ASHES AMONG THE STARS

My first experience with Star Trek was with the original series. Not in reruns but the first airing on CBS in 1966. Yeah I am that freaking old. I was one of those first Trekies to be fascinated by the possibilities that lay ahead. In the sixties we dialed a telephone and took selfies with a Polaroid. If you don't know what that's like look it up on your smart phone tribble brain.

The show was maybe too far ahead for mainstream viewers and was canceled after three seasons. The show ended up in what was then considered the old TV show bone yard, syndication. But then the unbelievable happened in 1979 Star Trek the Motion Picture resurrected the show the cast and crew. The rest is Science Fiction history.
Having the Kool Kollectables comic store put me right in the mix with the fans and the actors themselves. It was a fantastic time in the 1990s for the Trek experience was really blasting off.
Sadly one by one the originals are fading away Bones, Scotty, Chapel and now Spock. They leave behind a rich legacy like no other in the world of science fiction. One lone near forgotten TV show fought back from the brink of extinction by virtue of a devoted fan base that continued to grow every year after the show ended. Movies, more TV shows, comics, novels, cartoons, and of course the conventions. It was in fact the fans dressing up in costume that saved the franchise.
The stars many of whom were struggling to get work were regulars at the early cons. William Shatner and Lenard Nimoy were both working but neither went on to big box office fame. At least not until the first movie brought it all back.

Star Trek has influenced millions the world over and not just in entertainment but in every aspect of society. Star Trek creator Jean Roddenberry's vision has shaped how we speak and interact with each other. There is hardly a child in America that hasn’t been touched in some way by Star Trek. For half a century the notion that we humans can trek across the galaxy and boldly go where no man has gone before is as powerful today as it was then.

While none of the famed originals have ever gone into space during their life times many have symbolically made the voyage. In 1997 a small portion of Gene Roddenberry's ashes were launch into space. His intrepid wife Majel Barrett Roddenberry who was involved with every Star Trek series until her death in 2008 was also launched into orbit in 2012. Her Husband Gene accompanied her this time and now they Trek together.

A gram of James Doohan's ashes were launched in 2008 but the rocket failed to reach orbit. Never one to let a malfunction stop him Scotty prevailed. In 2012 a second launch from Spaceport America in Southern New Mexico was successful. Scotty made it into space along with real life astronaut Gordon Cooper of the legendary Mercury Seven crew.

These space burial launches were not just for the rich and famous hundreds of ordinary citizens also made those flights. That's what Star Trek does it makes space travel seem accessible to everyone. And some day it will be.

Scientists and engineers the world over are working on new technologies inspired by Star Trek. Space travel, communications, medicine and societal relations. From birth to death Star Trek is a part of us all.

DEATH AND DOMINATION EPISODE ONE

I haven't added to vetterSverse in some time. It's difficult to post regular articles and write books. So it's one or the other. Crossbreeds my Science fiction series has consumed my writing time for several years. Friends have been asking me to do a Blood Moon Social Club vampire story so my solution is to combine blogging with writing a book. Also I welcome your input in the Blood Moon Social Club FB group as I unfold the story over the next few weeks. This story has long been digging its way out of the dark recesses of my mind and now it's free I give you Death and Domination.

BLOOD MOON SOCIAL CLUB

DEATH AND DOMINATION EPISODE ONE

By Karl Clay Vetter & C. Vetter

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This story was inspired by the fictional events and characters created at the Blood Moon Social Club's interactive theater. Produced and directed by Karl Clay Vetter, C. Vetter and Patrick Foster.
The authors wish to thank all the Blood Moon Social Club members for their outstanding performances and support. The fictional characters in this story pay homage to you each and every one. Proceeds from this book go toward keeping the Blood Moon Social Club alive.
Copyright protected © 2015 by Karl Clay Vetter and C. Vetter.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the creators, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized digital sharing is a punishable offense.
Technical support Patrick Foster.

'LIKE' THE BLOOD MOON SOCIAL CLUB FACE BOOK PAGE
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Blood-Moon-Social-Club/354434527949489?ref=hl

JOIN THE BLOOD MOON SOCIAL CLUB FACE BOOK GROUP

https://www.facebook.com/groups/1488306761451445/

'LIKE' THE FACE BOOK PAGE CROSSBREEDS BY KCV

https://www.facebook.com/karlclayvetter?ref=bookmarks

OTHER BOOKS BY KARL CLAY VETTER & C. VETTER

BATTLE BUTTE: CROSSBREEDS 1

THEY WERE BORN HUMAN THEY BECAME SOMETHING ELSE

TANGLEWOOD TERORISTS: CROSSBREEDS 2
HUMAN SOULS TRAPED IN ANIMAL SKINS

DARK LEGENDS: CROSSBREEDS 3
NO HEROES ONLY DARK LEGENDS

LINK FROM WWW.KOOLKOLLECTABLES.COM TO AMAZON.
Follow Karl Clay Vetter on Twitter and Face Book

DEATH AND DOMINATION CHAPTER 1 THE VAMPIRE

A rattling of chains and a low growl warned them he was alert to their approach. Barron slowed his pace. “Good doggy we've brought you a tasty treat.” The growling became a mewling at the sound of his voice. Barron was tall and gaunt his bodyguard could have made two of him. The big man carried a five gallon bucket of fresh drawn cow's blood. Its iron rich fragrance reached the flaring nostrils of the dog. Dog only in a technical sense. The beast had been a Tibetan Mastiff in 1953 when Barron altered it into what it was now. Barron willed his forefinger to inch out a claw for which to make a small cut in his palm. Dark ancient blood pooled in his cupped hand. “Here you go Brutus.” A huge tongue lapped it up. A moan of pleasure shuddered through the horrendous canine. The big man emptied the bucket into a large metal pan. The hell beast set to gulping it down.

Barron scratched the monstrous head and stepped past the creature that stood six feet at the shoulders. “I'll be back shortly.”
“Okay Boss.”
Barron stepped up to a security pad and scanned his key card then punched in a twenty digit code. The twenty-four inch thick steel door opened. He entered and taking careful steps walked past a score of deadly traps until he came to another locked door. This one was protected not with electronics but magik. Powerful wards to stop supernatural creatures from entering were carved into the door. He invoked several incantations to open the inner vault.
Once inside he moved about examining his treasures. Rare magical artifacts he'd been collecting for centuries. Enchanted jewels, magik talismans, supernatural weapons. One among them was his favorite. A golden orb the size of a small orange. It was intricately carved and had an ambient glow that emanated from its core. Powered by arcane forces even he did not fully comprehend. At either end it had an opening he surmised was for joining with another orb. Until recently he wasn't sure that any other orbs still existed.
Next to the orb lay a scroll a new acquisition and possibly a clue as to locating the orb's missing kin. He gently lifted the scroll and left the vault.
The tunnel leading away from the vault turned sharply to the left. The two reunited an entered a dungeon like holding area. In one cell a pale man was bound to a set of chains each inscribed with symbols similar to the carvings on the vault door.
Barron looked through the cell window. “Well Micheal have you used this time to reflect on your mistake?”
The chained man looked him in the eyes. “I give you my blood oath it will never happen again.”
Barron nodded. “Good, and to make sure you'll give me a draft of your blood as security. In the event that you slip up and try to steal from me again. Agreed?”
Michael nodded in submission. “Agreed.”
Barron summoned the jailer. “Cepheus, prepare for Micheal’s release.”
Cepheus came to the door. He did not bother to cloak himself in the guise of a human. Working in the dungeon had it's perks and one was not caring if you looked like a hunched backed rotting corpse with a brace of crooked yellow fangs for a grin. “Yes my lord I'll do it straight away.”
“Good and has our other guest been behaving?”
“Oh yes my Lord. He's no trouble at all. A diet of rat's blood keeps them quiet but offers nothing for which to build power. Number three is meek as a kitten.”
He moved past an empty cell and looked in the third one. “Mo'ajin. what am I to do with you?”
The creature in the cell was not chained for his body appeared to have little in the way of a bone structure. “The cell however was carved with layers of binding glyphs powerful enough to hold Lucifer himself.
The thing slithered to within a foot of the door for to come any closer would result in agony. “Barron, so pleasant you've come to visit. What to do with me? Well I told you what to do when you put me here. Destroy me. You surly must know by now that I'll never consent to being one of your blood slaves like that that fool Michael.”
“Trust me old friend if I knew a way to remove you permanently I would have, but your arcane magic is too resilient. I killed you three times and you still came back. I fear I'm stuck with you.”
“Fear not my old foe. We'll reconcile our differences some day and then it will be you in here and me out there. What a turn of events that will be.”
Baron nodded. “Perhaps, in a century or two.”
A sound meant to be a sardonic chuckle came from the prisoner. “What is time to such as we?”

DEATH AND DOMINATION CHAPTER 2 THE SHADOW SHIFTER

Stagger entered the Blood Moon Social Club from the front doors and strolled across the casino's main floor. To his left poker tables and dealers flipping cards to fill hands. He knew all of the players. On his right black jack players and much the same. A collection of regulars betting in the thousands as if dollars held no greater value than popcorn. A few glanced at him giving only a slight nod of recognition. He continued past the bar where every glass held a crimson beverage with no ice. He came to a door and swept past the hulking security. Up a flight of stairs and into another secured chamber. This time the guards stopped him and sniffed him all over. Satisfied his scent was kosher the brutes stepped aside. Stagger softly knocked once then entered the dimly lit room.

Behind a large antique desk sat a pale gaunt man his cold direct eyes devouring a scroll the words in a lost language. Stagger waited for him to stop reading. Moments passed.
The reader gazed up at him. “You look agitated what is it now?”
“You want it all at once?”
“You know I don't like it when you rush you tend to skip details.”
“Okay, I”ll start with the bad news and finish with the really bad news. You know that guitar player the one with the long dark hair?”
“Stone?”
“Yeah, he turned some dancer from the Palomino. She got away from him and before he could bring her back she killed a local. Ripped his jugular right out.”
“Send a cleaner out to mop up the mess, and get Duncan onto the police and the corner. He's good at heading off the press. Is that all?”
“Well I got a tip from Turgay that a pack of wolves are camped out beyond the old cemetery. That always means trouble.”
“Yes but if we greet them with say Boris or better yet Adrianna, she's got a knack with animals. Send her with a message, as long as there is no trouble on club ground they are welcome inside the sanctum.”
“Now let me work I've been at this for days and still can't crack this code...” his finger tracing a line on the scroll.
“But Barron, don't you want to hear the worse news?”
“I thought that was it, what could be worse than a pack of blood crazed savages hovering at our door?”
“He's back, at least that's what Ian says. He got a vision that the shadow shifter is back from hell knows where.”
Barron leaned back and for the first time since hearing all the bad news did he actually look concerned. “Check it out. Quietly, we don't want a panic. I really don't need this right now. I'm so close to figuring it out. He'll complicate things.”
“Complicate things! He's a fucking disaster.” Stagger turned and left.
Barron returned to his studies. The ancient text before him held great fascination. So much so his attention was focused solely on it for another half hour. Then he felt something, there was no sound but something cold and deadly crept into the sealed room. His eyes glanced around. Then he saw it near a wall of books, a movement in the darkest corner.”
A chilling voice spoke like a whisper of death drifting on arctic wind. “Greetings dear old friend. Have I come at an inopportune moment?”
“No, as a matter of fact I've been expecting you. Please join me. Should I lower the lights?”
“Just a little. Thank you.”
Barron moved with careful intent so as not to alarm his guest. Dimming the lights then gesturing to a large black leather chair. “Please make yourself comfortable. I'll lock the door.” He touched a button on the desk. A click came from the office door. “There, now we can chat in private. How have you been?”
The shadow dissolved and a tall lean figure stepped into the room. His eyes were black as onyx his pale cadaverous skin a stark contrast to the long black coat draped over his shoulders. As he came forward the low illumination in the room seemed to shun his presence. He took the proffered seat and slide into it. All save for his face and long dexterous hands faded into the darkness of the chair. “Your hospitality is appreciated Barron. I'm rarely greeted with such courtesy.”
“I find our visits illuminating if you'll pardon that word?”
The figure smiled. “Not at all my friend your dry wit amuses me. You are so concerned with the comfort of others, but I'm here to offer you my service in your hour of need.”
“Your kind offer is appreciated, but I'm not aware of any need.”
“There it is on your desk, just reading that dusty scroll has opened certain channels of awareness in the dark realms. With every word you translate it sends ripples into the outer reaches like notes on harp strings. You seek clues to the scepter's whereabouts, do you not?”
Barron sat back watching his guest with the intensity of a detective, searching for the tiniest clue as to his true intentions. None presented. “I won't ask how you came to know that, as I'm sure you would not tell me.” Lying to the creature in front of him would be a futile effort and offensive. “Yes I seek to know of the lost Scepter of Babylon, but what you say of awareness in the dark realms. Am I to understand that my kind are aware, or something darker?”
His guest gave a twisted smile. “Oh dear friend only you among the blood drinkers has the intellect to comprehend its significance. The awareness of which I speak is darker than even hell's own demon hoard. You will need me and others too, if you are to acquire what you desire.”
“Why do you want to help me?” Barron raised his hand. “Perhaps I should rephrase that. What do you seek in return for that help?”
“I owe you a debt. Had you not interceded when we last met that Egyptian's spell might well have extinguished my dark flame.”
“Ah yes the mummy. Well, my job is to keep the peace around here. By the way he's a regular and word is he'll pay a Pharaoh’s ransom for whatever internal organs you might posses.”
A gruesome grin slipped across his face. “Never let it be said that a mummy's curse impeded a life debt owed by Arrogan Rapture.”
***

Coming soon chapters three The Mummy and four The Wolf. Bone searing hatred and blood feuds threaten to burn down the Blood Moon Social Club.

Thank you for reading.
Your humble purveyor Karl Clay Vetter.

WINTER BLUE

I have led a strange and libertine life and have wandered many trails. I cannot be classified politically or spiritually for like a spring fed mountain river I flow over, under and around. Most often I flow smooth and easy but suddenly under darkened skies I swell with the storms and become a raging torrent.

 

I have been many things; a hunter in the thickets of Texas, a wandering rogue, a logger in the mountains of Montana, a fighter, an artist, a seeker of treasure, a trainer of wild things, a horseman, a collector of the odd and beautiful, an actor and a teller of tall tails. And now you cannot classify me for you know not the truth and that is the way of enigmas.

 

Snow falls and blankets everything in blue white frost. The world seems dead yet underneath the cold powder nature is hibernating waiting for that call to life. That first early ray of light will signal spring and awaken the sleeping grizzly.

 

The green will come and the buds will bloom into a pallet of ever changing colors. The the fall will bring yellow and orange then brown and once again the azure skies will weep tears of blue white flakes.The river will flow and the mighty immovable mountain will yield to the easy ripple and slowly crumble as the icy water cascades, cutting the canyons ever deeper. Nature is beautiful and destructive.

 

I walk among the denizens of the great towering cities as easily as the towering trees of the forest. I commune with nature in all its glory yet I can destroy to make my way in the world. I take what I need and give what I wish. I walk in the path of the pack hunters following the migrating herds.

A savanna pride is playful with its cubs until the hunt. The skittish grazers await as predatory eyes watch from the tall grass. I do not conform I conceal. I do not belong I blend, I do not kneel to tyrants I step aside as they topple into pitfalls of their own design.

 

It is the nature of societies to romanticize the free ranging individualist while always attempting to rope and tame the wild spirit. The herd dose not survive when members wander too far. A tiger is a wonder of nature but better kept in a secure habitat lest you meet one in the dark.

So now you're curious, who am I? What am I? Why do I defy proper classification? If I do not fit neatly into my assigned space. What do you do with me? You have so many labels and none seems to fit.

I'll tell you my secret. I am Winter Blue until the spring comes then like the arboreal chameleon I'll fade into the green. Caution, be advised for other things dwell among the leafy canopy, things that pounce.

RIEPE'S WORLD

I love the serenity of Mystic Canyon here in New Mexico it's been a great source of inspiration for my stories. I felt the spiritual elements the first time I walked the deep wide arroyos. We writers get our inspirations from the strangest sources. On occasion however the wife and I hop in the land yacht and cruise up to LasVegas for business, friends and family. For some time now I’ve had the pleasure of chatting with my neighbor in Las Vegas, Edward 'Rex' Riepe. He is the author of the popular Fema Camp novels set in a grim future where the government has failed miserably. The once proud American way of life has been replaced by concentration camps, slavery and cannibalism.

He’s published twenty-five books predominantly in the speculative fiction genera, apocalyptic being his specialty. Among his works the 2101 Chronicles [8 books and over a million words], the Fema Camp series six books, The God Trilogy, Las Vegas Worm Club, and Arks from HEAVEN just to name a few.

Many writers begin right out of school and work for decades spinning yarns about life in their carefully crafted worlds. Rex by contrast has lived a rough and rambling life and then started writing rather late. I can relate to that. His work is course, gritty and lacking in fine silky finesse but then real life is seldom silky and almost always gritty. I totally get that as well. He spends night after night listening to Pink Floyd, sipping whiskey over ice in a coffee cup and banging out explosive violent chapters. A writer after my own heart.

In truth it was not his body of work as a late blooming author that got me into writing this piece. It was the life altering events, and the strange source of his ‘divine’ inspiration that really got my attention, so it begins thusly.

KCV: I’d like to write a story about your life and art. I think it would be interesting.

REX: Aw hell, my life’s not interesting.

I would have to disagree with him on that point, but ‘interesting’ might not be the correct word. Riveting. Yes, that’s the word. The guitar playing rocker has traveled a well worn path that has left many a scar from road rash on his weathered carcase. I was determined to peal back some of the scabs and see what lay beneath.

Oh don’t get me wrong it’s not that he’s terribly shy about talking, Rex can go on for hours and never skip a breath. But as I scribble notes with pen to paper I can’t keep up and he’s already two chapters ahead of me. Then I get side tracked as we digress into talking about writer stuff which we love to talk about. The stuff that really wouldn’t interest anyone but slang slingers like us. So it’s taken a dozen visits to compile this short piece.

Born in Kansas City to a family of modest means there were no silver spoons. At the tender age of eight young Rex was stealing fruit and vegetables from a kindly German lady, Mrs. Gufthaus. She caught him but rather than seek punishment she gave him a job and he became a wage earner rather than a criminal.

REX: Mrs Gufthaus was a wonderful woman, she paid me thirty cents and hour.

In his early teens he began to play guitar and later would play backup and opening acts for some of the great legends of Rock-N-Roll. He played for me some of his tunes on his digital guitar it was amazing. His fingers danced over the strings like butterflies seeking musical nectar.

KCV: So you were a Rock Star?

REX: No, not a Rock Star, just a musician... but a damn good one.

As the turbulent sixties came to a close so did a tragic episode of American history. In 1969 Rex was a senior at Florida’s Oviedo High. I perused his year book, he’s on every other page. Football, Sax player in the band, building bonfires. He boast of getting into fights with a coach and teachers but managed to stay in school. Oh yeah, this crewcut sporting jock was also captain of the basketball team. He delighted in pointing out all the pretty blonds he cavorted with but there was one picture of a shy girl that somehow avoided the rowdy Casanova. But her story doesn’t begin for another twenty-five years.

Segregation was ending but racial tensions were running high. Five white team mates failed to show for practice when four black players joined the team. Rex stayed on in spite of the usual name calling and peer pressure. It’s good to have the hide of an armadillo, it helps to deflect the bullshit.

KCV: So why didn’t you quit with your teammates?

REX: I love basketball, and the girls were always coming around. I didn’t care who I played with, I had a lot of fun with those guys.

Donald Sterling apparently didn’t get that message forty years ago. Rex went on to collage and eventually graduated after some... shall we say disciplinary differences. Okay, he was a smart ass there too. After collage he tried a suit and tie for a spell but being a respectable Joe just never played well with the rebel and another clean cut youth fell prey to the lure of Drugs, Sex and Rock-N-Roll, yeah baby.

While he was a damn good guitar player music dollars were fast and loose. Over the years he was successful in the computer business and other endeavors but marriage was not one. Finding himself a single father dropping the kids of with the Ex., his life had taken a down turn. No he never reached the highs of a Rock Star but he certainly partook of the earthly pleasures of one. On a dreary Christmas eve after dropping off the kids he wandered into a bar looking for a friend in a glass. His roving eye spied a couple of girls at the bar one in particular drew his gaze.

REX: She was a real looker, but I didn’t recognize her as anyone I knew.

As he was about to embrace the sweet caresses of a seven and seven a voice from his past penetrated the purple haze he’d fallen into.

MR: You’re Rex Riepe aren’t you?

REX: Who are you?

MR: Marcia Beasley. We went to High school together.

REX: Well you sure have change, in all the right places.

He hadn’t seen her since high school, two and a half decades had passed but she had certainly grown up. In that moment the fog cleared and his life suddenly took a new turn. Santa Claws had come for Rex Riepe and delivered an enduring love affair. They were inseparable in play and work from that moment on. They moved around a lot and Rex worked in construction. Marcia was no house bound daffodil she took up carpentry and they worked side by side.

REX: That’s how we shared our lives. We did everything together.

Money was decent and the road had smoothed a bit but when you least expect it there’s always a sharp turn. In 1998 while working on a roof in Florida he heard Marcia yelling his name amid vicious growls. From the roof he saw a massive black and tan Rottweiler dragging his owner like a sack of potatoes. The huge canine had her pinned down, she blocked with her arm as the dog went for her face. Rex leapt into action by jumping off the roof and landed flat footed near the great hound. Finishing hammer in hand he beat the beast off her until she could scramble away. Marcia escaped permanent injury save for a persistent fear of dogs. However, two days later suffering from excruciating back pain, Rex learned his third and forth vertebra were compacted from his hard landing. The damage required a long rehabilitation. It was a big hit in the bank book but they persevered and eventually started over.

Another ten years would pass and the pair would share every day with work, family and the usual stress of life. In Vegas that’s rich food and cheep drinks a combo that ushers along the ravages of time, and age was creeping up on the love birds.

Along about 2009 Rex was suddenly gripped with chest pains. A crushing spasm that surly felt like the hand of God was holding his heart and giving it a playful squeeze. Unable to drive he surrendered the keys. Marcia took the wheel and headed for the hospital. The pressure from his pounding heart increased and Rex was becoming delirious. Traffic was at a crawl and out of desperation Marcia took the car onto the sidewalks and zoomed around the jam. They arrived at the emergency room none to soon for a few minutes more and the guitar picker would have been strumming a golden harp.

REX: She saved my life, no doubt about it.

During his recovery the doctors discovered large tumors in his body and evidence that the hard working life had taken a hefty toll. Recovery was slow and painful. During his convalescents he began to have dreams, spiritual in nature. Later he would recall them vividly. A movie would play in his head staring characters bearing a strong resemblance to his German-Indian ancestors. Strange worlds in far flung star systems, dark apocalyptic visions swept across the movie screen in his head. He started to write the stories down and the visions continued they seemed to carry a prophecy of man’s rejection of the Word of God and the dire consequences to come. The dreams grew more powerful and the movie in his mind more graphic. The message was crystal clear. Time is running out for you Rock-N-Roller.

The tumors were inoperable and the notion of giving up liquor had little appeal. So Rex consulted with his God and decided to proceed on faith. A deal of sorts began to manifest requiring him to deliver a message laced in his high adventure prose. So proceeding with powerful inspiration from a divine source, Rex picked up his key board and has been writing like a man possessed ever since. A pile of rejections sit on a shelf but he publishes his works on Amazon and sales mount daily as a legion of fans clamor for more of his dark prophecies. He has defiantly truck a cord that appeals to a great many.

REX: Marcia is my editor, critic and co-writer. It’s what we do now to share our lives. They’re just stories but we’re having fun. When it stops being fun I’ll quit doing it.

Their stories foretell of a government turning on its citizens. Spying on Americans, stealing their property, taking their guns, and a diabolical collaboration of the super rich and the mega powerful to wield ultimate control. Foreign powers seeking world domination and the crushing boot of oppression on the traditional values of family and freedom. No I’m not repeating today’s headlines, I’m talking about Riepe’s World... Or am I?

My friend is still dreaming and still writing and the world is still headed towards his apocalyptic prophesies. Is he worried? Not as long as he has Pink Floyd and and a cup of cool sweet Seven.

PASS THE CALAMINE PLEASE

I've been dark for a while and it has been hell. Not prowling the web and posting is my life now and checking in on all my friends. I wouldn’t even post this explanation but it seems I'll be off line a little longer than I first thought. You see it all started with what I believed was a backache. About three days before Christmas. That evolved into a racking spasm wherein I became bed ridden for two days and nights in agony. An internet search suggested a kidney infection or possibly a stone.

Now why didn't I run to the Doctor you ask? Well it was Christmas and my Doctor closes his practice on Holidays and the worst of it hit me over the weekend after Christmas. But as dawn came to Monday I called and got an appointment. I staggered into the shower dragging my feet like one of the Walking Dead. Not the fast ones mind you the real slow ones dragging a knotted rope of guts behind them. Yep that's what I felt like too.

It was at that moment that I caught a glimpse of big red spots in the mirror. OH shit! I said aloud to me in the reflection. Only one thought came next for I only knew of one thing that caused this much excruciating pain accompanied with such an inflamed red rash. I hobbled to the computer and ran one word. Shingles. Yes, the symptoms were all there.

My visit to the Dr. confirmed my suspicion but he was also concerned about my kidneys and sent me to the hospital for ultra sound and other tests.

I'm off to see him at 2:pm today for analysis of those tests... More on that later.

I'm back and the test were pretty much negative and the medicine I'm taking along with calamine lotion is already turning back the shingles. I'm starting to feel a little better too. So in a few days I should be back in action posting pics on BMSC and I have a new story for this blog. Thank you for following my efforts.

A SPLASH OF COLOR

 

 

I'm a big fan of comics, fantasy art and graphic designs with a dark mysterious flair. The darker and scarier the better. That said I also enjoy a little splash of color and humor stirred into the mix just for contrast. This I feel has to be done with care or you end up with a sappy mess. Just where that blend begins and ends is up to the writer initially and then you add the art. Here's where you either are a multi talented genius and can do it all or you're me. Oh sure I can string a few words together and tell a story on my computer as long as I have my son Patrick as back up. He's the tech savvy computer wiz, and my wife Carol as my financier and agent to keep me from falling off a cliff.

Growing up in Texas as a wild child in the sixties I was surrounded by relatives that could draw and paint with some skill. Unfortunately that particular talent was not in my genes: can't out draw a first grader.

I have been fortunate in my travels in that no matter where I land; no matter how far off the expressway I traverse. I can always find talented artists to collaborate with. Here in remote Mystic Canyon, nestled among the coyotes and cacti I have discovered a budding flower of artistry. Not yet nineteen Julie Edwards has that perfect blend of dark chaos and comic color.

For so long my crossbreed characters lived in E-books visual only through the reader's imagination. Now they have faces and form for which the eye can see. Here they are for your viewing pleasure.
 

“I am Skullduggery, and I serve my master Lazarus Zurga, Czar of the un-dead,” an evil laugh filled the arena. The truck's rear doors slowly opened, a purplish gas belched forth when a platform slid out the back, on it lay a highly polished black coffin etched with silver glyphs and writhing serpents. The platform tilted so the coffin came to rest in a standing position. The dancing girls pulled open the lid, inside a tall gaunt figure lay in a deathly repose on purple velvet. A sickly, pale greenish pallor made it seem as if he truly was dead. The girls touched and stroked the corpse in a sexually suggestive manner, yet dead he remained. The Bleeder fans were becoming agitated and began to chant his name. “Zurga! Zurga! Zurga!”

Skulduggery laughed his diabolic laugh. “As desirable as the devil’s daughters are, you know only one thing will bring the master back from the black sleep,” crazed howls and screams came from the throng. “Let the blood flow!” he demanded.
At that the devil girls produced a tall silver goblet and went around the fence holding the ornate cup so the Bleeders could cut their fingers and drip their blood into the skull shaped vessel.
The Voodoo dancers collected the gruesome elixir and made a show of pouring it on the dead man’s thin dry lips. Afterward, they resumed the suggestive attempt to revive him and this time his yellow-green eyes opened, he rose from his resting place to the deranged, delight of his fanatical followers. Crimson ooze trickled from his mouth, a long forked tongue darted out and captured the red liquid. A twisted smile let the fans see his sharp, curved fangs.

A steel step lowered to allow Zurga to easily get into the tall truck. The bovine beauties assisted him onto the elevator step, slowly it carried them up. Standing on the running board outside the cab posing for the fans in a black costume with imperial purple trim, he spoke to them in a strange lisping accent. “My devoted fans, I have risen once again to do battle for your pleasure. I serve you and only you. I know your needs as well as I know my own,” drawing his words out slowly, excitedly, as a schoolyard pervert seducing a virginal youth. A sickening grin stretched across his pale, shallow face, as he stroked each girl from their supple thighs to their sharp little horns. “How do you like my horny— heifers?— They’re so devillicious, are they not?” Wolf calls, howling and barking filled the arena. “In you go my pets.”Both girls bent over exposing their shapely rears to the crowd. Zurga

patted their firm, butt cheeks and stroked their tails as they crawled inside. “After the battle I think

I’ll get a little tail.”

The mob lost control and attempted scaling the fence; screaming and chanting. “Zurga!

Zurga! Zurga!”
The strange creature called Lazarus Zurga, held out his arms to the mad howling mob, as if
to absorb their primal essence, sated with their blood lust he bowed low to them, then vanished
into the Monster Hearse.
The mighty Skullduggery revved and roared. “Bring on all challengers and let the blood
flow.”

Murphy was just about to impute the gate code, when everyone’s attention turned to a faded blue Chevy pickup truck, careening around the corner. Engine racing, tires squealing, smoke blowing from the exhaust. The driver jerked the steering wheel hard to the right, whipping the truck toward the men. Gravel sprayed in all directions as the vehicle slid sideways. Abruptly, the driver hit the brakes, causing the pickup to grind to a halt in a cloud of dust. Griff and Butch had instantly adopted defensive postures.

Murphy grimaced and fanned the dust with his hat. “Tequila, that beater is older than I am. What’re you trying to do throw a rod?” his voice low and scolding.
The blinding glare of the sun made it difficult to see the driver clearly through the dusty windshield, except for a wide brimmed hat and a wild shock of hair. The driver’s door swung open with a rusty-metallic screech.“Now don’t use that tone with me, you grouchy old meany head.” The young girl drawled, as she slid from the cab and lightly landed on the ground. Her black western boots barely made a dint in the gravel driveway, as she squared off opposite the men. Sprouting from the high top boots a pair of long shapely legs, bare up to her blue denim shorts. The cut off hems rolled tightly around her silky thighs. The shorts snug over her curvy hips were synched tight around her thin waist with a black belt and silver buckle, adorned with a brace of pistols. Hanging from the belt a black leather holster cradling a Smith and Wesson .38 Special, with a white pearlescent grip.
“You don’t wanna get me mad now... I just might have to do a Texas tap-dance al-l-l over you,” Tequila's slow western drawl snuggled around her words like a cozy kitten.

Butch took Jessie's new gun and went to work programing it, after a half hour he was satisfied and handed it to Jesse. “All set, all you need do is strap it on.”

Jesse did as instructed, the holster clung to his leg like a custom fit. “It’s light, I like that.” He reached down and took the grip. Instantly he felt it charge. Then he drew it out.

“Howdy deputy, name’s Hoss and I’m ready for duty,” the cyber pistol spoke in a scrappy

little robot voice with a country twang.

Jesse looked at Butch; siting back in his chair appearing pleased with himself. “Hoss? And

what’s with the deputy bit?”
“All I did was set him to the western mode so you two would fit together, I didn’t pick his name. Talk to him, not me. Tell him who’s boss.”

“Okay, Hoss, I’m Jesse Colt Badham worlds greatest stunt rider and trick shot, got it?”

“Your DNA test checked out or you’d be down in the dust pard, I know who ya are.”

“Good then let’s get a little practice in so you can get use to my style.”

“Set up a target tenderfoot, let’s see what ya got.”

Butch quickly set up a chunk of deadwood fifty feet away.

“Set to level one, pard and try not to shoot your own foot.”

“He’s kinda sassy,” Jesse observed.

Butch grinned, “I like him.”

Jesse gripped and ripped, the draw was slow and clumsy, the shot missed the stump.

“My granny can draw fastern’ that,” Hoss quipped
Jesse tried again.
“Ain’t no second place in a gun fight pard.”
Again.
“Missed, if that was a rattler he’d a bit ya.”
“Something is wrong Butch fix it.”
Butch chuckled at Jessie’s frustration. “It’s just that your not thinking right. He’s cyber-linked to your brain and you’re still trying to draw like you had a regular gun. Open the link, and let him work for you.

Khimaira lounged seductively, just out of reach of his claws. Her graceful lines strong, athletic, her long antelope horns gleamed in the fire light. “Which would you prefer to devour? The dead fish or sate your natural hunger with me. To taste my tender living flesh in your mouth, to feel the hot spray of my blood on your face as you slice open my veins with your fangs.” Stroking her inner thigh as she spoke.

“Come a little closer,” his voice a low growl.
She smiled at him. “Yes, I have no doubt you would kill me. Sadly, you would let me rot and eat the dead fish. You’ve become too civilized, we of the wild understand the dynamics of the predator and the prey, one cannot live without the other. It’s the natural order.” Using her spear, she pushed the table to within his reach.
“Last meal for the condemned?”
“Only if you wish it.”
“Let me guess, you keep me on a short leash as your well fed and pampered pet. For a price.” His snow leopard tail twitching.
“Join me Butch, I don’t want you to die. It’s your choice, but either way, you should eat.”
He sniffed the food and water suspiciously.
“Really Butch, if I wanted you dead or sedated I would’ve had the guards do it. I much prefer you awake and talking to me.”
Surrendering to his raging hunger, he set upon the feast. Between mouthfuls he managed to get a few words out. “Your spies should have told you— the machine doesn’t work.”
“Not yet, but they say you’re the grand master techie.”
“I’m not good enough to crack the DNA key code,” talking and chewing.
“You think I’ll free you, if it doesn’t work?”
“Not at all. I think you’re a sick bitch, who takes pleasure in watching helpless men die in agony. You plan the same for me.”
“You’re wrong, I do what I’m forced to do. We must survive any way we can.”
“By Murdering for AARDVARK?”
Her cheek twitched at the name. “You could change that. You could be our teacher. You could have anything you desire.” Her hands caressing her breasts.
“The fish wasn’t bad, just a little overcooked for my taste.” He downed the last of the water and licked his lips.
Khimaira shot to her feet twirling her spear over head, eyes flashing, her proud amazonian breast glaring at him. The deadly spear tip came to a stop, aimed at his chest.
The claw of his pinky finger picked at his teeth.“Is this where I cower at you feet, begging for mercy?”

Griff shouldered the 12 gauge and probed the blackness, his night vision could gather low light enough to see large objects, but fine details eluded him. The room was huge and required a thorough search. He kept Ursula close behind as he crept forward. Several times he paused listening for any sound. His first warning of danger came not to his ears, but from a fetid stench, faint at first, but soon became overpowering. The malodorous reek of animal musk and decomposing flesh.

Behind him he saw Ursula covering her face with her white cloth, and fighting the urge to retch. Slowly he backed her up, guiding her in the dark with his free hand. As they retraced their path backwards, a shuffling sound began to trail them. Griff held her still and peered down the long barrel of the formidable weapon. Slowly and very gently so as not to startle her he pushed her toward the entrance. The stealthy shuffling began again on feet not wholly human, then a large black shape shifted from behind a massive machine. Only for a second, then moved back out of sight. Seeing they weren’t alone he urged her down the hallway. The stalker’s foot steps kept pace with the quarry. 
Griff moved away from the rasping sound, taking care not to make any noise, yet it
continued to follow. As it drew closer they heard heavy breathing. He turned to Ursula and signed for silence and made a running gesture with his fingers.
She got the message and as quietly as possible hurried to the end of the hall. Griff slowly retreated
backward while facing his deadly shadower. The huge dark mass suddenly appeared in the doorway,
filling the space with it’s bulk. Briefly, he caught a glimpse of a rack of twisting horns, the lower
pair curved down around the small dark eyes. The thick powerful arms supported it’s upper body.
The wide snout flared and sniffed the air. A broad leer scalped the lips back showing a set of
gleaming white teeth, the great mouth parted slightly and a low mirthless laugh drifted out of the
cavernous hole that was it’s gullet.
Griff braced himself and drew a bead. Breathing deep, slow and steady he marshaled his wits and will as every instinct argued in favor of running, steady as an oak, he stood his ground.
Ursula reached the door, as six rapid blasts reverberated down the hall. They all cringed at
the blood crazed howl that followed. A second later, they heard rapid foot falls rushing toward
them. Griff flew through the door so fast he couldn’t stop til he slammed into the wall at the opposite end of the room.
“What is it?” she yelled.
Sucking in a single gasp of air he choked out one word. “DEMON!”

Julie is working on another piece I can't wait to present it to you.

www.koolkollectables.com

LIKE crossbreeds by KCV on Face Book

https://www.facebook.com/karlclayvetter?ref=bookmarks

Follow KarlClayVetter@vetter99 on Twitter

THE GOLDEN EASTER EGG

 

I haven’t posted in a while because I was writing a new story. I just finished it and now I'm doing the arduous task of editing. Hate that part. It is not related to the crossbreed books. It will be the start of a new series based loosely on characters and adventures played out at the Blood Moon Social Club. Let me reiterate and say “loosely based”. This book is inspired by storylines I wrote for our inter active theater Blood Moon events. There were hundreds of vampires, werewolves, demons, mummies, ghosts, and human hunters running around the Blood Moon Social Club every month for years. Not all were directly involved with the main plots some were doing their own thing. However, to base a story on that sort of dynamic I had to condense the story from a big chunky stew down to a fine sauce. So I compressed many characters into composites and tried to capture the essence of what Blood Moon was all about.

The plot of any good story nearly always involves the characters be engaged in a hunt for the Golden Easter Egg. So it often was at Blood Moon. The GEE can be anything of worth from an amulet, enchanted sword, magic jewel, or a crown that grants one the power to control giants as in Jack the Giant Slayer. What an awesome movie I loved it. This plot device is used by every writer and film maker, the legendary director Alfred Hitchcock called it the MacGuffin.

I recently watched TNT's The Librarians their GEE was a magic crown worn by King Arthur. CW's rendition of DC's The Flash has a variation of the GEE. Barry Allen “The Flash” is searching for the mysterious killer of his mother. The same GEE is being used in Gotham the teenage Bruce Wayne is after the killer of his parents. A live person is a perfect GEE. Imagine if you knew the whereabouts of such an individual. You might claim a reward or blackmail the GEE. But then you might end up dead and the plot thickens. Of the three examples I won't be following the Librarians it was a too silly for my tastes, and I was not drawn to the characters or the clunky dialog. The Flash is well done and holds my interest but it is a little weak on intensity. Gotham is wonderful. I absolutely love the new look at old BatMan villains back when they were young and had not donned their familiar costumes. This is a great rejuvenation of an iconic storyline. In addition you have a plethora of characters and many subplots revolving around the main plot. Much room to screw with your perception and create conflict and chaos.
The GEE, whatever it may be works best if you have a lot of characters running around in your story. One finds the Golden Easter Egg and has it for a while then someone steals it and now everyone is after them. Think of it as a football game if one team has the Golden Football most of the game the excitement level slows. But if the football changes hands a lot the pace picks up. If the score stays even right to the end the suspense builds to an explosive climax. {Yes I know mixing sports and sexual metaphors is cliche but I just couldn't stop myself.}
The writer can control the story's pace by manipulating the GEE and who has it. In Marvels Agents of Shield the writers do an excellent job of having more that one GEE and they keep them changing hands. Another tactic is you never know who is on what team. The characters are always dying or defecting. They also come back from the dead and then you're not sure of anything.
Agents of Shield is well written and keeps me wanting more. But where it shines is in the character dialog. I really care what happens to them. So you see the GEE is not always what makes a story compelling it's the characters competing for it.

In my own humble effort at writing SciFi action adventures, I try my best to involve the reader in the lives of the characters. In Crossbreeds 1: Battle Butte I send my Soldiers of Fortune Griff, Butch and Jesse off to find an artificial intelligence brain essential to making ancient technology work for the people of Battle Butte. However, my high tech GEE is not the primary focus of the story. It is the women these three reckless daredevils encounter. You see I find that the best way to create conflict and chaos; very important for any story, is to introduce strong independent women. Once you do that the male characters do what all men do. They become entangled in romantic webs and now you have real life unfolding in your fantasy world.
In my new story Death and Domination I have interesting protagonists and sinister antagonists. Some are the aforementioned dynamic females. Building strong character composites from those played by the ladies of Blood Moon wasn't difficult. Nor was it tough to interject romantic webs to entangle my male characters. Blood Moon was rife with supernatural lust.
Even with all of that going for me I decided to employ yet another writer's tool. As I said the GEE can be anything and doesn’t necessarily need to be the main focus. That said, it sometimes turns out that the GEE is so important that it becomes a leading character. Such as when the GEE is a live person, or when the object is so much more than everyone looking for it even realizes. I'll end right there before the teaser becomes a spoiler.