It was a clear dark night, not a star in sight. 

At the time I remember thinking how odd it was. In hindsight however, I now know it was the Gods at work, disgusted, turning their backs on what we were about to do. What is the antonym for annuit coeptis? 

 Knowing what I know now, I can’t help but think that I should have taken advantage of that moment…as for the night, well, for perhaps the first time since the dawn of mankind, the Earth, our planet was unmonitored. Shame really…

The boarder traipsed miles behind us, along with a steady trail of dead american scouts. Breadcrumbs. We crept through the outter reaches of Washington DC, the dark on our side. The dark-side indeed. A crecent moon provided the only glow in the tarred canvas above, but fuck did that moon glow. Another sign, we assumed… 

General Ross’s men had approached from the east, we took the northern most direct route whilst the rest of the navy oozed in from the west. Resistance was pathetically futile and thin. These fat americans thought themselves too far away to be touched by evil, but they forget…I was there when the Iroquois settled with the French. Evil was born here. Fuck, it had practically mass reproduced and infected the whole sodding country. Now evil had evolved and  flourished into something spectacular…astonishing.

My ankle still plagued me and it was cold. Bad combination. The men, “Royal Marines” Ross had said they were called, were a fucking tough bunch. Not a peep. Every man one of them would have had an oar aboard my vessel if I still had it. 

Claric had dispersed toward New York,an indigenous Irish contingency down there apparently, perhaps one of the Merks had moved that way after Newfoundland? 

It was the year 1814 and Henry Game was about to have him a fire. Then try to put it out by pissing on the flames…

The last bit was a joke…not funny? Well, trust me when I say that you had to be there.



The Warm-up.

‘Is this really necessary? It’s not like anyone gives a sh-‘

    He let the hatch drop with a crack, leaving me be in the rickety bowels of the ship. Or at least I believed myself alone.

   ‘Ye should’n take it to heart, mi lord. Huih.’

   I recognised the slur. ‘You too eh? Though as far as you’re concerned: I can’t say I blame ’em. Pig fuckers. But to stow me away, me! I’m the tip of the fuckin’ spear!’

   He laughed, congestedly, before chugging on something wet. ‘Aye, sometimes, mi ol’ bean, it seems like us mythics are nothin’ but slurried story. Yet here we are: the pissant’s phantoms, shitting and sleeping besides the rest of ’em…huih!’

   I didn’t speak for several minutes, thinking while the vessel lurched to one side. Something heavy bounced across the planks, sliding hard against my arse cheek. Claric’s hip flask. A great thirst seized me. Suddenly all I desired was to taste the contents of the flask that never ran dry…well, if anything, I really wanted to see if it actually held an alcoholic substance within. I never trusted that he was drunk all the time. It seemed like an act; and a damned convenient one played all too often. Nobody expects too much of a drunk.

   Claric’s fumbling in the dark stopped.The silence pressed against the dark.

   I located the stopper and eased it free. The smell that hit me took my mind reeling back to my days at the Monastery…sweet beor. I raised the flask to my mouth then hesitated. Claric’s nectar breath kissed hot on my cheek.

   ‘I wouldn’, not unless ye wanna end up a Claricuan. It’s a damned thirsty honour let me tell yer.’

   I lowered the flask, my arm feeling almost weightless as Claric took the flask from me.

   Noisily he chugged down the sweet smelling liquid.

   I realised that I had been holding my breath as I heard Claric’s muffled crawl back across the cargo deck. The ship steadied as the sails were lowered. Through the walkway above, orders were given to man the oars. 

   I sensed that the air tasted familiar, fresher even? I looked at Claric – who stared into the depth of his flask like a dying man searches for the meaning of life – and smiled; contradictory to my emotions; I wondered if we were all slaves to our past?

   The hatch lifted, showering us in a heavy vapour. If Claric felt it he showed no sign of it. I, on the other hand, cursed and threatened vehemiently, you know, the way I do. 

   ‘You’re best staying down there,’till we at least get past the last check-point anyway. All it’d take is one body count. No, Game, just fucking shut your mouth and wait.’

   And just like that the hatch slammed back shut.

   The soft hissing of Claric’s laughter haunted us into the land of Canada. Well, laughing or crying, I couldn’t quite tell. Soon enough my feet would be back on frozen ground and ready to march south to fuck the Americans in the ass, good ‘n proper.

Cataclysmic Comet

It branded itself upon the moonless night, eclipsing each star in it’s wake. It was a sight to behold. A sight to prove an existence beyond our skies and domed prison. A sight that is lost in the modern technological age.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the humid air, turning my back on the ripples of Windermere. The meeting had been set here, by the waystone on the east shore, and so I patiently waited. My left foot clicked when I rolled the front of my toes in a circular motion…something wasn’t right about it. But, I was whole again and breathing in the stagnation from the scummy shore. Unlike good ol’ Humpty, who, by the way, isn’t a fucking egg. Who the fuck decided Humpty Dumpty was an egg? And, more to the point why would you try to put a shattered egg back together? 

It felt good being back, allowing my mind to wonder, attaching itself to the back of the burning inferno trailing across the black sky and hurtling through the distorted reflections of the lake.

The comet heralded a change in times. In a way It seemed to be ushering in the dawn of the industrial revolution as we fell into it’s vice-like-grip. The age of the machine. The cogs of capitalism. The religion of despicabilities. Sacrificial offerings of true freedom. It heralded a change in me too, at least in my perceptions. The French had taught me the most valuable lesson. It’s true, they did, they taught me that I wasn’t unstoppable. Bastards.

A crunching on the pebbled beach behind me drew my eyes from the brilliance in the sky. Two shadows approached, one of them, through its egg-like shape I recognised as Claric, while the other, somewhat narrower shadow, beside him I did not. 

Claric and the stranger stopped short, lingering around ten feet away from me, whispering and mumbling to one another.

After several minutes I grew impatient. ‘Ahem!’ I began, tactfully, ‘do I have bad breath or something?’

Claric laughed and playfully slapped the back of the other man, he did not laugh. 

Together they approached, now I could see their faces beneath their trenched jackets. I continued to wait.

‘Take it in Ross, it’s not all that often you catch the Game wrong footed,’ slurred Claric to the other gentleman.

I rolled my foot around again, testily, it clicked. ‘What am I doing here Claric?’

This time it was the small man who laughed, ‘he’s a bit cock sure o’himself, ey, Claricuan?’

Another Irishman, I noticed. I was outnumbered. Too many Irishmen made me uncomfortable, especially when in England. ‘Claric, who the fuck is this little bastard?’ The heat beginning to rise in my face.

The “little bastard” stepped forward, his face about as serious as anyones I have ever see. ‘I am General Robert Ross, Mr Game, and as o’ tree days ago, the Empire  has enemies on both side o’ the Atlantic.’

‘General?’ I frowned, mainly directing my question at Claric who was quietly sipping at a hip flask. If he heard me he chose to ignore it.

General Ross bristled as he advanced another step.’Listen to me Game, you’ve been brought back t’ help us win these wars.’

I took note of the plural. However, I was still totally at a loss, almost two hundred and fifty years had passed since I was last knocking around. Back then Britain had virtually ruled supreme. I wondered who these multiple enemies could be, maybe the Spanish, obviously the French, but I couldn’t think who else? “Both sides o’ the Atlantic” he had said. 

Maybe my face gave me away as he laughed a flat and empty laugh. ‘Ah, but you know nothing do you?’

I didn’t appreciate his tone, if I’m honest, but he was correct so I kept my mouth shut. See! I told you I was a changed man!

‘It hasn’t been ‘officially’ announced yet, but, The United States o’ America have attacked two o’ our trading vessels, made plans t’ occupy Canada and have had the decision t’ declare war on us, on us! If you can believe it? Passed through Congress earlier this week.’

‘United States?’ I let slip, accidentally.

‘Two-hundred and fifty years is a long time. Entire countries can be born, yet still the Game can’t die? Huih!!’ Charmed in Claric between sips.

‘So who’s the other enemy then?’ I asked the General.

He looked back at me like he had just seen me eating shit. ‘Napoleon, of course!’ he snapped.

‘Two-hundred and, o’forget it.’ I began turning away from the General, ‘who and what the fuck is Napoleon?’

Claric’s face lit up as he gazed at the comet. ‘French. It could not be more perfect for you. Huih!!’

‘So let me get this right, my enemies are French and American, really?’

‘Call it a birthday present,’ teased Claric, his attentions turning back up to the great comet. 

I smiled, breathing in the chilled night. The comet really was a beautiful sight. 


‘Damn, but even though you’re a creepy bastard, I must thank you.’ I offered the still busy doc.

He looked at me, eyes magnified through the glass device craning from his forehead. The crinkle around his eyes told me that he was at least pleased. Without a word he looked down and continued to stitch my left foot to the bottom of my leg.

It had been a few hours since my throat had healed enough for me to make sounds. 

The doctor had been occasionally pausing in his work to feed me a sickly sweet slurry, which if I’m being honest, which I am, was bloody good, however the warm water wasn’t. It was cloudy and it tasted like a puddle. I drank it anyway, I had a serious thirst on me as I’m sure you can appreciate. On several occasions I had attempted to converse with him. The most I had achieved was a prolonged grunt. The grunt told me he was displeased, I’m sure of it.

It seemed that the stronger I became the faster I healed, and now I could move enough to prop myself up, almost into a full sitting position, almost, but not quite. The pain across my waist line was tremendous. 

From my elevated position I could see a lot more of my surroundings. The first thing I noticed were the heavy metal boxes of different sizes and shapes. Some rectangular and arm length, some small and box-like, you know, head size. I deduced that these were the boxes that once contained my severed and estranged body parts. I shuddered. I at least took comfort in the knowing they were lined with a soft looking material. Probably fucking imbued with itching powder though, eh? I wouldn’t put it past the fuckers, I wondered if it were le French who had constructed these boxes, of course it was, superstitious bastards they are. Still, I was grateful. Either way, they did cut me into several pieces and separate them. That’s how you keep me down, in case you were wondering, assuming of course you don’t have an Angelic blade, or items made in that vein. Hopefully you don’t. 

Back to the story, yes, looking around myself I discovered I was in a very old building, I suspected I was in a tower of some description, probably because the walls formed around us in a circular movement. Also the walls were bare and comprised of random stone. The eaves of the pitched roof bared their rafters in a shameless fashion, flirting with the pigeons. I licked my lips. I had to be in a tower. Still the wind and rain howled beyond the stone and slate shelter. Through the narrow slit in the stone work, probably an arrow-fire window, yet more evidence of why I was in a tower, I could see the overcast dark sky, the type that is synonymous with northern England; –  “If it ‘ent pissing down with rain, it’s just about to’ lad.”- they would often say. 

Looking over at the doctor again I “ahemed” as loudly as I could manage. I was dangerously close to being bored, I needed answers, namely why was I back?

He stopped his stitching and looked at me, all of me. Then, giving a peculiar grunt he stood from the end of my stretcher and finally wiped the snot from the tip of his nose. Gripping my foot between a long and bony forefinger and thumb, he gave it a turn and another satisfied grunt. 

‘Seriously now, I need you to talk to me.’ I tried. My words were once again met with a groan. This groan reeked of frustration, I tried to follow him as he stalked away behind me. I groaned myself as I accepted that my head could not fully turn yet. After a moment of scratching and equipment crashing he reappeared by my side; chalk and slate in hand. 

‘You can’t talk?’ I realised, finally as his eyes crinkled around the edges again. 

Lifting the glass away from his face he started to write on the slate: Dr Kratzenstein.

‘Henry Game.’ I offered, stupidly. 

He frowned at me. 

Of course he already knew my name! I asked the next most important question I could think of, ‘what year is it? How long have I…’ I trailed and almost choked as I saw the chalk scratch a number into the slate. I had been ‘dead’ for almost 250 years. If Dr Kratzenstein was telling the truth then the year was 1811. Fuck, no wonder I was so thirsty. 

The sounds of a key scratching in a lock drew my attention as a look of horror crossed the Doctors face. He dropped the slate to the stone floor as he stood and stepped away from me. The door opened revealing a figure, a large and round looking fellow wearing a large black trench coat.

I decided that my arm was aching and had to lie back down as the person entered, still unannounced, as the sounds of the door swinging shut and the lock clicking bounced around my circular purgatory. 

The doctor shuffled forwards and away as the stranger approached and sat down in the doctors seat by my head. 

I could turn my head just enough to look into his face. He smiled at me, I recognised him. It was Claric.

With a drunken flourish he produced a stoppered wine skin from inside of his coat and offered it, very briefly I might add, in my direction. I barely had the chance to refuse before he removed the bung with his teeth and gave it a long and satisfying chug. ‘There ye are, darlin, it’s bin to long.’ He declared.

Looking over I realised he was addressing his wine skin. I laughed, or I tried to but my stomach hurt.

‘Powerful enemies, Henry Game, power-full names.’ Riddled Claric, his jewelled eyes finally seeing past his drink to rest on me.

‘Yes, nice to see you too, Claric, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

Now it was Claric’s turn to laugh, blue liquid spraying out of his nose and mouth. ‘To what indeed. Nothin makes more of an enemy than your greatest friend.’


Have you ever been unconscious for a lengthy period of time? Perhaps you have been in a coma before, if you have then you will be able to understand what I mean when I say that I was in the black. 

An insurmountable amount of time had passed, I knew this. The flicker of candle light, chorused by the sounds of sniffling, the sickly pull that only comes from human flesh being sewed, brought my estranged mind back to me, back to the present. My limbs felt frozen and bound. There was a good deal of pain around my neck, it felt like I had a collar of molten iron choking my skin, pulling me head down. I tried to make a sound but only managed a ragged wheeze. 

The sniffling stopped and then a body moved over me. It was an old man, a white man with a wispy beard that horded patches of pink skin. He looked diseased with a single glistening gem of mucus hanging from the tip of his nose. He was either a super serious seamstress or he was a back street surgeon of some description. I closed my mouth and continued to pull in each and every drag of air through my itchy nose. I couldn’t even crinkle my nostrils to get it. But to be honest the itch was the first thing I had felt in a long time. Perversely I didn’t mind it.

The man wore a glass screen that was lowered across the front of his eyes, it looked to be attached to a slender metallic frame that fastened around the circumfrence of his head like a crown, the levers and springs on display made me feel uneasy, but what the glass did left altogether a different impression. From where I lay the effect was comical as his eyes bulged back at me; one blue, one brown. Making an indistinguishable grunt he once again disappeared from view and continued to stitch and sniff. 

Now I knew what was going on, I was being stitched back together like some mad scientist’s monster! Bastards must have dug me up and chopped me into pieces! Bastards…but still, you would have done the same, wouldn’t you? I know I would have. 

It was the year 1555 when I crawled back into that hole, how long I had been ‘dead’ for was anyone’s guess. And, call me sentimental, but I felt like I was back home; back in Mother England. I believe I could even hear the distant howls of the rain in the wind. Whichever way you see it, you had to look on the bright side of things. I had been collected together for a reason. Whatever the reason it was a reason worth living for again.

Henry Game had been respawned.

Good news for me, probably, bad news for others, definitely.

The Chameleon


Change my perspective. Look at the same situation from a different point of view. Instead of anger what do I feel?

Fury. I still want to take. I still want to become a better person. How can I “self help” myself when I’m not good enough to begin with?

I take and so I feel better for a time. Then something reminds me that I am a 6 and not a 7. I kill because I need to improve. I fear I will never be good enough. There must be others like me?

Are you reading my words?

Do you feel yourself changing like the chameleon? Changing to blend in. Not to stand out.

Balance, it is all about balance. Giving back a greater good than that of which you take is, in the end, good, right?

My goodness outweighs my…bad. I know this. It must.

The one…

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‘Ce qui la baise?’ Nerves trembled through each syllable of the question, like the plucking of a harp string, as grubby fingers continued uncovering my head and neck, one small hand at a time.

The rumble of laughter nestled deep within my solar plexus, reverberating in my throat, leaking though my nose. I had waited long enough. And, I decided, either I had grown accustomed to the smell of ass or the epic-ness of the moment was transcending my disgust, either way, thankfully, all I could smell was the sweetness of revengé and that’s a totally different calibre of French cuisine, I’ll have you know.

‘Merde, je pense qu’il respire.’ He continued, suddenly snatching his hand away from my delicately exposed head.

My eyes remained closed, meaning I had to listen to the moment unfolding around me. It was quite exquisite. They knew I was breathing, they could probably hear the croaked laugh buried in my throat, yet, they couldn’t actually believe it.

‘Voyez si vous pouvez le sentir. Vérifiez son nez,’ called the softer one, the more feminine of the two.

I was ready, I could smell shit as his hand approached my nose, I couldn’t help myself, I crinkled my nostrils. 

They screamed, harmoniously. 

I finally opened my eyes, half-laughing, half-growling in a state of hysterical fury, shrieking they shrivelled away from me.

They were both half naked, filthy, caked in blood and shit. Them bastards were seriously fucked up, mentally speaking, they were about to get fucked up physically too as it stands. But of course you already know this, don’t you?

Feet set I pushed up with all of my strength, leaping free of the sodden soil at an angle and colliding with the smaller of the two, some might suggest “the taker” between them, he crumbled like a thin biscuit dipped into a hot cup of tea. Using my thumb I pushed down on his closed eye socket, hissing, spittle and clay clumping around the corners of my mouth as his eyeball burst, clear fluid oozing from beneath his pulped lids. I must have knocked him unconscious because he didn’t even moan, no struggle, nothing. 

I didn’t have the opportunity to see if he was ok, to check his physical wellbeing before the dirty Frenchman was on me, kicking at me, slashing at me with his muddy blade as his chopper sloshed around all up in my face and everything. 

It was all I could do to keep myself from getting clubbed by his erect soiled penis as I slipped and rolled, reeling from the hefty thwack the bastard had struck me with, right in the soft spot, right in the crook of my neck, the bit where your clavicle embeds itself into your throat region, yeah, right there.

This had me flapping as once again I couldn’t breathe, pain lanced throughout my entire body. My vision blurred. Each breath was getting harder and harder to suck up. My neck was on fire, looking down it all finally made sense, as I noticed the handle of an unfamiliar dagger protruding from my skin. I could only guess at how big the blade was. Time was running out for me, the sky was darkening, not literally darkening, no, it was darkening only for me. 

Whipping out the dagger in a frenzied cry I stuck the flailing Frenchmen right in the gooch: the area delicately poised between a mans balls and his arse hole.

His reaction was a simple ‘ooop’. 

I didn’t hesitate. I knew I had taken my last breath. Dragging the dagger handle upward, jaggedly hacking through his balls and cock, I must have nicked an artery cause I ain’t never seen that much blood. In truth, it was more like a mixture of blood and piss. A watery solution, probably goes well on a salad.

The Frenchman stopped living. I rolled my eyes in frustration as I dropped back into the grave I had literally just fucking climbed out of and scrambled as fast as I could, pulling the clay and shit back over myself until the world switched to black and the fire left me, cooling down in my very own version of death, again.

I remember vowing that next time would when I got my revenge. Next time for sure…


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