Tuesday, October 1, 2024

TALES OF LOST GODS AND FRAGILE TRANSFORMATIONS: Ophelia Explains It All

 

By
Al Bruno III





[RECORDING BEGINS]

Listen to me!

All of you sit down and listen to me! I will be heard! Do you think I’m kidding? One press of this button and I’ll kill us all!

There. That’s better. Back in your seats. Get the camera back on me please.

All right then. Shhhhhh. Shhhhh.

Ahem.

My name is Ophelia and just because I am wearing a bomb to a town council meeting it does not mean I’m some kind of a lunatic.

I am here to voice my opposition to the referendum to fill in the sink hole on Garenne Street and replace it with a park.

It’s not that I have anything against parks, they can be wonderful things, but that place is hallowed ground. I should know I lived there most of my life.

It’s part of my very first memory. I was just a nursling and I tumbled out of a dream to find myself lying on what I would later learn was a called a futon that sat in the center of what I would come to know as the solarium. I felt cold and wet. I wanted to cry but then I saw I wasn’t alone. Mendel Boggs was in the glass walled room with me, playing his Fairlight CMI and scowling.

His expression changed when he saw I was watching him his bearded face broke into a wide smile. I didn’t know the words to describe how I felt but I loved him from the very first. He was my Papa.

Do you understand now? That big old house that had stood so long at the end of Garenne  Street was my home. The person you called ‘Old Man Boggs’ raised me there, in secret.

Because of my condition it wasn’t safe for me to play with other children but I was never bored. I had all kinds of toys; from dollhouses to teddy bears to tin soldiers. Papa always made time for us to play games like hide and seek, backgammon or The World of Synnibarr.

And I never needed school because Papa’s library took up three floors. He taught me the basics of reading and from there I went on to  read at least one book a day. One day it would be the Collected Works of Jane Austen and another it would be the Physician's Desk Reference. The only thing I wasn’t allowed to read was the books of poetry.

Don’t think I was lonely, Papa was all the friend I needed but there were always visitors to the house. None of you ever saw them arrive but they were there.

The New York millionare Boris Fowler vacationed with us every spring, he said our basement was the only place he could really relax. He always came alone, leaving all of his servants and bodyguards waiting waiting in a hotel on the outskirts of town. Boris Fowler always brought all his financial records so he and Papa could get roaring drunk and do their taxes. What I remember most about him is his bright red hair and how every evening after supper he would smoke a cigar and tell stories about his crimes and misdemeanors.

In the summer Dr. Helena Tarr would come to visit, she had bright eyes, crooked teeth and long hair she kept anchored beneath a brightly colored babushka. She was the only doctor that ever gave me any kind of a checkup and she always found the state of my humors very perplexing. The nights she was there were always marked by an early supper of lamprey pie, then she and Papa would retreat to his bedroom and not emerge until the afternoon of the next day.

No one ever came to see us in the Fall, that was our time. Papa would pick a project and spend the next three months working on it. One year we built ships in bottles, another we taught ourselves the accordion, my favorite though was the September to December we spent making prank calls to the payphones at Alexandria University. By the time the first snowflake fell we had engineered a blood feud between the political science faculty and the first year culinary arts students.

Surama came with the winter. Every November his superiors sent him on a pilgrimage that mirrored the Appalachian trail. His masters kept him busy at this time of the year, delivering precious godweb elixir to heretics and scientists all along the coast. I was always a little afraid of Surama, his leprous skin, his unblinking eyes, the way he was always chuckling at some private joke. During his visits all he and Papa talked about was where to find more gods to add to his collection.

That’s right, I said gods. Papa had dozens of them locked away in his study.

He kept them in little bottles that he sealed tight with wire and red wax. He kept them on a shelf above his desk, arranged like spices. Some were full of squishy parts, some were just cloudy, and some were full of what looked like little crumpled leaves. He could tell me the story of how each was caught. Some stories were exciting, like the time he saw ‘Ygorthac the Mad’ gropingly pull its gelatinous green body through the crack in the Earth. He told me that after vigintillions of years the stars were right and it was ravening for delight. Luckily he was able to catch it with his trusty butterfly net. Some were said, like the time he found ‘Toggar Lord of Chaos’ drowned in a rain barrel.

Using the information he received from Surama as a guide he would travel the world in search of the divine. Once I asked Surama why the gods in Papa’s study were tiny and frail. How could gods be put to death with the same ease as a mouse?

There was a mischievous twinkle in old leper’s eye when he explained that these gods seeped from world to world to deliver their telepathic gospels to the beings they found there.

But when they came to Earth they grew weak and found themselves trapped. Powerless all they could do was hide and dream of a rapture that would never come. That was the thought that made Surama so happy, no matter how right the stars might be, the world would always be wrong.

Hey! Don’t pay attention to those sirens. Listen to me! I’m not done yet! This is too important. This is just how the house lived, you haven’t heard how the house died.

Ahem.

I was twelve years old when Papa left home for the last time. It was a warm fall evening and he had just learned where where Dievini the Chaos Sultan had gone into hiding. He couldn’t wait to find it. He’d almost caught Dievini once before but it had escaped by crawling into gopher hole. He stood there at the doorway with his two suitcases; one for his clothes and the other for his  bottles, tweezers and formaldehyde.

Papa always left me behind whenever he traveled but what choice did he have? I was not ready for the world. Maybe I’m still not.

But I knew how to take care of myself and he trusted me with every room in the house except for his study. That door he locked with the same key he used to secure me in our home.

Once he was gone I went to the kitchen to have a good cry. That was my favorite room for crying, I think it was the acoustics. Then I made some lunch, took three sips of my medicine and went to bed early. I could sleep for days if I wanted and sometimes I did, it made the time alone go by faster.

It was the third day after Papa left, my third day straight of sleeping that I felt a hand run through my hair. I started awake but didn’t move or open my eyes. I was too scared. This wasn’t Papa, I just knew that but how had they gotten into the house? I couldn’t unlock the doors and Papa had the only key.

“Oh my,” the voice that spoke was sweet and unfamiliar, “look how you’ve grown.”

Something about those words made me angry and anger gave me enough courage to sit up and look at the intruder.

No one was there, My room was empty.

I key the two-shot derringer Papa had given me hidden in the oldest of my doll houses. I retrieved it and spent the next hour searching the house from top to bottom.

And it wasn’t until I reached the basement that I found anything wrong. There was a crack in the floor, it stretched along the space between the wine racks and the hunting trophies. It was a foot wide and damp to the touch. I place an overturned table over the hole and retreated to the library to read the volumes on architecture.

Two weeks went by and I knew Papa would be home soon. I had convinced myself that what I had experienced was a dream. With my worries tucked away I made ready for Papa’s return; I tided up my room and the library, I cleaned every nook and cranny of the solarium. I baked his favorite kind of cookies and made fresh lemonade. That done I decided to pass the time reading the Apocryphal Book of Tobit.

Two more weeks went by and I started to grow afraid. This was too long, he was never gone more than fifteen days, even if he never caught anything.

Those kinds of trips always left him in an glowering temper and I knew it was best to stay as far away from him as the house would allow. He never hit me but he could lash out verbally if got underfoot. He would shout at me, calling me strange names.

Papa had been gone for six weeks when the electricity was shut off. I had been expecting it and wasn’t concerned, I knew the house so well I could navigate it with my eyes closed.
Winter was growing closer, that did concern me, so I spent my days in the solarium and my nights in my bed under a pile of quilts and blankets. My dinners were cold canned ravioli.

On the day of the first snowfall the house began to shake, for ten seconds everything rattled and shuddered around me, books fell off shelves, plates crashed from cabinets. The walls of the solarium cracked in a dozen places but didn’t break.

So I spent the rest of that day cleaning broken glass, righting furniture and straightening pictures. When I got to the basement I found the hole had widened and begun to collapse downwards, wine bottles and hunting trophies had tumbled into it. The sight made me want to cry. I thought to myself that this was what dying must feel like.

A pair of hands settled onto my shoulders. A voice said, “The doors were never locked.”

Just like before I didn’t move, or speak, or look; I didn’t even use the gun that I now carried with me at all times. I just stayed still and stared at the hole until I was sure I was alone again.

From that point on I rarely left my room for very long and I slept for days at a time. One day in a fit of anger I read every poetry book in the house, all I did was given myself nightmares and nosebleeds.

In January the food ran out. A part of me was willing to starve, but doing that would leave my body alone with the stranger that was hiding in the house. Soon I came up with a better plan.

The library had a handful of books related to locksmithing. I read each of them cover to cover before going to the door of Papa’s office with a handful of hairpins. I was going to pray to the gods arranged in alphabetical order there. I would beg them to bring my Papa back home. I knew from my lessons that they weren’t really dead just dreaming.

But the door wasn’t locked, it pushed right open.

Papa’s office was a ruin, his desk was flipped over, the coatrack snapped in two and everything was spread across the floor; the old books, the tubes and wires and careful notes, even the gods.

The glass bottles lay in a mound by the window, every one shattered, their contents had been left to rot away in a confusion of tentacles, eyes, teeth and wings. It was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

The voice was behind me again, it smelled of formaldehyde and ashes, “Have you finished dreaming?”

All around me the house began to shudder and shake, the basement roared, the walls groaned. I shut my eyes and ran, passing through something that fluttered like a curtain. I found my way to the front door easily and just like the office it was unlocked.

It wasn’t until I was far, far down Garenne Street that I turned back to look. My home was sinking into the Earth, collapsing in around itself. All around me strangers were gathering to watch, none of them noticed me, I was just a girl in a black polonaise.

Do you see now? Those gods are still down there, ugly and festering as one. That was what went wrong, there were too many of them there in the study and their dreams reached the Great Below.

That, I think, is why Papa left, he knew it was only a matter of time.

Every cresent moon I go to appease those gods with prayers and red offerings buried in the soil. It isn’t much but it’s enough but if you go through this, if you pave over that sacred ground I won’t be able to reach them.

And I don’t know what will happen then.

Do you see now? Do you understand?

No. You don’t do you? You think my story is just that, a story.

Fine. Go. Run away, all of you run away.

That’s it, every last one of you.

Fools.

Who are you? I said you could leave.

What do you think you’re doing?

Oh….

Look how you’ve grown.

[RECORDING ENDS]
 
 
 

 
Adapted in Episode 13 of

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Twenty-Three: Ophelia Explains It All


"...just because I am wearing a bomb to a town council meeting it does not mean I’m some kind of a lunatic."

‘Ophelia Explains It All’ was written by Al Bruno III

It was adapted for audio by Nicole Jorge, Uri Sacharow and Aaron Redacted for The Alexandria Archives

It was performed by Addison Peacock

 Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

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Monday, September 30, 2024

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: The Beast Of September

 

By

Al Bruno III
 

The following was culled from the interview notes of Cinema Hound Dog reporter Gina Brannen magazine’s unfinished profile of director Willard Katz.


****

…I don’t much like the term ‘dream project’. I prefer to say this has been a labor of love. The Beast Of September is the film I always wanted to make. I was working on the script way back in 2002 when I was attending Pratt University. My roommate read the early drafts and suggested I take one of the scenes and make it into a short film.

Yeah, that was Peter LaRoche. Damn, I miss that guy. He had so much potential and so many connections. He somehow got my little movie in front of producer Laura Saldivar and just like that, I found myself every spare hour working as a gofer and occasionally extra for Olympus International Cinema. I know they have a sleazy reputation, a well-deserved one really, but I learned a lot there. I learned the three most important rules of being a director; be prepared, be efficient and be ready to improvise.

And that’s about the time I started reading Cinema Hound Dog! I learned a lot from you guys too, used to read your article about Michael Reeves every time I was feeling down in the dumps.

After graduation, I moved from T&A movies to directing commercials. They weren’t anything fancy, just thirty-second spots for deodorant and car insurance but let me tell you, remembering that first time I stood behind a camera and yelled “Action!” is still pretty sweet.

Not as sweet as my first kiss mind you.

Then from commercials, I moved on to directing an episode of Law and Order, which didn’t go as well as I would have liked, then a few episodes of The Stopwatch Seven, and then, thanks to some truly dumb luck I got the chance to direct my first film. The Grief Councilor didn’t get much of a release but thanks to word of mouth at Cannes people sought it out. And it took off on home video, twenty-five on me, I should have read my contract a little more carefully.

What’s in my contract now? Oh. Oh, that. Wow, you did your research didn’t you?

It’s just a silly little clause and I doubt if in 2022 it will amount to much of anything after all how many drive-in movie theaters are even left now? I read like three hundred or something but some folks were saying that with the pandemic they might make a comeback so I wanted to just get it in writing that this film will never be shown in one. You can put them on the big screen, you can make them a streaming exclusive or you can take every copy in existence and drop them into the middle of the ocean, just no drive-ins.

Yes I know it sounds crazy, but the guys at Eden Pictures were looking at me in exactly the same way you are now. When they asked me why I told them it was my way or the highway. Just the thought of this movie I’ve worked on for so long being projected onto a dirty wall on the outskirts of some podunk town! The very thought makes me sick to my stomach with fear and bad memories.

Sometimes I think maybe we should… No. I’m sorry. It’s just… Look, I tell you what. How about I tell you why I hate drive-ins? Off the record of course.

Ok… ok… I’ve never told this story to anyone before. Not even my kids. Let’s go for it.

As you know I grew up in Yottle’s Grove, North Carolina. It’s a little town on the Eastern side of the New Brunswick River. Most of the town had been employed by Tatro Glass Products but in 1967 the factory caught fire and rather than rebuild the owners declared bankruptcy.

In the ten years that followed the town went began to die, the businesses closed down and any families that could afford to move out did. We were not one of those families but we stayed anyway. My father and grandfather owned a garage and the citizens of Yottle’s Grove were desperate for someone to help them keep their vehicles running. The family garage kept us in a nice house and we never wanted for anything. In fact, we had it so good that on the Christmas of 1977 I got a brand new Atari and my brother Jody got a brand new ford pickup truck.

Even now, despite what happened, I have such great memories of that truck. Jody would always take me for rides and we go speeding through the back roads of Yottle’s road with the windows down and rock music blaring from the 8-track. Sometimes I rode shotgun, sometimes I rode in the back, hanging on for dear life and grinning like a fool. How we didn’t get pulled over and arrested I’ll never know.

Jody was as cool a brother as you could imagine. I was four years younger than him but he always had my back. It didn’t matter that he was an ROTC jock and I was pasty, skinny, and wore glasses with lenses so thick that my Dad would joke they could see the future. Everyone in town- classmates and teachers, family and friends of the family, all of them treated me like I was the runt of the litter. Like I was barely worth noticing. Everyone except for Jody. He always made time for me, played Atari with me, took me out for burgers, and bought me comic books with his own money. He even did stuff with me he shouldn’t have, like giving me my first beer and letting me see my first Playboy.

The local drive-in was called Planet Pictures and it stayed in business because it was pretty much the only place left for the town’s teenagers to hang out. If it wasn’t raining Jody was there every Friday. And whenever he went he took his three buddies Carson, Bob, and Pisspot. Since Jody was nineteen and I was just fifteen years old I never got invited along. I didn’t mind, I spent those nights reading or working on my model kits. I was crazy for model cars and spent just about every penny of my allowance on them. I had so many stacked up around my room, more than I ever had time to build. Back then Mom said that all I could think about was model cars.

And that was true until I met Ally Jones. Then she was all I can think about. Hell, I’m almost sixty years old and still think about her at least once a day. Remembering her still hurts but it’s the sweetest hurt you can imagine. Ally was a year older than me and a grade ahead. The first time I saw her in the cafeteria I just gaped, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t breathe. I nearly fainted when she finally noticed me and said, “If you are going to keep staring like that you might as well just come over and talk to me.”

Yeah, she was like that.

We fell in love right away, that kind of crazy love you only feel when you are a kid. The problem was that everyone in town hated Ally’s family. Despite her father being some kind of new-age hippie that had named his only daughter Alchemy, he had a job working as a real estate specialist for a company called Keeler Enterprise Management. He’d moved his family to Yottle’s Grove in December and had spent the last few months buying up every foreclosed home and abandoned storefront he could make an offer on. Then he moved on to rental places and established businesses; tenants were forced out, and stores lost their leases.

It also didn’t help that the Jones family was black, as black as I was pale. They were the only black folks in Yottle’s Grove since ever.

I didn’t care, I was crazy about her but suddenly all the people that never gave two shits about me before were paying attention. I was the talk of the town and not in a good way. Used to be none of the school knuckleheads ever bothered me on account of Jody but I started to get jumped and pushed around every day. Teachers and townsfolk started calling me awful names when I was within earshot. I won’t repeat them here but I know you can imagine.

What really hurt was my parents. They were good church-going folks, who always told me that God was love and God loved everyone but now… now I was hearing a whole other story. I got told race mixing was a sin and that I was a disgrace to the family. I was grounded, they took my Atari and model kits away. My Mom started trying to get Ally expelled from the school for any reason she could think of and my Dad? Well, even my big brother didn’t know that some of those bruises I got weren’t from my classmates.

And I didn’t tell Jody because I think he would have killed Dad. You see he was the only one that understood what I was feeling, in fact, he told me I was the bravest kid in the whole town for not hiding the way I felt. Jody understood but it wasn’t until he was long gone that I understood why he understood so well.

In the summer that followed that hellish school year, Jody started having me tag along to the drive-in with his pals. My parents couldn’t be happier of course, they were sure that quality time with their golden boy would straighten me out. We, and by we I mean my brother, myself, and his three pals would arrive at Planet Pictures just before dusk. He would park his truck facing away from the screen so he, Carson, Bob, and Pisspot, could sit in the back drinking beer and half-watching whatever movie was playing on the giant screen.

Meanwhile, I grabbed a pair of lawn chairs and a big bag of homemade popcorn and made my way to the back of the drive-in. To where Ally was waiting for me.

Thankfully her parents, like Jody and his pals, were on our side. Like I said they were pretty much a pair of hippies so they were more than happy to take their daughter to the drive-in every Friday. They were big believers in family time. The rule was that Ally had to sit with them through the first half of the double feature but once the dancing cartoon snacks started doing their thing she was free to make her way to the back wall of the drive-in where I was waiting for her.

Like most drive-ins, Planet Pictures was surrounded by an eight-foot-high wall. It was bordered on one side by the county highway and the other by a Legman’s Scrapyard. I always chose a spot near the junkyard side of the drive-in. Nobody ever parked near there because of the faint smell of motor oil, which made it quiet and private.

That last night at the drive-in the double feature was Empire of the Ants followed by Harvest Fiend.  We sat together on our lawn chairs, far from where any of the other patrons might see us.

Do you know what the first thing I always asked her when she sat down beside me? “Did anyone see you?”

I should have said “Hello” or “I love you” or anything else but that’s how bad the last few months had messed with my head. Years later I would sit up at night worrying if I hurt her when I said that. Did she think I was ashamed of her? Did she understand that these nights at Planet Pictures were all we had left and I wanted to protect them from a town full of bigots and snitches?

The sky that night, despite the promises of the local weathermen, was dark and cloudy. I remember how warm and small her hand felt in mine. I also remember the two trailers from that night, one for a movie about a killer whale and the other about a killer buffalo. We thought both were pretty hysterical looking.

When the previews ended and the big screen darkened in anticipation of the second feature I leaned over and kissed her. Ally was my first kiss and considering that I’m your grandpa you know she wasn’t my last but she was the one that set the bar for every girl that came after.

And she set the bar pretty high.

We didn’t see the movie begin, We only heard the music that played over the opening credits. It was a loud crash of brass instruments that might have been jarring if we hadn’t been hearing it diluted through the four hundred or so speakers stationed to the right of the drive-in’s every parking spot. The discordant notes grew louder and louder, demanding our attention. We looked away from each other just in time to see the title fading from the screen, and it wasn’t Harvest Fiend at all. It read;

La Bestia Di Settembre

The red gothic letters and ugly music gave way to the sounds of birds chirping and the image of a desert. The sun was high in the sky, and the wind rustled through the branches of the empty scrubland. Somewhere off in the distance the sound of goats could be heard.

Then there came two human figures—a man and a woman—walking slowly along on the edge of a wooded area. They were dressed as if for a formal occasion, he in dark breeches and a white shirt with frilled sleeves, her in a long flowing dress with a large bow at the back. The man was plain featured, the woman was beautiful with blonde hair and mismatched eyes. When they spoke it was in a foreign language.

“Where are the subtitles?” Ally asked.

On the screen, the couple had begun to argue and the sound of goats was growing louder. “Must be some kind of a mistake,” I said before leaning in to kiss her again.

“I love you,” Ally said.

“I love you right back,” I replied, my hand settling on her thigh. She was wearing shorts and her skin was soft and warm to the touch. A few pleasant moments passed before the soundtrack of the film crashed again, the shriek of a violin and the blare of trumpets giving way to a loud animal huffing.

We both looked back to the screen and recoiled at the horned, animal-like face that filled it. It had too many eyes.

“What kind of goat is that?” I asked.

“That’s a man.” Ally breathed. I felt her skin prickle under my hand.

The camera pulled back to reveal she was right, it was a man with the head of a goat. He wore armor and rags and carried an ugly sword in his hand.

I tried to joke, “Maybe it’s the devil.”

“It’s too ugly to be the devil,” she said back.

The goatman began walking toward the couple. As he walked he raised the sword and screamed. The sound was horrible, like nails being dragged across glass and it echoed strangely through the drive-in. At the sight of him, the couple stopped in their tracks. The woman cried out and the birds went silent.

The sound of other bleating-grumbling voices could be heard. There were more goatmen now, coming in from both sides of the screen. All wore sickening parodies of medieval clothing. One even had a helmet shaped like a ram’s skull. They formed a ring around the couple and began chanting as one. It was like no language I had ever heard before.

The man started screaming his face was twisted into a mask of horror.  Then the woman fell to her knees her face buried in her hands. The goat men drew closer, One of them reached down and grabbed the man by the hair, and pulled his head back exposing his throat. A sword flashed, and blood arced across the screen. Then the goatmen began to claw at the woman. The soundtrack crashed again, the symbols and horns drowning out her cries.

I chuckled nervously at the gore and absurdity. Ally made a sound of disgust and got to her feet. The lawn chair toppled over as she ran along the back wall of the drive-in. I blinked in confusion and chased after her. It looked like she was heading for the exit. I wondered what she was so upset about and I worried that someone might see us together and tell my parents what I had been up to. Finally, I realized she was making for the exit.

What is she going to do? I thought, Walk home?

The first scene of the movie faded to black and lingered there. That coupled with the thick low hanging clouds left me effectively blind. Everything was shadows. “Ally!” I called after her, my voice a stage whisper, “Ally!”

The big screen flashed with light and color, resolving itself into the image of a stone fortress at night, knights and soldiers stood at ready on the parapets. From their vantage point, they could see the army of goatmen surrounding them. Beastial faces moved in the torchlight cast in the shadows by their torchlight. Siege weapons lay at the ready, a wooden cage had been constructed in the center of their camp, in it, a red shape screamed and screamed.

The camera’s view moved down from the parapets to the cage until the figure was revealed to be the woman from the previous scene. Her mismatched eyes stared out from a body that had been expertly flayed. My stomach lurched.

Then bam! I ran straight into one of the speaker poles and went down hard onto my side. It had knocked the wind out of me, I was gasping for air. Suddenly Ally was at my side.

Then bam! I ran straight into one of the speaker poles and went down hard onto my side. It had knocked the wind out of me, I was gasping for air.  Immediately Ally was at my side.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was barely audible through my strangled breaths.

“Yes.” I nodded, “Hey. Why are you crying?”

“The way they surrounded that girl,” Ally pointed a thumb at the big screen, “bad memories.”

“I understand,” I said, but I didn’t understand. How could I? I was just a naive boy.

She helped me to my feet. The nearest car was a couple of yards away but when someone got out of it to head to the concession stand we retreated back to our spot. Better safe than sorry. We sat down on our lawn chairs and decided to ignore the movie. Small talk came easy to us and before everything blew up we would stay after school every day, sitting behind the bleachers and talking about our dreams until it was time for the activities bus to take the students home.

It was my dream to work in radio, to be a DJ, and have a talk show. It was hers to become a police officer, but first, she wanted to tour around Europe. She would do it, she said, on a yellow motorcycle. She even had the make and model all picked out. When I playfully asked if I could come along she said she could get a sidecar installed. Yeah, we were gonna have adventures.

“As soon as we graduate,” I said.

Allay grabbed my hand, “Why wait?”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s go now, let’s go somewhere else, anywhere else.” She said, “Let’s make it happen.”

“That’s crazy.”

The movie now showed a scene set in a high-ceilinged stone room. The corpse of a noblewoman lay on the floor and a king was impaled by a long-bladed sword onto the wood. There was blood everywhere. A man with long blonde hair knelt beside the woman, his features were gentle but he wore elaborate makeup to give his face the appearance of a skull. His tears streaked the black and white grease paint.  Then there was another man, older, bald. His expression was grim and deadly serious. The two men spoke without looking at each other. Then the blonde-haired man stood and drew his sword.

I felt a strange lurching, like that feeling you get when you are just about to drop off the sleep and suddenly get the sensation of falling. Ally and I blinked at each other in confusion

And when had we started watching the movie again? I couldn’t tell really but we could see the sky had darkened and the night air had the heavy smell that always signaled the beginning of a thunderstorm.

“What happened?” She asked me.

“Did we fall asleep?”

Her voice became waspish, “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s going to rain,” I said.

“Do you want to leave?”

“What’s wrong?” I reached for her only to have my hand swatted away.

“I asked you,” her eyes were bright with tears, “if you wanted to run away with me.”

“We…” Somewhere nearby a car started up, someone had had enough of the movie. I continued, “We can’t just run away.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re just kids!”

She sighed, “My parents were just kids when they got together. Dad was sixteen, Mom was eighteen. They made it work.”

Neither of us noticed it had begun to rain. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the image on the big screen now showed a cave set on the side of a mountain. The sounds of the siege were faintly audible. but so was the sound of the goat men half-chanting, half-singing "O friend and companion of night, thou who rejoices in the baying of dogs and spilt blood, who brings terror to human kin, oh Beast of September, oh Chosen of Ezerhodden, look favorably on our sacrifices at walk among us!”

Something growled from the depths of the cave making a sound like a great stone door sliding open. The chanting grew louder and faster drowning out our voices.

Why was that chant in English when everything else was in Italian? I don't know, I'll probably never know but it is one of the many things that I find myself thinking about when it’s late at night.

I’m not surprised you’re never heard of Harvest Fiend otherwise known as  La Bestia Di Settembre. It’s a lost film there’s barely anything written about it and barely anyone has seen it. It gets mentioned in Otterson’s book Films That Witness Madness. According to him the movie was made in 1971 by a man named Mendell Boggs and filmed it in the town of Abalone, Arizona. Somehow Boggs convinced the townsfolk to finance and take part in all aspects of the production; they built the sets, they made the costumes and they acted in it. Mendell himself was in the director, creator of the special effects, and screenwriter.

Why did he make a cast of inexperienced American actors perform their lines in Italian? I don’t know. How did the citizens of a desert town manage to build a faux fortress on the outskirts of their town only to tear it down when filming wrapped?

I can’t tell you that. I can tell you that it turned out that one of the materials used to build the majority of the sets was laced with asbestos and by now most of the production team and cast died of cancer. As for Mendell Boggs, he disappeared shortly before his entire home was mysteriously swallowed up by a sinkhole.

Yes, it is hard to believe, and speaking from a filmmaker’s standpoint it is really hard to believe what happened next on the screen.

The camera lingered for a long time on the entrance to the cave, slowly zooming in until it filled the screen. The chanting of the goatmen had become hypnotic, Ally and I couldn’t look away. A cold wind rose up to join the rain, rain that was almost sleet. People were beginning to put the tops of their cars up on their cars and roll up their windows. Engines rasped to life as some prepared to call it a night.

A giant hand reached out of the cave mouth. It was this grasping, clawing six-fingered thing with flesh that was jagged like volcanic stone. A second hand gripped the other side. Ally pulled me close. “My God.” She said, “What is it?”

One of the cars preparing to leave turned on its headlights. The yellow beam illuminated the screen revealing that the great hands were gripping the edges of the screen itself, intruding on our world. The growl became a roar. And with that roar, the power to the drive-in died, and everything went black.

But the screen was still illuminated and something impossible and terrible was pulling itself free.

Then the storm began, torrential rain beating down on us. Wave after wave of it. Soaking us to the skin. Nearly driving us to our knees. We started to run, Ally’s parent’s car was closer but we couldn’t see clearly. All we could see was the day-for-night glow bleeding off the big screen as the creature pulled a slender, bony head into view. Its tongue lapped out testing the air. Then its second head came into view.

I was so busy staring that I almost backed into the path of an oncoming car. It was Ally that pulled me to safety. Panicked drivers were throwing their cars into gear and racing towards the drive-in’s only exit. Speakers were torn off their posts as vehicles clipped and crashed into one another. Ally and I weren’t the only ones caught out on foot. We saw one shadowy figure blunder out into the path of an oncoming truck. The driver either didn’t see them or didn’t care.

By the time we had reached the concession stand the Creature had pulled itself fully out of the screen. It bayed with delight, the thick reverberation of its voice causing all the glass in the concession stand to shatter, the windows, the counters, the framed posters, everything. Ally and I weren’t the only ones that had taken refuge there. A dozen of Yottle’s Grove’s citizens were huddled there, parents, teenagers, and children. The storm intensified. There chorus of car horns and grinding metal as more and more vehicles bottlenecked at the exit to the drive-in.

Still holding Ally’s hand I stepped closer to the crowd of terrified people. Most of them were crying, praying, or both. More refugees made their way inside, huddling on corners and sobbing over what they had seen. Someone was shouting that the exit to the drive-in was blocked but none of them could agree as to what the obstruction was. Some said fire, some said thorns. Another man, I would later realize it had been my gym teacher, said that there was something wrong with the sky, that the clouds were moving like the waves of the ocean.

Looking back to the lot I saw the Creature straddling a car. It reached down peeling open the roof to pull a wriggling screaming shape free.

Then my brother’s friend Carson came stumbling in, he was covered in blood but wasn’t injured. “It ate him up,” he said, “It ate him up!”

I thought of my brother and his other friends out there in the back of his truck. Mom had always said he didn’t have the sense to come out of the rain. It all settled in, I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t think. There were tears in my eyes.

Ally tugged at my hand, “We have to go.”

“What?” I said.

“My parents. We have to find them.”

“No.” I said, “No. No. No. We can’t go back out there.”

“Please,” She was pleading but there were no tears in her eyes, “Come with me.”

"No,” I repeated, taking a step backward.

And in that moment the way she looked at me, the way she had always looked at me, changed. I wanted to take it back, but I couldn’t. I had been brave enough to hold her hand in public, but this? I wasn’t brave enough for this.

She let go of my hand and I just watched her go. I watched her disappear into the storm. The Creature roared again, it was so close. I could see the flesh of its leg, jagged and bark-like. Beneath that its feet were thick like hooves and, caked with gore.

“It ate him up,” Carson said again.

“Please God, make it go away,” someone prayed.

“This can’t be happening,” another voice said. “This isn’t real.”

The concession stand shook and the ceiling split as the Creature brought its fists down again and again on the building.

I fell to my knees and buried my face in my hands. There was a crash like thunder and everything went black.

You’re still listening. I’m flattered. I expected you to have made a run for it by now. Do you believe me? It’s all right if you don’t. The official story is that a freak tornado tore through Planet Pictures leaving four hundred and twenty-two dead and one missing. My brother and his friends were among the dead. I was one of the thirty survivors they pulled from the rubble and the only one that came out raving about a monster. Of course, there was no trace of that thing but I still don’t know why none of the other survivors wouldn’t say what really happened. They all said I was crazy. Everyone said I was crazy.

It’s probably a good thing my injuries left me in a full-body cast, if not I am sure I would have ended up in some asylum somewhere.

A fourth of the high school senior class had been in the drive-in, and there had been plenty of families with kids so as you can imagine the town was never the same after that. By 1981 the place was practically a ghost town, nowadays it’s even emptier and I doubt there is a single person living there younger than forty. Keeler Enterprise Management set up a corporate retreat on one side of Tatro’s Pond and a summer camp on the other, business from those places is the only thing keeping the town going.

These are all the things that were in my head when I wrote the script for The Beast Of September. It’s about that night but it isn’t. There are no goat men or giants but it is a story about the parallels between coming of age and being under siege. If I got the story right, and if the studio doesn’t cut the film to ribbons, then maybe, just maybe, some young idiot out there will see it and realize that if you’re in love you have to be brave because sometimes there are no second chances.

Pretty deep huh? Hope to see you at the premiere, you can tell me what you thought.

What about Ally? Remember how I said four hundred and twenty-two dead and one missing? She was the one missing. They figure the tornado picked her up and either dropped her into the New Brunswick River or deep into the forests of Mitchell’s Peak.

That’s what I pray for. Because otherwise… otherwise that means she was dragged off into wherever Creature came from. The ugly world that somehow La Bestia Di Settembre allowed to bleed through to our own.

And that is why my movie will never play at a drive-in.

But it will be playing at Sundance in three weeks. It’s just a test screening but I can’t wait. I’ll get you a ticket if you want.

***

It is a matter of record that The Beast Of September premiered at Sundance on January 18th, 2014 at the Jade Pagoda Theater. Cinema Hounddog reporter Gina Brannen as well as a dozen other critics handpicked by the director were in attendance along with members of the cast and crew. The roof of the Jade Pagoda collapsed forty minutes into the showing much to the horror of onlookers on the street.

The incident left four hundred and forty-three dead and thirty-two wounded. The body of Willard Katz was never found.

All rights to the film were obtained by Boggs International holding group who have stated they have no plans to release The Beast Of September to the general public anytime in the foreseeable future.


-from ‘Films That Witness Madness Volume 2’ by Christopher Otterson
 




Sunday, September 15, 2024

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Bears Repeating

 

By
Al Bruno III
 

Derek looked through the front window of his home for a long, confused moment, looked away, and then looked back again. There was a man dressed as a bear standing on the street corner. He was wearing an old- style children’s Halloween costume—just a vinyl smock and a plastic mask. On the tall, bulky man, the smock was like an oversized bib, and the edges of the wearer’s face oozed out from the edges of the crinkled, cheery mask. He had a book tucked under one arm, something with a colorful, shiny cover. It was a library book, Derek was sure of it. He could almost read the title, and the near familiarity of it disturbed him.

The morning sun was bright, the sky cloudless. It made the sight seem all the more incongruous. Derek backed away from the front window and sat down heavily in his recliner.

“My recliner," he said aloud, trying to take comfort in the words, “In my house.”

He closed his eyes tightly, took several deep breaths, then opened them again. Years ago, a coworker had suggested he join his class in transcendental meditation. Derek had gone once for the sake of appearances. Now he tried to use the breathing exercises and techniques he had learned. If someone else had lived here, they might have thought he was hyperventilating. But Derek lived alone. He always had.

Working as a vendor representative for Gilitta Imports had left him no time for familial and financial entanglements. To some, it might have seemed lonely , but it was the kind of life Derek had always wanted. A life with money, privacy, and pleasant distractions. One of those distractions had been his late Saturday morning walk—six miles to the edge of town and back —but there was no way he was going to step outside with that costumed man standing on the corner.

Derek thought of retreating to his spare bedroom, the place where he kept his stamp collection. He could busy himself there, but that would throw his entire Saturday schedule into disarray. He knew people were used to seeing him out and about at this hour. It was important for a man living alone to be seen regularly by his neighbors. That was why Derek always accepted invitations to mixers and cookouts. If he kept completely to himself, the gossip would begin. People would begin to wonder about him and ask questions.

“What am I afraid of?” he asked himself and got back to his feet with a renewed sense of purpose. He would take that walk. He would stroll right past the odd stranger and make his way out of the development, through downtown, and all the way to the sign that told him he was approaching River City. Then he would turn back, perhaps pausing for a while to linger at the shops of Pickman’s Grove or enjoy a light meal at Karl’s Diner. Derek was grinning from ear to ear when he opened the front door.

Now the man in the bear costume was on the sidewalk directly in front of the house. His masked face was staring off into the middle distance, but he turned slowly to observe Derek as he stood there, sputtering. Derek slammed the door and retreated back to the living room.

Fear began to claw at his gut. People in masks had that effect on him. They always had. Despite him putting up a neighborly front every year on Halloween, Derek hated the holiday. He hated the possibilities those hidden faces and hidden motives stirred up. They made him start to remember the most unpleasant things. Things he preferred to put far out of his mind.

Derek turned on the TV and switched to a sports channel. He didn’t care what the game was or who was playing. After a moment's thought, he got back up again and went to the bar for something smoky and sour.

Hours passed. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke up on the recliner with a sore back and a throbbing head. He stumbled to the bathroom and relieved himself. Sunlight was streaming through the bathroom window. Late afternoon already? Derek ran the sink and splashed cold water on his face.

A quick glance in the mirror revealed a man with a thin face, small eyes, and a wide mouth. His blond hair was receding, and he had a meticulously trimmed mustache. All familiar enough, but there was no mistaking how pale he looked right now, and the dark circles that rimmed his eyes.

Worry was doing its ugly work. Derek found a bottle of Tylenol in the medicine cabinet and swallowed two tablets. A sudden and unpleasant suspicion took hold. “It couldn’t be,” he said. “It’s been hours.”

He made his way to the door and looked into the peephole. The costumed man was on the porch now, feet planted firmly on the welcome mat. Derek’s knees threatened to give out. Every crinkle in the plastic mask drew into sharper focus as the costumed man leaned in towards the peephole.

Derek grabbed for the phone.

Calling the authorities was the last thing Derek had wanted to do. Police cars in the driveway were the kind of thing that could get tongues wagging. Not to mention the kind of chaos a court date could wreak on his schedule.

But what choice did he have? He dialed 911 and retreated to the kitchen to wait. Of all the rooms in the house, he liked this one the best. There was just something about the way the earthy-scented draft from the unfinished basement mixed with the warmth of the kitchen that made him happy.

As he waited, Derek wondered to himself where he had packed away the revolver his coworker Gordon had given him all those years ago.

The police arrived with the promptness he would expect from an affluent community like this. In fact, it was two squad cars that showed up, not just one. When the knock on the door came, he answered it calmly, praying that he would open the door to see the costumed man off to one side in cuffs, but no. It was just two uniformed officers. When they asked him what seemed to be the problem, he calmly told them his story.

To their credit, they took it all seriously; they didn’t crack a smile when they read back the description of the trespasser. One of them even complimented him on the framed Penny Black stamp hanging on the wall above the fireplace. Neither of them mentioned the alcohol on his breath.

The officers left about half an hour after they had arrived, leaving him with a promise that they would keep a close watch on the neighborhood in case there were further sightings or complaints. Derek closed and locked the door. He peeked out each window, looking for some sign of the costumed man, but all he saw were bland shadows and the neighbors’ houselights flickering on as the evening deepened.

Nighttime already. His entire Saturday had been ruined. Derek headed up to the spare bedroom where the latest issue of Modern International Stamp Collector Quarterly was waiting for him. The thought of settling down to read cheered him a little. Had they published his letter?

But before that, he decided to find that revolver.

It was easier said than done. His bedroom closet was a chaos of clothes, shoes, and the remnants of long-abandoned hobbies. Finally, he found it under a pile of old linens. Derek picked the revolver up. It was lighter than he remembered and coated with dust. He remembered Gordon, the coworker that had given it to him. He had been a man living in anticipation of the apocalypse and had collected a truckload of weapons before finally succumbing to cancer. Derek could have told him it was a mistake to worry about a world-shattering catastrophe. Not when over a hundred thousand people were dying natural deaths every day. A hundred thousand ordinary apocalypses.

Derek read the magazine cover to cover, luxuriating in it. He even took a few notes for his next letter. Over the years, he had seen the quality of the magazine’s writing decline, the language used in the articles becoming almost conversational in tone.

A clattering sound startled him. “No,” he whispered to himself.

More sounds followed—footsteps, then the sound of a chair being moved. Derek’s heart began to race. He considered barricading himself in the room and wondered how long it would take to move the bureau in front of the door and how long it would take the police to arrive.

Frowning, he got to his feet. The revolver felt grimy in his hand. Derek waited, paralyzed until he heard the sound of the teakettle whistling.

That was too much; this was breaking and entering. This was an invasion. A violation! He threw open the door to the guest bedroom. “Who’s there?” he shouted. “I’m armed!”

There was no reply except for another gentle clinking.
 
Slowly, he walked down the stairs. The front door was closed and locked. How had the man gotten in?

The TV was on, but nothing was playing. Blue light from the screen washed over the empty living room. Derek’s framed stamp had fallen from its spot above the fireplace and was lying face down on the floor. Derek wanted to run, but he was sure that when he came back with help, they would find nothing. Shooting the man dead wasn’t much of better option. A dead body and an unlicensed revolver would bring scrutiny and background checks. Things that would chip away at Derek’s carefully crafted life.

He had to hope threats might be enough; if he could just scare the costumed man away. Make him find someone else to prey on.

Derek stepped into the kitchen, where he found the intruder was waiting for him. The costumed man’s posture was casual. He held a teacup in one hand, and rivulets of chamomile tea dribbled from the mouth hole of the plastic mask and pooled on the table. In his other hand, he held the library book, which had a picture of a castle on the cover. The title read, 'La Bête De Septembre.' He had set a place for Derek beside him.

“Who are you?” Derek raised the revolver.

The costumed man regarded him knowingly.

Tears prickled at the edges of Derek’s eyes. “I don’t deserve this! Why can’t you bother someone else?”

The costumed man set down his teacup and book and slowly stood. When he spoke, his voice was full of pity: “I know what you are.”

Then, he took off the plastic bear mask.

The face beneath it was thin with small eyes and a wide mouth. His blond hair was receding, and he had a meticulously trimmed mustache. His expression was so very eager.

Derek pulled the trigger of the revolver.

There was nothing but a dull click. The costumed man took a step towards him. Derek pulled the trigger again.

The weapon detonated in his hand. It had been too old, too neglected. Hot splinters of metal raked his face. He gaped at the ruined stump where his hand had been, which was jetting blood.

Shock weakened him. He stared at the costumed man, at his unmasked face. Why was there something so familiar about all this? Derek fell to his knees and then smacked face first onto the floor. His last words were, “My stamps...” His last breath sent a ripple through the pool of blood that haloed him.

The man crumpled the plastic mask and threw it into the kitchen trash. He did the same with the costume. He bent down, grabbed hold of the corpse’s legs, and dragged it across the kitchen floor. The body was heavier than the man had expected, and he was starting to feel tired from the long day. When this was over, he would treat himself to a hot shower and a good stiff drink. Something sour and smoky.

The cellar door opened with a nudge, and the earthy smell of the unfinished basement filled the man’s nose. He made his way down the steps. The corpse’s head lolling and smacking hollowly on each stair on the way down. Then, the man dragged the body to the center of the basement, the trail of gore making mud of the dirt floor.

The basement light was easy to find, and the shovel was right in the corner where he had expected to find it.

The man took hold of it and paused thoughtfully before beginning to dig. It took several times before he could really get started; there were so many other bodies buried down here.
 
 



This is Channel Ab3 Episode Twenty-Two: Bears Repeating


Derek looked through the front window of his home for a long, confused moment, looked away, and then looked back again. There was a man dressed as a bear standing on the street corner...

'Bears Repeating' was written by Al Bruno III

 It was produced and read by Daniel C Johnson

Music was Ghosts Volume II Track 15

Our unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License


Check out this episode!

Sunday, September 1, 2024

FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: Foolproof

 


By

Al Bruno III

 

By the time anyone sees this, it will be too late, and I will be at peace.


I am not the first person to find themselves tired of life, and I won't be the first person to put an end to it all. Some people commit suicide via handfuls of pills or with warm baths and cut wrists. That isn't for me. That's too gentle, too clean. It doesn't show enough contempt for what this world makes of you. I'm going to cut my own throat, left to right, ear to ear, and I'm doing it in the morning. I would have liked for there to have been a sunrise for my final moments, but the forecasts are cloudy with a chance of rain.


One more disappointment.


The blade is in my hand, a well-used boning knife with a serrated edge. I've been preparing for almost half a year, studying medical journals and tracing the path the knife must take. This isn't the kind of thing you can practice easily, but I think I've developed a foolproof technique. One clean cut will sever both my carotid arteries- just so long as I don't lose my nerve or fumble the job. The last thing I want to do is survive and have to explain what I have done.


I've decided to do it in my home while wearing my best suit. I will be standing in front of the window with my favorite album playing, Abbey Road, and I will make the cut in the pause between 'The End' and 'Her Majesty.'


A gravesite has already been purchased, and a closed casket and a quiet burial have been requested. My will specifies that my estate will be liquidated and dispersed to whatever charities might be interested.


Don't think I've chosen this path because of some kind of mental illness; this may be the sanest decision I have ever made. Life has its joys, but I think that if you really keep track, the tragedies always outweigh the triumphs. We all try so hard, but in the end, what is it worth? Everything dies, everything rots away; the evening news gets bleaker, and the nights grow longer. The old sayings like "Better to have loved and lost" or "If you first you don't succeed try, try again." are cruel platitudes created by one generation to pass their misery on to the next. 


Some philosopher said it was better to have never been born and I can't say I disagree with him. Better never to have been born at all but in absence of that better to die.


I'm sure you're shaking your head at this, wishing you could have told me how wrong I was. You probably think life is sweet, and you might wonder why I didn't reach out to my friends and family. To someone that might profess to care about me.


But that would be impossible because they're all dead already. 


I had to practice my foolproof technique somehow.


 

 
 


FRESH OFF THE BUS FROM CREEPYTOWN: My Love Is Vengeance


by
Al Bruno III


The old saying is, "Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves," but in the end, I only needed one. I have no regrets for my years spent planning and executing my vengeance upon Creighton Tillingshaft Jr.

It should never have come to this, and I like to think that if he had just paid for his crimes, I would have tried to move on, but that man did not take responsibility. There was no denying that my thirteen-year-old son was dragged beneath Creighton Tillingshaft Jr's car for 180 yards; there was no denying that Creighton Tillingshaft Jr had fled the scene of the accident, leaving my boy to die by the side of the road like an animal. The authorities thought he was driving under the influence, but by the time they caught up to him, there was no way to prove it.

The trial was a sham; the Tillingshaft fortune saw to it that his team of doctors and psychiatrists spoke of 'dissociative episodes' and addictions. His lawyers questioned my parenting, scolding me for allowing my boy to be out delivering papers at five in the morning. In the end, all my son's killer received was a hefty fine, community service, and twelve years probation.

Was that all my boy was worth to them?

It is a painful thing to outlive your offspring; my wife had died in childbirth, and the thought that my son would not attend my grave as I attended his mother's left me not entirely sane. I bought a gun and tried to decide if I wanted him dead or if I wanted to die myself. Eventually my perspective changed, I became colder. I let my love for my son twist into a dream of vengeance. I vowed to never rest until I saw my boy's killer on his knees.

Years were spent watching and planning; I came to know his life better than I had known my own. Finally, shortly after his fortieth birthday, I began to move against Creighton Tillingshaft Jr. At first all I did was let him know he was being watched by using the skills I'd spent years honing. His family heard footsteps echo through the house at night. They would investigate to find a door or window open. They started finding newspapers delivered to their front step, though they never subscribed, and their mansion was behind walls and a gate. Those papers were not new; they were from the year my son died. He began to panic; he hired security guards that never found anything amiss and bought guard dogs that disappeared to be found dead weeks later.

Once the Tillingshafts were good and rattled, I backed off; I waited a year; I could afford to. Then they found Creighton Tillingshaft Sr. dead; everyone said it was a simple heart attack, but I was responsible. The old man wasn't even a week in the ground when I struck again. Seventeen-year-old Creighton Tillingshaft III took a tumble down one of the crowded stairways of his college. His injuries left him a paraplegic; months later, an opportunistic infection took care of the rest. That blow made my son's killer turn his back on the sobriety he had embraced twenty-five years ago. That drove his wife away, leaving him alone in that big mansion with just his servants, but I soon took care of them. For all their professed loyalty to the Tillingshaft family, a few well-planned accidents and some threats from the shadows were all it took to send them running.

After that, I waited again, knowing that eventually, despite his near-constant drunken stupor, my son's killer would realize what I had done. It was a cold February morning when he came to me. He screamed and cursed until he collapsed into a sobbing heap.

Does Hell await me as punishment for what I've done? I don't know, and I don't care.

It was worth it to have the once great Creighton Tillingshaft Jr fall to his knees on my long untended grave.
 
 

 

This is Channel Ab3 Episode Twenty-One: DOUBLE FEATURE My Love Is Vengence/Foolproof


My Love Is Vengance: The loss of his son drives a father to seek revenge on a wealthy and powerful family, no matter what the cost.

 

Foolproof: The ultimate act of defiance and contempt for the world.

 

preview

'My Love is Vengeance' was written by Al Bruno III 

It was read and produced by Aiko van Wingerden

Music was by

Kevin MacLeod

Nicolas Gasparini

And Abysmii

 

'Foolproof' was written by Al Bruno III

It was read and produced by The Wandering Voice Actor

 

 Channel Ab3's unpaid scientific advisor is Adam J Thaxton

The Channel Ab3 theme was written and performed by Rachel F Williams

Channel Ab3 logo was designed by Antonio G 

Are you enjoying the show?

Become a recurring subscriber.

Or make a one-time donation!

Are you in the market to sell your home, find a new home, or just explore real estate investment opportunities? Don't hesitate to get in touch with me!

This is Channel Ab3 is distributed and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License

 


Check out this episode!