The Make Your Own Entertainment Thread

[Mister Obvious]

Whenever I do what I call a "brain dump" painting, it makes me feel better that I got it all out.

[somethingelseishere]

I always feel better after completing a project - writing, painting or both.
Putting it out into the Universe - passing it through the ol' something else is here
filter first and then returning it to its rightful home as a slightly closer to being
finished work. It comes from the aethers and to the aethers it returns.

[somethingelseishere]

I usually imagine a soundtrack of sorts to go with certain scenes of the stories
that I write. And it just came to me - in the basement/dungeon, when Amelia
was doing all those terrible things to Claire - she had "How Deep is Your Love"
by The Bee Gee's playing on loop. Twisted old bint! lol

[Mister Obvious]

I do the same thing... the soundtrack is actually one of the earliest things to come along when I am writing a story.

[somethingelseishere]

Useless, trivial, go nowhere info here but what the hell. 

So I'm working on my new three-part painting series - the story part - and so
I'm cruising around on Google Maps while listening to a playlist of music that I've made.
Not just random, it's the location where my story takes place, I do this with every story
I write - to get a feel for the area, also in hopes of it helping me to actually get to writing, haha.

So I've marked a place, ya know, added it to my "starred places" - so I can just zoom in and
check it out whenever. Anyway, it's just a nice little residential street with several nice, homey,
family looking houses. A street I wouldn't mind living on. And I stopped at the house that is the
address that was saved/marked by the yellow star thingy and I thought "Hmm, I wonder what 
that little house goes for?" Just out of weird-ass, random curiosity. So, I typed the addy into
Google and it brought up a Zillow listing. Off-market but still, I can get an idea of it's value.

Holy fucking bank breakers Batman! This little house is only a 2/1 and 1530 sq.ft.!!
And the value is nearly half a fucking rock!! $446k!! Dude what the what??? The friggin
rent would be $2500/mo!! Jeeeeeeezus squatcobbling Cuuhrist!! Real estate is retarded
in that area!! Not to give too much away about my story but it's a little suburb town
just outside of Philly. Man, fuckin' PA ain't playin with house pricing!! 

Put that little motherfucker in this part of the country and you could grab hold of it for 
$150k, easy!! Dude, fuck back east.

[somethingelseishere]

West Chester, Pennsylvania - October 1978

“An outbreak of murders rippling panic across Chester County. The victims, all members 
of the clergy, include three priests and one bishop. Catholic churches as well as all houses 
of worship are on high alert. Law enforcement has one person of interest in custody. 
The FBI will be making a statement live at noon tomorrow.”

The world needs order. It must never be allowed for chaos or evil to flourish. To burst the 
banks of good, drowning the clean, the sacred. Even as the very men who rise to lead arrive 
at their positions by way of darkness, a hidden hand - so shall the wrath of God strike them 
down and make their sins to burn bright the hottest fires of Hell. 


I will strengthen the weak, restore the righteous - and from this chaos - I shall bring order.


Carnelian

Unburdened
Blessed Are the Pure
The Blackest Heart


A new three-part painting series - anointing the land, soon.

[somethingelseishere]

Our Blessed Lady of Sorrows Church - October 13, 1978.

A discovery was made in late afternoon. The scene - macabre. Father Merrick’s body 
was found in a confessional. The walls and floor of the booth were bathed in blood.

The mutilation was brutal, unbridled, sadistic. His throat had been cut - ear to ear, tongue 
removed at the root. His genitals had also been taken. An act of dark but deliberate intent.

Smatterings of blood, tiny and few, led to the prayer box wherein a clear plastic bag was 
found containing the missing parts. Sticking to the outside of the bag - a note:

“He who sins with his mouth and offends with his flesh shall be delivered of those things 
that so easily beset and betray.”


An unnerving illness of panic was set in place. This would not be the last incident of its kind.

https://imgur.com/B8qkUN3

"Unburdened" - First in the three-part series 'Carnelian'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 136th painting.

[somethingelseishere]

October 16, 1978.

The moon hangs bright and full in the starless, obsidian night sky. Peering down 
ominously - like the eye of God - upon every act of man. Taking account of both the 
wicked and the righteous.

A long black car stops in a sprawling field near a withering stand of trees. The headlamps 
switch off. The driver exits, rounds the back and opens the passenger door. An older man’s 
body slumps to the side.

“Get the fuck out.” the driver snarls, pulling the body from the seat onto the ground.

The driver moves to and opens the trunk, where a second older man lays conscious 
but moaning.

“Move.” barks the driver.

The man climbs slowly, clumsily from the enclosure, falling at the driver’s feet.

“Stay there.” the driver commands.

The two men are relieved of their robes. The driver proceeds to remove each of their 
casaques with a box cutter, leaving them naked on the cold, damp soil.

“On your feet, both of you.”

The men stand and are prodded towards the treeline where they are shackled together 
at the ankles, a mere six feet of freedom between.

“One will receive mercy.” the driver informs in chilling monotone - tossing a long, shiny 
dagger onto the ground separating them.

“One will be set free.”

The two priests fumble to a sitting position, staring up at their captor.

“The whims of evil have overtaken but you can still beg forgiveness on his name.” the first man says.

“Where two or more are gathered, there also shall I be.” the driver recites mechanically 
before walking to the car and returning with a large metal can of kerosene.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” the driver declares with guile.

The men are quickly soaked in the combustible liquid, crying out in protest as fumes of the 
pungent oil overwhelm their senses.

“Hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, my will be done.” the driver asserts, holding 
a book of matches.

“Stop this! Do you realize what you are doing?” the second man yells.

The driver offers only a dead stare, then strikes a match. The smell of sulfur invades the 
crisp night air.

Two steps towards the men is all it takes.

The first man lunges at the blade, grabbing hold of its elk antler handle, plunging its length 
into the second man’s chest.

The driver fans the match out. The second man lay bleeding, gasping, the blade piercing 
his heart. His killer crawls away as far as the shackles will allow, falls into a sitting position and weeps.

“Look what you have done! You monstrous demon!” the trembling man shouts between sobs.

The driver strikes another match, allowing it to catch the entire book.

“What is this? You said one would receive mercy and one would be set free!”

“One did receive mercy. One was set free.”


The driver moves closer, flinging the lit matchbook at the condemned man. Flames ignite 
and consume the screaming Father, his howling scatters a clamor of rooks previously watching 
from the upper branches of a nearby elm.


https://imgur.com/CVMTRFw

"Blessed Are the Pure" - Second in the three-part series 'Carnelian'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 137th painting.

[somethingelseishere]

Our Blessed Lady of Sorrows Church - October 13, 1978.

Forgot to post this sooner, just wanted to add little tidbits.

While the name of the church - Our Blessed Lady of Sorrows - is made up, meaning
it's a composite of two or three actual church names not found in West Chester, PA.

I did however Google the month and year and saw that October 13, 1978 was in fact
on a Friday, sooo I knew that's how the story had to open, on a Friday the 13th!  : )

October 16, 1978.

The moon hangs bright and full in the starless, obsidian night sky.

Also, the date of October 16, 1978 - there was a full moon. When I Googled the month and
year I also checked the moon phases and since the 16th was a full moon, I made that the
next chapter of the story. AND, the night I posted - November 27, 2023 - WAS A FULL MOON!!

I think they call those easter eggs? : )


The third and final chapter incoming...

[Dink Beaver]

unused pharmaceuticals epoxy countertop

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GANfsu5WIAA8g4B?format=jpg&name=small

[somethingelseishere]

October 19, 1978.

Bishop Magorian is found murdered in his home.

All four limbs grotesquely broken, hogtied into a ghoulish rectangular flesh cube. His eyes 
were removed and placed upon an open bible at the scripture:

“The light of the body is the eye: if therefore thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be 
full of light.

But if thine eye be evil, thy whole body shall be full of darkness. If therefore the light that is 
in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness!” – Matthew 6:22-23


“You gotta come see this.” the detective says to the FBI agent in charge.
“What, the donut truck break down outside?”
“We just got a confession.”

The two men race from the office and down the hall. They stop outside of an interrogation room.

“Is this some kind of joke?” asks the agent.
“Hear what they have to say first.” requests the detective.

They enter the room, close the door and are seated. The detective reaches towards the tape 
recorder, stopping with his right index finger above the red button.

“You ready to make it official?” he asks.

The person sitting across from him nods in the affirmative. He presses record.

“My name is Eleanor - Sister Eleanor Thurman. I am thirty-one years of age. I have been with 
Our Blessed Lady of Sorrows for nine years, eleven months, three weeks and five days.”

The two men stare at the young woman of diminutive stature.

“I am responsible for the recent killings of four clergymen.”

There is a generous pause, the men exchange a brief glance.

“I would’ve killed so many more.”

She sat at the table, small and harmless in appearance with a red carnelian rosary coiled 
around her blood-stained hands.

No more than five foot three - a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. Doe eyes and freckles 
with short, dark brown hair. The look of a college girl, young teacher or new mother. Nothing about 
her spoke to even the furthest possibility of serial murderer.

This one slipped under the gate.

“Why?” asks the agent.

“For years, I knew - and did nothing! I knew and stood by, all the while, these child-raping 
monsters doing the unthinkable. Loosing their demons upon the innocent. Ruining countless lives.”

“Why didn’t you come forward, with evidence?”

“I didn’t have the proof you would require but there were signs - tells - things that no 
normal, decent person would dismiss or try to explain away.”

“So you think turning yourself in will absolve you of these crimes? Make it right with your God?”

“It is my penance, for not acting sooner. To live out my days in a cage.”

“Ya know, they’re gonna push for the death penalty.”

“So be it.” she says, resigned.

“It’ll never happen. But, you will die in a cell. Guaranteed.”

“I accept that.”

Sister Eleanor continues her statement on each grisly murder, providing details no one but 
the killer would know. She is read her rights, booked in and taken to a holding unit. This was 
a first for both the city of West Chester and the state of Pennsylvania.


TWO WEEKS LATER

The long, flowing black robe trimmed in rich crimson hangs loosely on the spindly older 
gentleman’s body as he makes purposeful strides up the bright and surprizingly clean hallway.

The guard leaves the Cardinal standing in front of a cell door. A switch is thrown, the door 
unlocks. Inside, seated on her bunk - Sister Eleanor. The man enters, leaving the door open wide.

Several moments pass, a loud gurgling and other sounds of a struggle leak from the room. 
After several seconds, the man exits and walks the hallway in the opposite direction.

Half an hour later, Sister Eleanor Thurman is found on the floor of her cell surrounded by 
smeared bloody hand-prints with a white frothy discharge around her mouth.

https://imgur.com/15BmYbL

"The Blackest Heart" - Final in the three-part series 'Carnelian'.
Mixed media on plywood. My 138th painting.

[somethingelseishere]

…. — .– / -.. — / -.– — ..- / - . .-.. .-.. / … — – . — -. . / … — – . - …. .. -. –. / - …. . -.– / .– .. .-.. .-.. / -. . …- . .-. / -… . .-.. .. . …- . ..–.. /

-.– — ..- / -.. — -. .—-. - .-.-.- / -.– — ..- / … …. — .– / - …. . – .-.-.- / - …. — ..- –. …. / - …. . / …. . .- …- . -. … / ..-. .- .-.. .-.. .-.-.-


The Mesa


January 2024.




A little help

[somethingelseishere]

Here be monsters...


Dulce, New Mexico - 1980.

The government is operating a network of secret underground military bases, spanning 
the country, where they conduct experiments of the unthinkable.

Maybe God isn’t the benevolent being we’ve been told He is?

“I always felt the Universe was hostile. There’s no longer any room for doubt.”


Some truths weren’t meant for us.


The Mesa

Testing the Waters
An Hour From the Truth
Ten and Two


A new three-part painting series.

January 2024.

[somethingelseishere]

I've been struggling with this latest project for over two weeks now. Total standstill.
I finished the story on December 29, 2023 - and just fell dead with it. Only just last night
and today - FINALLY - I've been able to get my head into doing some finishing-touch editing.

Still not finalized but whatever is left to do is negligible. The big issue has been:

I'm not sure I'm feeling this as a painting/writing project anymore. That it's most likely
going to end up just being a short story. And I'm not pleased with that, but I don't want to
force it into being something it's not.

The writing part of these projects usually take weeks, even a month or more
at times. All the while, I'm just wanting to paint! BUT, the writing informs the painting, 
it gives foundation for all aspects really - the priming, texturing and painting stages.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I need the written work to be done so I can immerse 
myself in THAT, so the painting is born from the thoughts, feelings, locations, imagery and soul 
of the story. And I've just been cut off from being able to "feel it" for weeks now. Any of it. 
Not just feeling art-less but total lack of focus on anything.

So, I'm not sure how this moves forward. More than likely, just as a short story.

*EDITED* for useless waffle.

[somethingelseishere]

The Mesa

Ch. 1

Testing the Waters


Albuquerque, New Mexico - May 6, 1980.

The door reads CASSIUS WHEELER | EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.

Inside the neatly organized office is a large, disorganized desk. Sitting there among the piles 
of strewn papers and stacks of folders, the man himself.

At forty-eight years of age, the barrel-chested veteran hasn’t changed much since his five-year 
stint in Vietnam. Shaved head, smartly dressed, eyes sharp and forward. He proved himself a 
valuable asset to his platoon in the US Army and now does the same at The Albuquerque Journal.

His phone rings.
“Hello?”

There’s no one there, only a series of clicks and pauses.
“Who the hell is this? Hey!”

The sounds continue.

He slams the phone down and returns his attention to a tall stack of papers - then stops. 
His eyes shift upward to a framed photo on the wall - an old black & white of him in uniform 
just after boot camp. Those sounds were familiar. Ones he hadn’t heard in years. The dits and 
dahs of another life.

The former communications officer scrambles to find a blank sheet of paper on the messy desktop, 
hastily grabbing one of several pens from the drawer. His eyes shoot to the clock - it’s been two minutes.

Tension sets in across his brow, pulse racing, cues from days gone past. Ring dammit he thought. 
The anticipation was grueling. Seconds stretching out like miles of thick jungle. Ring you bastard! 
Then it did.  
                                                                                           
“I’m here, I’ve got pen and paper!”

Three seconds of silence - then the clicks and pauses resume. Cassius quickly begins logging 
the incoming information. Ninety seconds later there’s nothing but dial tone.

This wasn’t your everyday kind of phone call. And why the hell was it in Morse code? A few minutes 
to decipher and he’s looking down at a very concerning message.

LIFE OR DEATH GOVT INFO. MUST MEET TO TALK. TODAY 3PM GARCIAS IH25 S. 
COME ALONE. I AM SERIOUS. WILL BE ARMED.

This was his Tuesday.

Hours later, he sits in a booth at the greasy spoon diner, waiting for this mystery person. Fifteen 
minutes becomes thirty becomes an hour. His patience dissolves. A waitress approaches his table.

“Excuse me sir, are you Mr. Cassius Wheeler?”
“Yes ma’am.” he answers, surprized.

The woman reaches under her apron and produces a plain white envelope.

“There was a gentleman here earlier, he left this for you. Said it was extremely important. Gave me 
a hundred dollar tip to make sure you got it.”

She lays the unmarked envelope on the table in front of him and smiles. He picks it up and 
is interrupted.

“Oh, he said for you not to open it here. He made that very clear. DO NOT open it here.”

He stops, holding the communique in his left hand.
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, you have a wonderful day!”

The lady walks away from the booth leaving him to sit and wonder. He stares at the envelope 
then stands from the table and leaves the diner.

Back at the office, he sits - stewing at his desk, glaring down at the still unopened message. 
His door locked - blinds closed - mind on edge. Did he even want to know what the contents were? 
Then in a sudden burst he rips into it, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He reads it once. Then twice. 
And a third time.

SORRY FOR TODAY BUT TRUST HAD TO BE ESTABLISHED. NOW THAT I KNOW YOU ARE 
HONORABLE, WE CAN FACE-TO-FACE. BUT NOT HERE. YOU WILL HAVE TO MEET ME IN SANTA FE. 
THE ADDRESS IS LISTED BELOW. THURSDAY MORNING 9AM. YOU WILL BE GIVEN A THIRTY-MINUTE 
GRACE PERIOD TO ALLOW FOR TRAFFIC. AFTER THAT I WILL BE GONE. PLEASE BE ON TIME. 
THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOU COULD EVER KNOW!

SAME RULES APPLY. TELL NO ONE. COME ALONE.

PINION BLUFFS PARK - 1013 BLACK ARROYO RD.

[somethingelseishere]

Ch. 2

An Hour From the Truth


Santa Fe, New Mexico - May 8, 1980.

Cassius pulls into the parking area, finds a spot and kills the engine. His red and white Dodge 
pickup is one of only three vehicles in the lot. The others being a 1975 sand colored Ford Bronco 
and a navy blue mid-seventies model station wagon - with the obligatory wood-paneled sides.

He can only see two other people in the whole park - one man in sweats at the far right end 
doing calisthenics. Another man at the opposite end playing fetch with a German Shepherd. 
Perhaps his contact hadn’t arrived yet - it was still early - 8:49am. He decides to get out and 
stretch his legs, walks over to the black iron bench and takes a seat out in the open.

It’s a nice, brisk morning - temperature around 55’F. Cassius takes full measure of his surroundings, 
making sure to keep his head on a swivel. He checks his watch - 8:57am - still early, but already he’s 
feeling like a fool. He didn’t want a repeat of Tuesday.

A runner appears on the paved walking trail about fifty yards away. They’re heading straight towards 
him. Getting closer, he can see it’s a woman - slim, attractive, late thirties. She slows to a walk, catching 
her breath and stops only a few feet away.

“Good morning!” she says smiling.
“Morning.” he replies.

“Do you mind?” she asks, then has a seat on the opposite end of the bench before he can answer.
“Go right ahead.” he says after she’s already seated.

“Nothing like a good early run. Sets your energy level for the day.” she informs while leaning 
forward rubbing her calves.

Cassius admires her legs through the skin-tight spandex. She turns to catch him staring and smiles.
“I’m so glad you could make it, Mr. Wheeler.”

A bit unexpected, as not much in this world shocks him anymore, but taken aback he was.

“Hmm, I wasn’t expecting - “
“A woman?” she interrupts.

“Yeah.” he admits.
“Disappointed?”

He looks her up and down with a quick scan.
“Nope.”

“Good, shall we?” she asks.
“Please.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of a little town called Dulce?”
“I have.”

“How about Archuleta Mesa?”
“Vaguely.”

She moves a few inches closer.

“There’s a military installation there, an underground base, one mile below the surface. 
It’s a multi-level facility conducting secret operations and experiments. Everything off the books.” 
she says in lowered voice.

“OK.”

“There are things being done there that no living creature has any business being part of.”

Cassius looks out over the well-manicured greenery of the park.
“Two questions.” he says.
“Of course.”

“Why are you telling me this? And do you have any proof?”
“I’m telling you because you are on a very short list of people that I can trust. And I have enough 
proof to get us both killed, many times over.”

“Alright, where is it?” he asks.
“It’s at a secured location. Once you agree to the terms of our further involvement, it will all be 
handed over to you.”

An elderly man nears, walking with a cane and slight limp.

The woman jumps from her seat, turns her back to the walkway and begins doing leg 
stretches against the bench.

“Good morning.” the elderly man says, smiling widely.
“Good morning sir.” Cassius replies.

She continues with her activity until the man is out of ear-shot, then returns to her seat.

“If you agree to accept this information and publish every last detail, it will go a long way 
towards securing your place among the living. Not to mention, incredulity of the public - always 
an added bonus. Killing you would only lend to the legitimacy of the information. They won’t want 
to risk that.” she lays out calmly.

“I’m not even going to ask who they are.”
“Great because I don’t have time to explain. You know where Amarillo is?”

“In Texas, last I heard.”
“There’s a little town northeast of there called Panhandle. You’ll drive there, leave your vehicle 
and ride the rest of the way with one of my men.”

Cassius releases a long, deep sigh.

“That’s over four hours of highway.”
“Fill up the night before, stop only once to refill and use the restroom, on the Texas side of the 
border. Use only cash, no checks or cards. Nothing traceable.”

He snickers at the enormity of it all.

“Look, you’re gonna have to do exactly as I say or things will end badly for all of us. 
Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Wait until we have cleared the parking lot, count to one hundred. Beneath where you are 
sitting, just behind the front left leg, there’s a stone. Under that stone is an old, dirty folded 
piece of paper. It has your directions. Commit them to memory, then burn it.”

She stands and walks towards the parking lot.

“Okay then.” he says.
“Saturday.” she says without stopping or turning around.

The two men from either end of the grounds meet her in the parking lot, board their 
vehicles and disappear.

Cassius surrenders another sigh.

“One, two, three, four…”

[somethingelseishere]

Ch. 3

Ten and Two


Panhandle, Texas - May 10, 1980.

Cassius can see the rendezvous up ahead on the right - an old derelict stone building. He eases 
on the brake, turns into what is little more than a dirt field and pulls behind the ramshackle structure.

There, he finds the man from the park who was playing with the German Shepherd - sitting in the 
navy blue, wood-paneled station wagon - sans dog.

He parks his truck in a way that conceals it from the road and climbs from the cab. The other 
man walks over and circles the pickup while waving a radio frequency scanner.

Without saying a word, the man completes his inspection - then looks to Cassius.
“Your turn.”

“I’ll save you the trouble.” he replies, holding both hands up, then slowly lifting his jacket 
open to reveal a .45 in his shoulder holster.

“Lift your arms, spread your feet.”

He’s clean. The man motions with his head towards the station wagon. They walk to the 
vehicle - Cassius spots an M-16 and .357 on the front passenger seat.

The man places the scanner onto the floorboard and picks up two cloth items.
“Turn around.” he says, fitting Cassius with a blindfold.
“Is this really necessary?”

He slides a black hood over his head and opens the back door.
“Lay down.”

Cassius climbs into the back seat and gets flat. The man shuts the door, gets behind the 
wheel and starts the engine.

While still nervous, he takes comfort in the fact that he wasn’t tied up or disarmed. This was 
still more than he had anticipated.

The ride was bumpy but short - roughly thirty minutes.
“You can get up.”

Cassius raises himself to a sitting position.
“How ‘bout all this?” he asks in reference to his headgear.
“Take it off.”

He removes the hood and blindfold. After blinking several times, he notices the surroundings 
are far different. They creep up a narrow dirt path - not unlike a long, winding driveway.

There were trees all around, most of which were the smaller mesquite scrub. Then it came 
into view - an old country house. Half sun-baked adobe, half weathered cabin boards. It wasn’t 
what he expected but neither was anything else. This was all new and unfamiliar territory for him.

The man parks the station wagon about fifty feet from the house, facing the exit. He and Cassius 
are met out front by the woman.
“Hello Mr. Wheeler. Welcome to the middle of nowhere!”

On his approach she extends her right hand and smiles warmly.

“Nice little hideaway.” he says, gripping her hand.
“Please, come inside. After you’ve eaten we can get down to business.” she says, gently 
slapping him on the back.

They enter the house, leaving the driver posted outside.

An hour later, after a hearty meal, Cassius sits at the large, rustic table finishing his beer - the 
woman sits across from him sipping coffee.

She rises from the table and disappears down the hall, returning with a hefty stack of 
cream-colored folders. On top lays a small zippered satchel.

“My name is Catherine Elizabeth Thomas. I’ve been a research scientist in the field of genetics 
for twenty years. My ID and credentials are inside the bag.”

She drops the weight of information onto the table in front of him.
“Have at it.”

Cassius unzips the bag first - removing a driver’s license, social security card and a Level 4 
security clearance badge. There are other folded articles of paperwork that he leaves inside.

He’s already decided to award her his trust - she never struck him as the fraudulent type. 

“May I ask how you came to be in possession of all this?” he queries, returning her various 
forms of identification to the bag.

“Two former colleagues.” she answers.
“They have names?”
“They did, but they’re dead now.”

Cassius turns his eyes from her to the mound of folders before him.

“Good men that paid for this information with their lives.” she says, a hint of sadness in her voice.

He picks up the folder on top and begins the lengthy task of poring over its contents.
Several moments pass.

“This is all pretty over my head. Half this shit, I don’t even know what the hell I’m reading.”
“I’m happy to answer any questions, explain or elaborate.” she offers.

Cassius goes back to perusing the material from one of the many folders for a solid fifteen 
minutes. Not one question or remark.

“…three other secret underground facilities - one containing the dreaded ‘God door’.” he finally reads aloud.
“It’s not currently operational but my guess is within three years it will be.” she says.

His eyes refer back to the page.

“What the hell are black angels?”
“Are you familiar with the CERN facility in Switzerland?” she asks.
“No.”

“It’s a nuclear research complex, or so we’ve been told. The study of particle physics - atomic 
and subatomic levels. What they don’t tell us is what that work is really for.”

“And what’s that?” he asks.
“Opening portals.” she answers.

“You lost me.”
“Gateways. If wormholes provide transport to other places in our known time/space 
continuum, then portals are gateways to other dimensions.”

Cassius squints and stares.

“Dimensions unknown to us that may not operate within any understandable framework of 
time or space as we know it.”

“This sounds like a bad sci-fi movie.”

“They’re working on a very dangerous form of artificial intelligence, to pair with this new 
technology to open other-dimensional portals, in order to not only have ready-access to this 
‘God door’ but to have the ability to keep it open indefinitely.”

“What does that mean?” he questions.
“That Earth will be an open gateway to the infinite unknown.”

He stands and paces.

“And these black angels?” he asks.
“Alien/AI hybrids to be the gatekeepers, two posted at every portal - but not to safeguard 
the entryway - their job will be to act as beacons.”

“Beacons?”
“Think lighthouse, but instead of guiding ships they will attract endless streams of unknown entities.”

“How many of these damn portals will there be?”
“Eventually? Thousands, worldwide. Which is why this cannot be allowed to happen.”

Cassius returns to his seat and continues reading. The deeper he got the more insidious it became. 
Fantastical accounts of a magnitude unimaginable - all accompanied by photographic evidence, 
partially redacted official government letterhead documents and a sick gnawing in the pit of his 
stomach that whispered its reluctant authenticity.

Catherine watches on as the absolute horror of it all sinks in for him. His expression an 
amalgamation of anger, despair, rejection - all tied together with a rope of conquest.

It was completely overwhelming - aliens, animal-human hybrids, ruthless experiments attempting 
to merge man with machine, the hundreds of thousands of missing persons each year - thought to 
be lost and gone forever - only to end up in cages within the dark halls of these underground facilities. 
Their fate - to be pin cushions for the savage violence being practiced under the diabolically false 
heading of medical science. Some to be the food for blasphemous creatures - eaten alive, as a delicacy. 

Hell was real.

“What kind of God?” Cassius expresses quietly.
“Maybe God isn’t the benevolent being we’ve been told He is.” Catherine opines.
“I always felt the Universe was hostile. There’s no longer any room for doubt.” he says.
“Some truths weren’t meant for us.” she offers in consolation.

Cassius goes out front for some air - the driver is dead on the ground - single gunshot to 
the head.

He rushes inside where two men have Catherine pinned under the barrel of a machine gun - 
she’s gagged and restrained at wrist and ankle. A third man sits at the table with Cassius’ holster 
and weapon in front of him.

They are mercenaries in all black, wearing balaclavas.

“Howdy Mr. Wheeler. How’s Texas treatin’ ya?” the seated man asks.

He’s dumbstruck.

“That’s alright, you can just listen.” he says, then stands and slowly circles the table.

“Now I don’t know what this woman has told you, or shown you.” he begins, then violently 
pushes the folders and papers off the table, they scatter wildly on the floor.

“But she is a liar, a traitor and completely out of her fucking mind.” he continues, stopping in 
front of Catherine, hitting her with a vicious backhand.

Cassius jolts forward with a single step. The leader spins around with a large handgun pointed.

One of the men flanking Catherine moves to Cassius and sits him in a chair, zip-tying his 
wrists. The lead man’s weapon still aimed.

“So you’ve got a choice to make. Right here right now.”

Cassius looks over at Catherine, her face stoically blank, tears trickling.

The man sits on the table in front of Cassius, laying his gun down where the folders were 
stacked only moments before.

“Retirement with a pension, fishing trips, hell - sleeping late every damn day if you so 
choose - you want all that, don’t ya?” he asks.

Cassius refuses to give him the satisfaction.

“Or you could end up like her.”

Still nothing.

“You really gonna give me the silent treatment?” the man goads.
Cassius stares him down, unblinking.

“Get the vans.” the man says to his subordinates.

The two men move quickly to and out the front door.

Several minutes tick slowly by, the room is mute - then the sound of two vehicles reversing 
at the rear of the house.

“Either of you have any last words?” the man asks.
“Fuck you.” Cassius flings with venom.

The two men enter from the back door.

“She goes with you.” he says to the first man.
“He’ll come with us.” he informs the second.

The two flunkies grab Catherine by the arms and lead her out the back door.
“Let’s go.” the man orders Cassius.

He stands and moves to the exit, feeling the gun pressing into his back every step of the way.

They get outside just as Catherine is being loaded into the first van. Her second man and dog 
both lay dead near the back of the house. One man gets behind the wheel, the other walks over 
to Cassius and zip-ties his ankles.

“What’s gonna happen to her?”

The subordinate opens the van’s back doors and pushes Cassius inside. He lands on his 
chest and face.

“That’s beyond your concern.” the lead man replies.
“Tell me!” he screams, rolling onto his side to face him.

“She’s going to spend the rest of her life in a cell - for defiling the honor, integrity and security 
of this great nation.”

“How’s that? I thought you said she was a liar - and crazy?”
“Don’t get lost in the fine print.” he says, then slams the van doors shut.

Cassius was sick. The grim reality setting in - the uphill struggle to process - the good guys 
were actually the bad guys.

The rough, jostling ride ended after about thirty minutes. The van reverses into place and is 
put in park - motor running.

The back doors swing open - it’s the lead man. He glares down at Cassius.
“None of this ever happened. We clear?”

Cassius gives him daggers, not a single word.

The man pulls his gun and presses it against the side of his face.
“Say it!” the man seethes through gritted teeth.

Cassius is breathing harder.
“Clear.”

He grabs Cassius by the right arm, lifts him up and throws him from the back of the van 
onto the ground. He shuts the doors then kneels beside him, cutting his restraints.

“Go live your life, Mr. Wheeler.” he offers, then climbs back into the passenger side of the
vehicle. The van speeds away, lifting a cloud of reddish-brown dust. Cassius gets to his feet, 
rubs his wrists and walks to his truck.

He sits behind the wheel for a few minutes. Finally, it all spills out, he bursts into tears. 
Punching the dash, stomping the floor. Overcome with things he’ll never be able to discuss with 
another living soul.

And then there were his concerns for Catherine.

The red and white Dodge pulls from behind the crumbled building, its tail-lights growing 
smaller down the long country road as the sky turns from dusk to dark.


Tucumcari, New Mexico - May 14, 1980.

Catherine’s Bronco was found on a side road just off of NM-104. She was dead in the driver’s 
seat. Her hands were duct taped to the steering wheel at the ten and two o’clock positions. 
She had been beaten to the point of disfigurement.

Her eyes were removed and hung from the rearview mirror. Acid burns covered seventy percent 
of her body - the majority of damage being on the face, arms and torso. Her feet were cut off 
at the ankle and sat upright on the back seat. The windshield was spider-webbed but intact. 
There were no personal effects or any forms of identification. The gas tank was three-quarters full.


Her death was ruled as suicide.

[somethingelseishere]

SICK [teaser post]

Brought in for questioning. Denied an attorney. Sweated hard.
Known associates. Checkered past. Links to extremism. Plots against the government.
Mental health warnings. Criminal record. Rough childhood. Societal outcast.
It was all there. 


Saving the world comes at a price. I will always break before I bend.

- Caldwell Grace


Coming soon...

[Mister Obvious]

Ooo...



Glad to see I ain't the only one in the mood.

[somethingelseishere]

Conway, Arkansas - May 8, 1995. 

I was named after my paternal grandfather. Caldwell Grace.
Always heard he was a good man. I never met him.

Today I rejoin society after three months in the local nuthouse. Trust me, it was for the best.
Branded as borderline personality disorder at age twelve.
By eighteen, I’d been hospitalized nearly a dozen times.

After thirty-one miserable trips around the sun, I’ve come to a realization…

This world is a fucking toilet.

It’s almost unlivable now, thanks to what the lust for money and power have done.
The increase and acceleration of greed and corruption. The plasticifying of the human soul.
People have become so self-involved and insufferable. But don’t worry, I’ve got plans to fix that.

Sure, things will get a little messy. Words like domestic terrorism and treason will be thrown
out there but don’t allow your attention to be swayed by those myopic distractions.


I will bring much-needed change to this place. In the end, I’m sure you will approve.



SICK

Yellow House

In But Not Of

Samsara



A new three-part writing/painting series.