Ch-1 The First Domino to Fall

From The Twisted Mind of Money Lloyd

Chapter 1

The First Domino to Fall

Las Vegas, Nevada, 1:13 am, Current Day
Gangster fantasies are being realized.

 

It was only two seconds but that was more than enough time for the player to recognize.
    "Hit or stand?" The blackjack dealer asked the player.
    But the player was engrossed, searching the bustling casino crowd. I know I saw that cat at the other spot earlier, he thought to himself as he scanned the scene for that not so familiar and not so friendly face.
    "Hit," the dealer repeated, "or stand, sir?"
    "Daddy, he's talkin' to you," said the scantily clad vixen posing by his side. She was all lips and legs. Though not pretty in a classy sense, she more than made up for her lack of natural beauty with raw sex appeal. She worked the stereotypical lollipop in her mouth like the professional that she was.
    "Shut-up," he said. "Let me think."
    He rubbed the three-day-old stubble on his chin, eyed his drink, the impatient dealer and finally his cards. They couldn't have tracked me down that fast. They can't be here. The hell they can't. It's gotta be nerves. I should get the hell outta here. I'll let the cards decide, he thought. He had a nine of clubs and a three of diamonds. Easy decision.
    "Hit me."
    The dealer dealt. "Jack of Spades and bust."
    "Damn, " he cursed and downed his drink, then glanced around furtively. Maybe I'm just paranoid, too much coke, pussy and hard alcohol and not enough sleep. Shit, I need a hit. Fuck that, I'm trippin'.
    Clumsily, he pulled a pack of Newports from his loud silk shirt and lit a cigarette.
    "Bet, sir?"
    "Not on your life. Definitely not on mine. The cards don't lie."
    "Ain't no thang, " the vixen said. "We'll win the next hand."
    Abruptly he stood, removing the whore's arm from his. "Ain't going to be another hand. I'm outta here."
    "What you talkin' about, Daddy?"
    "I'm not talkin', I'm gone. Holla at me laters."
    "Gone. Holla at you later?" All the hooker came out of her now. "Naw mutha-fucka holla at me now! I didn't come all the way out here to kick it with you fa' free."
    She was making a scene and that he didn't need so went into his pocket and retrieved a bankroll of bills. It looked like a miniature newspaper rolled in his hand. After peeling a crisp new one hundred dollar bill he handed it to her.
    "A hundred dollars, " she was scandalized. "Oh hell no, you cheap son-of-a-"
    This shit is getting out of hand. He snatched two one hundred dollar trips off of his tray shoving them into the hooker's hand. "Shut the fuck-up and shake the spot, bitch. I'm payin' you to bounce."
    Then he grabbed his tray of chips, tossed a fifty dollar chip to the dealer and spun off. Unwilling to let the big one get away, the hooker was in hot pursuit.
    "Hold up, Daddy-"
    "Get it through that crystal-fried brain of yours," he said without slowing his stride. "I'm done, kick rocks, tramp!"
    "Cheap bastard. All that money and-"
    He turned back saying, "You can break yourself but you can't break me. You never met a player like-"
    The slick words choked in his throat. There was no doubt about it now, he'd been followed. He was staring at the nameless face of that dude from the MGM and Caesar's. First a thin tendril of icy fear ran down his spine. Next he froze completely; the cigarette fell from his lips as he caught sight of none other than Murder Mitch Mitchell, the underboss of the Black Mafia Family. Though he was the boss this psychopath still put in his own work when the notion suited him.
    A knowing smile spread across the face of his pursuer. It was not pleasant; the smile of a coldblooded killer. His killer suit marked him as a professional.
    Endless seconds passed as they locked gazes, predator and prey.
    Then the player begins to play a different game. Survival is the name of this game.
    "Free chips over here!" He screamed tossing his tray into the air. Forty-eight thousand dollars worth of playing chips rained down upon the crowded playing floor of the Luxor creating a Sharon Stone/Casino like diversion. The greedy masses swarmed in a feeding frenzy. Under camouflage of the commotion he ran to the elevators and pushed the button and waited impatiently. Of course the elevator was taking forever to arrive. He alternated between frantically pushing the button repeatedly and literally looking everywhere at once, completely oblivious of the people staring at him like he was a mad man.
    "C'mon, come on," he pleaded.
    Finally the elevator arrived and he rushed in before even the first occupant could exit. He must have looked as desperate as he felt because few of the people waiting with him entered the car. It was only after the doors closed and he was safely headed to the garage level that he began to relax. Once the doors opened the crippling anxiety returned but subsided once he saw the garage level was void of people. Capitalizing on the solitude he pulled a thirty-eight snub nosed revolver from his leg holster.
    "That was close," he chuckled to himself as he headed to his ride. The eerie echoes of his footsteps were all he heard initially. The parking lot was huge and though well lit it was full of shadowy areas. The sounds of elevators returning, car doors opening and closing and a million other minutiae set his heart pumping again. He wasn't out of the woods yet.
    A couple's sudden laughter almost made him jump out of his skin. But he found solace in his heater as he brandished the weapon.
    Once he reached his Tahoe a wave of relief washed over him. But wait what if it was rigged to blow? He laughed aloud at himself. You have to do better than that to catch the kid.
    "Close but no cigar, suckers." He pressed his key chain disarming the alarm with a loud reverberating chirp.
    It was then the figure emerged from around a nearby pillar. "Who's the sucker now, Deal? It's over."
    They'd found him but it was far from over. Without pause, without turning his body he pointed his pistol and fired from the hip. The explosive muzzle-flash illuminated the face of the figure even as the hollow-tipped bullet tore through it leaving a gaping hole in its wake and setting off an orchestra of car alarms. The report of the gun blast was still echoing through the lot when he opened the SUV door. That's when he was hit with a blow to the back of the head, dropping him on his face.
    "Damn," a voice said, "this muthafucka got J."
    ""Turn his ass over," another said. "He's done and I want him to see who did him."
    Through a haze of blood and dizziness Deal recognized two of Mitch's hitters, killers on the payroll, especially the one with the hand cannon in his face. Then he felt the kiss of cold steel when the pistol was pressed to his eye.
    "You're through, partner." Charlie C. said.
    "Back-off, C." Mitch said. "You can have what's left of his sorry ass after I'm through with him." His voice was rough like sandpaper across gravel.
    "I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Mitchell." Charlie C. shoved the pistol into Deal's eye, knocking his head to the side.

    Mitch leaned in close to Deal. "You're lucky Domino wants you alive, punk."
    He raised a large caliber pistol over his head and it then it was lights out.

◊ ◊ ◊

Oakland, California

    Deal's head felt like it had been squeezed in a vice. Correction, it was still being squeezed in a vice. He could feel the pressure steadily building, threatening to pop his eyeballs right out of his throbbing skull. The bitter, coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He was in a world of darkness and pain and vaguely remembered being worked over by Murder Mitch, then Charlie C. before being revived to get worked over by Murder Mitch again.
    "Bring the fool around."
    Although he'd never seen him in person there was no mistaking the rich baritone of Domino. Then his whole being was shocked by a brutal open-handed blow. His head reeled and he opened his eyes.
    "There we are," Domino said. "That should help you get your bearings."
    The vice that was squeezing Deal's head had let him go before smacking him. If not for the rope that tied him into his chair he would have collapsed to the floor. As I was he just slumped into his seat like a discarded ragdoll.
    "Look at me when I'm talking to you, you insignificant wretch." Domino said. "You had better wake up. This is your last chance, boy." He was the epitome of dangerous calm.
    Deal cocked his head facing the man, and Domino was a huge hulk of a man, standing almost seven feet tall. He weighed over two-hundred and sixty pounds but wasn't fat. An impeccable, hand-tailored, old school, double-breasted suit fit like the proverbial glove around his muscular frame. His features looked like they had been etched from stone.
    In the media manipulated public eye Damien Victor Domino was a billionaire, a self-made titan of industry with the largest import/export firm in the United States, whereas Mitch Mitchell was the crown kingpin of the Black Mafia Family. In reality murder Mitch worked under Domino an absolutely monolithic figure in the underworld of organized crime. The fact that he was here to deal with Deal personally couldn't be good.
    Stark fear gripped Deal like a physical thing.
    "M, m, Mr. Domino, " he stammered. "I'm s, s, sorry, man. I wasn't stealing your money. I invested it in a can't lose-"
    Domino towered over deal. "Cease your mindless prattling, fool. There is nothing you can say to save yourself, nothing you can tell me that I do not already know. However if you continue to speak you will only incense my anger and should that happen, let me assure you, you sniveling little worm, you will beg to be killed before I leave this room."
    Deal, silent as the dead, focused on Domino.

    "Good. Now it is quite fortunate for you that I have a use for your otherwise worthless carcass. It is this and only this that grants you one last chance."
    "Yeah, yeah one last chance and I'll make good on everything, I swear." Deal pleaded.
    Domino grimaced at the interruption, crossed his can across his arms. "Mr. Mitchell."
    On cue the vice that was standing behind Deal delivered a savage blow to the side of his head, knocking him and the chair he was strapped to into the floor.

    When he came to he was sitting upright again. As he regained his bearings he recognized where he was. The place smelled of old wood, rusted steel, oil, and chemicals. The artificial light of the fluorescent lights hurt his eyes. This was one of the Black Mafia's warehouses in West Oakland.
    Domino still stood with his arms crossed. Deal couldn't be sure if she was there before but now he saw the woman standing next to him. She was a stallion, purebred sex in a dress, Domino's daughter, the socialite seductress Dominique Domino. And on Domino's left stood the vice, murder Mitch. They all shared the same look of contempt and disgust. The slim, professional killer turned kingpin chuckled.
    "It's not funny, Mitch," she said. "He's pathetic."
    "True, Dominique, he is a cretin; a subhuman species of a subculture spawned from a materialistic and oppressive society. Yet even a pawn such as he can be of value if used properly." Domino's eyes gleamed as he spoke to Dominique. "This is the reason I brought you here this morning, to enlighten you and continue your education."
    "Then you're wasting your time. I'm already a master of manipulating men, powerful men." She responded arrogantly.
    "Indeed, short-termer" Domino laughed. "Watch and learn of the long term."
    He turned his attention to Deal. "Back to you, now that I have your undivided attention and we are crystal on the consequences of not remaining silent whilst I pontificate. In terms someone of your diminutive intelligence can understand – let me run it down for you fool. You cannot take anything from me. While one-hundred and fifty thousand dollars is everything to one such as you it is nothing to me. You see I am a man of principle. It is a matter of principle. And you still do not know what to do with that. It could have been a million yet it may as well have been a thousand dollars. It makes no difference you still would have run to … Las Vegas of all places, and literally doped and squandered it on cheap whores and cheap thrills."
    "I know you better than you know yourself. I knew what you would do long before the thought ever entered your simple, limited, miniscule mind." Domino addressed his daughter.
    "Everything that has occurred has done so according to my design."
    Returning his penetrating gaze to Deal, he continued. "You are nothing but a puppet and I pull the strings. You are to be the bait I will use to ensnare my true quarry. How he came to befriend one such as you I will never know. It matters not. You are going to make a telephone call to your main man. He moniker he used back in his active days was?"
    "S, Shark?"
    "How astute of you." Domino gripped Deal's jaw in his enormous hand. "And you will be most compelling as if your life depends on it because make no mistake it does. Yes?"
    With the look of a deer caught in the headlights still transfixed on his face, Deal simply nodded his compliance.
    "Now listen closely and I will tell you exactly what you are to say."

    Readjusting himself, Domino assumed an even more regal posture turning triumphantly towards his daughter. "Opening gambit: The first pawn has been put into play. Time to bring the knight into the game."

Copyrighted Material. All Rights Reserved. Duplication Unauthorized.

Prologue III - Time of Trials

From The Twisted Mind of Money Lloyd

Prologue Part III

The Time of Trials

    

The Council was in a state of complete upheaval. Chaos reigned as its members expressed their outrage, shock and terror.

    "…poisoned!..."

    "…Treachery…"

    "…It's already begun…"

    "…The Trials are upon us…"

    "Order,order!" Petruchio shouted above the bedlam.

    After they'd settled down Li Chi-shang spoke first. "Honored regent, on to Council business, the reason we are summoned this day is no mystery –"

    "Yes," Baron Rothstein interrupted the Chinese billionaire. "Since our esteemed Chairman has met with an untimely demise, leaving us without a Chair-"

    Grimes cut off the international banker, with obvious ambition. "The Seat is vacant-"

    "Silence!" Petruchio yelled. "The Seat is far from vacant while I am acting regent and I will have order! The death of our Chairman is most unfortunate, it couldn't have come at a worst time but this will not stand."

    He indicated the body of the slain skull. Lord Rennoll's bright red blood shone in stark contrast on the black tabletop, splattered like abstract art. There wasn't a Council member present that didn't harbor the suspicion, the intuition that the untimely death of the former Chairman was regicide. Yet the apparent murder of one of their own, while in the midst of their inner circle was unfathomable.

    Without doubt one or more of the Council members had conspired to commit the crime. They were the only ones with the means. They were all sadistic and devious by their own right, yet each knew the price to be paid for breaking a rule such as this. The secrets and oaths of the Order were terrifying. It was part of their fiendish system to punish not only those who trespassed but the transgressors' loved ones as well.

    Indeed, each Council member as a rite of passage to become one of the blood, -beyond being born within one of the thirteen bloodlines- had been commissioned to shed the blood of one very dear to them to prove their undying loyalty to the Order. Domino's sacrifice upon the altar of power haunted him; the ghost of an innocent soul unjustly slain. These unmitigated sacrifices of innocent blood were prime ties that bound their inner circle within circles of their various international organizations. That and their unbridled lust for complete power and total control on a global scale.

    As if thinking along the same lines, Petruchio solemnly said, "We live by the rules. We die by the rules."

    Governed by merciless tradition and ruthless ritual, thought Domino. Though they portrayed themselves as a non secular order many of the stipulations of their constitution had its origins within the original luciferian bible. And Salman Rushdie must have studied their book of power diligently before authoring "his" satanic verses. Indeed, there were those of the fold that were devout luciferians and students of demonology and satanic symbology. But the cold calculating Domino didn't subscribe to such frivolities. If there is a devil in hell, then his agents on earth are most certainly mortal men, the worst of them being men and women of massive material means.

    Domino made eye contact with Grimes, a political scientist/beast connected deeply into the upper strata of the state department. The man was greasy; a well-oiled part of the military-industrial complex. He despised this man. He winked and Grimes smiled back malevolently.

    Nodding his head Petruchio said, "This is that hour of darkness in which the power of evil is exalted, gentlemen, we are hereby in the Time of Trials."

    They all knew what this meant. The vacancy of Chairman instituted the process by which a new Chairman would be chosen, all part of the great game; a points-based period of three hundred and twenty two days. A significant figure of course.

    "We cannot afford to repeat the mistakes of our past." Petruchio said. "Now is not the time for us to be at each other's throats like a pack of mad dogs after a single bone. And know this, each and everyone of you. I am on watch for any further transgressions and since I alone stand neutral as regent, it is I who will launch the investigation into the murder of Rennoll."

    "I couldn't be in agreement more." Said Baron Rothstein. "And because of all that is at stake I move to fill Rennoll's seat immediately. I nominate David Rockenfeld, due to his long proven loyalty and numerous contributions to the Order."

    "I second that nomination." Grimes said.

    Li Chi-shang billionaire business man and head of the Chinese Triads now spoke. "Yes, Rockenfeld is the proper choice."

    "Rockenfeld it is." Domino agreed.

    Petruchio nodded his head, "Rockenfeld it is then."

    Power moves were being made. Domino spared a glance at Baron Donald Rothstein. Now here was a diabolical plotter of Shakespearian proportions and his ruthlessness was surpassed only by his cruel cunning. This new head of the Rothstein international banking family obviously had designs on reclaiming his family's monopoly on power and dominance over all the thirteen bloodlines. And Grimes, the current head of the American branch of the Order was with him.



    Then it dawned on Domino; the very nature of the poison, the fact that it was so potent, fast acting and abominable meant it had to be government created. As director of the CIA at the very heart of Washington's intelligence infrastructure, insidious tools of terror like this poison were Grimes' area of expertise. And he had the resources to plant it.

    Then there was the fiendish Li Chi-shang, billionaire businessman and head of all the Chinese Triads. Yes he too was in league with Rothstein. Domino had no choice but to agree with his nomination of the Rothstein's oldest ally the Rockenfelds, lest he totally tip his hand.

    Yes, this was definitely that hour in which the powers of darkness would be exalted. Domino knew that if he was to be the one that was exalted then he was going to have to play the game like never before. And he had to call on his prime ally. As his worthy adversaries would be drawing upon the resources of their various quarters, he too would be drawing upon his.

    And his was the criminal quarter, his area of infinite expertise. For though fragile alliances would form and dissolve within the Order as well as rivalry, at the end of the Time of Trials, there could be only one.

Copyrighted Material. All Rights Reserved. Duplication Unauthorized.

dreams for sale (prologue II; the seven of skulls)

dreams for sale

From the twisted mind of Money Lloyd

Prologue Part II

The Seven of Skulls

Scotland, Highlands, Glamis Castle

Two months ago

For Damien Victor Domino, the region of the United Kingdom holds a place of dark endearment in his heart historically. The former conquerors, thieves and slave traders developed a medieval caste system that parallels the modern day slave class struggle. Back then the social conflict was defined as the nobles versus the peasants and serfs whereas now it’s the affluent and wealthy versus the working and criminal classed with the middle class becoming increasingly nonexistent; the age old tale of the haves and have nots.

Indeed, focusing deeper, Scotland, a country within a country is a semi-autonomous part of the English Commonwealth. The approximately two hundred Scottish clans remind him of the gangs and sets back in the U.S., and like the gangs, they fully realized the potential of power they could have wielded if they’d put their differences aside and formed a united front against their common enemy. Instead they allowed oppression propagated by the British Crown to fuel savage blood-feuds between themselves. Meanwhile England used them to enforce its rule, pitting them against each other with land distribution, paralleling the street wars over drug distribution; the criminal underworld’s primary source of income.

But he wasn’t in Scotland for site-seeing like some common tourist. The gravest matters of the direst importance are what summoned him here for this emergency meeting of the Council today. And with its history of deceit, betrayal, treachery and murder most foul, Glamis Castle was the perfect place for their cryptic Council to convene.

“Plotting, playing or preparing for war, father?” Dominique asked.

Domino spared a sincere smile for his daughter, the only person on the planet allowed to interrupt him whilst in reverie. “All of the above, my dear. I was simply reflecting on how when the Scottish clans did manage to form fragile alliances they fought in a most unorthodox fashion. Like the American revolutionaries of the Independence war, like the Black Panther Party of the volatile civil rights era”

Dominique curled her lip in disgust. “Ugh. I can’t stand the lower class.”

“But it was the infamous William Wallace, a man of humble origins, a nameless, title less Scot that succeeded in uniting more of the clans than any other, though he was no lord himself.”

“While you may compare your exploits in the business world and the criminal underworld with the rebellious actions of William Wallace in Scotland, and while you, like him – a man with the courage of his convictions. Unlike him you’re a man of ruthless and personal ambition.” Dominique laughed. “I think you’re more like the Scottish nobles of old or the actual British Crown for that matter. We are members of the Black Overclass after all.”

Domino laughed in his hearty baritone. No one amused him more than his daughter. And he loved the castles; ancient fortresses of stone, towering over the landscape they once ruled. Built by the British Crown, the castles represented as well as defended clan and family claims to territories.

As if an uncrowned king of all he surveyed, he relished the scene with a sense of supreme ownership as he approached the ancient fortress in his chartered helicopter. From their vantage point the aerial view of the landscape was breathtaking. Erected in the mountainous highlands, the inland castle was surrounded by rolling hills. Cleaving the beautiful grasslands was a road trimmed with oak trees leading to the courtyard. The late afternoon sun shone through the clouds illuminating Glamis Castle; a fine example of medieval architecture with its walls, towers, spires, parapets and flags in all its regal glory.

“It’s absolutely beautiful in its power but its old and boring.” Dominique said like a petulant child craving attention.

“Indeed, Castle Glamis, is now owned by the Earl of Strathmore,” Domino lectured. “a direct descendant of the Windsor clan.”

“Now that is interesting.”

“Listen.” Domino said. “It has always been an epicenter of diabolical machinations, plots and plans. As one of the twelve major clans, the Windsor’s name was synonymous with intrigue. The entire family has a history of incest and ruthless internal conflicts of power. Indeed, to this day they still wield great political influence in Scotland.”

“And the Earl is also a puppet of the Council.” Dominique said.

Domino nodded his head. “Yes, of course, and there remains a room, completely walled-in, it had been the prison for a deformed Windsor child; a grotesque prodigy of one of their incestuous unions. Yet another room was an arched and ceilinged family tomb. Located on the second floor, it reeked of death and was so macabre that it had served as dark inspiration for William Shakespeare’s Macbeth scene: The Killing of Duncan.”

“Yes,“ Dominique interrupted. “The castle’s tale is fittingly one of nefarious infamy but you’re avoiding the subject, father. I need to know what’s really going on, not a history lesson.”

Unruffled by her obvious impertinence, Domino nonetheless repositioned the bulk of his huge, powerful frame, completely engaging her. “The history is the lesson, child. You already know more about Council affairs than anyone else including high-ranking members of the Brotherhood. I brought you with me to observe. “

“Yes I understand all of that but how can I observe what I can’t see?”

“Therein lies the problem, my dear. Play your position and you will see much. You will see it all.”

Dominique crossed her legs and adjusted her Dolce & Gabbana shades. “I’m still not clear on what that position really is, father. Things are even more unstable and unpredictable now that Luciano is dead, and that’s why you’re here of course.”

Domino reflected briefly on the recent death of Luciano de’Medici, former Chairman of the Council. “That like everything else was not unplanned for. The game is chess, not checkers.”

“But I can’t make the best decisions without complete information.”

“All in due time. Until then, patience, my dear. And remain in the helicopter. Curiosity killed the cat.”

Dominique smirked. “But he had nine lives.”

Domino shook his head. “That’s a myth. Remember, our kind doesn’t subscribe to rumors and myths, we create them.”

“I’m a market maker, I already know that.”

“Then act that way, girl.”

Dominique became absorbed with her IPhone.

The peaceful, manicured, park setting of the courtyard was disturbed only by the helicopters, limousines and black suited, personal security details that patrolled the grounds. Although the most influential people in power from around the planet were meeting inside, there wasn’t a single reporter or protester in sight. Unlike the annual Bilderberg Group meetings, they were actually meeting in complete secrecy and their theoretical policies became policy in fact on a global level.

After landing Domino entered the Council chamber room. It was majestic with a high vaulted ceiling. The torches in their crenellated sconces illuminated the chamber as the hiss and aroma of their burning permeated the room. Coats of arms and glistening suits of armor lined the stone walls reflecting the light. Glorious tapestries of great battles were hung strategically telling a historical as well as prophetic tale. Carved directly into the masonry, chiseled in a fifth century Uncial script were the words:

“The Most Secret Plans Are In Agitation: Plans Calculated To Ensnare The Unwary: To Attract The Irreligious And To Entice The Predisposed; To Combine In The General Machine For Overthrowing All Governments And All Religions.”

The quote was derived from a correspondence the forefather George Washington had sent to William Russell in 1798 in relation to the Illuminati. It served as a personal reminder to Damien Victor Domino of exactly the power of the forces he was dealing with.

On the wall opposite was carved the motif of a huge skull with the definition directly below it.

“Skull; The Head as The Seat of Intelligence.”

In the center of the vast chamber was an onyx round table of monolithic size. And inscribed in its center in molten platinum, “Ordo Ab Chao.” orbited the all-seeing eye seven times; a circle within a circle within a circle. Reflected torch flame shimmered across its glossy surface like liquid flame. Situated evenly-spaced around the grand round table were seven ornately carved high-backed chairs. Standing solemnly behind five of the chairs were five grim faced men. Their white cassocks fashioned from fine brocades resembled the ancient robes of the clergy. But they were members of a new church or rather a very old and exclusive religion and their doctrine was New World Order, world domination.

“How gracious of you to honor us with your presence, Damien.” Petruchio said. He stood behind the seventh chair, the one directly beneath the skull inscription. The position of power. The Seat.

“Forgive my lateness, Brothers,” Domino said. “The helicopter I chartered encountered unforeseeable complications.”

Petruchio nodded his head ever so slightly.

“You dishonor the entire Council with your excuses.” Grimes spat. His voice dripped distilled venom and disdain. He was Gregorian Gaylord Grimes, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency.

“And what would you know about honor?” Domino said.

“Enough.” Petruchio commanded. In the absence of a Chairman he held the Seat as regent until a new Chairman was selected for service. “We have much business to conduct and not much time to do it in.”

Domino and Grimes eyed each other in silent communication. They’d been bitter rivals before but the latest events would forge them into deadly adversaries.

Petruchio turned to address the entire Council. “You all already know the reason for this emergency convening of the Council is nothing more than a formality.”

The Dominion of the Order and the Sub organizations under its umbrella number into the hundreds, yet the Council consists of only seven members. As the innermost circle of the governing body they each held the title of Skull; the head as the seat of intelligence. Thus they were each bosses, commanders, an office they held for life or until untimely death in some cases. For the penalty for infractions against the Rules of the Order at this level were often fatal.

And the position of ultimate, undisputed leadership was that of Chairman of this supremely exclusive Executive Board of Boards. The top of the pyramid, literally.

“This Council is hereby convened.” Petruchio said formally. “Remain standing, gentlemen,” then turning toward Domino. “And you, Victor, since you have excuses, will serve the blood wine.”

“As you command,” Domino responded, ritually as he went to retrieve the wine and goblets.

Domino placed a crystal goblet before each Council member then he filled each from the ornate crystal decanter before reassuming his position behind his chair.

Petruchio held his goblet high and the other Skulls followed suit. “Since the blood wine has been served as penance for belatedness, we will break with tradition today. So who will stand in honor of commencement?”

After a momentary pause Sir Albert Ingram of the Court of the Bank of England spoke in his haughty English. “I stand in honor for the Order this evening.” He then recited the blood oath speaking most eloquently, waxing poetic as the dark poetry of the oath deserved.

Once finished he spoke the secret sign. “Dark nights are unpleasant.”

“Yes,“ the council answered in chorus with the cosign, “for strangers to travel without brothers to illuminate the path.”

“The clouds are heavy,” they continued en masse, a choir of dark mass.

“Because a storm is coming. Yet we are not unprepared.” Sir Albert finished. Then he held his goblet up higher before throwing his head back and drinking the entire draught.

“A Skull above all others!” He shouted.

“A Skull above all others!” The congregation repeated in unison, raising their goblets to return the toast.

Then Sir Albert suppressed one cough, then another before succumbing to a virulent coughing fit. The brutal barks echoed throughout the chamber as they racked his body. He leaned over the table with his arms and legs shaking uncontrollably as blood spewed violently from his mouth with every horrible hack. Gurgling he collapsed to the floor choking as his lungs filled with fluid drowning the Englishman in his own blood.

Grimes spat his wine out followed vehemently by his fellow Council members. Shocked silence descended upon the chamber as they came around the table to look at the Englishman. The sight they beheld was one of upmost horror. The late Sir Albert Ingram lay crumpled like discarded laundry. Blood still oozed from the corners of his mouth, nose and eyes. Stunned murmurs and shattering crystal resounded as members dropped their goblets to the stone.

“Dio mio!” Petuchio exclaimed in shocked confusion.

Then the entire chamber erupted in a cacophony of shouts and confusion.

Copyrighted Material. All Rights Reserved. Duplication Unauthorized.

dreams for sale (prologue I; final embrace)

dreams for sale

From the twisted mind of Money Lloyd

Prologue Part I

Final Embrace of the Sacrificial Lamb

      Time stood still as her oxygen and blood circulation were brutally choked off.  Slowly she stopped struggling; clawing and scratching at his hands and forearms, the light in her eyes extinguishing as her life expired. She died hard but then the woman had always been a fighter.

      Murder is a highly intimate act, more so than raw, unadulterated sex – like a kiss but one of death rather than affection. This is particularly true when the deed is done by one’s own hand such as strangulation.  He would have performed the task barehanded as he preferred, as she deserved but the evidence left behind would have been too incriminating. Not to mention that she didn’t deserve this at all.

      The huge, hardened, avaricious man untangled the crimson silk handkerchief that was twisted around her throat with unusual tenderness. The pale moonlight shone through the open patio illuminating her sublime features. Her exotic Egyptian beauty was amplified rather than diminished in her death though her face was contorted in shock and terror.  And it was her lovely, almond shaped eyes that told the tale of ultimate betrayal as they stared back into his own, lifelessly, accusingly.

      He was not so consumed by his ambition as to be blind to the power of love.  She’d captured his heart from the first time he’d laid his eyes on her.  And the pleasure she’d given him from the depths of her love canal were not measurable in mortal terms. She’d been his most trusted partner if he’d ever truly had one. Yet his lust for power was insatiable; an appetite for destruction that could never be satisfied. Thus as master and commander of his own destiny, he was slave to it.  He and his daughter were her life and she’d given him the best years of his life.  However sacrifices had to be made.

      Lives were being lost.

      Without further thought he completed the ritualistic procedure, the knife and her blood the pen and ink he used to scribe the ancient symbology on the walls and floor; square and compass, cryptic circles and triangles and of course the all-seeing eye.

      A single tear dropped from his eye as he entered the lavatory and disposed of his blood stained gloves.  He showered in complete darkness, avoiding the full length mirrors and his own repulsive reflection.  After cleansing his body he still felt filthy for he could not ever wash his sins from his tortured soul. Some things once done could never be undone.  There could be no turning back now.

           Lifting the fifty caliber Desert Eagle and a spare clip from the wash basin, he brandished the weapon as he stole across the bedroom chamber to the door leading to the adjacent room.  There was more work to be done on this cursed, hellish night.  Indeed, before the night was over both he and it would be irrevocably baptized in blood.  This was the price that had to be paid for him to become one of The Blood, one of the seven.

            Ever so carefully, he opened the door just a crack and peered inside his daughter’s bedroom.  Without a care in the world, she slept soundly in the deep sleep of peace.

           Back in the bathroom, he crouched waiting in the darkness.   The hot shower water he’d left running filled both rooms with steam.  Having no concept of time in his current state of mind he had no idea how much of it had passed before they arrived.  He saw them before he heard them; dark silhouettes climbing over the patio rail, moving stealthily like phantoms through the steamy fog.

           His grip tightened on his pistol as he waited patiently for all four of the assassins to enter his bed chamber.  Two of them surrounded the bed while the other two crept quickly to the lavatory.  He squeezed the trigger and both rooms erupted in light as the high caliber handgun fired and the first assassin’s head exploded in flame. The blinding muzzle flash illuminated the steam eerily in a collage of yellow and orange.

           Before the first assassin dropped lifelessly to the floor,  he fired two more shots hitting the second square in the chest, the force of the rounds knocking the fool back into the entertainment center  –  activating it.

            Suddenly music blared from the surround sound speakers. Rising from his crouched position he took aim at the other two gunmen.  But before he could get another shot off he was hit.  The round from the assassin’s rifle spun him around even as it knocked the big man off of his feet.  The room erupted in a cacophony of gunfire as he blasted wildly at the assassins and they returned fire.

            As he careened uncontrollably into and over the wet bar the wall behind him was riddled with projectiles from the assassin whose rifle was blazing away on full automatic.

            The air was filled with gun smoke, glass, plaster, wood and various other debris.  And he was hit again and again.  The bullets burned like red-hot lances as they pierced his bulky frame.  Frantically, he reloaded and dragged himself up on one knee so hat he could get a shot at the gunman.  Again he was hit yet the hand cannon bucked as he squeezed of a round, dropping the assault wielding assassin with a lucky shot to the throat.

            He stood staggering on his huge shaking legs.  Where’s the last one, he thought, straining to see in the dark, foggy, smoke filled room.  Glass and other particles crunched beneath his bare feet cutting them as he stumbled around the bed.  And there he was. The last assassin was laid on his back in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood.  The fool was clutching his chest with both hands and the big man could hear the gurgling wheeze of a sucking chest wound.  He didn’t know if the grotesque sound was coming from him or his assailant since his breath was rattling in his own chest.

            The last assassin’s eyes opened wide in a bizarre parody of surprise as the big man pointed the desert eagle at his face and fired shot after shot after shot, continuing to squeeze the trigger long after the cannon blasts transitioned into the impotent clicks indicating the magazine was empty.

            There was nothing resembling anything human left of the would be assassin’s face in a head that was all but completely destroyed.  Blood, bone and brain fragments were spread in a splattered pattern on the fine Persian rug.

            Injured and bereft of strength, mentally and physically as well as spiritually, the big man limped over to his dead wife and embraced her lovingly.  The act of premeditated, cold-blooded murder is a powerful aphrodisiac. This however shamed him more than the act itself and sickened by his own corrupt nature and perversity he wretched.

            After recovering from the dry heaves he became aware of the song that was blaring from the speakers, as well as the celebratory sounds of Carnival revelers outside and his own bodyguards trying to bang their way through the huge oaken doors.  The song was “The Man Who Sold the World” by David Bowie.  As if in sudden realization of his heinous crime, he yelled a bestial roar full of pain, anguish, guilt and loss.

           

            The screams of his daughter fell on deaf ears.

           

            By the time his bodyguards broke in he had fallen to his knees enfolding his wife’s, his love’s lifeless body in his huge arms and he was weeping like a pious priest.

Copyrighted Material. All Rights Reserved. Duplication Unauthorized. 

dreams for sale (a cold world novel)

From The Twisted Mind of Money Lloyd

Dreams For Sale™

An extraordinary ex-con/con man gone straight is seduced back into the "Game" and used as an unwitting pawn in a well directed, well financed conspiracy. Masterminded by a megalomaniacal mob boss who's not only a titan of industry but a ranking member of an insidious international secret society bent on world domination, the master plan is one financial and political intrigue on a global scale. See for yourself through the eyes of a master manipulator how the events of the Credit crisis and subsequent housing market crash were premeditated and orchestrated to shift and consolidate economic power.

Dreams For Sale is a graphic work of dark literary art. As hardcore conspiracy & crime fiction in the style of pulp, the writing is immensely rich in both treasures and trash; modern noire. For those with an appetite for the things people do in the darkest places, it captures the flavor of the night with erotica and gratuitous violence. Political manipulation, government corruption, gruesome murders, corrupt cops, grifters, mob figures, rogue agents, and hardboiled hit men form the backdrop for a through-the-looking glass view of the best and worst of human nature.

As the first book in The Code World series, Dreams For Sale grabs you by the throat and snatches you into the dark side of the American dream. From the depths of the criminal underworld to the untouchable heights of the political over world at the perceived pinnacle of power, its a convoluted and brilliantly twisted tale.

Are you ready to be illuminated?

Copyrighted Material. All Rights Reserved. Duplication Unauthorized.