An All-New Deep Knight Adventure

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Chapter 15 – Enter the Pindar

Velna followed me back into the bedroom. “You worry me. You always think you know what you're doing, but you're too slick for your own good. Someday you're going to find it out.”

“I found it out years ago,” I confessed, “but we’ve got to play this one slimy and slick. Nobody knows what might happen; it’s as if a drunken writer was making this up as he went along. It’s as confusing as that television mini-series you like.”

“I wasn’t talking about that, I was worried about hiding in a house filled with scantily-clad women surrounded by Australian sheepherders who have been too long in the outback.”

I smiled at my wife’s concern, but knew that without sexual tension this mystery would be as boring as a something mind-numbing. I kissed her sweetly, had a couple hours of rabidly-deviant coitus, and then fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I awoke refreshed, but bound and gagged! So Schultz was a quadruple agent, and was turning us into the NWO, police, the local HOA, or worse! Then I recognized the handcuffs and remembered Velna begging for more before I passed out the night before. My suspicions were confirmed when my bondage-friendly wife came in and gave the antique four-poster a workout it hadn’t seen since Hurricane Frances. It was late afternoon when we finally sat down for breakfast, and strangely, everything was normal. The Slice Girls were binge-watching Game of Thrones, and patrolling the inside of the house armed with dual swords but wearing little else. Sgt. Schultz and Brigid were playing kissy-face and hide the pickle in the parlor. Everything outside was quiet, but not too quiet, if you know what I mean. It was as if our ploy had worked, that nobody had followed or betrayed us. This was a first for my adventures, having your advisory close on your heels is a cheap way to keep the action moving at a fast pace. Without such ploys, these adventures would turn tedious and glacially slow, the mark of death to a fast-paced operative like me.

I turned on the news and listened to the story of a world moving towards a cliff and oblivious to the drop. Rumors of massive currency revaluations, FedEx trucks breaking down due to overloading with gold bars, Leo Wanta being invited to testify before congress, and the reinstatement of the missing 13th amendment were woven into the headlines stories of major presidential candidates calling each other’s wife “ugly.” I knew that PB&J (Powers that Be and Jam) would be in full panic mode, which along with the budget cuts might explain the calm around us. That dreadful calm that seemed to engulf us.

I decided to throw caution to the wind, and confer openly and honestly with our partners, an idea just crazy enough that it might work. “What do you know about the ‘Pindar,’ who or what is he and is he a he?” I had been running across this crazy name since chapter 1, intentionally neglecting to mention it just to mess with my readers.

“He’s a shadowy shape-shifting Reptilian,” replied Sgt. Schultz, “I understand the name is a title that means ‘penis of the dragon.’ I suppose it means he’s either got a very high, or a very low, rank, depending on how you look at it.”

“It’s also more-or-less the name of a vineyard on Long Island that we audited because it belongs to the NWO,” added Brigid, “I always thought the name described the rather odd flavor of the wine.”

I passed on asking how she knew, and went on to my next point. “That ‘e-dabs’ you mentioned was my second clue, your mistake was that you heard the name whispered. It wasn’t ‘e-dabs’ but, ‘edaps.’ Spelled backwards, it becomes Brigid’s old playmate, Sam Spade, only without the ‘Sam!’”

Brigid dropped her mojito in raw surprise and let out the gasp of a woman compromised by ill-advised intimacies. I quickly got her a new glass, filled it with straight rum, and continued. “You might think that’s kind of thin, but remember ‘Pindar?’ If you substitute ‘s’ for the ‘r,’ ‘e’ for the ‘I,’ and get rid of the ‘n’ it’s an anagram for ‘Spade!’ That can’t be a coincidence!”

“Enough talk,” advised my beautiful-but-deadly wife. “Let’s get out there and kill or chase someone. We need some action, and except for the B&D, it’s been people lounging around the house and talking. I could think up a better story with my eyes closed.”

“If it’s fireworks you want, I’m ready to accommodate you right here and now,” I said smugly, “there will be so much that’s exciting you’ll get tired of being excited. But you’ll have to give me a couple days to get to the next chapter, because this one is drawing to a close. Until then, what do you say to watching some golf or fishing on TV?”

To be continued…

[LaVidaRoja]

Why not combine competitive bass fishing with a PGA event? The crowds could overlap and all sorts of hilarity ensue!

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Chapter 16 – One Lump or Two?

I had wanted to enter Sam Spade’s office with a bang, using flash grenades and Slice Girls shot from cannons, but my wife talked me into a more subtle approach. With Brigid in her “Miss Wonderly” outfit, she was going to use her womanly wiles to get the information we wanted. Given that this was basically if the famed private eye was the penis of the dragon, perhaps some delicacy was called for.

We had agreed on a danger signal, sort of a safe word for spies, if Brigid got in trouble she would scream. Sometimes the old ways are still the best ways. It took her less than 5 seconds from entering the newly-painted door at Spade Detective Agency before she gave us the most blood-curdling shriek you could imagine. Knocking down the door with my wife, Sgt. Schultz, and the Slice Girls close behind, we witnessed an unspeakable scene, which I will speak no more about. Suffice it to say we caught Spade red handed, the blood covering other appendages as well. I have always insisted that the “Sawzall” was a better tool for dismemberment than a chainsaw, and the state of Spade’s office proved it.

“Good morning Mr. Spade, let me introduce myself, “I said in way of introduction, “I’m your neighbor from down the hall. We just moved in a few weeks ago and I even sent you this woman as a client, but you responded with no welcoming visit or even a basket of muffins. So, at the risk of appearing rude, I decided to visit you myself, and THIS is what I find. Perhaps you would like to explain, Mr. Spade, or should I say, ‘Pindar.”

“It seems you know too much already,” said our disgruntled host, “What gave me away?”

“Shouldn’t that be, what gave US away?” I said, toying with him. He simply glared back at me, with that look of seething anger that tells someone they’ve hit close to home.

“When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you're supposed to do something about it. And it happens we're in the detective business. Well, when one of your organization gets killed, it's-it's bad business to let the killer get away with it, bad all around, bad for every detective everywhere. But, besides sleeping with Miss Wonderly here, you did nothing.”

“Put me down as not being the sentimental type,” scowled Sam as he lit a cigarette.

Seeing the cigarette’s lighting as a signal, I ducked just in time to miss an expertly-thrown harpoon by less than the width of a pubic hair. I pulled the weapon from the wall behind me and used it to probe Spade where it would do the most good. “That, and the fact that most reptiles have 2 penises led me to believe that you’re not one giant Lizard but two. Your partner Archer really didn’t die, he’s not only alive, but the man or Reptilian-equivalent who threw this harpoon!”

Out of darkened room in the back a shadowy figure suddenly spoke. “Very good, Mr. Nome, very good. Yes, it is true that my death was exaggerated and that changing the sign on our door premature.”

“That’s impossible!” commented Brigid, “I shot Mr. Archer at Bush and Stockton, near the Dashiell Hammett commemorative plaque, in order to get you to reconsider taking my case! He was so close I couldn’t have missed!”

“Playing a dead Earthling is easier than playing a live one,” the supposed PI Archer said with a smirk, “But that doesn’t explain who you are and why you would care, especially since it concerns my private life and not anything you could possibly be involved in.”

“I’m not talking about your slutty so-called wife or which orifices you prefer to violate,” I emphasized, “but why you closed down the Illuminati to double cross the New World Order.” Suddenly it became so quiet that, were it not for the dripping blood, you could have heard a pin drop.

“So you work for them!” said Spade in a surprised fashion, “I thought you were here because of the Fat Man and the Black Bird, or perhaps for Miss Wonderly to avenge that flesh wound I gave her when she stepped on the crumpled newspaper the other night.”

The Fat Man! So that’s why there was such a generous amount of gore and blood. “The Maltese Falcon is painted lead, I discovered that last week and have been using it as a paper weight ever since. But the destruction of the world is more serious, especially since it hints at an untrustworthiness that makes me uneasy. We’ve had a treaty ever since Roswell, and now this?”

“What about us being evil and conspiring to conquer your planet don’t you understand?” answered Archer, shape shifting back into his 7-foot iguana-like form. “If we could deliver all of Earth’s ammonia to the Constellation Draco we could go into politics and rule our home planet like gods! As it is, we have to live on your cold, wet planet and use penis-reference titles, which elicit giggles instead of fear.”

“If you don’t like that, then you’re going to love what I have planned,” I said smiling, “but you’ll do it because you don’t have any choice. Not only do we have you dead to rights on the Fat Man’s death right here, Miami is filled with hungry people from parts of the third world that think lizard is very tasty when correctly prepared.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Chapter 17 – The Search for Meaning

The negotiations took some time. Even though we were in the midst of blood-soaked evidence that would put them away for life, Reptilians think with a reptilian brain, more attuned to the primitive, instinctive thought processes needed for basic survival. Also, Trump’s “Art of the Deal” was required reading for Reptilian overlords. The key was appealing to that survival instinct, along their concern for keeping their dual private parts. Finally, after a hard-fought power-point presentation, we finally came to an acceptable agreement.

Just to show both Pindars what a nice guy I was, I even to help them clean up the crime scene. A tip to my readers, scrub everything with hydrogen peroxide, not bleach, then vacuum twice after it’s dried. I also like to finish with some of the “fresh smell” spray stuff – it says it’s for carpets but it works on everything. Anyway, we never got the chance, because who should suddenly appear without warning but the squad of pastel-suited police officers who we had seen at the elevator. It was Miami Vice, led by undercover detectives Crocket and Tubbs. Davey Crocket, king of the wild frontier, and Harriet Tubman, famed abolitionist. They seemed uninterested in the murder scene but arrested all of us for something totally different altogether.

“Money laundering,” said Crocket, “using these offices and the ones next door for disguising the original ownership and control of the proceeds of drug smuggling by making such proceeds appear to have derived from legitimate sources. The confidential nature of your individual businesses made you suspicious, but now that we find you together with cleansers and deodorizers it’s incriminating!”

To a hammer, everything looks like a nail, and we were getting hit in the head by a big one. “We’re down the hall, not next door,” I explained, “and by their very nature private investigators have secrets. You’re making a big mistake.”

“We don’t think so. Especially since the guy who calls himself Sgt. Schultz isn’t Hans or Siegfried but Arthur Simon Flegenheimer known as Dutch Schultz. More shocking than his known mob ties is that there’s no record of him being in the Coast Guard, or them ever using the rank of ‘sergeant.’”

“Dutch” put a bewildered look on his face and stated, “I know nothing, I know nothing!” He finally reverted to type, although one could argue it was too little too late. Especially since he was no longer Sergeant Schultz, or for that matter even a real Schultz.

“Book ‘em, Dan-o, er, Davey, money laundering one!” exclaimed Detective Tubman with a no-nonsense look on her face. I had been thinking of turning on the ol’ Deep Knight charm, starting with congratulations on being the front runner for replacing Hamilton on the ten dollar bill, but realized that would be the wrong approach. So I flirted with Detective Crocket instead.

“Great lookin’ coonskin cap there, Davey,” I purred, “although it might be a bit warm for Miami.” My honeyed tongue was wasting its time, Crocket was as hardnosed as Tubbs, no doubt from years of shoving cocaine up that very orifice while undercover. We were cuffed, stuffed, and transported to the Dade County jail.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Chapter 18 – Three Days of Peace and Music

Miami-Dade Corrections and Rehabilitation facility was like nowhere I’d ever been before. For one, it was a jail. Although I was technically a criminal while working for the Illuminati, I had actually never been under arrest long enough to have been incarcerated. One of the perks of being part of the conspiracy, along of course with women, money, and discount theater tickets. This was a whole new experience for me, the artist previously known as Sgt. Schultz, and our new Reptilian friends. Even though the lizard’s Home Planet Draco was a hellish place, there were still some vestiges of civilization. Not so here in a Florida prison, where Disneyworld in Orlando set the standard for servitude and punishment.

Prison has its own hierarchy. Being a former member of a secret organization doesn’t exactly count for nothing, but it’s down there with being date bate for super models in the little big house. It also has a unique language or lingo, it took me 3 days to figure out that an orange jump suit was a “peel” or that a “shank” was a makeshift knife, not a cheap cut of beef. These led to some embarrassment when I was assigned to a “chow hall” as a cook. On the other hand, having friends who were shape-shifting reptilians was a real advantage. For some strange reason having to do with galactic law they couldn’t change themselves to look like guards so they could escape, but some of the things they could look like made even the most hardened criminals turn into quivering jelly. Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg, for example.

I would have had my lawyers spring me on bail, but had never given them my change of name and address. Like anyone would knew Dewey, Cheatham and Howe would trust them with such information. I had also not heard anything about Velna or Brigid, but both of the girls were tough and my wife an assassin, so I wasn’t worried about anything except the overtime we would have to pay the babysitter. I guess if the charges got too high and worst came to worst, we could always kill her.

By the end of the third day I was familiar enough with how things worked to realize something was suddenly wrong. The guards were either walking around with big smiles on their faces, or reacting with fear to things that weren’t there. The shift supervisor was dancing around singing that “dawning of the age of Aquarius” song from the musical “Hair” and taking off his clothes when the Men in Black showed up. Wearing dark sunglasses and their signature suits, they brushed the more out-of-it guards aside and killed those few who had the presence of mind to challenge them. Having been the object of my share of attempts on my life, I had my Reptilian cell-mates shift to their original form and use their saber-like teeth to rip a couple of their throats out before I realized they were there to spring, not kill, me.

“Quick,” said a faceless agent, “we only have a few minute window until the LSD we gave the guards wears off!” So that was it, more of that devil drug that makes strong men weep and weak women into strong men. “Brown acid” was famous amongst the Illuminati for how we used it to seize control of the country at the Woodstock festival and the 1972 Republican convention.

I was more than anxious to leave, but still asked about Velna.

“There’s no time for that,” said my rescuers, “we have to leave NOW.”

“Not without my wife and friends,” I insisted, more than willing to take the chance. They might be right about how much time we had, but they wouldn’t have to face an angry spouse who I had left rotting in jail either. Besides, much of what I had planned required all of us to be both present and not incarcerated. It was all or nothing.

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Chapter 19 – Night in a Girls’ School Dormitory

The Miami-Dade Jail’s women’s facility’s entrance was more heavily guarded than Fort Knox. Not only do they need to keep the female inmates in, they need to keep the male inmates out. Normally the last part isn’t a problem, one look at “Big Nose Kate” or “Gator Buns Eunice” was enough to keep any self-respecting criminal away, but not at this prison. And I was soon to find out why.

Well-placed hypodermic blowgun darts filled with LSD soon took the entry guards “on a groovy trip.” Some just stared off into space muttering "Wow!", while others rushed home to change into faded, patched blue jeans and peasant blouses. The doors we didn’t have keys to were easily opened with a few tons of explosives, and soon we were in “Pink Max,” Cell Block 9. the heart of the belly of the beast. What we saw their stunned us.

Before she died, the Dove of Oneness had slipped an amendment into the secret NESARA Law designed to give ugly women a chance at happiness and A-list bachelors. Since it didn’t involve any of their ill-gotten gains, the Powers That Be decided this part of the law would be rolled-out first, and started rounding up and incarcerating beautiful unmarried women. Since Miami naturally attracts supermodels in the spring, literally thousands of thin, high-cheekboned, pouty-faced stunners were now in prison garb. Which at Miami-Dade was a little black dress, short and tight where it made the most difference. I was surprised it wasn’t orange like ours, but apparently black is the new orange. Gangs of world-famous models filled the exercise yard, and as they stared at us some of them started to recognize me. Either it was from my reputation or a fleeting bedroom encounter before my marriage, but the result was the same. Either through a desperate desire to copulate with me, or get revenge for my not calling after having done the same, they rushed forward. Soon there was a riot going on up in Cell Block number 9!

Through the chaos, my eagle eye spied Velna and Brigid at the far end of the compound. Brigid had a look of hopeful terror on her face, while my wife had one of jealous amusement. But as the mob got closer, I had to switch my attention to defending myself from the face-slapping and crotch-grabbing intentions of my attackers. Sam and Miles, our reptilian companions, shape-shifted into their original form, but that had a limited repellent effect. As most of you know, the super-model industry is mostly run by reptilians, so they had seen it all before. Do you think it’s a coincidence that the highest-paid posers look a bit lizard-like? I was about to call for a retreat, when Velna somehow got her hands on a bullhorn and addressed the crowd.

“Ladies,” she began, “hands off, he’s my husband!” An audible gasp when through the screaming crowd, and they stopped their catfight to listen. “He’s also the person responsible for keeping the law that put you here secret for the last 15 years. And we were working on putting things back the way they used to be when they threw us in jail. We’re being helped by Brigid here,” she motioned to her companion, who had put her most sweet and innocent look onto her face, “who has just fallen in love with my husband’s companion over there. They are planning on a June wedding, where they will be inviting you all!”

Even the most hardened super model is susceptible to a good romantic story, and these girls were no exception. With promises of a quick release once balance had been restored to society, the ladies cleared a path to Velna and Brigid, and we were soon reunited. The Men In Black hustled us out the way they had come in, past a surprising number of both male and female guards still reliving the late 60’s by dancing naked in groups. A sight that would reduce most people to quivering jelly, but having worked for the Illuminati I was made of sterner stuff. The former Sgt. Schultz gallantly held his hand over his lover’s eyes while and led her through the horror, although he himself looked a bit green by the time we made it through the main gate.

A getaway car was waiting, as was I to get an answer about who had arranged our jailbreak. The team leader of the Men in Black smiled when I asked and said, “We were instructed to take you right to him, jump in.” Satisfied that at last something was happening, I and the others accepted his invitation and waited for the next chapter to answer all our burning questions.

To be continued…

[Burnaby49]

The Miami-Dade Jail’s women’s facility’s entrance was more heavily guarded than Fort Knox. Not only do they need to keep the female inmates in, they need to keep the male inmates out. Normally the last part isn’t a problem, one look at “Big Nose Kate” or “Gator Buns Eunice” was enough to keep any self-respecting criminal away, but not at this prison. And I was soon to find out why.

You're telling stretchers again. Big Nosed Kate died in 1940.

[Deep Knight]

You're telling stretchers again. Big Nosed Kate died in 1940.

Exactly why she was so scary. Men may find women with big noses unattractive, but that's a long way from something that would cause an emasculating fear. Witness what happens at pickup bars after all the pretty girls have left. But put 75+ years of decomposition on top of that, and even the most hardened criminal would pass. Well, all except George.

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Chapter 20 – The Most Dangerous Game

Wordlessly, the Men in Black drove us to House of Horror Amusement Park. True to its name, it contained the “largest haunted house in South Florida,” with “over 30 rooms of bone-chilling terror.” We got our tickets, wandered through half the gloomy rooms and costumed actors trying to scare us. Please. Suddenly, a hidden door opened and we were ushered into a room with a distinct sulfurous odor I recognized. We were being taken to see He Who Must Not Be Named, Satan himself.

I had to admit it was a fabulous cover for the Prince of Darkness. Who would look for the Devil in a cheesy fun house? And, if someone saw him or another demon by mistake, they would think they were one of the “actors.” The Johnny Cash impersonators left in a waiting room and we sat down on the plush leather chairs and waited.

With a flash of fire and billowing smoke the devil made his entrance, drama being one of his failings. “It’s great to see you and your friends, Deep,” he began, “Sorry it took so long to spring you from the slammer, but I’ve had this crisis on my hands. Things are going crazy out there, and living in Hell has become a living hell. I’ll be the first to admit that perhaps we were a bit hasty in our cutbacks, but we’re fixing that now, including getting the ol’ Illuminati gang back together, good buddy. What do ya think?”

“I think that at least two branches of the NWO tried to kill me, the Roto-Rooter Scuba Divers and what very well may have been the Pooper Scooper Brigade. They showed up with homicide in their eyes but left with lead in their corpses.”

“Come on, what a couple of assassination attempts between friends?” said the smiling Prince of Darkness, “It wasn’t on my orders, and besides, it was business, not personal. And it’s not like it doesn’t happen to you all the time. Let’s consider it water under the bridge.”

“Sure thing,” I lied, “but we’re getting ahead of ourselves and forgetting the formalities. You know Velna, of course, and to her right is Brigid something-or-other and her boyfriend who also has many names but is sometimes called Sgt. Schultz. Finally, these two 8 foot tall lizards are Spade and Archer, two Pindars assigned to Earth by the Draconian Empire. I would introduce them individually, but I can’t distinguish between their un-shape-shifted forms. They got jailed along with the rest of us for some bogus beef dreamed up by the Miami PD.”

“Gentlemen, welcome!” said a beaming Satan to my new friends. Keeping aliens happy and not invading Earth was job one at the New World Order, the reason so many people “disappeared.” In reality they were kidnapped, flash frozen, and shipped to various home planets as snacks. In return the New World Order got advanced technology and a leg up on evil, which went right to the bottom line and pleased the Board of Directors.

“Please excuse us for looking the way we do,” said Archer, or perhaps it was Spade, in a gravely lizard voice, “but we’ve been in one of your planet’s prisons for 3 days.” The point was not lost on Satan, not only was this a clear violation of the 1947 Roswell Protocols, Reptilians are slaves to fashion and the orange jumpsuits clashed with his scaly green hands, face, and tail.

“But we got you out,” said a less-smiling Satan, “and we’re willing to make it up to you. I’ll send you to my own tailor and you can have any tropical-worsted, pastel suit you want on the house. Then, front row tickets to see the Miami Heat tonight? They’re actually winning!”

Spade and Archer, or was it Archer and Spade, smiled and nodded at me, indicating I should drop the other shoe. “Winning is good, which brings us back to your job offer,” I continued, “I’m afraid I have to decline, because as of the beginning of this week, me and the rest of our little group have become these two’s business agent. In fact, we are the representatives of all Imperial Draconian dealings with Earth.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Chapter 21 – Wrapped Up Like a Douche

The devil turned from crimson red to a pale green. He and I had been at odds with each other in the past, mostly through my irreverent actions and thinking with my penis. Sure I knew she was his daughter and fertile. In my defense I can only say it’s hard to pass up a love tryst when you meet a girl with a prehensile tail. But I also knew he knew I knew my way around an evil conspiracy, and could use that knowledge to get results. Results that could fix all the damage done by his own incompetence.

“You might not be surprised to learn that it was the Reptilians behind this whole conspiracy to destroy civilization on Earth by letting the forces of good win,” I explained. “If this goes on much longer, the fine balance of society will be shaken to its creamy center core. Sovereign citizens will get to form their own grand juries, clueless Dinar investors will become billionaires, Paul will announce he really is dead, and butt-ugly women will don swimsuits and be on the cover of Sports Illustrated! But they’re willing to fix it … for the right fee.”

The devil made motions as if to speak, but only sputtering noises came from his throat. I could see he was upset, so I continued. “We’ve formed our own little management organization with the Reptilians as our sole clients, which will be 100% focused on representing them. Well, except for building the world’s largest ammonia factory. Velna and I will do all negotiations and appear in the TV ads, Brigid here will be our bookkeeper, and Schultz is in charge of security. By the way, he needs to be given an Illuminati Air Force rank of Sergeant. That, along with marriage to Brigid, will finally clear up what their real names really are. This may seem to be an inconsequential detail, but I like to tie up loose ends before I finish a story.”

Schultz was looking a bit uncomfortable, but Brigid was beaming. It was all part of my fiendish plan. Not only would their union keep the business “in the family,” and prevent them from being forced to testify about each other, but it would please Velna. Like most assassins she was an incurable romantic.

“But Deep,” Satan finally was able to more-or-less say, “you don’t want to be behind a desk, making huge amounts of money by shuffling paper, you’re a field guy. Just like I used to be, sowing evil and misfortune before I farmed it out to Haliburton. The Illuminati wouldn’t be the same without your little deviant and perverse touches.”

I knew the Devil hadn’t done any real field work for 2,000 years, ever since that 40 days in the Wilderness thing tempting Jesus, but he was still right. I would miss the excitement and adventure, not to mention the “I had to sleep with her for work” excuse.

“Almost the whole gang is back onboard,” he continued, “I put in the paperwork to have 95% of them liquidated, but wires got crossed and they killed the 5% of I wanted to keep instead. Senior management has been decimated, including all my in-law’s and their relatives!”

I must admit he piqued my interest. To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought this one through beyond “make lots of money” stage. And the deaths of senior management made it all the more tempting to say “yes,” but had to talk to “the boss” first. She, of course, loved the idea of running Nome, Spade & Archer by herself without me underfoot, but that’s another story. Schultz legally changed his name to “Schultz,” dropped the “Dutch,” and became a real Sergeant, although in name only. After much protest and a couple weeks in the cooler, he married Brigid in June, right before the civil war that started when the Presidential race heated up and almost destroyed the country. Life became as cheap as those Dinars that had never RV’d, which by the way was taken care of by killing everyone in Reno and replacing them with clones. We blocked USPS, FedEx and UPS shipments of gold and prosperity delivery debit cards, obliterated all evidence of the secret NESARA Law, and killed Paul before he could announce he was dead. All in a day’s work.

Velna also saw that the supermodel prisoners she had befriended were released and bussed to a blowout beach party with the Reptilian Pindars and a few of their dual-dingus-endowed friends. The girls had seen it all before, allowing our scaly clients to relax in their true forms. It’s well known that aliens find earth females exotic and “cute,” and posting pictures to their home planet’s equivalent of Facebook gained them and much fame as becoming their planet’s ammonia kingpins. But I’m getting ahead of myself again. Velna and I went home to our houseboat, paid the babysitter a couple thousand dollars bonus, moved back to Washington DC, and life slowly returned to normal. If you can call what we do normal.

Deep and Velna will be back in the yet-to-be-written thriller “The Case of the Heinous Hymen” soon!

[Deep Knight]

Evil on the Rocks
Epilog – A Time for Reflection

Fortunately for me, the claims that I was responsible for Satan’s youngest daughter’s condition was shown to be untrue when she had a bouncing grey-skinned baby boy with a giant head and black, almond-shaped eyes. The child was undoubtedly a “Grey” alien-demon hybrid, which is surprising because Greys don’t have genitalia. Add to this the wink that Spade gave me when the news was announced and The Prince of Darkness had the meltdown in his office, and it leads me to believe that there was some monkey-doodle going on. You work it out: The Greys are the Reptilians sworn enemies; the lizard people have the technology; and people-in-the-know know enough not to believe in coincidences. This was seemingly confirmed by the Grey’s attempt at revenge, which failed when an over-anxious cypher clerk left the “Charles” out of “Prince Charles” in the assassination order.

I frankly don’t care as long as I’m off the hook and didn’t have to undergo a paternity test. In the Illuminati this involves appearing on a daytime TV show where everybody screams at each other, talking trash, while a studio audience cheers and jeers. After they’ve milked this for drama, they announce the results of DNA testing and the loser if booed off the stage. An ordeal accompanied by a “theme” for the day, the last time I was on Maury Povich’s show it was, “My boyfriend denies my daughter’s baby is his and it’s ruining our relationship.” It was a horrible experience, worse than a primary election rally. Daytime TV can only be explained by the explanation that Satan uses it to torment the damned in the lowest circle of Hell.

Velna, Brigid, and Sgt. Schultz renegotiated all the Reptilian’s agreements with the NWO and breathed new life and vigor into their enslavement of our planet. My wife’s newlywed partners basked in their honeymoon’s glow, with the bridegroom only trying to escape thrice, the last time by digging a tunnel from the latrine.

As part of our deal I returned to working for the Illuminati, which I didn’t mind until I found that things hadn’t really changed. I had looked forward to management being wiped out, but there were enough pieces and parts left that new ones were cloned and in a few weeks up and working. If it hadn’t been for the nuclear exchange between the primary candidates on Black Super Tuesday, things certainly would have returned to the same old same old. But now, in the quiet of the Illuminati underground command bunker and fallout shelter, I have had time to reflect on my adventures and a life spent serving the Dark Agenda. I only have this to say, “Kids, listen to your teachers and parents. They’re smarter than you think, especially now that our microwave towers and chemtrails are giving their minds a little extra boost.”

[Deep Knight]

A new one, this time so two-fisted and hard-hitting it needs no lurid illustrations to juice it up!

The Final Showdown
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 1, Mysterious Prolog

It happened on my way to work. Illuminati Headquarters’ parking garage was still under reconstruction after its destruction in an earlier adventure, and daytime parking in downtown DC averages $100 an hour, so I was taking the bus. It also gave me points in the company drive to reduce carbon emissions (who knew that was evil?). Still, bus riding is something I normally wouldn’t tolerate, but in the first couple of days supermodels had discovered how I made my new commute and starting riding on the same route. Through a series of trips, falls, and unzippings, I found myself “accidently” coupling with an increasing number of rabidly-willing partners, firing up their lady parts while burning fewer hydrocarbons. This day two dozen lovelies and the bus driver, a buxom model dressed in a transportation district uniform (which was actually a bit of a turn-on), were hard at it when Erasmus of American struck.

Actually, it was actually us who “struck.” His ploy was to have his men block the road, forcing the bus to stop to avoid hitting them. Fortunately, the driver was, ahem, otherwise engaged, and didn’t notice or use the brakes. Bodies and heavy spurts of blood flew every which way, painting the roadside red in ways that would have impressed Jackson Pollock. Two of the men were a little to one side and weren’t killed, but simply stunned and caught in our chrome grillwork. Erasmus, being too cowardly to stand in the road, also lived through the carnage and caught up with the bus at its next stop. He untangled his groggy henchmen, menacingly boarded, and rudely paid their fare without using exact change.

Gassy Rassy, looking as ugly as ever, also looked ready to speak. No doubt he had some pronouncement, trash talk, or claim to royalty, but I was too fast for him. For situations where my keen martial arts skills aren’t enough, I carry an RPG launcher in a shoulder holster and was able to fire it before the first word had left his mouth. The projectile propelled his body out the bus’s windows and exploded over the northbound lanes, shredding what was left of his torso. Like the monster in a bad science fiction series he was impossible to kill, but a high enough level of dismemberment slowed him down considerably, and I projected correctly we wouldn’t see him again in this story. His two heavily-armed henchmen looked at first surprised, then insanely angry, and they advanced, grisly murder in their eyes.

Luckily, my potential paramours, outraged at the interruptus on their coitus, pounced on the advancing commandos and made short work of them. It’s amazing what a lingerie strap, sex toy, or whalebone corset stay can do in the hands of an enraged woman. Blood flowed like wine, if that wine was coming from an overhead shower. It flowed from the back of the bus and soon the road behind had a generous coating of blood and gore, a crude but surprising effective surface lubricant. Through a sort of domino effect, this blood caused skids and terrible car crashes, which generated more blood, and so on. It didn’t help that a convoy of freshly-filled blood bank transfer vans were following close behind us and in some of the worst accidents. Soon what the papers dubbed a “River of Blood” (an outrageous exaggeration, it was more like a “Rushing Millstream of Blood”) reached the Potomac, where by chance a school of genetically-enhanced piranha fish had been accidentally released. Once they’ve tasted human blood nothing else will satisfy, and furiously swimming upstream they sought the source, where also by chance thousands of high school cheerleaders in uniform had just arrived. The inevitable result was horrible and lasted almost 24 hours, but a description is unnecessary for the rest of the story, so I’ll leave it to your imaginations. What mattered was the attempt on my life, and I vowed to pay back the Forces of Good before too many chapters had been written.

Didn’t it just figure that when I finally did get to work the big guy wanted to see me. Wiping myself off in the washroom and using one of those stain-removing pens, I made myself presentable and walked through the clouds of sulfurous smoke into his office. He scowled at me and I though he was about to make the same rude gesture he did the last time we met, but instead he motioned me to have a seat. I got ready to get chewed out once more for my unorthodox approach to sending the world to Hell in a handbasket, but to my surprise it was something entirely different, and many times more dangerous!

To be continued…

[The Observer]

A new one, this time so two-fisted and hard-hitting it needs no lurid illustrations to juice it up!

Then I'll pass. It was only the lurid illustrations that got my interest in the first place in previous stories. Maybe you could embed lurid audio links instead?

[LaVidaRoja]

Please, please write more! My brain needs a cleanse from the garbage the UK flame war smeared us with!

[Deep Knight]

The Final Countdown
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 2, Before the Beginning

Satan was broodingly silent as he sat lost in thought without talking, the only sound being the distant screams of the damned as they were consumed by flames. I decided to anticipate his needs and show some initiative. “Buyer’s remorse over the people you fixed to win the political conventions, Olympics, or The Bachelorette? Nothing a little murder, cloning, and worldwide brainwashing couldn’t cure! Give me the word and I’ll get the boys in the lab right on it.”

I don’t think he heard a word I said. Lifting his dark and ruggedly-ugly visage to face mine, he started to pour his woes out his piehole. It seems that his whole “Prince of Darkness and Source of All Evil” thing was losing its exclusivity, which made him both angry and depressed, a dangerous combination.

“Look at this quote from talk radio,” he suggested as he exuded a sulfur reek. “Hitler, Stalin, Hillary, and Isis have one thing in common; they are all commanded by Satan!” The reek got stronger and the evil one got even redder, which I didn’t think was possible. “The first two were weak-wristed rogue wannabes I took care of years ago, and the last are snotty young punks who think they’re hot shit but couldn’t get past the first circle of hell.” This of course left Hillary, who was admittedly “one of ours,” but her political enemies shouldn’t take comfort in this. ALL political candidates sell their souls to the devil before their first election. Even the ones you like who appear to be honest and trustworthy. Think about it, someone really that goody-goody would be roadkill on the cesspool that is politics. They HAVE to be supported by he-who-must-not-be-named to survive, much less win. Both of the Democratic and all 87 of the Republican candidates for the nomination have the mark of the beast and do our dark master’s bidding, unless they think it could lose them votes. That’s also the reason they never hang out with him, despite what is said by candidates about their opponents. The reason is simple, taking part in human sacrifice tends to alienate key voting blocks, and getting caught would be bad in November. It’s especially dangerous these days with smartphone cameras and things getting posted within minutes on social media.

The truth be told, only one candidate has spent a lot of face time with the evil one, you know who. To be fair, that was only because he had his own “Reality TV” show at the same time Satan was dating Kim Kardashian. After a few soft bedroom whispers, she convinced him that he owed it to the world to direct. The NWO was bankrolling Reality TV as part of a fiendish conspiracy, and that gave The Devil enormous amounts of clout, a director’s chair on a dozen reality shows, including that “you’re fired” one, and Kim's own series. Few know how close Hollywood came to disaster.

“It’s ISIS that really gets me steamed,” complained Satan, with steam and other gasses coming out his ears, “They’re number one in the terror top forty, but they got there by being pretty boys, not being the most evil. The world lives in fear of terrorism, taking hard-won attention and revenue away from us. And they’ve never once inquired about paying royalties or obtaining licensing.”

“Our stooges in government and at the UN are dumping bombs on those assholes right now,” I reassured him, “but I would be happy to convey a message to them asking for, er, commanding more, especially if it involves travel to trendy destinations.”

“No,” agreed Satan, “that’s not enough. Overwhelming armed force isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, sometimes what’s needed is a single person armed with only his wits and a penchant for evil. Someone used to getting in and out fast and avoiding responsibility after he’s done. A person who lusts after danger and doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘trepidation.’”

“I’ll have a list of recommendations on your desk by the end of the business day,” I lied, trying to simultaneously duck out the door only to find it locked.

“I have my man, and he’s you!” revealed The Devil, a wicked smile on his face. “It’s no secret that I don’t like the way you do things, cutting corners, throwing away the book, and thinking with your winkle. We stress teamwork in Hell, not rugged individualism and squeezing out of tight spots using animal magnetism. But I can’t argue with success. Here are your company-provided airline tickets to Damascus, economy class with only 3 stops.”

“What exactly am I supposed to do?” I asked, genuinely perplexed, “It’s a complicated political situation where none of the questions make sense and all of the answers are wrong. Worse than New Jersey.”

“Destroy ISIS, or ISIL or whatever they call themselves,” said Satan with a grin, “How you do this isn’t important, but something with good visual impact would be nice. Anyway, it’s up to you.”

“At least let me take along a small crack commando force,” I begged, “no more than a couple of armored divisions.”

“Less is more, and cheaper too,” said the notoriously-tight Lord of the Underworld, “but I suppose if you have to you can take along the Slice Girls and a couple idle clones, and have Q Branch fix you up with a few gadgets, but nothing fancy. And absolutely no cars with missile launchers, especially after what happened to our parking garage.”

“Maybe we need to rethink this from the very beginning,” I lied, “instead of deadly force all you need is better PR. Consider a whole new ad campaign, kind of a ‘he’s evil and he’s happening’ sort of thing that will grab the public’s attention. Give some old-time revival preachers some air time and let loose the fire and brimstone. I could start by hiring some supermodels…”

I swear Satan was smiling as he pushed me out the door, abruptly ending the discussion.

To be continued…

[LaVidaRoja]

Turning ISIS into Boy Scouts!! Will the evil you/we contemplate know no bounds?? (Of course not, it's evil incarnate)But once you have ISIL providing food, medicine, clean water, electricity, Internet access and education to male and females who have been raised on tribal loyalties, who will you bring in to destroy them?

[Deep Knight]

The Final Count
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 3, A New Start

Taking the Slice Girls along on my ill-advised trip was a given - not only were they unquestionably loyal, they knew how to swing swords in ways that gave fight scenes the kind of horrible gruesomeness my public craved. They also had shapely figures that were perfect for cover art. This later point, combined with quick tempers, kept me from even suggesting the girls wear burkas or other demeaning body coverings. I treasure my private parts and want to keep them. So I picked up some cloned ninja ladies from Q Branch when I dropped by to get my gadgets and weapons. Ninjas were used to wearing full black body coverings, so there wouldn’t be a problem there, and being good with swords they could aid the Slice Girls when push came to shove.

Being a bit of a philosopher-detective, I contemplated how women in ninja outfits were viewed in the West versus those in burkas. Both outfits were black and covered every inch of skin, the difference being one was form-fitting and thus flattering to the figure. So, even though ninja girls assassinated people for a living, they were still viewed thousands of times more positively than burka babes. I didn’t find an answer to this conundrum, but did come up with a solution to the Slice Girl crisis. Simply have them come along dressed normally, you know, skimpy-but-armored leather bikinis and spike-heeled boots. When they confronted ISIS members, the boys would either be shocked and aroused. Either would give the ladies more than enough time to dismember them before they had a chance to respond. And, such costumes would make the story much more likely to be picked up by a major motion picture studio.

The Illuminati Travel Dept. had routed us on the worst possible road to Damascus. First we would fly to Chicago, and after a 7 hour layover on to Rio in Brazil. From there we would go to Casablanca in Morocco and then finally Damascus. I changed the already-long layovers in Rio and Casablanca to multi day ones. Not only were they fun cities, the Internet was ablaze with rumors that the Olympic “Refugee” team was heavily infiltrated by ISIS terrorist – zika mosquito hybrids. It seems that many posters had a friend who knew somebody whose brother-in-law was “in the loop.” I figured if this kind of intelligence was good enough to generate that many chain e-mails, it was something I should check out. Besides, Rio also has nude beaches infested with well-tanned ladies, and in Casablanca I could stop by Rick’s Café Americain.

The Chicago airport is always a problem, especially since they instituted “extreme vetting.” The details are a bit vague, but apparently it involves using the highest degree of animal medicine. The TSA personnel also seemed to be confused about exactly what to do, delaying us further. Even with the long layover we had to run make boarding at the last possible second, only to taxi out and sit on the field for 2 hours before leaving. The Illuminati Travel Office, oblivious to the Olympics’ effect on lodging, had booked us into the “nearest available hotel,” which turned out to be in the heart of the Amazonian rainforest and a 24-hour, $2200 taxi ride from the airport. At least the Slice Girls got to relax by helping strike teams from the NWO Natural Resources Division slaughter the innocent indigenous population.

Our 3-day layover had become 1 day, which I shortened even more by leaving early. I wanted to get back to Rio to interrogate the Refugee Team members, and if I had time hit those nude beaches. This later desire was thoroughly thwarted when my convoy of taxis was attacked in the darkest heart of the jungle by Orly Taitz and her Berserk Birther Brigade! The battle itself was short and sweet, if you could call freshly disemboweled intestines “sweet,” but the resulting flow of blood attracted those pesky piranhas again, and our escape caused a considerable delay. At least I got the pleasure of seeing Dr. Taitz trying to swim across the rain-swollen Amazon in a failed attempt to both escape and beat the carnivorous fish. Sweet!

Once at the Olympics, pressed for time, we hurriedly used phony journalist credentials and secret Illuminati hand signals to get “backstage” and interview members of the Refugee team. To our surprise, it turned out those from the Middle East hated ISIS for killing their friends, destroying their countries, and forcing them to flee. Who could have guessed? And the websites that featured this conspiracy theory were usually spot on when it came to Illuminati activities! No doubt leaky moles and trolls under our very noses! I made a note to instigate an investigation and purge when I got home, starting with the Travel Office.

Speaking of those itinerary-mangling flight and hotel bookers, their previous mistakes were nothing compared with getting us to Morocco. At least I didn’t have to go through the drudgery of having to confront Heather Ann Tucci or Hope Girl after some ambush, but that hardly made up for such a heinous error, which put us in one of the world’s most dangerous hellholes …

To be continued…

[wserra]

that hardly made up for such a heinous error, which put us in one of the world’s most dangerous hellholes …

Are you saying that the biggest Long-Shot Louie at Hialeah wouldn't put a fin on your fate now?

[Deep Knight]

The Last Count
An All-New Deep Knight Adventure
Chapter 4, Just Past the Beginning

One of the world’s most dangerous hellholes … the Grand Casino in Monte Carlo. It seems the incessantly incompetent travel office had mistaken Monaco for Morocco. Once again our secret Illuminati hand gestures proved valuable, and as word of our status made it to the various croupiers and pit bosses in the casino, we made the most of our itinerary error. The evening ended with my breaking the bank after a spectacular run at baccarat chemin de fer. I found that the shoe fit, so I wore it. With our ill-gotten gains funding a level of excess unseen since the political conventions’ backrooms, we relaxed in our luxury penthouse suite and on the beach to plot our next move.

By coincidence, it turns out that the Secret Middle Eastern Retaliation Force (SMERF) had its headquarters very near Morocco on the choicest section of French Riviera. The need for a secure location had put them a bit far afield, but it was on the Mediterranean and their beaches, not to mention the Grand Casino and all the best parties. Giving those secret hand gestures a real workout, I made my way through the boilerplate security and into the office of the commander (ComSMERF), General Lando Calrissian, USDA. I not only needed an update on the situation in whatever part ISIS was in, I wanted to know why they hadn’t crushed those assholes and if there was some way I could weasel out of having to do it myself. What I learned wasn’t good.

“We have the world’s largest secret task force off the coast of Syria,” he began, showing me a location on a map, “centered around the USS Agnew, our newest submarine aircraft carrier. We’ve also got boots on the ground, over 30 thousand crack commandos at a secret location in the desert. Or should I say we HAD 30,000, a few are missing.”

“In war you have to expect some casualties,” I commented, the blood in my veins icy from years of offhand homicide.

“Er, they’re not exactly ‘casualties,’” he said sheepishly, “they’re more ‘missing.’”

“Lost in combat?”

“No, just lost,” he said, turning a darker shade of embarrassed, “we’ve had a little problem with something very much like desertions.”

“Poor excuses for men who are too cowardly to face combat,” I said with compassionate understanding, “we knew how to take care of scum like that in my day, it was a cigarette and blindfold then up against the wall!”

“The problem is they seem to simply disappear! The leave the base on assignments and missions, but sooner or later radio contact is lost and teams sent to find them come back empty, or missing themselves.”

“So what if you’ve lost a few dozen troops,” I said ponderously, “move forcefully with the men you’ve got, declare victory, and let me go home.”

“It’s more than a few dozen,” replied General Calrissian, “in fact, it’s more than 29 thousand.”

“How many men are left?”

“142, or at least there were this morning.”

To be continued…

[Deep Knight]

Are you saying that the biggest Long-Shot Louie at Hialeah wouldn't put a fin on your fate now?

Not at all. Fictional bookies of all types flock to put their money on Deep Knight whenever possible. No matter how dire the circumstance and certain my doom, I always seem to come through unscathed. When I feel like I'm being kicked in the head by the whole chorus line at Minski's; When I feel myself going under; when the crazy escalator ride ends; I fight my way back to the land of the living, hold onto my pickle, and don't go sticking my nose into police business. I suggest Louie do the same.