The Tale of James Jameson & Protopov the Gypsy

James Jameson was used to being average height and of average weight. He enjoyed what he believed to be an average life and an average home. In fact it would be fair to say that James Jameson was average in every way and content to be so. Tonight however, James Jameson's life was about to become very un-average, indeed, not average at all.

A cool breeze carried bright red autumn leaves across the dark, muddy road James was traveling on. The branches of the surrounding trees, distorted in the silvery moon light, looked to James like hands reaching out to grab him. A heavy rain storm had just subsided and had managed to soak through James' thick riding coat nevertheless. Even Hamish, James' horse, was still dripping from every hair.

In the distance he could see orange smoke rising from a small camp fire. James whispered to Hamish, "Whoa, boy." and they came to a stop. In the glow of the fire James could make out the figure of a man and a bright colored wagon he believed gypsy's called Vardos. James had never dealt with gypsies in the past and wasn't too sure he wanted to now but his curiosity lead him to move cautiously ahead.

Stoker's Stigma

Life, once red-eyed and wild as fire, is now as cold and void of color as the white, drifted snow outside my window. Wasted and pitiful has this body become. A distorted version of the champion that once aroused a terrible fear in men. Disgraced, belittled, romanticized and falsified they know not who I am. What I am. Or, that is to say, who and what I once was.

Man's greatest sin was to besmirch me. And is death through sin? Then may death spread amongst all men and may I be the one to bring it to them.

Inside, Out

It was a cold day. The sky was white with clouds and snow as I played with Mr. Brunkles our scottish deerhound in the windswept streets of our town. Mr. Brunkles would chase me and tackle me softly in the drifted snow against the walls of the shops and restaurants on the main street. As I regained my footing after being tackled for the twentieth time Mr. Brunkles noticed a small mouse down an alley across the street. He bolted for the mouse and barked wildly as I chased after him calling his name.

We ran down the alley for nearly five or six blocks before Mr. Brunkles smashed open a door through which the little rodent had snuck under. As I approached the door it had already swung closed and seemed to be locked. I pressed my hands against the glass to peer inside the dark shop in hopes that I would see Mr. Brunkles but I couldn't see anything in the blackness of the shop. I pressed my ear to the glass to listen for him but I could not hear him. I knocked on the door hoping someone would come and bring Mr. Brunkles outside. There was no answer.

I stepped back from the shop aways to yell for Mr. Brunkles. Still no response. I stared at the curious little shop wondering what to do when through the giant storefront window I saw a glimmer of light. I ran to the window and looked in I could see hundreds of dolls. I was fascinated by the detail of the dolls and wondered who could have made them. I looked inside for what felt like hours and nearly forgetting about Mr. Brunkles as I was amazed by the dolls.

I went to the door to try and open it as if it would somehow magically be unlocked but no such luck. I knocked and banged on the door and still no one came. I turned away angry and frustrated and began to walk away when I heard a slight creek and saw the door had opened. No one was there yet the door had opened. So I peeked my head in tentatively and looked around. I called out questioningly, "Mr. Brunkles?" No reply.

I looked around at the magnificent dolls once again. Dolls were everywhere. They were on the floor, on wooden shelves in glass cases and resting in baskets which hung from the ceiling. There were dolls of every kind. Boys and girls and animals. There were cowboys and indians, astronauts and soldiers there were even sailors in a ship escaping from a giant squid. As I looked to the corner that I first saw the glimmer of light through the window I noticed two dolls standing next to each other one a scottish deerhound and the other a little girl. The dog looked surprisingly like Mr. Brunkles and the little girl looked just like me. It was even wearing the same clothes I was wearing now!

I walked slowly to the corner shelf upon which the dolls were standing. As I walked toward the two little dolls I thought I saw the doll that looked like Mr. Brunkles blink. I reached out for the little dog and smiled as I picked it up. Once again I thought I saw it blink and it's tail even seemed to wag ever so slightly. I set the little dog back down thinking to myself it was just my imagination. Then I looked at the doll that looked like me. I examined the hair and the clothes again noticing it looked just like me. I reached out to pick her up and...

I should have known better. I should have realized but now I'm on the inside looking out.

Scarlet Foreign Ladies: A Story of Love, Loss & Liquidation

After great incitement, I have deemed it necessary to begin at no place other than the beginning, as there is no better place to begin.

In the early spring of 1858 mothers burgeoning stomach could no longer handle the pressure of my sweet, little body as I detonated forth into this world at the height of the Victorian Era. Deep in the heart of the Whitechapel district of London home was a place of both love and loathing. Ashby, my elder brother, showed me copious amounts of love and was my best friend and protector, however mother—being an alcoholic and a street walker—showed more than copious amounts of love to anyone entering her home yet, was the constant usurper of both Ashby and my happiness.

Mother, in her drunken fits, took it upon herself to discipline Ashby and me for the most trivial of things. So constantly did mother abuse us that rarely was our skin not marked with bruises or abrasions. On one occasion mother had beaten me so profusely that when all was said and done I had received two broken ribs, a lacerated left palm and I bled from my right ear. To this day the hearing in said ear is mediocre at best.

In 1875 by the grace of Ashby’s hand and by his hard work I was able to take my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London and proceeded on the prescribed course for surgeons. There I learned to love the thrills of the operating room. I attended classes with fervor and returned home to tell Ashby everything I learned on a weekly basis. Ashby would always listen with great intent no matter what tasks he needed to accomplish.

After several years of study and hard work I was to graduate. Commencement brought nothing but sorrow as not only would I be leaving behind my dearest friends and colleagues I also learned the very day I was to leave school Ashby was murdered. Mother in a drunken rage sliced Ashby’s throat twice and stabbed him repeatedly in the stomach before she realized what she had done and then turned the knife on herself. My heart was broken thus after leaving school I set up a practice and lost myself in my work for the better part of five years.

Despite the success of my practice I felt a change in my life was necessary. In the summer of 1882 after having enlisted in Her Majesty’s army as a surgeon I was deployed to Alexandria as British troops began the occupation of Egypt. It was in Egypt that my love affair began.

During a routine child delivery a minor incident caused the delivering mother to bleed internally. I should easily have fixed the mishap however a disquieting urge overcame me. As there was no assistant there to watch over me, my compulsion was to let the woman bleed out. I did just that. This occasion developed within me a keenness for feigning accidents so as to see multiple women patients die on my table. I found that in the act of killing these women, I in turn could kill my feelings of deep loss for a brief time.

In mid-September British forces succeeded in defeating the Egyptian Army at Tel El Kebir and I was to return home. Delighted to return home and continue my sordid love affair I came to the conclusion that in London, killing would be a bit more egregious. I would need time and more experience to be properly prepared for this new labor of love.

I let my flat and offices in Whitechapel knowing I would return within a year and fled to America for my new beginning. My youthful affection toward American culture and the Wild West lead me to Austin, Texas. I quickly opened a practice and became familiar with the city, it’s people and particularly it’s nightlife. I spent the better part of a year setting up, acting the part of a hard-working doctor and acquainting myself with the right people. Then the time came and I knew I was ready to begin.

New Years Eve 1884, the weather was gelid that night—so uninviting was the temperature that it was hard to imagine anyone venturing out—especially at the hour. It was near 2:30 AM as I stepped silently on to Pecan Street. I walked with an heir of ease as I approached Mr. W. K. Hall’s home. Hall was in the insurance business and I came to know him through my practice. He invited me often to his home for lavish dinner parties and grand occasions. There was to be no dinner party tonight but the occasion would be grand indeed. A young colored woman named Mollie Smith had been in the service of the family as a cook for a little over a month and having noticed her on multiple occasions I knew she was to be my first liquidation.

I rounded the house quietly to the little apartment at the rear of which Ms. Smith and her common-law husband Mr. Spencer occupied. As I did so I found it quite convenient that Mr. Spencer had left his axe in the wood pile close to their front door. I picked up the axe, walked to the door and opened it as gently and quietly as I could. The dark of the room was as thick as London’s fog but my long walk on the moonless night had already accustomed my eyes to it’s density. I saw Mr. Spencer lying on the bed next to Ms. Smith. I raised the axe and swung at his head.

Having dispensed of Mr. Spencer I rounded on the rousing Ms. Smith. The sheer terror in her eyes of seeing me standing above her, axe in hand and Spencer’s blood staining the covers and my lapel gave me the power to do what I did next.

I swung the axe. Blood sprayed from her chest. Despite the damage she put up a desperate struggle for her now fading life. Shocked by her actions I reeled backwards as she sprang from the bed. I stumbled into a looking-glass by the window and I heard the glass shatter. We bumped into furniture throughout the room and as I saw Ms. Smith stumble I swung the axe again creating a gaping hole in the side of her head. Ms. Smith dropped instantly to the floor, dead.

The pillows and sheets of the bed were bathed in blood, and sanguinary stains were all over the floor. I dropped the axe at the foot of the bed as I looked in a shattered mirror, wiped the blood splatter from my face and then straightened my tie. Satisfied with this first liquidation I felt the familiar ebb of pain as I drug Ms. Smith out of the apartment.

In May of 1885 I attacked and killed two women, in August I assaulted two more women one survived. Upset by this failed liquidation I took it upon myself to double my efforts on my next attack so on September 26th I made my biggest spree in one day attacking 3 women and one man, two women survived. After the blitz in September I decided I needed to bring my performance in Austin to a close and return to England. I decided I must end the year and my time in Austin with one last spree.

It was Christmas Eve and my preparations to return home were set I would be leaving early the next morning. Tonight was the night. As I knew I needed a little extra spending money for my voyage I found myself at the home of Mr. Hancock, a mechanic I knew well from my practice. He told me once of the money he kept hidden in his wife’s room. I used this as my excuse to kill her. I had brought with me two axes. I used one on Mrs. Hancock crushing her skull with the blunt end then took the money and ran.

On my way home I passed the Phillips residence. Remembering that Mr. Phillips had not paid his last two bills I decided to take payment in blood. I crept into the house searching for Phillips. Opening the door to a room there he was lying asleep the moon lighting his face. That face that made me sick to look at every time I saw him sneer I smashed it with my axe.

I rounded the corner of the L shaped house and found Mrs. Phillips and Phillips Jr. lying in their beds. Upon entering the room Mrs. Phillips woke. Eyeing the axe and the blood dripping from it she jumped to her sons side protecting him. This act of a mother protecting her young made my mind glow with rage. I looked at the boy hating him for having a mother who loved him. I couldn’t bare the sight. I slaughtered him while his mother beat me ferociously. I turned on Mrs. Phillips struck her one across the face then dragged her out into the yard next to the water closet. I let loose the axe bearing down on her skull and destroyed her instantly. Remembering the holiday I tore a board from the outhouse and laid the piece of timber across her arms and bosom using it for the most hellish and damnable of purposes.

I returned to the boys room and looked at the boy lying there soaked in his own blood. Then young Phillips face became Ashby’s. I dropped the axe at the foot of the bed and ran. So skillful was the butchery of Christmas Eve I thought myself worthy of an imp of hell.

As I boarded the vessel bound for England I reminisced on my exploits of 1885 in Austin. My liquidations reached a staggering tally of 7 lives and earned my work the title of “The Servant Girl Annihilator” by none other than William Sydney Porter, better known as the short story writer O. Henry. Feeling quite confident in my abilities to liquidate and having escaped any suspicion of the aforementioned liquidations I smiled to myself satisfactorily. However I knew my real masterpiece and my true love affair awaited me in my old stomping grounds of England.

The First Time Abner Hart Killed a Man

Abner Hart sat at the bar of the Silver Sun Saloon staring aimlessly. “What’ll it be Hoss?” asked the bartender. “Whisky. Straight.” said Hart “And don’t call me Hoss.” The bartender poured the whisky and slid the glass down the bar to Hart. He dumped it down his throat like it was candy then spun on his stool and looked around the saloon. As usual it was full to the brim with hustlers, hussies, grifters, gamblers and all their stink.

In the darkest corner of the saloon Hart spotted just the man he was looking for, Solomon Spade. Hart stood slowly and walked even slower over to Spade’s table. Spade was too occupied with his poker game to even notice Hart. “Hu’llo Spade.” growled Hart. “Well if it isn’t little Abbie Hart.” replied Spade, “I thought I told you never to set foot in here again or I’d kill you son. So tell me, what are you doin’ here?” Hart looked Spade square in the eye and through gritted teeth said, “I’m here to kill you Spade.”

Spade and the men at his table roared with laughter. “Now tell me boy. Just exactly how do you think you’re going to do that?” Hart drew two gleaming guns and killed the four men playing poker with Spade in an instant. Hart rounded on Spade aiming the guns directly at his heart and said. "Shouldn't be too hard."

Abner woke suddenly in the hot, dark and dusty shack and ran toward the door. He tossed the door open sweat dripping from his brow and yelled, “Solomon Spade I’mma kill you dead!”

The Face

“I’ve got one thing to say to you Slick.” Bloch stood from his booth, reared back and smashed the waiter in the face with a solid left hook. The freckly waiters red hair flopped like a mop and his eyes rolled back into his head. “The coffee sucks.” Bloch slicked his dark hair back and strutted through the glass double doors leaving the waiter in a crumpled heap on the diner floor. Bloch’s motorcycle roared as the engine started, he lit his last Lucky Strike, tossed the spent box and slowly rode out onto the highway. He saw night ahead and reached for it.

The saturated glow of the red neon sign reading “OPEN” drew in all kinds of drifters this time of night. Bloch rumbled into the lot of “Bar X” and kicked out his kickstand. Before opening the door to the bar, Bloch looked up and noticed the sign, “Welcome to Nowhere.” The dark, smoky bar was full of gritty characters, the kind of characters Bloch dealt with regularly. Near the back in the shadows Bloch could see the glow of Halloway’s cigarette and he walked towards him.

As the shadows broke Bloch could see the large scar that stretched across Halloway’s black face. “Hey ugly.” Bloch said in Halloway’s direction. Halloway said nothing in return as Bloch sat down in the booth across from a busty brunette wearing a slim red dress and matching lipstick. June Gloom was a sexy, venomous woman with looks that could kill... literally. One telling glance from Ms. Gloom and Halloway would blow your brains out.

“So what do for you Pumpkin?” asked Bloch eagerly awaiting Gloom’s response. “Don’t call me Pumpkin. Pumpkins are bulbous and orange and you know how I hate orange.” Gloom was about to continue when a man tapped Bloch on the shoulder. “What can I do for you, Chump?” growled Bloch. The man simply stood in place staring at the threesome. “Well?” said Bloch gruffly, “What do you want?” Again no response.

Bloch stood up looking at the man, “Alright.” grumbled Bloch. The man swung at Bloch and connected with his throat. Bloch saw his breath climb out eager to carry on without him. He caught it hastily and wheeled around only to feel another grinding fist in his skull. Halloway jumped up, grabbed a nearby stool and demolished it over the back of the dark figure standing over Bloch. The man just stood there, unaffected. Halloway reached for his gun but before he could get his hand in his twill jacket the man had already grabbed Halloway’s hand and crushed it.

Bloch looked up at the man and jumped up while swinging his fist into his face. The man’s face twisted up and back and stumbled into the debris of the broken stool. The man reached down and picked up one of the broken legs of the wooden stool and swung it ferociously at Bloch. “I’m ready for ya, Chump.” yelled Bloch as he carefully avoided the swinging club. The next big swing Bloch grabbed the club and swung it in the opposite direction tossing the man halfway across the room. “Look who’s swinging now Bambino.” said Bloch as he approached the man with the club in his hand.

The man stood up and glared at Bloch and Halloway close behind, still wincing from the dulling pain in his hand. The music on the jukebox changed and a droning rock tune came out of the speakers. Bloch looked at the man and said, “Halloway here and me ... we’re gasoline and matches. You sure you wanna start this fire?” The man rushed at Bloch furiously. He jumped with his foot leading the way straight to Bloch’s chest. Bloch twisted back to avoid the kick. Halloway charged as the man missed Bloch and clothes-lined him. The man slammed back first into the ground and summersaulted back on his feet.

“Ready for more huh?” insulted Bloch as he swung a fist into the mans face. Blood sprayed out of the mans nose. The man shook his head wiped the blood from his upper lip smearing it across his face and attacked Bloch again. Bloch turned slightly to the right and hit the man in the side knocking him into Halloway who grabbed the mans head and smashed it into his own.

The headbutt seemed to subdue the man long enough for the bartender to jump up on the bar with his sawed-off shotgun. He fired the gun into the air and simply pointed to the door. “Come on Darlin.” Bloch said as he reached for Ms. Gloom’s hand. Halloway picked up his effects and the three walked out door.

All These Things We'll One Day Swallow Whole

Eat, drink, sleep. Eat, drink, sleep. Repeat. Life bearing down on us in it’s feverish repetition blinds us, deafens us, fills us with it’s everlasting expanse of nothingness. We reach for hope as the nothingness gathers us, plucks us like weeds that will eventually become waste.

As we reach life’s summit we feel it’s blue hands touching us as we spin uncontrollably in our downward spiral. It bears down on us and we know we’ve become immobilized, trapped like caged birds, hopeless with no resolve barring the unavoidable truth that comes to all.

Our famished road leads on, contorting our bodies and our minds as it wrenches us to these darker places. We look bleary-eyed and tortured—the stains and strain never leaving our faces—to our impossibly long cavern with no light, no end. It’s core a complete and utter mystery, dreadfully large and intimidating. We are so small, so lost, this passage so infinite, these are our thoughts before we all go under.

We can feel it, can see it’s beady eyes. Those eyes, we’ve seen so many times before, deep, black and empty. We stare it right in the eyes... and we know, no matter what the hell we do, it will get the last laugh. It always gets the last laugh in all cases without exception.

We scream as we fight for life oblivious to the tragedy of it's meaning, like taking a dog to be put down and he wags his tail the whole way there. This is how we look, and it breaks my heart.

It’s our epic battle and our epic fall. “Is there resolve? Some sense of hope?” We roar in indignation. We hear the song from the deep it’s somber ambience accentuating it's lyrics, “There is no resolve. There is no hope. Cracked eggs and dead birds. All these things you'll one day swallow whole.”

This tragic emotion, so hurtful, the sound of it's melody it's only definition. We are the catalyst of the hopelessness. All these things we'll one day swallow whole and fade out.

....and fade out


Inspired by Radiohead's Street Spirit (Fade Out).
lyrics by Thom Yorke

Rows of houses, all bearing down on me
I can feel their blue hands touching me
All these things into position
All these things we'll one day swallow whole
And fade out again and fade out

This machine will, will not communicate
These thoughts and the strain I am under
Be a world child, form a circle
Before we all go under
And fade out again and fade out again

Cracked eggs, dead birds
Scream as they fight for life
I can feel death, can see its beady eyes
All these things into position
All these things we'll one day swallow whole
And fade out again and fade out again

Immerse your soul in love
Immerse your soul in love