Four Empires Fallen

[Bombadil]

This is a novel I've been working on for a some while, now, and I must confess I'm nervous as to how it may be received... Anyway, the premise is fairly simple--I'm sure you'll catch on. This is part of Chapter One. It may be a bit long, sorry if it bores you. Please let me know what you think. If you like it, I'll post another portion.

Thanks,

--A.S.

“What is to be done today that will mark the future?” the man at the podium asked. “What will we do today to better our own lives and the lives of our children?” he asked with passion in his eyes, reflecting coolly in the flashbulbs of the press. “We will change this nation—you and I. We will rebuild this country to its former greatness; restore it to her grander days, before the Red Plague hit us. We have more territories, more responsibilities, true. Still, our destiny is not in our hands, it is in his! What has this president done for us? Nothing.” His eyes glowed now with rage. “People are still starving in the streets across our hemisphere; children are without vaccines and proper medicines in the South, and there is still a civil war in the state of Brazil. But not here. Not California. We have no hungry, fewer jobless than ever, and violent crime is non-existent. Good people,” he paused and looked a young reporter square in the eye, “California should not be unique, and our country should be unique! I stand before you here today and in front of all the rest of our great state and the entire nation I make this vow: I will not stand for this any longer! I invite you—all of you—take this journey with me, to change our country and reestablish her to her former glory! I am entering the race for the presidency—not for personal gain, not for any sort of fame—but to get the United Continental Americas out of the hands of the power-mad and back where she belongs in the hands of her people! Today and this November we mark the future together!”
The conference room erupted in a fresh blaze of camera flashes, applause and questions. Governor Morris smiled a few times for the media, then promptly stepped down from the podium and walked through the crowd, greeting people and shaking hands as he went. The die is cast, he said to himself, let it begin.
Morris beamed widely all the way back to his private office. He was a man of 53 years, though he looked much younger. Only his eyes belied his appearance, deep pools of dark blue that reflected both his savvy and his ambitions. His office had rich cherry wood paneling and two large cabinets set on either side of a huge mirror in front of which was a dominating desk with piled with papers at one end and several phones on the other, a dark leather couch and some chairs of the same making flanked the room, but other than that the room was spartanly decorated. There were no paintings, nor were there any pictures or plants. Morris was known for his focus and drive and his abhorrence for distraction. He seldom held meetings with more than two people at a time and all such meetings were behind locked doors, with no phones or communications allowed. Once, an intern had accompanied the State Treasurer to his weekly meeting with Morris. Out of ignorance or insolence, he left his cell phone on, which proceeded to ring during the course of the meeting. Morris stayed quiet and only asked him to take the call. After the meeting, he dismissed the intern and held the Treasurer back. Mr. Lewis, the intern who had graduated cum laude from the same university as Morris, was punished by being made to serve as the main phone operator for two years, after which, he was fired. His reputation went before him and his previously bright career was henceforth damned.
Suffice it to say, Morris was pleased with how his speech had gone. He plopped down into the high backed chair behind his desk and gave a triumphant sigh. He spun to face himself in the mirror. Not bad at all, he thought, turning this way and that admiring himself. He ran a hand through his rust colored hair and chuckled softly as he passed through the grey around his temples. The stylist had done wonderfully at making him look just old enough, adding the grey to his hair was supposed to make him more appealing to the older voters, who were his greatest opposition. Older, wiser and more regal even, the stylist had said. He admired himself further, regal indeed, he mused. Morris was certain of his victory and he could feel his hold on the presidency growing tighter everyday. The president was a lame duck, staunchly conservative and in losing favor with Congress and the public. Last month, when he was nearly assassinated in Brazil, he made the second page of the papers. He would be easily unseated.
Still, it was only March and much could happen in eight months of campaigning. Morris reminded himself that the President’s approval ratings had only begun to fall last year, and four years out of six with the American public is better than most people could hope for let alone physically achieve. Publicly, Morris was demure but steadfast; privately, he was a political pirate and his confidence never missed a beat. The president had amassed several enemies useful to Morris, but Morris had his share of enemies too. In order for things to go to plan, Morris needed to sniff out the trouble before it became a threat. Fortunately, he was his own best bloodhound.
Presently, his second best hound walked through the door. She had on a short navy skirt with a modest slip and a white dress shirt, V-necked, showing just the right amount of cleavage to turn heads, thick enough not to show off, but thin enough to let he nipples peak through. He watched her in the mirror as she walked up to his desk, her high heels clicking across the floor. Normally, her walk was more an act of seduction than a conveyance, but today her stride was more intense, almost nervous.
“Good morning, sir,” she said in her sweet voice. As usual, Morris did not turn around or make any reply so she continued, “Congratulations on your announcement,” she said as a matter of course. “You’ll make a fine pres—
“Isn’t it a bit cool for you to have already taken of your coat?” he teased. Morris, while hating to be interrupted, delighted in interrupting others. He liked to fluster Janine, in particular. Janine Evans was only 28 years old, but she was damn smart and as ruthless as any seasoned pro. She had a bit of an Asian look to her with golden skin and a heart shaped face, her breasts were pleasantly larger than her figure should have allowed but this she worked to her advantage. Still, in spite of these proportionately large assets, she was only decent looking. Ah, thought Morris, but where she lacks in the face is more than made up between her legs—and that mouth! Her dark hair was kept short which Morris thought made her even more nymph-like. She loved the game, as Morris called it, the thrill of the hunt and the smell of blood. Morris enjoyed her immensely—especially when her dander was up.
“It’s never too early. You know I’m always hot, besides if I catch a chill, I know I’ll catch your eye.”
“More like poke it out,” he fired back. “What are doing today?” Morris didn’t much like casual conversation and avoided it whenever possible.
“You have the Superintendent of Schools in twenty minutes, lunch at 11:30 with Mr. Davenport at the Seaside Grill, a meeting back here at 2:00 with George Irwin, a cabinet meeting at 2:30, you have Ms. Nunez with the Equal Rights people at 3:30 and—
“Miss Nunez?”
“Yes. Formerly Mister. And last you have that bishop from the ECC at 4:15. Oh, and dinner with the Masons at 6:00. You owe calls to the Speaker of the House and the Minority Whip—it’s his wife Lucy’s birthday today.”
Morris finally turned around to face her. “I’ll need an updated black-list by 4:45 this afternoon. Make sure you clear your schedule for that hour with me. We need to be ready for anyone and anything. Oh, and make sure Price is there too.” He spun back round in his chair, silently dismissing her and watching her as she turned and walked out.
What’s up her ass? Morris thought about it briefly and snorted at his own sardonic answer: not me, not yet.

The rest of Morris’s day was textbook. All of his meetings went to plan and were, as usual, precisely on schedule. The afternoon sun was shining through his office window, casting a lone square of light in the otherwise dark room. Morris reclined in his high back chair, facing the wall and whistling almost inaudibly. He was grossly pleased with the day but something vexed him. He felt a splinter in his mind, deep down, from some unknown source—just a prick here or there—but still, something was there.
He spun around suddenly and paged his secretary, “Are Price and Evans here yet?” he barked.
“Yessir,” came the nervous voice of his latest assistant through a cackle of white noise.
“Send them in,” he said shortly. Before she could respond he disconnected the speakerbox at its base. Promptly, Price strode through the door with Janine just at his heels. Price bolted the door decisively.
“Afternoon sir,” said Price in his patently icy cool voice as he approached the desk. Andrew Price was a slight thin man who looked more likely to be doing someone’s taxes than someone’s dirty laundry. His eyes were cold and nearly black, his hair neatly cropped in a military fashion and his face always clean shaven. Price was the physical manifestation of Shakespeare’s Shylock, obviously never to be trusted but ostensibly meek enough to be disarming. As a young man, he had joined the army and after that he had been a mercenary for the South American drug cartels. It was here that his jaw had been broken in demonstration more of moxie than of fealty, his jaw had been crooked ever since. He was an expert in demolition and weaponry and most adroit in the delight of killing. He had been Morris’s right hand for just under ten years and in California he was untouchable.
“Hello, you two,” Morris beamed queerly, always inwardly amused by the awkward tension in Janine whenever Price was close by. They made no reply, only waited for him to come to his point.
He began after a length of silence, “As you both know, I am about to go national. So,” he let the word hang and took and deep breath, “so, we all have work to do. Price: I want you to assemble a task force to capture the men responsible for the assassination attempt on the President last month in Brazil. You bring them to me; I’ll bring them to justice.”
Price grinned a sideward smile. “I’d imagine that won’t be too difficult, since we were behind that anyway. I’ll make it seem difficult of course, how many local lawmen can I martyr to this cause?” Price liked to use other words in place of the traditional three: murder, kill, death. He was especially fond of “martyr” because of the pathetic and ubiquitously futile enterprises it accompanied.
Morris kept the glee from his face and turning toward Janine, simply said, “Use your best judgment.” He watched for any sort of flicker emotion on the young woman’s face, but saw none. He knew killing bothered her, and he also knew that she very surely remembered the actions that were carried out when Price’s “best judgment” was left unchecked. He puffed up a bit with pride. “Janine, you’re going to the White House for the winter to ‘bolster awareness in Dallas in specific regard to the West Coast’s various environmental issues.’ Get the President alone, let him try and rape you—struggle out if you want, but a little come couldn’t hurt. Be creative. Then we’ll have the bastard on a plate.”
Janine brightened; this was her area of expertise, showing her avarice openly. She admired Morris immensely for his viciousness. She would never have thought of obliterating an already failing president. Things are definitely looking up, she thought remembering a chat she had had with a former aide to the president. This will be a snap, especially if his dick’s as big and hungry as that bitch says it is, she assured herself giddily.
Morris could sense her elation and it excited him. He turned to Price, “Leave the list.” Price understood the dismissal and pulled a small black address book from his coat pocket. He tossed it indifferently to Morris and turned to leave. He paused for the briefest of moments to ogle Janine—just enough to make her quail—and left. She shivered imperceptibly as the door clicked shut. Morris smiled ruthlessly up at her and beckoned to her with his eyes. “Same time, same place,” he said coolly, his eyes never wavering.
“Yes sir,” she said, equally cool, never to be outdone and walked sweetly out of the room.
“Same time, same place,” meant a room at the Two Buck Fuck Motel on the east side of town at 9 p.m. In contrast, “same place, same time,” meant a room in another, equally seedy location at the other end of town. Both went in dilapidated old jalopies that were never used for anything else. Wigs were worn, clothing was changed and very real looking latex masks and above all: cash only and rotating stolen IDs. At least once a week for three years, Morris and Janine had held trysts in the same clandestine fashion.

August on the Sacramento delta lands is usually beautiful to the eye, but savage to the nose. The stink of all the dying estuaries and their vomitous contents is enough to turn even a native’s stomach. Tonight, though there is a bit of breeze and the air is easily bearable. Morris puttered along noisily in an old rusty excuse for transportation, cursing it copiously. Tonight he was a 45 year old Polish immigrant, named Gregor Janieciwcz, an ID that had always amused him simply because it was impossible for any motel clerk to pronounce or respell.
He checked in at the front desk and got a key to room 132. He felt lusty and young, like he always did with Janine. In his overnight bag he carried every sort of accoutrement imaginable for the acts of pleasure. He rubbed himself with a pocketed hand and let his mind wander. There were almost no cars in the parking lot, so he did not worry about being seen, besides, he assured himself, no one would recognize him anyway.
He rounded the corner and walked down the far side of the building. The wind was cool and at his back, he quickened his pace a bit. He was five minutes late, just for effect, but he did not want her to wait too long—he did not want to be bothered with soothings or pleasantries. He unlocked the deadbolt to the deceptively thick door. In bad neighborhoods these were a necessity. Twice in different but similar locations, Morris had been interrupted by some two-bit thugs looking to rob or rape or both. Morris had shot and killed two men of this kind and badly wounded at least three more. Though he enjoyed the thrill, it was a bit of a bore in the long run. Troublesome, he thought, damn troublesome to have to set fire to a room, get out without being noticed and then go through the bother of finding another meeting place.
He opened the door and slipped inside, bolting it quickly. With his back still to the wall he said, “Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?” came a very deep, very male, very not-Janine, voice.
Morris’s hand went for the gun at his hip and slowly turned around. In a very mollifying tone, Morris began his customary stalling tactic, “I’m sorry I must have the wrong…” His voice trailed off as the bed came into view.
Janine was on the bed, naked and hog tied, ankles to wrists behind her back laying on her stomach and facing the door. She was gagged, but quite conscious, her eyes were darting back and forth wildly. She was situated low on the bed so that her head hung down over the foot; she had to hold her head up continuously in order to breathe comfortably. Her chin was streaked with little flecks of vomit—the gag was clean, though, suggesting it had just been changed. At the foot of the bed, just under Janine’s nose lay Price’s inert body, emaciated and very obviously dead. His suit was rent and bloodied and he wore a great deal of Janine’s vomit.
“I wouldn’t go for that gun if I were you, governor. You’ll be dead before it’s out of the holster,” the same voice again. He, whoever he was, was sitting in the opposite corner of the room, just under the window. Morris’s mind raced through his options as he raised his hands above his head—they were few. His assailant knew who he was, had kidnapped and killed Price who would not have come without a very serious fight. And he had Janine. He tried to stall again, “I don’t know who you are,” he said with a deliberate tremor in his voice, “but you have the wrong man. I’ve never seen either of these people before in my life. And I still haven’t seen you. I swear just let me go, I won’t breathe a word to anyone. I’m just a guy who walked into the wrong room at the wrong time.”
“No this is the right room and you are the right person, and you and I have a few debts to settle.” The voice became very severe, “turn around, now, and face her.”
Morris complied genuinely fearful now, “You can have anything you want, you want money or somebody killed, or maybe her, yeah, you wanna fuck her? Go ahead,” he jutted his chin at Janine frantically. She bucked wildly, her eyes practically bleeding from anger and strain. “Anything you want, just let me go,” he continued, feeling no remorse for Janine or Price, only cowardice.
“Kill her.” The man said softly, feeding off of the fear in the room like a wolf on a hunt.
There was a long silence, broken only by the muffled sound of Janine weeping. Morris was trapped, worse than he had ever been before. He lowered his gaze on the young woman just in front of him, to her dismay, he opened his lips and said only, “How?” Janine squirmed and writhed, futilely with all of her being, enraged by betrayal and equally terrified. Morris looked on, apathetically, as though she were a Thanksgiving roast.
“With this,” the man said and Morris heard something spinning through the air. The long knife came down straight, standing straight up in Price’s gut, narrowly missing Janine’s scalp. “Slit her throat. We wouldn’t want her to suffer too much now would we? Such a special creature,” his voice was sweet but grating. Janine had given up struggling and was weeping controllably with her head hung down. She coughed now and again, clearly the mucus in her throat reflexively.
Morris felt as though he were dreaming. He could feel his feet moving, hand reaching down and pulling out the knife, bending down to do it and looking his lover in the eyes, blankly, one last time. He stepped over Price and still facing away from his attacker, grabbed a thick handful of Janine’s hair and lifted her head slowly as though it weighed more than it should. She fought a little, tried to scream and struggle. Morris held her steady and strong with one hand and slit her throat quickly, deftly with the other. Blood spilled onto the knife and down onto Price, Morris’s right shoe and then the carpet. He let go of her hair and her head fell back listlessly. He did not try to comfort her and he did not cry for her. He looked at her now and felt nothing but a numbing sense of purpose and survival.
Morris turned his mind back to the man in the corner that had been quite silent for the proceedings. He mustered as much rage as he could and said with feigned regret, “Look what you’ve made me do. Why?” he asked, making his voice crack just slightly. Maybe, he thought trying to reassure himself, maybe he just wants to fuck with my head and let me go. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had.
“You’d have done it eventually anyway. Sending her off to the President was a suicide mission and you knew it.”
“How did you know that? Who are you?” Morris had given up on all of his pretenses, now he simply wanted answers—and to live.
“To you, I am Death. Turn and face me.”
Morris wet himself. Warm urine flowed down his leg and he began to shake. By a force not his own, he was turned about face. He tried not to look, but he could not close his eyes. He saw his attacker in the shadows and knew he had seen death. He was too large to be real, more like a grizzly bear than a man. He stood up slowly but grandly and his head, its head, touched the ceiling, ten feet from the floor. He spoke at length, his words chilling Morris’s soul: “Nathan Morris you stand in taint of high crimes of nearly every possible type. More so, you stand soulless, heartless and unrepentant in the face of your deeds. I am judgment, come to the gates of your home to tear you down and end your evil days upon this earth. The time has come and payment is now due. Down with you!” He roared and with unfathomable speed, the mammoth form pounced from the blackness and smashed Morris’s skull between two huge hammer hands like it was made of glass. Morris had not had the time to scream. He fell down in a heap, instantly dead.
The killer chuckled to himself at the pathetic lump of flesh at his feet. He whistled a happy little tune and said to no one in particular, “There’s much to do, oh yes, much to do to him, before the morning comes. It begins!” He was almost gleeful as he scooped Morris’s body up with one hand. He tore off his shirt and went to work, whistling and humming the whole while.
Later that night, when life on the delta was fast asleep or off tending their own dark business, he stole out of the room with Morris’s body under one arm, careful to leave the door slightly ajar. He tossed his body into the bed of a camper-shelled pickup and sped off toward the capitol building and no one saw them but the night.

[camus]

First impressions:

Sorry didn't grip me, reminded me a bit of a Carl Hiaasen, of whom I'm not a fan. There seems too much unnecessary description, not enough atmosphere created by words, I think what you've written could be halved.

I also suffer from exactly the same problem, slash and slash, but to what?

"What do I know", well i know what grips me and what doesn't, and I hope that counts for something.

Sorry just trying to justify my opinions.

[cameron]

Thanks for posting this keith.

I think you should bin the whole of the first bit and start at: "August on the Sacremento delta lands". To me, this section is much better than the first bit - even if it is still a bit wordy. You have scene, characters and action - which are good. However, it's not good practice to kill off your hero in Chapter 1. I think you need to get Morris out alive!

Quite violent and sexual.

But leaner is definitely meaner.

Cheers
Cam

[Bombadil]

Cam,

I'll consider the leaning down, I think you may indeed be right. I said this to TG privately, so I'll say it again here, the only main character shown in that snippet does, in fact, live. Perhaps I should post the other portion of chapter one, wherein the actual heroine is introduced. What say you? Would it be worth your trouble?

Thanks for the read and critique.

--Keith

[camus]

A.S,

You didn't reply to my comments! I don't blame you really, it was uneccessarily negative, especially in response to your comment;

"I must confess I'm nervous as to how it may be received"

I appreciate you talents as a writer in the forms I've read so far, more so your poems, I'm just useless when it comes to diplomacy.

Lets just say Cameron more or less said what I wanted to say, although I do still think it was very Carl Hiaasen, also put me in mind of Brett Easton Ellis.

[Bombadil]

Kris,

I really didn't know how to reply...hence the silence. However, I was not offended or hurt. A bit confused, since I don't even recognize the authors you compared me to. Take it from me: throw diplomacy right out the fucking window...it has little use in the lives of real people. I will rework things and edit down, per your's and Cameron's advice but also because I can't scrap the damn thing...I've already got like 300 pages written--too much to turn my back on, now.

Would either of you care to meet the heroine?

--Keith
(I would say "cheers" but my American mind just won't let me...)

[camus]

A.S,

Thats cool.

Brett Easton Ellis - American Psycho - fucking amazing read.

Carl Hiasson - Can't remember off hand, Very American though.

So I guess I'm saying it was a very American read, my favourite authors are generally American - Kerouac, Salinger, Capote, and just lately Walter Mosely, just finished Always Out Numbered Always Outgunned for the second time, I rarely read a book twice. True Anti Hero stuff, but also had hints of Mr Albert Camus himself within, especially the beach scene.

I feel a favourite books/authors thread coming on.

Here we go - CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRS.

It feels good.

[Bombadil]

Sorry, I'm a prick for details...which part's cool?

Cheers,

Keith

(It did feel kinda good....like a sneeze, only a better.)

[camus]

Your acceptance was cool.

I just edited the reply by the way.

And the fact you can't bring yourself to say cheers, thats just funny.

[that girl]

Keith-
By all means, let us meet your heroine. I will keep reading. But I wasn't lying- I really hated it.

I'm suprised you have never read American Psycho...

.tg.

[Bombadil]

TG,

Evdiently I have succeeded, then in making you believe me more erudite than I actually am. Why would I have thought you were kidding. Hate is a strong enough word never to be taken lightly.

Kris,

You'd laugh at my favorite authors/books...to be sure, but here are a few: Tolkien, Clavell, Caldwell and Thomason, James Patterson, Thomas Harris and perhaps...Mark Twain or Jack London.

I'll edit and post the heroine shortly.

--Keith

[camus]

Not at all,

Although I'm only familiar with 3 of them.

Jack London, excellent, White Fang is phenomenal, waiting for the day I can read it to my son without him saying " Can we read Captain Underpants"

Mark Twain, So readable. The fence scene is always a classic.

Tolkien, never gone there, but I am on the last book of His Dark materials by Philip Pullman, undoubtedly influenced by Tolkien, in whatever way.

As for the others, if they are in the same vain, Wide open spaces, then I'll check them out.

[Bombadil]

Kris,

Hmmm....

James Clavell, Aussie writer, wrote grand epics about the Orient like: Shogun, Tai-Pan, Noble House; etc. My love for the Orient and other cultures period drew me to him.

Thomas Harris, crime fiction writer whose character, Hannibal Lecter, was immortalized by Anthony Hopkins. Books: Red Dragon, Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal; etc. Very dark, crisp and lavish.

Patterson, another crime fiction dude, but also an excellent historical fiction man. Read The Jester, if you like the sort, it'll knock you off your ass.

Tolkien...ah, I could write along time on him. He tells a story the way it should be done. Lewis once said that every history book should have been written by Tolkien for then, people would actually enjoy them.

Sorry, I get a bit long winded...

Oh, I found the California equivalent to Cheers.

Later,

Keith

[Thomas]

how do you really criticise someone for having ago at writing a book?
i have no idea but will say this i think that this effort was a good one although it is not the kind of book i would read,we could pick away all day, i belive and i know i have read worse openings of a book that have been published,so i hope my opinion is a negative one and slightly positive also, to attempt a novel is a brave thing to do in my opinion so good on you AS and turn the negative critique into positive and re work what you have done...only my thoughts Tom....

[that girl]

I await chapter 2, swordy.

.teeg