First off, let me say that the characters in the television show 'The Sentinel' are the property of Pet Fly Productions, and are used without permission in a work of fiction for the sake of the story that follows. No profit is made on the use of these characters, and therefore is noted as beyond the scope of duties or royalties to be paid upon alluded earnings due to use of said characters.
Second, the other principal character herein utilized (the Dark Angel, and all other nomenclatures regarding same) is the sole property of Clarence P. Browne Jr. Use of said character without prior permission is prohibited. Archiving of this and subsequent chapters, including - though not limited to - websites and et cetera OR modification of this story in any way without prior permission of the authors is also prohibited. All rights to this work are reserved as it is an original work of fiction and therefore protected under copyright and all other applicable intellectual property protections.
The purpose of said story is to provide 'angst' for the characters of 'The Sentinel'. With this in mind, be aware that there are adult themes, graphic violence, coarse language, and disturbing glimpses into the mind of a madman. More simply put, if your idea of 'angst' is a dog bite or a bout of the flu, then this story is REALLY going to shake your little tree. What follows is not for the weak hearted, and is the only warning you get regarding the content.
Rating: NC-17 for graphic violence, adult situations not related to sex, adult language and gore.
Warnings: There be angst here, ladies, and this is not for the faint of
heart. Our boys are going to encounter a 'monster'. What happens is
anybody's guess
Darkness....
Darkness is good. It helps us. It teaches us. It makes us whole... We
forget how long we've been here... Maybe a week... Maybe more... We had such a long ride to wherever it is from the Dungeons, though time to one who
hasn't seen the sun as long as we haven't is difficult to gauge... We have
been asleep six times so we assume it's been six days travel... Not the most
reliable measure, but it's all we have... Now to business. Soon it will be
time for exercise.... This pleases me. Ah, the darkness tells me that the
usuals are coming by for a visit... Mullins, McCloskey, and Simms they call
each other... Mullins is the leader, we learned a while ago... He has a body
odor issue that made his presence known to us well before we could hear him,
but most men of his caliber equate deodorant with femininity. Sad, really...
They fancy themselves hard men, but we hear them talk as they march to our
area... They are children. And children ALWAYS fear monsters in the dark...
"Yo, Mullins, this is pointless. No matter how much we work this guy over,
he's still hell on wheels during 'exercise'."
"Ever think about how he'd be if we DIDN'T work him beforehand? Even AFTER exercise it's getting tougher and tougher to get him back in that hole."
"Why the hell does the warden have us do this?"
"Stop whining, McCloskey! Ever since the Mudman got killed in Jersey, lotsa
wardens have been clearing each other's dregs this way... It's kinda cool in
a 'Spartacus' kinda way."
"Spartacus? Ain't that that fag movie about those Roman dudes?"
"I think so, Simms. At least I heard of something like that. Never actually
WATCHED it..."
"Hell, I think you jerk off to it."
"Shut UP, McCloskey! We got work to do... Button up, batons ready, and
let's warm it up for the show."
"I don't like this, man... That thing doesn't even flinch at the warmups
anymore. Not at the hoses, the tasers, the knucks... It's not NATURAL..."
"SIMMS! If you've lost your gut for this detail we can get someone else."
"I'm just sayin', is all..."
"Well, it ain't your JOB to say. It's MINE, and _I_ say we get to work...
Problems?"
"No, sir."
This pleases me...
-----
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have quite a fight lined up! The pride of
California's Penal System, Carson 'the Mutilator' McAfee, defends his
unbeaten streak of forty-two victories against a newcomer that's been on a
roll of his own - a roll that MATCHES that of our local champion... It is my
dubious honor to present to you, the holder of the coveted 'Highest Single
Perp Bodycount' at five-hundred seventy-nine separate counts of Murder
One... From the City of Brotherly Love's own Graterford Ultra-Maximum
Security Cells... The man, the myth, the MONSTER... 'Bobo' FIENDISH..."
They lead us in shackles to the cage... McAfee looks cocky, which is how we
expected him to look... His heart is beating nice and steady - which tells
us he's pretty confident... For a dead man. He's about two-ninety of real
brassy Irish. Stocky, hands like those canned hams we remember... There's a
sneer on his pugnacious little pinched face... Jaw like a lantern... Heh. He
probably scares regular folks... Hell, he probably scares most hardcases,
too... Trouble is, to such as we, he's but a measly speck of insignificance,
and it's time he learned his place in the world... They lead us to face each
other in the center of the cage, and we greet him...
"Hello, my intended..."
"Ay? Wot's this 'ere? Some koinda clowun? Ye'll be easy, sweet'eart...
Mebbe 'fore Oi kels yez, we c'n hav some toime fer me to shag yez, ay?
Would'je loik dat, sweet'eart? A little shag 'fore yez go inter de groun'?"
"Gee, as tempting as that sounds, Carse, I'll pass... Besides, you'll be
too busy for any fun after this..."
"Ay? An' wotja figger Oi'll be doin' instead, sweet'eart?"
"Desperately trying to un-shit your head after I wedge it snugly in your
colon, you Irish fuck refugee..."
"Ye derty bastid! Oi'll KILL YA!" He dishes up
a good hook to the ribs, but it costs him a raking elbow above his left
eye... He's cut, but he doesn't know it yet... He rams his bulldog head into
our chest, trying to steamroller us... We counter with a spin move that puts
us behind him, and we shove him face first into the side of the cage.. He
starts to turn away from the cage, but we've closed the distance and grab a
handful of his red hair to use as a handle as we drag the side of his head
along the chainlink - to the approval of the audience, we might add... We
get eight feet before the links start turning red as we pass, and another
six before his left ear comes free... He shoves us to free himself, and we
play along as the pain kicks in full-power on my intended... Rage has
probably set up shop, as he wheels on us with a roar of primal fury... It's
cut off by a thumb to the left side of his Adam's Apple, and he's sent
stumbling by a palm-heel to his right temple... He's tough, we'll give him
that... He spins at us with a left uppercut to the stomach, and he follows
it with a headbutt and then an overhand right... These Irish and their
barroom style boxing... Oh well... We'll let him get some shots in - good
for the show and whatnot; but the big dink is losing blood pretty heavy, and
we can wait... His heart's racing, and that familiar smell of panic washes
over us... He knows he's bit off more than he can chew, and this latest
rally is an all-out attempt to save himself... We drop a forearm across the
back of his head while he's working the ol' midsection, and snap him back to
reality with a knee-lift to the point of his chin... He falls on his duff
from that, and we grab him by his ankle... A smidge of pressure, and a
twist, and THERE'S that gratifying crunching sound of bone and cartilage
grinding each other to pulp in our hand... He lets out a shriek of pain and
surprise, and we step forward to change our grip - thus forcing the joint of
his knee across the fulcrum point of our shin, which completely shreds his
ACL and dislocates his knee with a pop like a gunshot... He's kicking at us
with his free leg, but he can't get much behind it from his present vantage
point... We grab him by the collar and haul him up, and he clamps us in a
bearhug out of instinct and desperation... We slide our right hand palm
first between his head and our sternum, while grabbing the back of his head
with our left... We push against the fulcrum of our hand with his neck as
the lever and that makes enough room for us to grab him by the chin as we
step back with our right foot, pulling him forward as we drop to a knee and
shift our left hand to the small of his back... Fear floods out of him as he
realizes what's next, and we savor the moment a smidge before we lift and
push with our right hand and pull with our left... We'd make a wish if we
believed in such things, and content ourselves with putting the back of the
poor bastard's head squarely between his ankles as the hush that comes
across the crowd makes the sound of his vertebrae taking separate vacations
seem even louder... We look out into the crowd, and catch sight of our good
friend, the warden... Ooo, he looks a little pale from here... This pleases
me... Guess he dropped a bundle on the Irishman... Speaking of which, he's
wriggling a little, still not registering that he's been dead for thirty
seconds already, so we clarify his position by pressing down on his head
until it collapses... We hear a few of the women hitting the floor on the
outside, and the stench of a few of the men that register what they've
witnessed sicking up slams into us like a wet newspaper... Ah, show
business. Quite a few Californians lost their shirts on THIS guy, and we
walk over to the spot on the fence where our playmate lost his ear to
retrieve it as a trophy... They won't let us keep it, of course, but they're
going to have precious little to say about it soon... Heh. We tuck it in our
shirt pocket as the bulls rush in to restrain us... They clasp us in irons
as they bludgeon us, and we feel a smile creep across our face... Now is not
the time... Soon...
"I saw it, McCloskey... Geeze... It's gonna be a long ride back to Philly
to throw this freak back in the hole."
"New orders, Mullins. Just got them from the warden."
"What is it, Simms? Spit it out..."
"Seems the warden figured the Mutilator would finally rid him of the freak,
and he bet heavy on it. Said he's lost his last wad on the crazy fuck, and
we're supposed to handle it and write it up as an escape attempt."
"Are you serious? We're supposed to shoot it?"
"That's what the paper says, McCloskey, and I think it's about time. Got
your rods handy, boys?"
"Yes, sir."
"Great, let's go in the back and see to it... Go ahead, I'm right behind
you..."
"What's the matter, Mullins, lost your nerve?"
"Fuck off, Simms, I never loaded the thing. Gimme a sec to get the clip so
we can all whack the sick, twisted fuck..."
"Okay, Mullins, just hurry it up! The faster we get it done the faster we
get back home..."
"I know, I know... Geeze... Keep your pants on."
"Hello, my intended...."
"What the fuck? That's what the freak says.... before...."
"Before exercise? Yes... That he does..."
"Goddamn this bullshit! Stop screwing around you two!"
"There is no two... That would make four... Four's a crowd, and not
allowed... Heh."
"I swear to God, you two dickwads just got a big fat suspension for this
shit! Knock it off, and you'll just get a verbal warning..."
"They can't hear you, Mullins... It's just you, me, and the Darkness..."
"WRONG! It's me, and Joe GLOCK!"
"A-huh huh huh," he sobs.
"That movie you were talking about earlier? It was 'Caligula'..."
"What? H-how did you? You couldn't... It's not p-possible..."
"You're welcome... See you SOON..."PROLOGUE-
Now they are upon us... They buffet us with their cudgels, expecting - no,
HOPING - that we shall cry out in pain under their assault. When we do not
cooperate, they increase the intensity... But it is for naught. We do not
feel pain because we CHOOSE not to... The darkness has taught us much... We smell their fear... Hear their hearts flutter as realization washes over
them... We can even taste the air that now grows heavy with their panic and
sweat... For a long time I have studied the lessons of the Darkness. It
taught us that the seventeenth link in our chain has a flaw... We know that
they cannot hear it cry out, as we can. How it wails when we twist it in our
hand... How it snapped days ago, like a cannon. How it wept when we twisted
it back so that they wouldn't see the stress fracture we wrought in it...
They know only what fits it their tiny little world. Soon it will be time
for exercise...
He lays into us with a haymaker that's pure hate in motion... We turn our
head with it, flowing along to bring a crisp spinning backfist into his
lantern jaw... He hits the ground from the shot, partly from surprise we
suppose... He looks at us with wonder creeping into his little world...
Guess he expected me to drop dead from that punch... Just because he killed
seven guys with that one punch is no reason to expect it'll work ALL the
time, and we shake a finger at him in admonishment... He spits out what
looks like half of one of his canines, and comes at us again...
"Holy SHIT, Mullins! He broke that poor bastard in HALF like a goddamn
Kit-Kat!"
It's a few moments before he comes in to join his friends... It's very
quiet, with only the sound of the two of us breathing... His heart skips a
beat as we shut the door behind him... We can hear him swallow, reflexively
choking back a yelp... Not good for the screws to show the cons when they
get rattled, or so the story goes... He steels himself before he speaks,
though we detect that little quiver that betrays his bravado...
"Guys? Report your positions! What kinda shit are you two pulling on me?
Goddamn it, this isn't funny! Make some noise! Show yourselves!"
He fires wildly, hoping that if he can get enough lead in the air, he may
find his mark... Foolish... We slide behind him and grasp his gun arm... He
loses control of his bladder at this point, and we twist his hand against
the normal swivel of his wrist and elbow... He cries like a child as his arm
fractures in several places, jutting bone through his skin at rakish
angles... He's going to be crippled for life... All twenty seconds of it...
Heh. We grasp his weeping face and bring it closer to us...
"There's something you should know, Mullins... Before you go on Bobo's Wild
Ride..."
END PROLOGUE-