The Vendetta

The Story of Dangerfield's Dad

Chapter one: The World's Greatest Fishing Knife

Is that an illusion? Was he seeing things? It looks exactly like Keith, the guy he spent a month tearing up weeds with in June (and part of July) in the backyard of Mister Sissons property in West Meadowlark. But how could this be?  It was 700 miles away and more than a month ago.  The motorcycle was a Honda 75 and the guy was wearing a helmet but it was clearly Keith when he turned toward Dale and drove over to stop on the road beside him.

"Dale! What are you doing here? Where are you staying?"

"Nowhere. I was down at Peachland. I left this morning and I am going to camp beside the lake."

"That's not possible. The cops will roust you for sure. You can stay with me. I am at my brother's house for the summer. He will let you crash for a couple nights."

This was a spot of unexpected good luck, which took a moment to process. He didn't hesitate to accept, almost without any thought whatsoever.

Overall, 1969 had been unkind so far. Suddenly this wasn't the case. He was experiencing a change of fortune, which began mere days ago, while he was riding his ten speed from Kelowna to Peachland. He found a wallet on the side of the highway. A $20 bill was sticking out of the bill fold.  He felt overdue for a run of good luck, so allowed it to begin. There was another $6 tucked neatly in the wallet.

The traffic was raising dust beside the shopping centre in South Kelowna where this peculiar rendezvous was taking place, and moments later he rolled his ten speed up the sidewalk and unloaded his gear into the house where Keith's older brother was starting a young family.

For the first time this summer, he could stop and smell the roses. And the breeze, and the rich Okanagan air with orchards under irrigation and radiant sunshine with never a cloud in the sky.

They climbed to the attic, "I thought your big plan for the rest of summer was to ride your bike to Jasper with your friends."

"Yah, that plan fell apart." Nothing had gone as planned. Yet somehow life worked itself out, didn't  it? He found $26 in the wallet laying on the shoulder, a princely sum t0 go into his pocket. Returning the ID and other contents was still a matter of debate. He had t0 discuss it.

"So I shipped my bike to Vernon and rode to Peachland to meet Tim Collins. His mom and dad said I could stay at their rented cabin for a few days," which Dale  reduced to three days because they made him feel as welcome as bubonic plague. There was a load of bad blood going on. The trip was a wash.

Yes, he was a mere 14, but he had the bike and the gear so he felt liberated, with 26 extra dollars, he felt rich when he rode away from the Peachland beach front cabin this morning.

"And Mister and Missus Collins just let ya go?"

Dale laughed. "What?" He was taken aback. "Of course. What are they going to do?"

"Well, Dale," said Keith, "my fuckin brother and sister in law do not want to let you go. They're for calling the cops to get you home."

"What? I am set. I know exactly what I am doing. Here. Look at this," and Dale handed the baby blue colored wallet to Keith upstairs in the attic room with a couple of cots.

"This is what you found? Geez. Seems kind of heavy."

"You think so? I kept the $26. I want to turn the wallet in to the RCMP."

"Yah you should. And put the money back. This poor Indian lady from Washington probably needs it more than you."

He looked at the straw-haired yokel, same age as him, 14, probably riding the motorcycle illegally, who was a hard worker a few weeks ago in Sissons' demon weed patch, "I know. I feel guilty. But I'm keeping it. Don't tell your brother. You got a driver's license?"

"Fuck you. It's too heavy," Keith kept assessing the wallet, putting it down on his cot, then returning to it, weighing it, something neither of the Collins boys had done a few days ago. When Dale arrived at the Collins' little cabin beside Okanagan Lake bearing this fresh reward for his travails, the boys said keep the money, toss the wallet, and kept it hush hush with their parents.

Dale kept the money, and hid the wallet deep inside his saddlebag. He was living on instinct at 14 years of age when he decided upon an early departure from the Collins tribe. It was the end of his friendship with Tim, and it was a jagged end to a few disturbing events.

"Hey!" Keith yelled, and held the wallet open, suddenly bulging with cash. The secret pocket held a large number of $20 bills. They were Canadian bills, even though the wallet belonged to an American Nez Pierce Tribal Member, and Keith started pulling the money out but handed the wallet to Dale.

"Let's count it." It was $420. Dale put another $40 in his pocket, gave the wallet and $380 to his friend Keith, and they went downstairs to report this to the big brother. The police were called, and now Dale was $66 dollars richer than he was when he arrived in the Okanagan.

In every way you can imagine, Dale felt robbed by Tim Collins, and by extension, the entire Collins family, until now. In a desperately real way, Dale felt betrayed by Tim Collins. Last spring, Dale let Tim in on a secret,  he had a key to his Dad's pearl white '65 VW Beetle, a four year old car in pristine condition. One weekend he invited Tim to go joyriding while the folks were away. Tim smashed the VW engine-first into the back bumper on a welders truck parked on 149 street.

Dale was savvy to Tim's cavalier commitment to the debt from popping the clutch. Tim owed $200 of the $400 repair bill. Dale shouldered his half, then some, for being the instigating car thief. All this had been worked out judiciously by the lawyer, Codliverchuk, on the day of the incident. Or so Dale had been led to believe. This trip from Edmonton to Peachland was about the cash. They didn't speak a word of it in the confines of the lake-side cabin. Dale left, twenty-six whole dollars richer, thanks to the Collins, in some backhanded fashion no one could fathom.

Dale sat on his cot pondering the difference between Keith and Tim. Tim advised keeping the $26. So had Tim's older brother, the one who used to drive a Valiant 3 speed on the floor, a long gear lever looked comical but proved  functional, as Dale recollected from the one or two occasions he rode in the car, back before hell proper had descended. (It seemed so long ago. It was 5 months.) What would those two goofs say about the $440? 

As a way to placate his hosts, Dale was prepared to talk to Keith's brother, but Dale had to mosey along, and this he did once the dust cleared with the wallet and the cops. What could they say? Now is the time for all good fly fishermen to buy the fish-gutting knife of their dreams.

 

Chapter Two: The Vendetta Begins

Harvey Codliverchuk, L.L.B., Q.C., had been satisfied with the direction things were taking, after all, it was his planning to perfection, it was the consummation of multiple agenda points in a large play for total control, plus, it was the severe destruction of a dirty little fucker who deserved to be snuffed before he starts on a path to further deviation. 

Personal empire building would not be interrupted, colored or flavored in any way by this tangential interlocutor, a thorn in his side from the instant he encountered him, someone who represents foul play, contributory negligence personified. If he could go back in history and prevent the birth of Hitler, go back in history and prevent the birth of Genghis Khan who inflicted so much terror upon Harvey's Ukrainian ancestors, or go back in history and prevent the birth of Dale MacAdam, he would choose the latter. According to Dale MacAdam's mother, and his sister, the kid was the devil, and both of those cunts were evil enough to know. Even so, Harvey was stunned when the mother said, "Yes," to the proposal to put a life insurance policy on her kid.

It began because Harvey does not resist the temptation of young, fresh, delinquent school girls, the promiscuous ones are extraordinary in two ways. Irresistible to his rock hard libido stick, and incredibly fecund sources of huge bonus income, legitimately derived from the most illegitimate of resources. Baby making.

He doesn't brag about it. He lives on the trading of humans.

Harvey encounters these opportunities in a steady stream. He is in the perfect position to dip into it at his convenience,  on demand sexual intercourse with a non stop flow of young, willing or compliant pussy. He is a warden, court appointed guardian, of the court of family justice, and he specializes in rounding up runaways. Here in the middle of the sexual revolution on a waves of a baby boom, he was in the business of containing errant pussy, by law, and leading it to the Pineview Home for Unwed Mothers, and business was fucking booming, because there's no such thing as containing errant pussy.

One of those fetching ones he encountered in a previous  spring had been an extended probation leading to recurring sexual frenzy for the past year of her incarceration. Until she shoved her stupid, self-centered and self-indulgent little brother into the picture. And this little prick figured he was some kind of gift to humanity. He also believed himself entitled to free legal advice from Harvey. This was Dale's most objectionable trait. Attempting to out criminal the chief criminal, wickedly obnoxious fucking kid.

The kid was what this frantic long distance phone call was about from brother Boss Bob who was supposed to keep it simple but always made it complicated, and a bit of a mess, which is to say, unpleasant and unexpected surprises. Boss Bob gave a hearsay account because Boss Bob didn't do the job himself, he hired another guy on the job, and this guy came back pretty shook up over his encounter with the 14 year old kid. Imagine. Turns out the kid is dangerous-as-fuck, and guess what? Boss Bob is somebody who knows danger, after a full stint in World War Two, in the Canadian Navy, and in the thick of it. 

Harvey listens to Boss Bob give his report. Boss Bob goes into details of a frightful event, but it wasn't the trauma Harvey was expecting. Boss Bob gives the details received from his operative. Boss Bob often repeats things twice. If you don't have it by then, you aren't getting it from Boss Bob.

"My guy got the fright of his fucking life, Harvey. My guy got the fright of his fucking life, And he is totally pissed at me about the lack of warning. Totally pissed about the lack of warning."

Harvey's target had competed for a couple of city championships in hockey, his dad bragged about the kid's scoring prowess. "I told you he is competitive." Harvey knew hockey players who did the scoring didn't do the fighting, so this was unexpected news about a surprise attack.

From the report of the guy's surveillance, he started off saying it had been a boring fucking morning, last he heard the kid was riding his bike from Kelowna to Vernon. "He rode his bike like you said he would."

Harvey expected him to be camping in the town of Vernon beside Lake Kalamalka. The intel said the kid was a camper. Instead he went to the bus depot and put his bike on a Greyhound. An hour later he stood out to the highway hitchhiking. Boss Bob's operative said the kid was hard to miss because  you don't see a lot of skinny 14 year old kids hitchhiking alone on a highway at night.

The operative picked the kid up on the outskirts of the town of Vernon. The kid told the operative he was going to Salmon Arm. "It was evening, and a warm August night. The kid said he wouldn't get in the truck unless my guy was going non stop to Salmon Arm. My guy reassured him this was the plan. And away they went."

And this is when it gets interesting. Apparently the operative intends to have a little fun with the kid before he finishes the job. "So he drives him north toward the town of Salmon Arm, and this is Wednesday evening, so the highway is deserted. About twenty miles up this lonely stretch of highway, the operative pulls over to the left and parks the camper beside the highway. He decides it's the place to do it. But the kid doesn't go along initially. He gets out of the pickup and crosses the highway to stick out his thumb. He was disgusted but didn't express any disappointment.  "My guy thinks the kid got away. An hour passes. No cars go by along the highway, and it's approaching midnight." The operative hears a knock on his camper door.

Boss Bob says the kid comes in, they have coffee, kid asks about his tattoos, "Navy," he told him.

The kid said they look familiar because his dad has the same tattoos on his forearm.

"My guy puts him on the bunk above the cab, lays down beside him, has his dick up stiff as a board, and, Snap."

 

"What?" Harvey asked, "Snap?"

"it's the noise an eight-inch razor-sharp stiletto made flashing toward my guy's hard-on, so my guy jumped down and threw the kid's gear out the door and backed away while the smirky shit went to the exit. He said he managed to give the little fucker a shove out the door. But it wasn't a toy knife.  He said the kid laughed after landing on his feet in the dark like a fucking black cat and asked him if he wanted more. It scared him. "Same tattoos, buddy, excapt my old man ain't a queer, aasshole. And neither am I!"

The knife was gone. The kid had gathered his gear and sprinted across the highway in a matter of seconds, cussing as he went, and whooping with joy because it was just in time to flag a pickup truck with a crowd of rowdy travelers in the open truck box. My guy said Indians stopped and the kid disappeared into the darkest night my guy has seen in his life. 

"He ended pursuit or interest in your target, Harv. He said he isn't about to lose his dick for ten grand. He wants to be paid in full. Or he said you're  the one who's gonna  lose your dick. He did say, the kid shipped his bike to Jasper and is riding to Hinton to meet up with his dad, and go fishing."

Uh shit. This is unexpected. It was also a real costly.  Life insurance policies don't pay for living expenses, and don't come cheap either, and the trollop mother won't be picking up the tab for $10,000. She said, it's not her fault if it doesn't work out.

 The sister, that's another story. She has Harvey's kid on the way, which covers expenses in this fuck up. She told people it was parthenogenesis from her brother  raping her a few months ago. Harvey gave her the crazy story from a crazy Nun he knew in Mundare.

Maybe she said it was her father and possibly the neighborhood dogs and cats. Harvey didn't care. Harvey sold the kid to the Sisters of Multiple Broken Covenants and Hymens, including the child trafficking when something arrives. This side game amounted to fuck around money. And thisnfuck around moneynwentndown the drain. How fucking hard can it be to kill one wimpy looking 14 year old delinquent?

 Meanwhile the psychopath little broad is turning 16 soon, and says she never sleeps,  because she craves Harvey's dick, she says, but he knows it's because sleeping interrupts her from making up malicious excusesnfor her shitty attitude, about anybody who crossed her path, except Harvey, because he is the law.

People are pieces of shit, it's so easy to spin them for a payday. It takes training. The idiot in the camper will get his lesson. A shot in the back of the head from Boss Bob. And the dangerous person disguised as a kid appears to have made a career for himself  of surviving Harvey Codliverchuk.

Chapter Three: Harvey grows a beard

Dale had found it awkward to explain things to Harvey Codliverchuk.  Dale was intuitive enough to realize quickly he made a mistake consulting this guy.

Why had Dale cut a key and stolen the VW? That was the lawyer's main concern. In fact, Mr. Codliverchuk, 'Harvey' was quite torn up about the boys leaving the scene and taking the car from the accident, because Dale and Brian Collins pushed the smashed '65 Pearl White VW Beetle through a corridor of neighborhood back alleys to park it in the MacAdam garage, where they met the lawyer.

Well it was simple. The cast iron metal back bumper of the gigantic welder's truck which Brian here smashed didn't happen to have a scratch. Dale had brushed off a few flecks of paint. They pushed the car into the immediate convenience of a downhill alley and up the lane for a block, across one street, into another alley, a basic police report of activities. For some fucking reason, Codliverchuk wasn't having any of it. He seemed unwilling to accept that Brian Collins was being made responsible for smashing the car while Dale was in Tooke's Grocery. 

"I'm not worried about the police. There was no damage to the other vehicle. I want Brian here to pay for half the damage. He wasn't a passenger. He smashed the car.

"Yes. It was lawless, but I am not a delinquent." 

Dale opted to inform Harvey that when his Dad catches him red-handed, it will be a week of the silent treatment, then a resumption of normal life, because Dale isn't guilty. Dale would soon be handed the keys, grudgingly, "Straight to the store," Sure, "No fuck around stopping to cut keys, for this car, or that house, or the other car."

Dale explained to the lawyer, who showed up at his sister's insistence because the parents were out of town, that he had his learner's permit, "Had it the day after my birthday last November." He got the key cut one afternoon where he works part-time at a hardware store. It seemed convenient to have one.

"It was criminal." 

Dale agreed to listen to the lawyer because he wanted a legal position on the damages, and he continued to defend it by stating he logged at least 5,000 miles behind the wheel of various types of cars and trucks since the age of 10. 

Dale told Harvey the only thing preventing him from driving without supervision was his jealous older sister, and his cranky mother. He said his old man trusted him with the wheel of a car and the handle of a loaded gun. "I've been gutting fish since I was a toddler."

Harvey seemed entirely unable and unwilling to listen. Dale was equally sure other 14 year old kids were unable to relate. He felt squeezed between childhood and adulthood.

* * *

One night the previous winter Codlivershuk was hovering in the rink shack waiting for his kid to finish a hockey practice. Young MacAdam was loitering in the other room with young Bill Maher and Jack Dawson , perhaps the homeliest kid Codlivershuk ever saw. "How do you break a Ukrainian's forefinger," said MacAdam,

The dressing room of wooden benches was otherwise empty. "Punch him in the nose! How do you keep the flies off the bride at a Ukrainian wedding? Leave a pile of shit in the corner."

Codliverchuk stepped around the corner and the laughter stopped. 

"I'll stop telling those jokes," said MacAdam. 

The three youth sitting in the Tacks hockey skates on their feet, waving their sticks, sat still,  and quiet. 

Codliverchuk left the building into the 20 below Fahrenheit of the Edmonton winter. He stuck his head back into the boy's dressing room.  "Why don't you fucking cunts go scrape the ice before they close the building and kick you back to delinquent hall?" 

Two of these pricks were not his cup of tea. The third was a target. The reports from his mother were unbelievable, Harvey painted a bullseye on the kid's forehead. He was gonna die. Keep telling those racist jokes, kid.

As time went on, Codliverchuk kept an obsessive eye out for Dale MacAdam. He was convinced he had to do something about him. Harvey was sure there was an opportunity, and Harvey continued under the spurious reasons a contentious woman can provide, lies gross enough to excuse the making of easy money.

Codliverchuk now had a confederate, a student, and was impressed by his student for one reason more than any other. The student had Churchillian determination, which is to say, he was determined to divert money and death at the expense of others, in this particular regard impressive indeed. He would have a body count by age 25, and be worth millions, and never lifted a finger.

Harvey found a man with a license to kill. What makes this man perfect is he is small enough to go where no one else can fit, where no one else belongs.

This young man was Charlie Manson in a silk suit with a top of law class pedigree, which he would soon be finishing in Codliverchuks office, an articling law student. He was local, a fraternity man from the same house and law school as Codliverchuk. 

The man had been scouted due to his high marks. Codliverchuk could see in his eyes there is structure in this man's brain, and it says, "Kill." He doesn't belong in polite society. He must elevate to oversee society, and rule it with an iron fist, and a deadly aim on specific targets. He must be an assassin.

The young chap shared a few physical characteristics with Codliverchuk. He had small feet like Harvey. He was self-conscious about this. He was of modest stature, yet he managed to stand out in a crowd. But he could disappear; equally useful attributes. 

This relationship could be lifelong, because to be perfectly honest, Harvey Codliverchuk was in love. He even mixes and matches well. Best of all, he's smart enough to impress the Jews. Harvey needs to put a hook in him for the Jews. The King of the Jews, not the fake one, the actual, nothing could not be more important to Harvey, to the world. Mostly to Harvey.

The best hooks are vaginas. Conveniently he knew one vagina in particular would come in handy.

To Rest and Reincarnate

To Rest and Reincarnate   All Rights  Mack McColl    WORK IN PROGRESS

Chapter One

Nothing makes Diablo Dybbuk miserable more than a hint of success or happiness in others. He lives a disenchanted life, a disenfranchised existence behind camouflage, a shroud of secret and criminal darkness and mystery, dressed in neutral-colours and second-hand clothes, smelling musty as wet wool, mixing  purposely and watching the grey and murky world of sins go by, Diablo feeling like the basic burnt end of a lightning bolt.

He changes his name, if not his game, lives wild and free to make criminal choices and engage in illegal, immoral and adversarial behavior, no specifics, an uninspired breath of bad news. He is a free-floating evil. He is married to sadistic glee. It's his oxygen.

 While most people classified as deranged would never admit weakness in themselves, Diablo is immersed in evil incarnate, and excels at nothing but weakness, it is his strong suit. 

He works on an understanding of evidence, which is, to make understanding the evidence, and any conclusive form of evidence, disappear, including witnesses, because the world is  evil and cruel by design, which makes it dismal perpetually, and you should be doing all you can to enhance this.

Nobody needs witnesses to complicate things and make it worse for the perpetrators of evil.

His impulses are a mystery because nobody acts out sadistically in a playground, or a public park, or a street (too often), not usually. The civilization prefers these matters be done in private.

Nothing makes him happier than seeing others suffer, and the only thing better is when he gets to cause it. He knows evil is everywhere and he has always been part of it. He heard of 10 Commandments. Whatever those are, he is for breaking them. The more commandments to break the better. He is tireless and never gets bored, dismayed, or confused in criminal pursuits. He lives for intense compulsions never to be restrained or curtailed. He cannot stop thinking of evil things to do, and finding people to do them to. He plans with a single soul in mind. She is irresistible to his dark, hollow, empty (probably defective) heart. His Achilles Heel. She is a serpent tamer in his Garden.

Moving forward is what sharks do, Diablo Dybbuk goes from drug store to drug store picking up prescriptions and selling narcotics to addicts, slip-sliding on a patch of winter ice, and spring ice, early autumn ice. He survives by travelling Canada to obtain prescription drugs, welfare cheques, and shady women wherever he goes. Diablo doesn't addict hookers and their friends to narcotics intentionally. But he would if he had to. The drugs sell themselves. He's not disposed to making people happy, and not in favour of it either. It brings a smile to his face to encounter a negative experience in others. This adds meaning to his existence. He's a leader. He's right in front at the beginning. God made the world, Who gives a shit? Then he meets Satan, and the show gets on the road. His motto is, “Don't get scared. It's gonna get worse. Much worse! And, Surprise, you'll never know it's happening."

Diablo learned about prescription drugs from Ronnie the world traveler. Diablo learned prescription drugs are business, no matter how many pills you take. The business is a practice called manipulation. You get people on drugs because you can do what you want to people on drugs. Alcohol too. But drugs have a wider scope for pushing people into stupefaction. Alcohol induces bursts of energy in the form of rage which cannot be manipulated, so you want your financial engagements with drug people. 

He learned this from a master of drug manipulation when Diablo took shelter with Ronnie in Moosimin, which is a town in Saskatchewan (where Diablo was born in fact, because everybody has a place). The town of Moosimin sits in the windswept, bone-dry prairie,1,500 dusty heads, lolling on shoulders 20 miles or 34 kilometres this side of the Saskatchewan/Manitoba border on Highway Number One, the Trans-Canada Highway.*  (*Basically 5,000 miles of the Middle of Nowhere)

The town has a bus depot, and a room at Fake Uncle Ronnie's shack, considered permanent by the social services department of the flat province. He presumes this will last for decades, long after he leaves the scene. Munchhausen mom was gone. He didn't know anything about her. Never knew. She managed to remain invisible his entire life. If she was sitting in front of him, he would not know it. The only occasions she made an appearance were to kill someone. So, not rare. Brief. Then she melted away.

A fireside chat with myself

 

The Sadist Whisperer

Complimentary read of Chapter One

The Sadist Whisperer

An Intimate Terrorist Love Story

By Mack McColl

COPYRIGHT 2023

NOTHING IN THIS WORK OF FICTION HAPPENED TO ANYONE. IT'S FICTION TO THE GUTS AND CORE. OKAY IT SO HAPPENS THE AUTHOR WATCHED A BUNCH OF YOUTUBE VIDEOS ABOUT NARCISSISM AND THIS NOVEL HAPPENED.

Chapter 1:  So Tell Me About Your Narcissist

YOUTUBE Video Begins

"So tell me about your narcissist."

"I think I was dealing with a Dark Triad Borderline Personality and Reactive Attachment Disorder  The reason I think so is because she said so. Then I found out they are people with co-morbidities such as Sadistic Personality Disorder, and other aspects of Dark Triad Personality disorder. She had a lot of murderous traits, physical violence, and belligerence. After experiences over an extended length of time, I believe I was targeted by sadistic intimate terrorist.”

“Say what?”

“She said several times she was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder, and said once she was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. The initial confession was a benign disclosure, the ensuing disclosures came under stress, episodes were uncontrollable, as if I was participating in epilepsy. There was a drug missing when we met. Lamotragene. Apparently she was in treatment at a place called the Tavistock Institute.”

“In England?”

"That's where she's from. Believe it or not, the sadist was a relief from the world I inhabited, even if it was 10 years of her using me for target practice, plunking the bell with large rounds, shotgun blasts. You never hear the shot slamming into the bell. Just the bellowing to be heard.”

“It is a matter of trust.”

“It's more about restraint in every direction. The shame - - “

“Most people have shame in every direction. Is the primary goal to understand or be understood?”

"To survive. For certain it is a question of survival. The promiscuity in a relationship was something I never heard of outside tabloid news, and an occasional asshole friend, or talk of a person you cannot escape such as an employer. What appears to be happening to her is so profoundly out of order that, if it was me doing it, I would see a doctor.”

“And you would need to.”

"But I concur with your analysis, Doctor. I believe a few observations might help. False pretense is a powerful tool in certain hands, but false pretense is exhausting to maintain. One way to maintain false pretense is to inflict Intimate Terror. The point of Intimate Terrorism is to create fear so intense, false pretense is the acceptable alternative. To survive the fear I was embracing the lie.”

"If this is a diagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder with diagnosed Reactive Attachment Disorder and a host of other co-morbidities, the term False Pretense doesn't begin to describe it.”

“I use the term False Pretense as a legal term.”

“Each break with reality will be planned, timed, normal to perfection, including when it could be the most frightening real-time psychotic break from reality in the same minute as normal is fully on display. The chaos will be targeted. It will be planned. It will be practised. It will be lethal. The intention to inflict maximum damage will be primary. This will be the aim to obtain sadistic joy, satisfaction. Why?”

“The break with reality averts danger. Primarily the danger of discovery while in a process of individuating. This causes frustration.."

"Why do those who use false pretense blur the lines of legal and illegal acts?”

“They don't distinguish between legitimate and illegitimate because they have no emotional attachment to outcomes. It's whatever serves their immediate sense of security and entitlement and perhaps a form of satisfaction obtained from inflicting pain and no other way.”

“I discovered too late how she practiced Intimate Terror to hide her tracks.”

"The Dark Triad with co-morbidities produces people who take extraordinary risks, and these are basically escapes from greater risks created somewhere else, with someone else. It's a life on the run like a fugitive, they are fleeing the person who betrayed them, which is the self they inflicted on another.

“The fact is, Intimate Terrorist Narcissists with co-morbidities leave a trail of human wreckage, and are considered by members of the legal system to be a criminal danger to society. The abilities to change false pretense make them practically undetectable, therefore it is rare to see them out in the open, if ever, it's occasionally in a criminal court. Thank you for your input. Can you tell me, where did you acquire your experience?"

"Yes, Doctor. I did a ten year isolation with a female Intimate Terrorist. I made a lot of notes. Some of it is on the public record in court transcripts, affidavits, and long letters to social workers, counsellors, police investigators, and other social science experts in Canada's most western province."

"Extensive learning experience. What is your conclusion?"

“It is safer to lie on a beach in a Tsunami than to isolate with an Intimate Terrorist and their psychopathic traits and disorders and co-morbidities. As a result of surviving, I am now the Sadist Whisperer.”

YOUTUBE Video Ends

End Chapter One

https://books2read.com/u/47VoRR

The gods Are All Terrorists

Complimentary read of  Chapters One and Two

The gods Are All Terrorists

By Mack McColl

Copyright 2023

A Black Satire on the Military Industrial Complex

Prologue

Facts are mere accessories to the truth, and we do not invite to our hearth the guest who can only remind us that on such a day we suffered calamity. Still less welcome is he who would make a Roman holiday of our misfortunes. Exaggeration of what was monstrous is quickly recognized as a sign of egotism, and that contrarious symptom of the same disease which pretends that what is accepted as monstrous was really little more than normal is equally unwelcome."

Max Plowman, from Subaltern on the Somme

Chapter one: Hot dark damp forest dreams

Pham Van Dong picked his way through the world's largest contraption, “which is more than vicious." He had said it before and he'll say it again, loudly, "like a descending spiral," for Dong spoke to no one but himself while he bypassed the flourishing danger (invented) and nature's traps (created and evolved).

It was hot this afternoon, every afternoon, as he walked in the bewildering valleys of shadows of death. He crossed the darkened corridors everywhere in a jungle journey, able to discern where chaos would explode over and under, inside and out, and, he faced this constant peril in the hundreds of kilometres in his path. He had been ambling through intense peril for an amazingly long time and his body went south at this moment while his mind unravelled in various directions.

The construction of a contraption like this wreaked carnage on thousands upon thousands of square kilometers. The belligerent device operated under the careful scrutiny of its constructors and would chafe at and kill reams of population unfound and unlost in an unaccountably dark region of the world. Contraption engineers like Dong fooled minds and forged a machine to shred the flesh and smash the bones of undisclosed numbers of (scrupulously counted) unsuspecting people. Dong was not alone in this task of course (except at this moment and even then not for long), for he worked inside a legion of like-minded 'Dongs' who carried sinister threads of inside knowledge, some with enough to survive. The need for this struggle to create a miazma of perpetual carnage was, nevetheless, a mystery to themselves as much as anybody else. If there was a reason, it was long forgotten.

The countryside was a slaughterhouse of the deceived and blood was shed in more than one jungle. The jungle where Dong was walking was the former Truong Son of the French Associated States of Indochine. Dong knew it would now be called the Central Highlands of someplace else. He drifted down invisible paths this afternoon in a mortifying jungle and sweat a lot as anybody would in this heat (and he was under the weather in a self-inflicted way with a damned hangover).

Up to this very day, July 20, 1956, Dong had been carousing in the City of Hanoi at victory celebrations whereas in hindsight he should have foreseen the difficulties that lay ahead and confronted him today, should have seen them even as late as last week, or sooner, like when his fancy coat and top hat were confiscated when he came back from Geneva a few weeks ago. Now he returned to these invisible trails in the Annamite Cordillera for a miserable trek through immense danger and intense heat. He carried a canvas sack that bounced off an area of thick skin on his hip as he stepped over gnarled flora on valley floors and watched a tightly sprung trap coiling around him. Aah oui, il est un grand malaise, and the trick is to make it fatal. These are the things he considered as he walked in the Annamite Cordillera, a mountainous maze that divided the land of his forefathers into two geographical extremes. These two extremes were situated on a subcontinent that possessed neither repute nor disrepute and virtually no world recognition, and it was on this very day one-third of his native land disappeared. No outside speculators could say where it went; a few might have blamed the suddenly occurring Central Highlands while others might have argued whether Annam ever existed. Dong was very much at the forefront of the duplicity and subterfuge of this nature groaning in perpetuity through the constant waft of mysterious, repulsive odours.

From this day forward therefore Dong would propagate “new names” for “opposite ends” of this uncommon principality, his home and native land. Elders could say about these new names they had a familiar ring, and perhaps the 'new' names had occurred in a previous long-forgotten age. Now to clarify the confusion which arises from there being two, well, North Vietnam would lie to the north and a South Vietnam would lie to the south and nothing could be simpler. These two 'extremes' contained their share of the most fertile soil on earth, a fact the most ignored of all in political discourse always ending abruptly after correspondents endured overtures onto occult avenues (and down which they would never go and ever come back to talk about).The way everything grew around here was a hint of the supernatural fecundity in the land; the proof was in stuff accidently growing stupendous yields, including cultivations of rice. Dong ate a big bowl of rice every day (and lately twice a day) but Dong was no simple rice farmer. He was sowing a homicidal harvest.

The Time Lord

Complimentary read of  Chapters One and Two

The Time Lord

By Mack McColl

Copyright 2021

Prologue

He stopped at the stop sign and looked both ways before turning left and accelerating the little car on the highway leading south, 250 kilometres to Campbell River. He had no time to waste. Barry looked down the long stretch of highway in front of him and sighed. He was sober, and that didn't happen often these days. Never, in fact. He made the trip alone. Tripping on a highway was part of an old modus operandi.

He drank coffee from Petro-Can and smoked a joint so the car reeked. The little dark red compact was practically invisible as dusk was upon him. He kept it slightly over the speed limit. The road was dry. It had not rained today in the temperate rainforest. Traffic was sparse, practically non-existent, at twilight. He switched on his headlights but they did nothing to light the way at this moment except allow oncoming cars to see him.

She stood like a sprite on the side of the highway under street lights at the corner of Sayward Junction an hour into his journey. She looked hyperactive bouncing on her toes when he stopped. She continued to stand on the side of the highway, arm dutifully extended, as he skidded to the shoulder and reversed to pick her up. She stood beside her little bag of shit. He flung open the passenger door. She must be the stubborn type.

At last she appeared with a huge head of rust-coloured hair. She was short and trim and healthy-looking but weathered, tired in the eyes, as she glanced at him and shoved her bag in the back seat. She climbed in, clearly suffering in the cold autumn air. She was harrassed about Sayward, she said. She was sick and tired of being abused, she said.

He didn't want to hear any sorry tales about Sayward. He wanted to talk about himself being a certified and bonifide Time Lord. It's according to his birthdate and how it fits in the Mayan Calendar. “And do you know what a Time Lord has to worry about?” “Not a fucking clue.” “D-N-A,” he said, with a snigger. They rolled toward the small mid-island city of Campbell River where he looked for the Oceanside Route, a branch of older island highway, to take them south along the Inside Passage.

She continued to share a few choice words about a recent experience in Sayward, kept calling herself a fucking jippo, whatever that is. Said jippos don't take no shit like that. Jippos move along. “And sometimes there's a trail of blood,” she said, and cackled. Barry thought about DNA again.

He planned to stop in Black Creek, “Saratoga Beach, actually,” to buy a large bag of weed. He said he's going to meet his friend Bob and have a few drinks so Barry asks politely if she would like to come along.

“Is he a Time Lord too?” she said.

He reached down between his legs and grabbed the flat side of a pipe wrench and swung in one motion heavily into her face.

RUINED

Conplimentary read of Chapters 1 and 2

 RUINED

By Mack Edward McColl

Copyright 2023

Prologue

You're not telling me anything because I'm too stupid to listen, and too young, and you're too old, and we don't speak the same language.

Under the observation of a pathologist, I would have been a John Doe, a no-account dead man in a reasonably clean shirt. I would have been an unidentified frozen corpse with multiple contusions having a set, no, a series, of previous abrasions and bruises as if I lived the life of a street fighter; Injuries and defects in this unidentified corpse include a severe concussion from the first of a total of four lethal assaults in the past six and a half weeks. The last one was designed to put me on the slab once and for all. Yet I survived. Oh yes. To tell stories like this one.

Chapter One: No good deed will go unpunished

In the beginning, God lived in my basement and I remember from when I was three years old, at most, even though someone told me once, “Aw you were too young to remember anything at that age.” This is the consensus. No. I remember because it is something you don't forget being in a house with God in the basement. People are told to look up for God and this seems to be a major deception throwing everybody off the trail.

I say from personal experience I didn’t look up, instead, I crawled down wooden steps to the basement. And there I sat across the room staring at him, in my infancy, of course. The pure infant me relates this in the face of a lot of literary directives from high-minded sources, raising the need to discuss things I have read through the years, including the Holy Bible, a book with a long history containing intense mystery. Okay, enough about that.

One of the first things we learn is we are dust. We are told so by an illiterate God, and his message in the Holy Bible is presented as so much, oh my, such an awful lot, of baffle-gab, somehow inciting people to murderous impulses in so many ways the mind boggles.

Is it objectionable to blame God for taking apart people limb from limb through the millenia based on the instructions from the scribes? Thou Shalt Not Kill (in hordes of less than 5,000 per day in sub-tropical zones with rivers nearby and industrial-grade transportation facilities).

Laying on my back in a snow bank awaiting a slightly less cold slab, I wondered what would land me in my position. Is it possible not all of us arrive in a world accompanied by months of close confinement with the Almighty? It was the end of my innocence, I can assure you.

We are innocent in the eyes of virtually everything and everyone, except God. He's forgiving, not forgetful, yah, forgiving is what he is and does, but innocence doesn't enter the picture as far as I can tell.

God was in the basement during an infancy of twists and turns setting the archtypes of a peculiar bent entirely beyond my control. My older sister would not visit God in the basement, and she was perfectly aware he was there. She refused to hang around him. She didn't like him. He took up space she was accustomed to playing in, with me, of course, and her own friends, so she was angry at him. It is incorrect to suggest God wanted me in the basement either; in my experience he didn't. I remember him barely tolerant of my tiny presence. But God had no friends. None. So I visited.

At some later date in life, I came to view this friendless God in my basement is a perpetual refugee. Heaven remains a wonderful place to be, no question, and very much around and of the earth. I met God in His ongoing exile from the best parts.

Meanwhile the thieves, typical of those with sociopathic tendencies, expend extraordinary energy spoiling the stolen possession, intending to run it into the ground. They won’t be stopped until they are done abusing everything, being especially hard on a predestined few who invite God out of exile and loneliness, which must surely be misery. These few become guilty of aiding and abetting Public Enemy Number One. These are the worthy and the result is important. “You get to live with me. We live 10 feet under and eat a lot of worms. And eventually it shall come to pass during your waking hours we rebuild the completely destroyed world stolen from me and ruined while out of my possession. Thanks for your support. You're going be living like God, with me, working hard till the job is done.” He doesn't use a lot of words because he's not verbose (his son is) but everybody gets the message. Eat worms, fix burned-out paradise.

Being with him is going to have an impact. One assumes it is designed to. Why did he live in a chilly concrete basement? Surely he was up to something. God is a high achiever obviously. Granted, he declared low expectations of his achievements (man), informed as he is (by Satan) that man is a source of continuous disappointment and torment to God, Satan says, Jesus supporting the argument by being half-a-man.

In later years I came to understand, in the face of a terrible ego problem all my own, which, according to Dick G. of the Coastal Health Authority Urgent Response Team in the Alcohol and Drug Abuse department of the Pier Health Resource Centre, in the D.E.S. of Vancouver, B.C., Canada, prevents any real understanding, except of the obvious: God prefers it below the surface when he's hanging around because on the surface the world is a perfectly horrible place to him.

The world is filled with difficult chores and God showed me a few years later how it's a mean, miserable, contrary place (for him) to exist; perhaps more so for him to exist. None of us respect God for who he is while he roams and rambles like damaged goods picking up shattered pieces of his second favourite creation (his first being a 'Tree' possessed of an invaluable fruit). Being exiled means this invaluable fruit is beyond his reach, he exiled from knowledge, which belongs to him, was stolen and is yet to be returned, withheld even by those who feel sorry for him.

Hell, it's no tea party for me either, damaged goods that I am and occasionally picked up and delivered to a form of succour, but, for God, the best thing to do is hunker down ten feet beneath the surface and let it unravel up here (it could not be unfolding, does anybody think it's unfolding?).

I am saying God seems to be a people-person. Unlike the pretenders who shall remain nameless, who play aloof, God tries to make friends with the few-and-far-between who accept him for exactly what he is, a large, rank, really big loser. What I know, is, for whatever the reason God prefers to minimize his exposure to the world on the surface.

What is he? Is he homeless is he dumb? The dumbness is silence. He is smart enough to create the world and stolen paradise, but something went wrong and it got away from him. He lacks retention skills, including the loss of eternally valuable knowledge from a tree that others are exploiting under false pretenses.