prepared to march over the horizon to announce his arrival; our two lovers had still not had their fill of each other.

How cruel and heartbreaking was the dawn.

It was not a beautiful sunrise, it was an army of SS troops marching through Paris, destroying the city of love. Neither of them had the strength to make a sound, let alone speak the most awful word in the world. Finally after an extremely long and heart wrenching silence, they found the strength in each others lips to say farewell.

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As you know, love makes everyone a poet; both pathetic and adorable. Those who are in love try to make everything they say sound as beautiful as they feel inside; so when I tell you what happened next, please forgive the ridiculous mushiness of it all.

“My dear one, will you return to me tonight?” said Islabella yearning, “As surely as the stars defy gravity and mock us from above.” gushed Grato.

“How wretched the world will be in your absence. For the days reverse themselves; the moon that brings your arrival brings my joy, and the sun that takes you away is my death!” swooned Islabella.

Taking her in his arms one last time, their idiotic speech reached closer to climax when Grato declared “Don't mourn the grave of sunrise, have a happy day in anticipation of our twilit resurrection.”

With those words sinking deep into her heart, she took the red ribbon from her hair and tied it around Grato's left wrist “Think of me when you look at this, and remember that I love you.”

Had she really just said what he thought she

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had said? Grato looked at her with his mouth gaping wide open, begging clarification.

Relenting to his gap-mouthed request, Islabella nodded gently, and repeated the sweetest of words “I love you Grato.”

Enraptured with joy, Grato threw his arms in the air, jumped for joy, and kissed her so deeply and passionately that he darn near swallowed her soul; saying between kisses “I love you Islabella!”

Dear Reader as you know, you can cross any sea and climb any mountain with these words.

With these three words, Grato and Islabella broke all of the curses in their lives. They rebuked all of the cynics. They defeated all of the devils who had for so long tried to keep them from their mountaintop.

As long as they kept saying these words nothing could stop them...and so they did; they said I love you more times than this writer could ever count or stomach.

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G IRI IlAIl IloTIlo IlovOIlov Ilove&Ilove IloveyIIlovey IloveyoSIloveyo IloveyouLIloveyou IloveyouIAIloveyouI IloveyouIlBIloveyouIl IloveyouIloEIloveyouIlo IloveyouIlovLIloveyouIlov IloveyouIloveLIloveyouIlove IloveyouIloveyAIloveyouIlovey IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyo IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIl IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIlov IloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou DevilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDe vilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDevilsDevil With these words you can conquer the world.

With these words, our real story begins.

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Chapter III When saints stumble home again. “...And you my father, there on the sad height, curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.�

-Dylan Thomas

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My love, My love, Look at the blood, so much blood.

Righteous men rise seven times they say, But how many after a kiss betrays?

I pray, forgive me this vengeance, Accept my hot tears as penance.

Oh kindred betrayal; a friend’s death, Oh kindred; a gagging last breath, No scars to be seen, For scars are proof of healing.

Torn dead flesh, torn dead heart; Torn dead brotherhood, ripped apart.

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Upon arriving home, Grato attempted to steal through the back door undetected; however as soon as he stepped foot into his kitchen, he was met by Antiguenine.

She had tears in her eyes. She rushed Grato and flung herself on him. Grato's face was still tingling from Eva's kisses, and the moisture of his mother's hot tears washed it away. Grato hated her for this.

Antiguenine squeezed her prodigal son “Where have you been all night?”

Grato had never seen his mother cry; she had always been a stoic symbol of the old world “Mother, what’s wrong?”

“Your father is out looking for you. We were so scared you might be dead!” lamented Antiguenine as she threw her wet face onto his shoulder.

“Dead? Why would I be dead?” replied Grato.

As soon as he said this, his mother lifted her eyes off his shoulder and looked at him confoundedly.

Seeing his mother's perplexity, his instincts kicked in and punched him in the gut, informing him that something was very awry.

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This look she gave told him that it was his unholy hand that was indictable in the erroneous event that had thrown his mother into her galvanized turmoil.

Antiguenine spoke ambiguously, asking questions instead of giving answers “Why did you leave Augustus?”

It didn't take a magistrate to realize that given Augustus's lame state, that treachery must have befallen him.

“What happened to Augustus?” asked Grato.

But Antiguenine was too worked up and frantic to do anything other than continue her interrogation “Why did you leave him? You knew he was defenseless!”

Her hysteria was unbearable.

Fed up, Grato grabbed Antiguenine by the shoulders and shook her, demanding “Mother, what Happened?”

Snapping from her frenzy, Antiguenine composed herself. Speaking in a dry, spiteful, tone she said “He was attacked by thieves; they stabbed him in the stomach. Your father found him lying face down, drowning in a pool of his own blood. The doctor is in with him now, they

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don't think he'll make it. May G-d forgive you for abandoning him.”

Once her verbal daggers were thrown, Antiguenine exited the room.

The words of his mother resonated in Grato's ears. They pounded like a drum. Mishmashing with one another, the words became confused and muddled...

“He was attacked by thieves; they stabbed him in the stomach. Your father found him lying face down, drowning in a pool of his own blood. The doctor is in with him now, they don't think he'll make it. May G-d forgive you for abandoning him.”

They stabbed him in doctor is in with the stomach. Your father found him lying face down, drown in attacked by in a pool of his own blood. The him now, they don't think he'll make it. May G-d forgive you for he was thieves; abandoning him...

Him in doctor is in the stomach. Your father forgive you lying face found him down, drown in attacked by in a blood. The him now,

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they stabbed they don't think he'll may make it.

With pool of his own G-d for he was thieves; abandoning him...

And then the words started to fall apart and then smash back together again, disintegrating and reforming into a blob of gibberish...

Hmidctointesomhourftherforgveoulynfcefo unimownownattackedyinablodhehimnotheystaed eyd'ttk'llmyeitwithplohswndforhestevesabadnng hi...

Midbctointesomhourtherfogveouynfcefoun imownownattackedyinrablodfhehimnotheystaed eyd'ttk'llmyeitwithplohswndforhestevesaadnngh li...

And then the gibberish started to fade away...

Dbctomhftherfogefounotackinrablstaedlmye ihessaadhli...

Bchernotainrltadyssaali...

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Until only one word remained...

Betrayal...

It echoed from temple to temple...

Betrayal.

He had Betrayed his best friend. But he was no friend at at all, for a friend does not betray, a friend loves...

He was no friend, he was Judas Iscariot...

Betrayal.

Betrayal.

Betrayal.

“Stabbed?” thought Grato “it can't be true.”

As if repeating the words would somehow make them untrue, or at least less painful. But nothing he did made any of it more bearable; not in the least. He had committed a despicable act of treason against his dearest friend in a

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selfish attempt to fulfill a carnal desire.

Grato wanted more than anything to be honest with his family about everything. He wanted to tell them that in their darkest moment, he had found love...

And he would have told them if he was an honest man. Sadly though, Grato was still too young and charismatic to have any character.

His emotions fought each other, narrating their struggle by singing a battle hymn...

Walking atop the clouds of love,

WALKINGATOPTHECLOUDSOFLOVE Entangled in dreamy musings,

ENTANGLEDINDREAMYMUSINGS I was cast down by my own folly.

IWASCASTDOWNBYMYOWNFOLLY Now, how bitter are these clouds;

NOWHOWBITTERARETHESECLOUDS Of hot coal and broken glass?

OFHOTCOALANDBROKENGLASS The battle interior was waged;

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THEBATTLEINTERIORWASWAGED Love fought valiantly!

LOVEFOUGHTVALIANTLY But alas, in the end,

BUTALASINTHEEND All was torn asunder by hells minions;

ALLWASTORNASUNDERBYHELLSMINIONS Thus when the final soldier fell,

THUSWHENTHEFINALSOLDIERFELL And the war cries subsided;

ANDTHEWARCRIESSUBSIDED Joy was overthrown.

JOYWASOVERTHROWN At the songs conclusion, the goblins of hate were free to go to work. Like elves in a cobbler shop, they labored and labored, until at last, Grato’s heart no longer resembled the beautiful, bleeding, passionate, organ that it was only an hour beforehand.

It is puzzling how a man’s fortunes may

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change so drastically in the course of a single hour.

Grato’s eyes grew dark and red hot embers burnt at their centers. His brow stiffened into stone. His fists clenched until his fingernails cut his palms, leaving a false stigmata.

Storming from the kitchen, Grato marched past his weeping family, paying little attention to them when they stood to greet him and headed straight for his bedroom.

Upon entering his room, Grato went immediately to his bed and removed an old war trunk out from under it. The trunk was made of solid oak and had dark iron hinges that creaked like an old woman cursing when you opened it.

Grato spent many afternoons as a child rummaging through this chest, it was where he kept all of his treasures and secrets.

Most of these treasures were little trinkets that his grandfather had collected while on adventures in various exotic places all around the world.

There was a golden elephants tusk from Siam. A chalice made of human teeth from Babylon. He even had an authentic Indian arrowhead from a mystical land named Kansas.

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However Grato’s favorite trinket of all was his grandfather’s dagger. His grandfather had once told him that he had killed two tigers at the same time with it.

Grato remembered how impressed he was when he heard this “Anyone can kill one tiger, especially if you have a knife. But to kill two of them, now that's amazing.”

However the impressiveness soon wore off once he realized that if one grandfather with a knife can kill two tigers, then a tiger with a knife could probably not only kill two grandfathers, but a small rebel army. From that day on, Grato was impressed with tigers.

He would dream about them for hours on end (one dream in particular stood out to him especially, but that is a story for a different day.)

He wanted more than anything to be like a tiger “What I wouldn't give for a magic spell that would transform me into one now.” thought Grato as he held the glistening dagger up for inspection.

Resolved to avenge Augustus, he would use this tiger slayer to tear the flesh from the bones of the man or men responsible.

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Hiding this tool of vengeance beneath his coat, Grato climbed out of his bedroom window, and onto the branches of a large ash tree that grew too close to the house to be good for the foundation. Swinging from branch he climbed down, and landed with a slight tumble for the grass was still wet.

Wiping the dew and grass off the knees of his pants, Grato swore an oath “May I be dealt with ever so severely if any of these murdering scoundrel's live to see another sunrise. I will repay their crimes, blood for blood, stab for stab, gut for gut.�

Some people believe that all luck is serendipity, while others contend that it is divine planning. They believe that everything is a complex series of events, purposefully put in motion at the beginning of time.

I think both are correct.

Sometimes it is merely chance (or the appearance of it) that is used to achieve purpose in our life.

Unlucky for Grato, this lucky sort of purpose was with him.

Before he was able to sneak off to commit such a terrible thing as murder, he was met by

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his father returning home, exhausted and forlorn from a night of searching for his son.

Casablanca's massive shoulders were slumped.

His stout fists shook with exhaustion and his broad chest trembled in sorrow.

Grato had never seen his father like this before. Casablanca had always been a dignified man, but he didn't look the part of a patriarch now. He looked like the old man Job after everything was taken from him.

Casablanca's head was hanging low and his eyes were fixed on the ground, thus he was unaware of his son’s presence until he was nearly right on top of him.

Speaking in a fearful manner, Grato spoke up “Father?”

Casablanca had returned home convinced that his only son was dead and that he would never see his tender face again.

Looking up, all of his fears were dashed to hell by his son's beautiful face.

Throwing his hands in the air, Casablanca rejoiced “Praise be to G-d, for He has spared my son!” clutching Grato, he pulled him into his gargantuan embrace “O' my son, I thought I

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had lost you.”

Dear Reader, have you ever lost something so precious that it seems impossible to live without it? And what if it were returned to you; would you not value it much more now than you did before?

Casablanca hugged his son and poured his tears on his head like anointing oil.

However, as he hugged Grato, the tip of the tiger dagger poked through Grato's jacket, and pricked him.

Quickly withdrawing, Casablanca held his hand to his side as a faint red spot formed on the fabric of his shirt “What is this?”

Shame fell over Grato's face.

Tearing open his son's coat, Casablanca betrayed the shining steel to the morning air.

Disappointment shook Casablanca's voice “What good purpose can the sword serve?”

“What purpose?” thought Grato “Vengeance, retribution, hate, joy, forgiveness, justification, rage, anger, redemption, death, destruction, and peace of mind.”

But Grato couldn't say any of that to his father, he would never understand.

Grato was a man of passion and love.

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Casablanca was even keeled, and full of wisdom and temperance.

It is very hard for these values to coexist.

Most men barely have one of these four virtues, let alone all of them. But there are rare occasions where you will find a man who possesses them all; and that's why they call them saints.

Although the Fellini family did their best to fashion themselves in this mold, they were merely good hearted men.

At their core, they were just as susceptible to sin as you and me, and it came to light on this morning.

Stepping back from his father, Grato placed his hand on the dagger to secure it. He had never disobeyed the will of his father until now.

This disobedience was a grievous act of treason against Casablanca's authority.

Reaching out his hand, Casablanca ordered his son “Give me the dagger and go inside.”

“They tried to kill your bother.” objected Grato.

“Vengeance is The L-rd's.” interrupted Casablanca “He will fight our battles for us.”

Without giving thought to his words before

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he spoke, Grato retorted “And that's why Augustus lays in there fighting for his life? I wish at some point G-d would stop turning the other cheek and take some boxing lessons...” before Grato could finish his statement, Casablanca took his advice and slapped him; leaving a rosy mark the size of a grapefruit on his cheek.

There was only one thing Casablanca loved more than his family and Grato had insulted it.

Veins bulged from Casablanca's skull.

Almost before either realized what had happened, Casablanca was upon his rebellious son, beating him mercilessly “I will not endure blasphemy!”

It's funny how all virtue can go out of a man in the name of defending it.

Everything was a blur for the next few moments as the flurry of fists ensued. At last when Casablanca's anger had subsided, Grato laid in a crumpled heap on the ground unconscious.

Grato's youthful beauty was replaced by blood and bruises.

Looking down at the work of his hands, Casablanca felt little compassion or regret for

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what he had done.

Picking Grato up, Casablanca carried him inside, where he was met by ghastly sighs from Antiguenine as she beheld the tattered nature of her only child.

Casablanca laid Grato down next to the front door like an old pair of work boots.

The whole family stood to their feet, ready to take up arms, for they had no idea that Grato's own father was the culprit of this damage.

Casablanca said nothing, but instead gazed over the lot of them like a king who had just made an example of an unruly serf. It was clear at this point that the righteous patriarch must have had a good reason to pummel his son.

And so without question, they all resumed their seats they had previously occupied and went back to waiting, not daring even once to approach Grato who by way of unspoken law was now untouchable.

With the family rebellion overthrown, Casablanca walked into Augustus's bedroom to check on the progress of the doctor’s work.

Grato awoke hours later, still laying in the same spot where his father had left him.

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Every inch of his face was caked in dry blood and throbbed in pain. Cracking like Indian red clay in the dry season, flakes of blood fell to the floor as Grato put his hand to his nose, attempting to reset it.

With a Snap, the cartilage popped back into place. Grunting in pain, Grato grabbed a handful of the rug beneath him and braced himself as the sharp shooting pain shot through the back of his brain.

His family was still in the room, and all eyes were upon him. They judged him without knowing a particle of the story of what had happened. All they knew was that Grato was out of favor with his father, and in those parts that’s all that was needed to cast the first stone.

With great effort, Grato pulled himself to his feet, and walked in the direction of Augustus's room.

Part of Grato despised his family for leaving him laying next to the door for so long, but part of him also knew that they and his father were right. After all, Grato was to blame for Augustus; he deserved a lashing ten times worse than his father had dealt. Part of him was also grateful to his father, for his bruises were

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proof of his father's love.

Casablanca was not an apathetic father.

As Grato approached the bedroom door, it opened and Casablanca and the doctor emerged from the recesses of the chambers.

As Casablanca studied the damage he had done, he cast a stern gaze over Grato that said “I am not sorry for what I did, but I still love you.�

That being unsaid, Casablanca slipped into the kitchen to cry where nobody could see him.

The doctor was a man by the name of Nexus Rider and he was not altogether good or evil, but rather proverbially up in the air on ethical issues.

It was well known that in certain cases where death was imminent, Dr. Rider would speed up the demise of the patient by poisoning them or allowing them to bleed out on the operating table.

This was all done in the name of science, but I tell you Dear Reader, it is not the work of science. It is the work of greedy grave robbers.

It is a sad state of affairs when lifesaving serums are twisted and manipulated into wicked potions that are used for the opposite intentions

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of their prodigious birth.

By the time Dr. Nexus Rider had been in practice for three years, the number of graves robbed of their cadavers had multiplied one hundred fold. People began fearing the ravaging of their bodies postmortem so much that they began taking matters into their own hands, making arrangements for their cremation.

Some old folks distrusted their families so much, that on the eve of their death they would douse themselves in gasoline and do the job themselves.

Body parts soon became a currency of their own, giving birth to the adage “worth his weight in gold.�

Many murders were committed on account of this.

However, as in all things, there is a flip side. It was through these questionable practices that most of our modern medicines and surgeries came in being.

It was because of these many murders that the brilliant doctor possessed the knowledge to put Augustus back together again.

Rider had been working on Augustus for nearly five hours, and gobs of sweat fell from

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his brow like autumn leafs as he addressed the Fellini clan “I've done all I can. It will be the toughest twenty four hours of his life. If the wounds begin to bleed internally, then we will lose him.” here the doctor paused for dramatic effect before continuing on as sincerely as an insincere man can “But he's a fighter, so he's got that going for him.”

Moved by his apparent kindness, Antiguenine clasped a hold of his bloody hands and kissed them “Thank you doctor, may the Lrd bless you for your kindness.”

“I’d save my prayers for your brother.” said Rider as he walked to the door and took his hat and coat off the rack next to where Grato had laid “he needs them far worse than me.”

Casablanca returned from the kitchen with red eyes to see him out, saying “I'm not so sure about that, but still I thank you for all you have done today.”

A sly grin crossed Rider's face “Good day Mr. Fellini, I will return in the morning to check up on him. ” Grato seized the opportunity this exchange between his father and Dr. Rider offered, and used it to slip through Augustus's bedroom

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door. Nearly everything in the room was covered in blood, and anything that was not covered in blood seemed out of place and lost.

Grato noticed a drastic drop in temperature as he entered the room, for the cold hand of hades was everywhere.

There was a lurking darkness over the room; as the shadows on the wall eerily danced into various shapes of the Grim Reaper.

At the head of the room stood a large oak bed that held Augustus.

Draped with a sheer blood splattered white canopy, the bed swallowed Augustus's feeble frame in goose down feathers, and only his feet could be seen poking out.

Grato focused on Augustus toes, trying to keep himself from becoming nauseous. The room whole room was spinning around him, as everything became an out of focus kaleidoscope.

He could hear Augustus moan in agony.

These dull audible tones were judgments against Augustus. With each sound that escaped Augustus's lips came three new convictions, echoing inside Grato's mind.

Visions of his best friend’s pathetic

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attempts to fight off his assailants played and replayed in Grato's mind. He saw how Augustus must have tried to limp to freedom, with one hand on his crutch, and the other holding his guts in.

It made tears as big as marbles appear in Grato's eyes. He tried to push the images aside and approach the bed, but with each effort he made to do so, the images returned, stronger and more violent than before.

Grato lamented in his soul. “My love for a woman, Has brought my best friend's death.

His blood is on my hands.

These very hands, That are attached to these very arms, That are attached to this very chest, Which houses this very broken heart.

Hands that touched her sweet face, Arms that held her close to me, A chest that last night felt on fire, And nearly exploded because of love, All of these are murderers.

I am a villain, She is my accomplice.

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How evil am I, That I would do it over again?

What sort of evil is that?

His life for my love?

What a heartless fool I am!

No, I'm not heartless, For my heart is very much here, And it is very occupied by her.

O' what an occupied-hearted fool I am!

Her lips are like death, Her bed is the grave; Yes it is death, But it is a death sweeter than any life I've known.

She makes for a heavenly grave.

How can sin feel so beautiful?

I want to kiss every inch of this sin.

To hell with it all if I can't have her beauty.

She is all I want in the universe, She has made me into a monster!�

Death's grip was around Augustus's throat, and and with every moment that passed, it closed its grasp tighter. Augustus wondered if Grato would ever come closer, or if he was content to stand there and watch him die?

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Augustus’s skin was ash gray.

His hips were two protruding triangles beneath his skin.

His ribs looked like a broken set of organ pipes.

He was a broken musical instrument, made of steak, with all the blood drained out of it.

The sky opened up, and with a loud growl of thunder, rain began rapping against the window pane.

After a while the thunder ceased, leaving only the light tap of rain against the glass.

After a long time of staring from a distance, Grato finally grew the balls to approach Augustus.

In silent reverence (like one coming before an altar of sacrifice) Grato knelt down, and silently began to weep.

Soon though, the silence was shattered by a low, terrifying, voice speaking up from the darkness “I had begun to think you were content with watching me die from across the room.”

The sound of Augustus's voice was a ghost.

Fear gripped Grato.

Standing to his feet, Grato braced himself

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for the reckoning that was sure to come.

“You betrayed me last night.” croaked Augustus.

Those words were knives, and with each piercing syllable, Grato longed to take one of them and gash matching wounds in his own guts. But he was frozen and unable to run or do anything else worthwhile.

This was how Grato would attempt pay his penance to Augustus for his sin; he gave him the silent treatment. And it is because of this, that I tell you, that never in the history of yellow bellied, liver gutted, Nancy Mary’s, has there been a greater coward than Grato Fellini at the deathbed of his best friend and uncle Augustus.

More than the pain of dying, Grato's silence hurt Augustus.

“Grato, I'm dying!” shouted Augustus at last, coughing up chunks of blood.

“I know, I'm sorry.” said Grato, finally forcing himself to speak.

“Where were you?” said Augustus struggling to keep strength to his quivering voice.

Grato had never lied to his uncle before,

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but he couldn't tell him the truth. In shame he looked away. But Augustus would have none of this, if it was the last thing he did (and it was) he would get the truth.

Reaching out his clammy hand, Augustus latched hold of Grato's elbow and pulled Grato down to his level, shouting in a weak fury “At least look me in the eye if you’re going to betray me, you coward!”

This last exertion was too much, and Augustus could hold back his bodily fluids no longer; vomiting up clumps of blood and vital organs.

The residual splatter from the vomit couldn't mask the hot tears Grato felt on his face.

Grato felt his chest tighten; making it impossible to breathe. Quickly he undid the top button of his shirt, but it did no good. Grato's throat began to swell.

Panicking, Grato threw open the window to let the fresh air in, hoping that it would chase away the stench of death. In doing so, Grato caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of blood trickling from the wounds on Augustus poorly stitched stomach.

Lamenting over his imminent demise,

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Augustus cried out “He only stitched me up on the outside! I can feel my insides filling with blood!”

Even the greatest cowards have a breaking point, and Grato could no longer deny what he had done.

Falling upon Augustus, Grato took Augustus's wet hands in his, and begged for forgiveness “I'm sorry Augustus, dear G-d, I'm so sorry!”

Augustus was not the type of man to die with hate in his heart; embracing Grato like a brother, he implored him to confess everything.

When it was all said and done, Augustus let out a deep sigh and said “Truly, it sounds as though you had a night of great wonder... she's that beautiful eh?”

“She's perfect. I wish you could meet her.” said Grato realizing once more the fatality of the situation.

A bloody smile graced Augustus’s face “Eh if you've seen one dame you've seen 'em all.” suddenly his speech was interrupted by a a series of loud hacking coughs that cause more blood and guts to come out. Composing himself he continued “at least I get to die for something

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as grand as love... Now get the hell out of here and let me die in peace.”

“I can’t leave you.” objected Grato.

“Get out of here! You're too precious for monstrous sights like me... Go! Live! ... And for G-d's sake be happy.” ordered Augustus.

Against his will and with eyelids overflowing with sorrow, Grato obliged his uncle's last request and tore himself from the room, saying “Goodbye Augustus, I love you.”

Augustus and Grato never spoke again.

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Chapter IV To The Cathedral, To Her Temple. “Amare et sapere vix deo conceditur.�

(The gods never let us love and be wise at the same time) -Publilius Syrus

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Beat true O' holy breast, Escape the clutches of my unrest, And turn me from my tomb.

Return me to thy womb, Listen not to your pagan hate, Listen not to the voice of fate, Listen not to the sun growing late, Listen not to its sinking weight.

Listen not to the god's who cry, For all the “god's� are lies.

The planets above are dead, So why ever look to things above your head?

Remove your eyes from below her hips, And instead focus on the words from her lips.

Words that shine with stardust and gold, Words passed down from days of old, Listen to these words and these alone, And you just may avoid your foolish throne.

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It was well after ten O'clock at night; Grato sat in his room, rubbing Islabella's ribbon that hung ever so delicately around his wrist. It would be time for him to leave soon. His heart pounded with anticipation. His palms were sweaty.

It had been a lonely and torturous day, and the fact that he was forced to live it without the sensation of her sweet kisses on his lips only made it all the worse.

It was no small task for him to sneak out; Casablanca had told Antiguenine about the dagger, which only fueled an already raging fire of fear within her.

Setting herself up like a sentry guard, she sat in a chair outside his door, ready to burst in at the peep of a mouse.

With every moment that passed, Grato grew more anxious. As the midnight hour drew near, it seemed as though all hope was lost; he would be trapped in his room forever.

But then something happened; the deep grumble of his mother snoring rumbled through the bedroom door.

At last his opportunity had arrived, and there wasn't a second to lose. Grato grabbed his

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coat, and carefully slipped back out his window to freedom.

As soon as his feet landed on solid ground, a cool midnight breeze burst across his face.

The sensation was invigorating, it was like the energy that the beasts of the jungle feel when on the hunt. Yes that's precisely how he felt, he was a thirsty animal. Thirsty for blood, thirsty for all of the flavors of Islabella.

Sprinting like the blood-love-thirsty animal he was, Grato ran headlong into the night making a b-line for The Black Ivy Social Club.

Barreling down the streets, Grato had no time to take in his surroundings. If he had, he would have noticed that they were especially sinister on this night.

There were not loads of villains running a muck; in fact it was the exact opposite; there was hardly a soul to be seen.

But those who were about were not your run of the mill scalawags. They were shadowy devils, who hid from even the slightest glimmer of light. They moved much faster than a normal man; but they took great care to slow themselves to keep pace with Grato.

Their glowing eyes were blood red and

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shaped like spiders. Their arms were nearly twice as long as a man’s, and hung low, scraping the ground.

They hid themselves well from Grato (he was in such a hurry that this was not a hard task to accomplish.)

With each street Grato passed, more and more unknown shadowy figures followed after him. By the time he reached Crystal St. the parade of had grown so large that it stretched all the way across the street and into a park that laid adjacent to The Black Ivy Social Club.

This park is famous for having a statue of a pirate fighting a whale, and the parade went well beyond the statue, all the way across a dead rose garden, and down a steep hill where a rotting corpse of a dead cowboy with a dozen bullet holes in him rest at the bottom.

Still unaware of his following, Grato noticed that The Black Ivy Social Club looked abnormally dead on this night.

All of its lights were off; a lone drunkard slept on the sidewalk in front of its doors, coddling an empty bottle.

“Maybe they're closed tonight.” thought Grato as he turned to snoop around out back

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behind the building. It was then that he noticed the presence of the parade for the first time.

Gazing in horror; the countless glowing spiders hissed and bore their razor sharp teeth.

Grato swallowed his courage down inside of him, and looked for a means of escape... but Dear Reader, these monsters had revealed themselves, and this only happens when your fate is already sealed.

Making no move toward or away from Grato, the held their ground, mocking him with slithery and high pitched howls. Grato braced himself for attack; or more clearly put, to be devoured.

But the devouring did not com. The monsters were still. “What are they waiting for?� thought Grato.

Clearly they intended Grato no good.

Terrified, Grato took a step backwards toward the front door of The Black Ivy Social Club.

The still did not move.

Pressing his luck, Grato took another step towards the door.

Still the held their ground.

Continuing his slow and steady retreat,

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Grato inched ever closer to the confines of The Black Ivy Social Club. At least once he was inside, the monstrosities would be out of sight.

“Who knows, perhaps they are some race of vampires and cant without permission.” but then a thought struck Grato “What if that's what they want? What if they're just waiting around for me to lead them to Islabella? Why else wouldn't they have attacked me by now?”

It's true, Islabella would seem like the much greater prize than Grato; but that's only because you have no idea what sort of Arcanum this was. The severity of the situation that Grato found himself in is worse than you imagine; for these monsters seek something more precious than mere life.

But like you, Grato was ignorant to the monsters plans.

He was determined not to serve up his lover on a platter to these creatures. unleashing his grasp on the door handle, he casually walked away from the building, looking over his shoulder to see if a chase would ensue. But the demons still did not move.

They licked their chops and bore their

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silver teeth to the moonlight. Growing fiercer by the moment, their howls echoed across the witching hour, causing all of creation to shutter.

But they did not move.

Noticing their stillness, Grato seized the opportunity and ran around behind to the back of the club, escaping out of sight.

Finding himself below the terrace of Islabella's window, his heart jumped to life. If he were to die tonight, he wanted to see her angelic face once more.

Watching for any sign of the wild , Grato picked up a pebble and tossed it against the glass pain of Islabella's window.

There was no sign of her.

Grato check once more to make sure he was free of the presence of glowing spiders and sharp claws scraping against the walk.

Peering into the nocturne, and eerie chill swept over Grato's entire being. But there was no sign of the .

I say there was no sign of them, but that doesn't mean they weren't there.

They were there.

In fact they were swarming all over.

The reason that Grato could not see them

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was far less metaphysical or supernatural than you might imagine; it was quite simple to tell you the truth. In order to hide themselves from Grato, they stood in the dark and closed their eyes.

By them time Grato threw the third pebble against her window, Islabella heard the rapping and came to investigate.

She hoped it was Grato coming to serenade her. She had read lots of stories where this had happened and now that she was in love, it seemed like quite a lovely idea.

Anxious for a poem or song, she threw open her window and looked out into the night. But instead of a sonnet, she was met by the truth; which was that although she could feel her lover out there somewhere, she couldn't see him through the darkness.

It was as if he was buried in a hopeless void.

Her heart broke, for this darkness that separated them felt like physical matter and not a lack of light.

Fear gripped her; and the more it did so, the more she longed for Grato to hold her. But he couldn't, he was separated by an invisible wall

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of evil that had been built to divide lover from her beloved, and this made the fear all the worse.

Terrified, she called over the wall of darkness “Grato! Grato, my love, are you okay?”

But the words held no weight, for they were deflated by fear. They simply bounced off of the wall and returned mockingly to her own ears. Straining her eyes, she searched for Grato, but the monsters cast far too long of a shadow.

“Grato, please if you're out there, show yourself, you’re scaring me!” cried out Islabella.

Grato on the other hand could see Islabella perfectly, but her words did not travel to him.

All was silent.

However she did not need to speak for him to love her; for where true love is concerned, mere sight is enough.

As Grato bathed in the splendor of her beauty, a slight breeze caught her ribbon he wore and tickled his wrist. It was as if the ribbon was shouting in excitement.

A tickle of love, that's all it takes Dear

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Reader for the powers of darkness to be torn asunder; for as this tickle occurred a faint flicker of red light could be seen in the void beneath Islabella's window.

“Grato?” shouted Islabella with hope.

This last word by Islabella sneaked through the cracks that love made in the wall in the form of a faint whisper...

G r EVILEVILEVILEVILaEVILEVILEVILEVIL t o At the sound of his name, Grato forgot entirely about the dangers that threatened him and cried out in ecstasy “Yes my love?”

Suddenly a vibrant red beacon of light burst through the darkness, blowing a large hole straight through the wall, crumbling its very mortar that held it together...

EVILEVILEV

VILEVILEVIL “Yes my love?”

His words glowed with all the light of love.

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“Grato, is that you?” called Islabella anxiously.

“Have you forgotten my voice so quickly?” answered Grato from the beacon.

The ribbons brilliant threads illuminated Grato's body, making him visible for the first time.

Relieved and reassured at the sight of her lover, Islabella light heartedly reprimanded Grato “Where have you been? I was worried sick about...” but as she spoke, the glow of the ribbon strained itself to the physical capacities of its fibers, and grew brighter and brighter until it surrounded Grato in a cloud of red fire “why are you on fire?”

But Grato was not on fire; it was merely the physical manifestation of his love for her, which looked like fire.

“I'm not on fire.” replied Grato.

The fire continued to grow and grow, until at last there was a great explosion of light.

Although the explosion was brief, it illuminated the whole of their surroundings, betraying the blood thirsty monsters to Islabella's view.

It was a glimpse of a nightmare.

Their long bony fingers were extended like

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small spears. They licked their lips in anticipation.

Grato however saw none of this, he was obliviously focused on Islabella.

“Grato, don't move!” cried out Islabella trembling.

Without another word, she rushed from her window.

“Wait, where are you going?” yelled Grato, calling after her.

A few moments later the back door was unlatched and two soft hands grabbed a hold of Grato by his collar and yanked him inside.

Quickly slamming the door shut behind them, Islabella kissed Grato passionately in the entry way.

It was nearly as dark inside as it was outside.

One of Islabella's soft hands grabbed Grato's wrist and led him toward the orange light that lit the stairway that led upstairs.

Once they were safe in Islabella's room, barred the window and pulled the curtains shut.

Her face was very serious.

Instinctively, Grato touched the ribbon around his wrist; as he did this, Islabella looked

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back at him and smiled, trying to mask the gravity of the situation.

Unlike love, the grave can be masked, but only if the masker is not your lover. Lovers can never mask themselves; no matter how hard they try to hide the tombstones behind the light of their eyes, the love in their voice always betrays the truth.

At hearing death in her voice, Grato grew greatly troubled once more.

Nightmarish visions flashed before his eyes.

Visions of the .

Visions of Augustus covered in blood.

Visions of the standing over Augustus licking their lips.

Visions where he was the shadow.

In this vision he stood over Augustus's body dripping with his blood.

Dripping is an understatement, it was more like pouring, or flooding.

The blood formed a wave that washed Augustus's body to hell to be tormented.

Tortured, Grato pulled his hair and nearly ripped it out, scalp and all.

Wishing to comfort Grato, Islabella

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wrapped her arms around his neck and buried his face deep in her bosom.

Grato's grief weighed heavier with every second; at last it was too much.

Cleaving his arms around her waist, Grato pressed his face deeper into her, trying to suppress the eruption of sadness within him. He wanted to crawl inside her chest and take shelter, using the strength of her heart to protect him.

However this is impossible (even for lovers).

The grief continued to build, until at last he fell to his knees and wept as if he never knew the love of a mother.

Grato cleaved tighter and tighter to Islabella with each heaving tear. Running her delicate fingers through his matted hair, she tried her to comfort him, but this only made him cry harder.

Unlike all the other tears he'd cried in his life, these tears were for himself. He wept over everything he'd lost; his friend, his innocence, his respect for his father. It was an emotional purging long in the making and even further over due.

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He had cried over other peoples miseries for so long without ever giving heed to the little earthquakes of pain in the seismic domain of his own heart. Over time, these wee heartquakes rupture our seemingly calm facade and reveal who we really are, or at least who we perceive ourselves to be.

The only thing worse than wearing a mask your whole life, is finally ripping it off.

Islabella didn’t know what to say, but she really didn’t have to say anything at all. She just needed to be there.

In the end though, the silence made her feel uncomfortable and helpless to help, and so she spoke in a soft whisper “It’s going to be okay baby.”

This was a funny thing for her to say.

When people say “It’s going to be okay” they don’t always believe it. It’s something they say off the cuff without really thinking through what it is they are promising. By making this blanket statement, we are banking on the person on the other end finding some comfort in our assurance.

We can only hope that they are too wrapped up in their sadness to evaluate quality of our

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pathetic advice. For if a man stands on the ledge of a building ready to jump, a passersby may stop and say something like “Don’t jump, things will get better!” or “You have so much to live for!”

But really you don't know if that's true or not.

What if this man was a good father and a hard worker who always provided for his family; and say one afternoon they're at a lunch party where he has one too many highballs and gets behind the wheel of the car and drives home drunk with his wife and kids in the car; only they don't make it home; what if they wrecked and only he survived?

What then?

Does he still have so much left to live for?

Will his life get ever better?

Better than what?

Better than it is right now?

Well then sure it will, time and alcohol always have a way of dulling the shards of our broken heart.

But things will never be better for him than they were that morning before lunch; when he zipped up the back of his wifes yellow dress

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and loaded the kids in the car.

For this man “you have so much to live for” is an insult.

Mercy would say let him jump to the grave, for it is better than toiling as a slave to contrition.

However humans are flawed and selfish creatures, and thus we drink the words in like a life preserving prophecy.

Although there was no proof that anything would ever be okay, Grato desired for it to be true more than anything.

Grato had no idea how he was going to tell her about Augustus. He wanted to, but he was reluctant. He wasn't scared of what she would think of him, but rather what he might think of her.

Forever in his mind, the day they met would be unalterably attached with the murder of Augustus. But he didn't blaming her. He could never blame Islabella directly.

But even so, he would never be able to deny the fact that because he loved her, Augustus was dead; and his fear was that as time went by he would grow to hate their love because of it.

Eventually though, Islabella’s comforting

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ways overcame him, and he could not contain his misery any longer. His innermost sorrows churned deep within him. His lips began to quiver “I want to tell you, but...” stopping short, Grato's head fell down. Exhaling deeply, he pressed the top of his head into her chest for strength.

Placing a finger under his chin, Islabella lifted his head. He drank the moment in, cherishing it, for he knew that the next words he spoke might ruin things forever.

Thinking long and hard before opening his mouth, Grato chose his words carefully “I have caused the murder of my best friend. As I rest selfishly in your arms, a better man lies alone on his deathbed.”

Islabella was silent, she searched for something to say, but her mouth was empty.

Grato waited for a response. She was after all the one who had promised everything would be okay. Would she make good on her promise?

Sadly it was a promise she couldn't keep, for “It's going to be okay” no longer held any deceptive power.

Nothing did.

“I’m sorry.” said Islabella in disbelief.

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Two words, that's all she said.

Out of the approximately 475,000 words in the English language, all she could produce were two words.

But what powerful words they are Dear Reader. They are magical words that can either bring life or inflict death. Unlike any other words, these two have the ability to overcome any seemingly insurmountable obstacle that separates two powers.

Good men cannot hate someone who genuinely says I’m sorry. They must forgive them, for surely they too have been on the other end at some point in their lives.

Even though Islabella was not apologizing for something she did, the magic of the words worked none the less; to apologize for something you did is honorable, but to take upon yourself the mantle another's faults is divine.

Kissing him delicately on his forehead, Islabella helped him to his feet and wiped his eyes dry with the hem of her dress.

Leading him to her bed, she laid Grato down, and then joined his side.

As they swallowed each other up in their

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arms, the warmth of her body pressing against his did unspeakable amounts good for his heart.

For the first time all day, Grato felt at ease.

It was as if he had just returned home from a long voyage overseas.

I say this because something special happens to a man once he has conquered the great divide of the ocean. For to do so, you must face death head on, braving storms and slaying mythical beasts, you do all of this to arrive on the shores of a land unknown to you; a place that you will never fully understand because you are a foreigner there.

Being a native citizen gives you a special knowledge of the soul of the land, of its history.

For its history is your own. It is your home.

Laying in bed with her, Grato felt as though he had that secret knowledge. Their country consisted of warm hardwood planks for the earth, a door for its border, and her bed was the capital.

At his father’s house he was an alien, but not here.

Here he was a mighty king, bathing in the comforts of his heavenly queen. Bathing in comfort is dangerous thing though, for it is

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when we are comfortable that our guard is let down and we are susceptible to revealing the volatile thoughts of our mind.

The more comfort Grato found in her arms, the more he wanted to tell her the whole story.

At last after a good long while of enjoying his body against hers, Grato found the strength to lift the anvil of burden off his chest and tell in detail the story of Augustus's attack.

You would expect that once everything was out in the open that Grato would feel better about himself, but this was one time when the truth did not set him free.

The act of speaking of such things in the holy confines of their capital was an act of treason. Islabella tried to brace herself for the worst, but nothing could have prepared her for this. She had seen a lot of people die in her life, but she didn't love any of them.

But things were different now; she was deeply in love and thus loved everything about Grato, including his family.

More tears gathered in both of their eyes, as sorrow took control of the night.

The pain of reality set in.

Unwrapping their bodies from one other,

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they sat silently on opposite ends of the bed, hardly able to look at one another.

Both knew that this distance between them was not right, but they were both new to love and didn't know how to build a bridge over this raging river of truth. They passed a few feeble words back and forth in a fruitless attempt to swim the mighty currents of emotion.

When all had been said to no avail, Islabella said with her back still turned away “But you didn't know what would happen.” there was a strong sense of disbelief in her voice.

“I knew he was helpless, and I still left him.” replied Grato somberly.

“You can't blame yourself... The men who attacked your uncle are to blame, not you.” protested Islabella.

“It doesn't matter much anymore; I can't go on knowing that they are still alive. I'll have no rest as long as their cold black hearts still beat.” said Grato clinching his fists.

“You can’t kill them, what will that fix?” said Islabella jumping to her feet.

“Probably nothing, but sometimes you’re no looking to fix anything, sometimes you just

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want to make things right.” said Grato becoming more agitated.

Islabella couldn't believe the words coming out of her lover’s mouth “Why am I such a great comfort to you?”

“Because you love me.” retorted Grato.

“Because I love you, I am your great comfort?” demanded Islabella, seeking clarification.

“Yes.” snapped Grato as the frustration continued to grow in his voice.

“I’m not your comfort Grato, love is. Love is the only comforter. How will hate ever bring about peace? Hate only gives birth to more hate. Don't you see? Please I'm begging you, don't do this.” said Islabella, softening her voice from a demand to a plea.

Chills shot through Grato’s spine. He could hardly believe his ears. Did she really just rebuke him for wanting justice?

Outraged, Grato stormed around the room and began pacing back and forth like a wild beast.

At last, when he had nearly worn a path in the floor, he opened his mouth and shouted “So you want me to do nothing?”

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“No, I want you to do something far more difficult than pulling a trigger. Revenge is for cowards. I want the man who holds my heart to be a man of valor who has the guts to forgive instead of condemn. Please be that man” implored Islabella.

“Are you saying that if I avenge him you won't love me anymore?” asked Grato with venom in his voice “You will love me regardless of what I do; I'll not have my woman treating me like a child! Is that understood?”

“My whole life have men demand terrible things of me, but no more, I'm done with it!” said Islabella harshly. Collecting herself she paused for a moment before continuing in a more controlled tone “I'm done with that because you showed me another way. Listen, haven't you wondered why it's so quiet? It's because I told Charlie and all those other barbarians that I was done being there little dancing girl and false lover. I'm done with it all, the hate, the lies, the pain... Love is what I want; for the first time in my life I just want to love and be happy... But I can't do that with you, not if you’re going to fill your heart with hate, there's not room for both of us in there.”

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Trying to lull him back to reason with her feminine ways, Islabella placed her fingertips on Grato's lapel and kissed his cheek “Be calm and stay here with me tonight.”

“It will be done soon enough, and then we can be whatever you want us to be, there will be time enough for happiness tomorrow.” replied Grato growing more agitated by the second.

Pulling away from him, Islabella walked to the far side of the room to conceal her emotions.

Placing a hand over her mouth to muffle her crying she forced herself to speak the last words she ever wanted to say “If you do this there will be no us tomorrow.”

The finality of the statement reverberated throughout the room.

“What are you saying? You'll leave me?” said Grato intimidatingly. Without waiting for Islabella to answer, Grato rushed upon her, grabbing her roughly by the arms “You will love me, and I will love you, you will never leave me, never! No matter where you go I'll find you, do you hear me?” shaking her, he repeated himself over and over again,

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screaming“You will love me!”

Then almost as if to prove a point, Grato grabbed her by the face and savagely took in all her oral pleasantries without compassion for her displeasure. He could taste her fear as she breathed it into him.

Grato's fit of passion was soon interrupted by something hot and wet on his cheeks.

Withdrawing, he saw Islabella standing before him with tears in her eyes. They were indescribable.

She had been handled like this many times before, but not by someone who she loved and who claimed to love her. It felt like her insides were bleeding and on fire.

All the years of pain flooded back upon her saying “see I told you so!”

She tried to compose herself and fight back the pain, for she didn't want to let Grato see how much he had hurt her. But the more she tried to overcome her agony, the worse it grew.

Prying herself from his embrace, she hid her face, and talked into her palms, saying “I imply nothing... What's worse is that I still love you in spite of it all...” lifting her face to meet his, she showed him the full scope of her pain.

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It was terrible to look at (all those tears, O' Dear Reader, there were so many tears.)

Finishing it all, she cried out “You have your whore! Now go and have your vengeance!”

These words struck Grato deeply and stopped his barbaric behavior in its tracks.

Instantly Grato became visibly contrite.

Stumbling backwards, he looked around for an explanation.

But he knew there was no one to excuse him for his behavior, not even himself. He tried to reason away his actions, but the words were not there anymore. Even opening his mouth was like getting Athena to spread her legs.

Signs of emotional mutilation were scattered all over. Rather than bear the unbearable sight of what he had done, Grato took the cowards way out once more.

Mumbling under his breath before running from the room and into the night he said “I wish I were a better man for your sake, I'm sorry...”

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Chapter V In Desperate Pursuit of Sin. “G-d whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pain: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world. A bad man happy, is a man without the least inkling that his actions do not “answer”, that they are not in accord with the laws of the universe. A perception of this truth lies at the back of the universal human feeling that bad men ought to suffer.”

-C.S. Lewis

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Running toward this bloody season, Look upon my tongue a teas'n', Hear my violent voice, And see I have no choice, In this act of treason.

O' this bloody, bloody season.

Whether I seek it or not, These sins shall not be forgot.

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Dear Reader, I know this must seem like quite the up and down yo-yo to you. One moment Grato has decided to forgive everything and live life contently in the arms of the woman he loves, and the next he is raving maniac, hellbent on revenge.

I am frustrated too, but all I can do is relay the truth to you as accurately as possible. And the truth is that life is a yo-yo.

It goes up, and then it comes down again, and then it goes back up, and so on, until finally the string breaks and we crash into the ground where we stay forever.

Sadly Dear Reader, Grato's is falling and his string is on the verge of breaking.

The moment Grato exited The Black Ivy Social Club he was confronted by the horde of shadowy devils. Standing face to face with the demons, they screeched their hymns of hades.

The notes from their hellsong latched themselves to the breeze; sweeping over Grato, they saturated him.

As Grato inhaled, he breathed in their terrible song. The notes were terribly bitter in his nostrils, turning everything they touched cold as the grave. First it was his throat, then it

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was his lungs, and then at last it was his heart and the whole of his being.

Grato thought that perhaps he could outrun them like before, but who can outrun the wind?

As he ran along, he found the harder and faster his legs pumped, the harder and deeper he breathed them in. Until finally exhaustion took hold of him, and he could run no more.

Stopping, he gasped for breath. Nearly collapsing, he caught himself on his knees, and stayed there slouched over, bracing himself for when the caught up. But there was no impact.

They were near, he knew this to be certain without looking, for their song was still deafening.

Turning to face his pursuers, Grato found that there were far fewer devils following him now than there were before. How was it that their song had lost none of its volume?

It continued to echo through the night and through him.

Grato figured it was only a matter of time before the sharks were done circling and that the actual attack would begin; so after catching his breath for a moment, he decided to try and outrun them again.

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In his mind he had already outran a great deal of these monsters, and if he could just make it a little further down the road, maybe these final beasts would fall off too.

But this was an ill conceived plan, for if Grato understood that nature of what he was up against he would know that you cannot outrun such things, it only makes matters worse. The only way to deal with like these is to face them head on.

Grato was no African, he could run okay in short sprints, but this was turning into a marathon that he was not prepared for.

He was panting more than ever now, and thus loads of their song went into him.

Finally when he could run no more, Grato's legs gave way and he tumbled down to the ground, scraping his knees on the cobblestone.

Looking back behind him, he saw that there were only two of the vile devils left. But two of these creatures were just as ferocious as the multitude.

Grato desperately tried to catch his breath, but at the same time he was trying not to breath at all, for he had now figured out that it was through his breath that these demons found

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their gateway into his being. But Dear Reader, not breathing is not a choice we can choose to make without very dire consequences.

You must breath to live.

And so when Grato chose to live rather than die, he really chose to die.

As he inhaled deeply, the very last of the multitude of grabbed a hold of their song and rode its wave inside of him.

Whether he knew it or not, it was through his own choices that these devils came to absorb themselves into him. Before he had set his mind on murder the had come very close before, but they dared not touch him. It was this choice that brought them out of hiding. Then came the quarrel with Islabella; this choice freed them up and gave them their window to actually posses him. And once he chose to turn and run, rather than face his demons head on, it was a free for all to see who could possess him the fastest.

Even though he was possessed, Grato didn't feel that different at first; but that's just how this sort of thing works, it's subtle and not sudden. Be sure of this Dear Reader, by the

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time you realize the severity of your predicament, their fangs will already be in too deep to escape their clutches.

Unaware of the changes within him, Grato was content with the happiness he found in no longer being the subject of the hunt.

Dusting himself off, Grato began his quest to find the man responsible for Augustus's death.

Where one should start an investigation is always a sticking point; however in this case, the riddle was quite easy to solve.

You see Dear Reader, Augustus was the owner of a unique (one of a kind) pocket watch that he wore with him everywhere he went. It would have been the first thing the robbers would have taken, and the one thing that would inexcusably link them to his murder.

You may wonder what his watch so unique?

The answer is nearly everything. It would be easier to list the all the normal things about it, than the vast number of intricacies that made it unique. For the sake of intrigue however, I will list a few of its uniquenesses for you, but you must remember that this is only the tip of the iceberg.

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1. It was a personal gift from the queen of a far off enchanted land. It had been awarded to Augustus more than twenty years beforehand for services rendered in the name of king (what it is that he did for the king is a deep mystery that remains classified to the day.)

2. It was in the shape of a crescent moon.

3. It had a beautiful image of a warrior battling a giant snake molded on its face.

4. There was an engraving on the inside that read “For the servant with the heart of a king.�

5. Its gears were carved from diamonds by the dwarfs of the high mountains, thus making them nearly indestructible.

6. The gold it was made from was melted down from ancient pirate gold found at the bottom of the ocean off the coast of Syria.

7. The little hand and the big hand on it were both so precisely made that each took a year to make.

8. It had a self winding mechanism that kicked in when the watch was near dead, thus ensuring that the watch would never stop ticking.

9. The time was so precise that it was accurate to 0.0000001 of a second.

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10. There was a blessing over the watch that made it automatically read the correct time no matter where in the world it was.

11. At night an illumination appeared upon the inner lid of the watch. It was a map of all of the stars and their relation to earth.

12. It was not only water proof, but acid and lava proof as well.

13. It held secret powers too, powers so secret that nobody truly knows what they are.

14. It smelled like the sweetest perfume.

15. The numbers on the clock face automatically changed to the numeric system of the watch holders native tongue. 1 Grato knew this town and all of the thieves haunts like the back of his hand; but even more importantly, he knew which ones he could intimidate into giving up the information he needed.

This is where the came into play; for every shadow that was within him was violent one, 1 Perhaps this list has been a disservice to you. Perhaps in the

end I should have told you nothing about it, perhaps I should have kept my big mouth shut, and simply said that there was no other watch in the world like it, thus keeping its beauty and mystery intact. I fear I may have impeded upon your imagination and insulted your intelligence by over describing. If I have, I apologize. If I were a better writer it would not have happened.

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multiplying his wicked thoughts times ten.

Where he would have previously thought about yelling at someone, he now shook them.

If he thought about shaking them, he now beat them, and so on.

In the end it took an hour and a handful of punches to the head of three small children and one homeless man before somebody fessed up to seeing the watch.

The bloody child who squealed only knew that the watch was in the possession of a man with one ear. Armed with this knowledge, it still took another couple hours before Grato could find anyone who had seen where this one eared man had run off to.

Finally after a whole night of searching, he tracked down an old spinster who confessed that her granddaughter saw where the one eared man took the watch.

It only took ten whacks to the nose of the little girl before she confessed that the one eared man had taken the watch to a local shop named Lombard Banking and Pawn.

The building that housed this business was a shabby brick shack. The sign above the door had half fallen off, and its windows were

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guarded by iron bars.

The shop was an orgy of odds and ends, overflowing with a variety of things that didn't quite go together. There were tubas, jewelry, swords, family heirlooms, hula hoops, both live and stuffed animals from all over the globe; there was even a few human heads stored in large glass jars.

And that was just the entryway.

It was well known that Lombard would buy just about anything if he thought there was at least an 80% chance of turning a 40% percent profit on the item.

Lombard was not a man with a soul. His greed and love of money had so infected his shriveled little heart that it pumped green blood, dying his skin the same color. He used money for everything; he slept atop large piles of money, he ate money, he even made a suit out of money that he wore on his wedding day where he married a large bag of money.

Lombard loved money so much that if it was at all biologically possible, he would have little half money babies running around everywhere.

But he was a jealous lover, and if someone

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even looked at a penny of his, he'd lose his mind and tear them to pieces like a wild gorilla.

Grato though, didn't give a rip about Lombard's rage; for although Lombard's hate was immense, Grato's was double that because of his pain that would not be soothed.

As Grato stepped into the shop, the cowbell above the door clanged, announcing his arrival.

Moments later, the filthy little green man appeared behind the counter with shreds of money caught in his teeth.

Lombard was a sight beyond ugly. If man is made in the image of G-d, then Mr. Lombard was a mud-smudged reflection in a broken mirror at best.

Folding his arms across his chest, his pompous arrogance showed “Well, well, to what do we owe this pleasure; that the beautiful one, would patronize a sinner like me with his heavenly presence?”

“I'm here for what’s mine.” answered Grato stepping up to the counter.

“I assure you, I have nothing of yours; I paid a good fair...” but Lombard's words were cut short by Grato's hand clenched around his throat.

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Struggling to breathe, the slimy shop owner writhed, futilely attempting to squirm free.

Pulling the green man in close, Grato demanded “You have my pocket watch, I want it back.”

Still choking beneath the pressure of Grato's grip, Lombard croaked out a reply “Yes...of course... let me go... I'll get it.”

Dropping the little goblin to the ground, Lombard tumbled backwards onto his head, hitting it against the wall.

Rage filled Lombard, shooting Grato a look that could kill, he quipped sarcastically “Master's wish is master's command... Grato the great! Grato the merciful!”

Infuriated, Grato snatched up one of the many knives in the store and pointed it at Lombard, demanding “Give me my watch or I'll cut out your tongue!”

Bowing to Grato in an overly extravagant manner, Lombard mocked him once more “Yes master, after all a man cannot make a dime from the comforts of a coffin. What does this watch look like?”

A slight spark of shame inflamed within Grato at these words; but it was only a spark,

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and it quickly went out once it was exposed to the whirlwinds of the heart “You know what it looks like, for it's the kind of unique that you know as soon as you see it that you will never be able to forget it.”

“Ah yes, I know exactly the watch you're talking about, a mighty beautiful piece it is.

Why someone would ever let it out of their sight is beyond me.” snickered Lombard.

Grato slammed the fist that held the knife on the counter. The within him were hungry for blood “Enough! Just give it to me.”

Lombard’s stomach churned at the thought of losing such a valuable item, but he knew that he was no physical match for Grato, and so with disgust he replied “Like I said, master's wish is master's command.”

Sliding his grimy fingers into his vest, Lombard produced the magnificent watch. It sparkled in the dim light of store like the Christmas star.

As they had done so many times before, Grato's eyes widened, marveling at the beauty of its craftsmanship.

Against his will, the goblin-man handed the watch over “I cleaned the blood off it for you,

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have fun at your funeral.”

Smiling his moldy grin, Lombard tried his hardest to antagonize Grato into further sin, and his attempts worked. Grato had borne the backhanded insults for as long as he could.

Snatching a handful of Lombard's hair, Grato jerked the troll forward and cut off the tip of his long pointy nose (which is the worst insult in those parts) Dark blood, colored like a forest at twilight began flowing in boiling torrents. Lombard shrieked in pain.

Grato was not fazed in the slightest, pointing the tip of his knife at Lombard he demanded “Who's the one eared man?”

“I'd tell you to go to hell, but I can tell by the look in your eyes that you're already there.” said Lombard spitting in Grato's face.

Grato responded to this last insult by smashing Lombard's face into the counter. More boiling blood gushed out of Lombard's newly created wounds.

“Who sold it to you?” commanded Grato.

Lombard cried out in anguish like one of The .

Once more, Grato bashed Lombard's face

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into the counter, this time breaking a glass pane in a display case. Shards pierced the moss colored flesh on his cheeks as his face began leaking like the spout on shower.

“If I have to ask again, I'm cutting off your fingers!” said Grato pressing Lombard's hand in the broken glass on the counter.

Lombard was near passing out. His mouth was full of loose teeth. Spitting out his K9's and everything in between, Lombard mumbled his confession intertwined with the gurgle that comes with choking on blood “Geronimo... his name is Zeke Geronimo. He's the son of a Native woman and a cowboy outlaw. You'll know it’s him because his hat sits crooked on account of the one ear.”

“Where can I find him?” asked Grato, pressing the edge of the blade against the top of Lombard's index finger.

“In Shanty Town.” squealed Lombard in self-preservation.

The inside Grato begged him to kill Lombard, as the weight of the knife in his hand began to seduce him. If there was a man worthy of death, surely it was Lombard. But as Grato raised his hand to murder, he caught a glimpse

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of Islabella's green blood stained ribbon around his wrist.

Shaken by the remnants of her, Grato dropped the knife to the floor. The impact of steel on tile, caused a loud clang to ring out in Grato's ears. But this clang did not dissipate like most sounds (who are hear one moment and then gone the next) do; it grew; like a tsunami, gaining strength as it rolled along, until at last it was so deafening that it nearly caved in the walls of Grato's skull.

Clutching the sides of his head, Grato sprinted from the store in agony, trying to escape this terrible sound. A sound worse than all of the shadow songs that had brought him to this point.

Grato fled down the street, trying to find a quiet place to hide from the clang. As Grato made his way down the street, Lombard watched him from the vantage point of his shop window; his eyes glowed through the glass, and his blood gathered in pools below him.

As Grato escaped out of sight, Lombard bent low, dipping his salvaged fingers in the puddle of his own blood, he swore an oath to himself “By my own blood I swear, if I ever see

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that villain again, I will cut out his heart and and eat it.�

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Chapter VI Shanty Town.

“The last temptation is the greatest treason: to do the right deed for the wrong reason.”

-T.S. Eliot

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Eating this bitter meal, I tear the final seal.

By treating her like a whore, I started this war.

In the end I kill a son, And proclaim the day won.

Beneath my burning tears I hide, Feeding my masters, The Shadow's inside.

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Over the course of your life I am sure you have heard the term “bloodthirsty� kicked about. No doubt on most occasions it was likely referring to some psycho maniac. Rarely does anyone become bloodthirsty with the shedding of such little blood. But you will soon learn that it is not impossible for this to happen, only improbable.

For in Grato's case he had not yet murdered, but merely maimed; but for him that's all it took. True his blood lust was aided greatly by The Shadow's inside him, but never the less the smashing of Lombard’s face and the cutting of his nose, fundamentally changed Grato as a man.

This act of violence had borne something new within Grato that had not been there before, something that even the revenge seeking hate within him feared to look upon. It was the monster called action; for many times we dream or think about doing terrible things, but it is this action monster who actually births our darkness to light. Grato was far into his third trimester with this murder child inside him, and it would not be long before action brought him to life.

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Moments are a dangerous thing, especially moments of action. Life is but a series of dangerous moments, each carrying with it, dire consequences of the up most importance; take care of your heart that leads you through these moments, for all it takes is one misstep along this path to be swallowed up by the darkness.

Be on your guard in all moments to choose wisely, so that you do not throw away your next one million moments to live in the present one.

A moment that once it's gone can never be recaptured or taken back.

Grato was not on his guard; he anticipated the moment of his monsters birth greatly. It would be the corner turning moment of his life, where he could at last abolish all the weaknesses of love that had handicapped him for so long.

Do you see Dear Reader how quickly hate can change a man? In a matter of moments it will transform you into something you don't even recognize anymore.

Grato arrived at the corner of Demon Street and Death Boulevard (this is where the front gate to Shanty Town is.)

Death Boulevard is the main street that runs

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through the neighborhood, and Demon Street is the road that runs in a loop encircling all of Shanty Town like a massive cobblestone moat.

The whole way over from Lombard's, Grato had been in a process of devolution.

Not only had his heart changed, but now Grato's physical appearance had changed and distorted into a strong resemblance of The Shadow's. No longer did he have the face of a holy emissary of G-d. The weight of grief and hatred had changed all of this. His fresh eyes which had once resonated with the miracle of a child’s budding face were now specks of coal seated in two knife shaped slits. His shrill lips were thin and ready to speak death. His cheeks which used to be rosier than virgins in springtime, were now pale, lifeless, enemies of the sun.

O' how thankful I am that Islabella was not there to see him!

Presently though, Grato thought nothing of Islabella. The only thing he could think of was Zeke Geronimo and how he was going to cut out his heart, slice it in two, and drink his blood from it like a goblet.

Grato's thirst for blood was insatiable.

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As he passed people on the street, he mused over what they would look like with all their blood drained out of them. This sort of thought made The Shadow's within rejoice and the ribbon around his wrist shudder.

As he entered the front gates of Shanty Town, Grato knew his ability to resist these cannibalistic cravings was drawing nigh.

Shanty Town was not so much a town as it was endless rows of tiny shacks made of scrap metal and plywood that were thrown together and piled on top of one another. There was a market at its center, but nothing good was sold there. For instance the butcher only sold rat meat and cockroaches, and most of the people of Shanty Town couldn't afford to buy it even if they wanted to.

Most of Shanty Town's inhabitants spent the majority of their time sitting in front of their houses, digging in the dirt with a stick or gossiping over who was kissing whose wife.

Paternity was a real issue in Shanty Town; when a man’s wife turned up pregnant, he'd claim she had been unfaithful to him, just so he wouldn't have to foot the cost of another child in the house. Of course rarely did the neighbor

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go along with this, and so there were a many children running wild in the streets with no parents to look after them.

Frantically, Grato searched every face that passed by to see if they were a half Indian who was missing an ear. Each person was a tempting morsel, a fleshy treat that he could hardly keep his jaws off of. He could see the blood pulsating through their veins.

“Is this how a vampire is made” thought Grato “Is it really so bad to be one? If I take another man’s life do I get to keep it as my own? If I kill enough can I live forever?”

These Dear Reader are the kind of thoughts that go through the mind of a sick and desperate man.

Arriving at an old broken fountain, Grato looked around for someone who knew the what's what of Shanty Town. This is when he saw a ridiculously Old Man sitting atop a donkey selling a variety of touristy t-shirts.

There were ones that said “Shanty Town, Spring Break 19-” and others that said “I went to Shanty Town and all I got was this stupid shirt.”

Approaching the Old Man, Grato quickly

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seized him by the throat, nearly crushing his esophagus “Old Man, where can I find Zeke Geronimo?”

The man tried to speak though the suffocating pressure of the choke hold, but all he could muster was “ACK!” Grato stared deep into the panicked face of the Old Man. He could tell the man had no idea why this persecution was being visited upon him. The Old Man flailed his arms wildly, making pleas with his eyes for mercy. This cycle of pleading repeated itself three times during their encounter.

They went like this: The first time was directed at Grato's physical frame; it was frantic and full of selfpreservation.

The second was directed more toward Grato the man, begging him for mercy.

The third plea, which was the most telling of all, was not directed toward Grato at all, but toward Heaven. Not to say that this was a pious man at all, but when faced with one’s imminent mortality, everyone but the most stubborn, take a shot on the divine.

It was this last expression that reminded (if

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only for a moment) Grato who he was, and what he and his family stood for. And it was in that moment when he looked into the face of the Old Man making his third plea, that something beyond unexpected happened.

A shot of lighting came straight out of the man’s throat and into Grato's fingers. The bolt of electricity raced straight up Grato's arm and into his chest.

This lighting was quickly followed by a ferocious roar that seemingly came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time saying “Release him!”

The Shadow's inside Grato quivered at the sound of this voice, they screamed “It's Him... release him, release him!”

Terrified, Grato released his grip on the Old Man and stumbled backwards. Grato's face turned pale with fear. All of the evil and dark features that had made him a beast instantly softened back into the scared and gentle face that Islabella had fallen in love with.

Grato tried to figure out what in the world had just happened. A few moments of silence passed. The Old Man was scared out of his wits as well, after all it's not every day lighting

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shoots out of your neck.

The Old Man rubbed the five finger shaped bruises on his neck trying to make sense of it all.

Grato was ashamed of himself and hung his head, afraid to face the shame he'd feel if he looked into the wrinkly old eyes of the man he had just accosted.

“I'm sorry.” mumbled Grato under his breath.

“There ain't no reason to be sorry.” said the Old Man, running his trembling liver spotted hand through his hair as he came to terms with the situation.

Skeptic of the Old Man's kindness Grato asked “Are you senile?”

“Probably, but I reckon senile or not it was a wakeup that was a long time coming.” said the Old Man with an unusual conviction. It was not normal everyday fake conviction heard in the voice of a pastor or politician, it was the sort that Moses must have had upon returning from the burning bush.

Grato stared at the Old Man blankly.

Overly emotional and charismatic people like Grato lack the basic ability to look past

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themselves and see anything but what’s affecting them directly in the moment. In their minds, if it does not correlate one hundred percent with what they are “feeling”, then it does not exist. It’s what some scholars (Me) refer to as self-centered spirituality (The worship of one’s self by calling upon the name of their god.)

Seeing that every word he spoke was a mystery, the Old Man took the liberty of expounding on the subject without waiting for a response “Youngster, I've spent these last seventy years doing anything and everything that I can to swindle a bone out of people... I’ve wasted such precious time trying to get money that never came. Time that I could have spent actually doing something with my life. I don't know much and I ain't got a dime to give, but I could have taught kids to read, or sing, or something like that... Seventy years... A man can do a lot of good in seventy years... and a lot of bad... I've robbed, cheated, and murdered.

But just now when you had your paws around my throat something happened. I saw death and felt his cold touch... And that’s when I heard the voice, did you hear it?.It sounded so

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disappointed... it said, Old Man, why have you always been intent on hurting me so... stop your evil, and be just for once in your life...

Excuse me for rambling, but my hearts broken right now, and I'm a rambler when my heart breaks. Have you ever disappointed someone and known about it? It's terrible...”

As we both already know Dear Reader, Grato knew what it was like to disappoint someone, and the Old Man was right, it was terrible.

Rubbing the ribbon around his wrist, Grato replied “If you only knew.”

“Then you know what I get at... My life's a waste, but your young, there’s still time for you...”

Almost subconsciously, Grato nodded in agreement.

The Old Man continued, speaking carefully “Now you asked me about Zeke; you want to know where he is? I know him... but you have to ask yourself, how will you feel about this quarrel you have with him seventy years from now when some angry young man chokes you?”

Grato thought long and hard about what the Old Man said, but by jingo, in the end he still had The Shadow's inside him and they ruled the

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day.

“Please, tell me where to find him.” asked Grato softly.

“He’s down at my house. He’s my nephew, more like a son really. Zeke was still in his Ma's belly when his Pa died. He got shot while we was robbing a bank. His Ma died giving birth. I raised him as my own; and he grew up just as rotten and terrible as me. Mister any mischief he’s caused is just as much my fault as it is his. I was no kind of role model for the boy. I ain't never taught him better. Now I don't know what my boy did to burn you, but if you’ve been wronged, it’s me who’s wronged you, not him.”

“That’s a noble thing to say, but I'm afraid my business is with Zeke.” answered Grato trying to appear cool and confident.

“You want to kill him?” said the Old Man with sadness in his voice.

“He deserves it.” replied Grato determinedly “We all deserve it kid... kill me instead.” begged the Old Man. The Shadow's began to rise within Grato “Will you take me to him or not?”

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“You know he has a son.” said the Old Man, trying to reason with Grato.

Grato's face began to darken and contort into beastly forms once more “And I had an uncle!”

“An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” retorted the Old Man with wisdom in his voice.

“Blind or not, I will have my revenge, it's my right!” demanded Grato.

“I can see you're a stubborn man.” said the Old Man shaking his head and sighing deeply “Everybody has their day of reckoning, I suppose ours is today.”

Grato followed the ancient hunch backed Old Man though winding streets of Shanty Town, all the way to the outskirts of the ghetto, where a dusty road wound up a great hill.

Making their way up the hill was a chore, but as they drew upon its peak and the night turned into morning, a small red wooden shack came into view.

It was a pathetic looking shelter that was held together by a lot of paint and a little bit of wishful thinking; but the paint had begun to chip off.

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On the front stoop of the house stood the middle aged half Indian man with one ear atop a rusty bucket. He was busy applying a fresh coat of red paint above the front door.

Sure enough his hat did sit crooked on his head.

His arms were perfectly chiseled like Michelangelo’s David and tanned the color of the earth.

His face carried the weather in it, with a storm that was perpetually brewing in his eyes.

Each stroke Zeke made with his brush was a fervent prayer that refused to accept no for an answer.

As Grato and the Old Man made their way up to the house, Zeke ignored the arrival of his father and the stranger as he applied another coat of paint.

As they approached him, Zeke's prayers continued; choosing them over a proper greeting.

The Old Man placed a hand in the middle of Zeke's back “Son.” Zeke could feel the pain in his father's touch “Who’s your friend?” asked Zeke as he applied another coat over the door.

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“This is Grato.” said the Old Man with a quiver in his voice.

Zeke applied another coat above the door “Pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Pa’s is a friend of mine.”

Sighing deeply, the Old Man’s pain became air born “No my son, he is no friend of yours.”

Zeke did not answer this last statement, for he did not have to, he knew this game all too well. Zeke put another coat above the door.

“Where did you get the money for that new paint?” asked the Old Man. Zeke's hands began trembling nervously, he could barely keep the brush in his hands for this latest coat of paint.

“Did you hear me?” pressed his father, swallowing his sadness and frustration.

Zeke steadied his prayer brush and replied “I heard you” Zeke applied another coat.

“He’s come here looking for you.” said the Old Man with tears forming in his eyes.

More silence and another coat of paint.

The Old Man couldn't take his son ignoring the truth any longer; breaking down, he clutched a hold of his son and shook and

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hugged him at the same time. Yelling out in frustrated desperation the Old Man said “Oh my son, what have you done?”

Zeke's brush stopped praying.

Grato produced the watch from his jacket; it's majesty glistened in the light of the new dawn.

Leaning his head against the house, the trembles in Zeke's hands slowly took over his entire body until he dropped the bucket of paint from his hand. The paint crashed into the creaking wood of the stoop, coating it in a prophetic pool of blood red.

Zeke stared into the pool of red, unable to take his eyes off of it “I did what I had to. We are starving for a crust of bread and we have only our tears to drink... I saw the cripple... and he had that watch hanging from his jacket, I didn’t mean to kill him, but I couldn’t help it; before I knew what had happened, I was standing over him with my knife in his gut...

We needed that watch.”

Knowing what awaited his son, the pain was too much for the Old Man to bear. Turning his back to his son he said “I can't protect you from this.”

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“I don’t expect you to.” said Zeke as he slowly stepped down off the bucket.

Approaching Grato, Zeke didn't bother looking him in the face, but the light reflecting off off the watch caught his eye for a moment.

The sparkle of the treasure pronounced his doom.

Zeke made no plea for mercy, for he knew it would do no good. Giving a quick glance at his father, Zeke could tell by the heaving of the Old Man’s crooked back and shoulders that he was weeping bitterly “Can we do this out back so that my father doesn’t have to see?”

Grato felt so sorry for Zeke. Sorry for his lifetime of hunger, sorry for his lack of family, but most of all he felt sorry for the things he didn’t even know about. The things that happen to a man over the course of his life that brings him to the point where he feels that murder for survival is his only option.

“Sure.” replied Grato.

Following Zeke to the back of the shack, Grato went about his business with extreme care and mercy. It was a silent death, and no cries of pain echoed out across the sky; save for those of the Old Man’s when he knew it was

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done.

Grato made sure to get as little of Zeke’s blood on him as possible, for with every drop that touched him, Grato could feel the heartache of everyone who was affected by the situation.

The Old Man. Grato's family.

Islabella.

As Grato looked down at what he had just done, he didn't feel relived like he thought he would. He didn't feel avenged either, he just felt sad. The longer Grato stared at Zeke's corpse, the more he wished he could turn back time and undo the sin he had just committed.

He wanted more than anything to reopen Zeke's eyes, to put a soul back in his heart.

Any blood lust Grato had experienced was now long gone.

The Shadow's rejoiced and laughed inside him; mocking what a murdering fool they had made him.

Oh how Grato regretted ever leaving Islabella.

Grato had intended to bury Zeke in a nice grave beneath the shade of a beautiful

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blossoming tree that stood nearby, but upon touching his body, he broke down and cried.

Grato dared not go within ten feet of the corpse after that.

As Grato walked away from the red house, a young boy came home from a long day of playing and found his father's new red paint spilled on the ground.

Grato felt the worse heartache of all, for he had just made an orphan.

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Chapter VII The End of The Beginning... “The first half of life is spent in longing for the second- the second half in regretting the first.�

-French Proverb

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If I am to be, whatever it is I am to be, I must know this monster inside of me.

His name is desire; wretched desire, Why is it to you O' monster I do aspire?

All but desire for G-d is the depth of hell; Enticing, rope-a-doping with Satan's spell, Tis desire for thy body and thy soul, That holds me in a state so pitiful.

And If I am to be, whatever it is I am to be, I must conquer this monster inside of me.

Unleash me O' monster! So that I may see, Whatever it is I am to be.

Replace yourself beast with subtle reason, So that I may be rid of this bloody season, For if I am to be what my L-rd wills me to be, Wisdom must proceed ahead of me.

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Augustus did not actually die that night or even the next, but he did die eventually; then again don't we all?

Days passed, and Augustus suffered through every one of them.

His family sat at his bedside suffering right along with him.

At last after two weeks of coughing up blood, death caught up with him. Not often is there a void left in those we leave behind like the void Augustus left in the hearts of his family. I do not have enough pages to contain all the beautiful words that people had to say about him at his funeral. In fact, it would be insulting to him for me to even try to encapsulate his life in two dimensional words on paper. This empty capsule of communication is no match for the deep vibrant prism of life that was Augustus Fellini.

However Grato was not there to see all the love for Augustus, for you see Dear Reader, Grato never returned to his father’s house again.

How could he ever face his father and mother again?

It three days before Grato built up the

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courage to return to Islabella’s to see if there was any chance of piecing back together the shattered pieces of their love.

Upon his arrival he found her room empty, with only a note written on a small piece of paper left behind.

This is what it said.

You are my lover and I am your beloved.

But hate and death have infected you.

And if our hearts be joined as onethen I am infected with this disease as well.

I cannot bare to wake up next to you,knowing you will never be the boyI fell in love with again.

I wait for you out in the world somewhere; over many distant seas and worlds, in aplace that is blind to the human eye.

If one day your soul heals and youawaken to find the innocent boy I loved inyour reflection once more, then at thattime your heart will lead you to me, andwe will be together again.

I have been told to go every day at noonto cry beneath my kindred spirit the weeping willow.

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I will wait for you.

I will never love another,it costs far too much.

Come and save me from this despair.

Regrettably, I’m zealously, impatiently,and passionately yours; forever, and ever and ever and ever.

- Islabella XOXOXO P.S. The easy choice and the right choiceare rarely the same choice.

After reading this letter, Grato sat crying on the floor for a very long time; looking all the while at the red ribbon tied around his wrist...

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