The Lady Who Joined The Men's Club(one Shot story)

The Lady Who Joined The Men's Club(one Shot story)

“They called him Ghost Killer,” said British expatriate Lord Harold Randolf Wellerin, a member and security officer of the Gentlemen’s Club. “He was a man eating tiger who was reported to have killed more than two hundred men, women and children in India. He had been known to slaughter entire families just for the pleasure of it.

“My hunting party and I were tired as hell from three weeks pursuing that accursed beast. Our relentless hounding kept him on the move. He continued to kill but we would not let him eat. He lay down to rest but we would not let sleep. That fatal morning we made an error when we wounded but did not kill him. That night we confronted him. No, in hindsight I believe he confronted us. This all took place down in a swamp-jungle that was hot and swimmingly humid. In that hell-bog mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds wielded needle sharp stingers as long as toothpicks. They did their best to eat us bloody alive.”

It was near midnight. The Gentlemen’s Club was a five story high two-acre square castle designed by a world-renowned architect team. It was built with the best materials and manpower money could buy. Outside the fortress-club black wolf head shaped clouds whose eyes and fangs were illuminated by flashes of red lightning, raced across the sky and seemed to catch and devour the full silver moon. The clouds were the outriders of an approaching freak of nature storm. Inside the Gentlemen’s Club, on the first floor of The Grand Lounge, five, rich, white men and one rich black woman, the newest and only woman to ever be allowed to join the club sat in lavish comfort and listened to Lord Wellerin a retired colonel of the British Army. Lord Wellerin reached up on the wall of weapons and retrieved, using both strong callused hands, a big gun built by Calvor Glental, a Canadian and argumentatively the world’s best gun maker.

Lord Wellerin, a tall, blond, handsome, ruggedly built man was at the peak of manhood, just before the beginning of decay. He held dual American, English citizenship’s. The lord’s lineage was royalty, wealth and privilege. He was a semi-retired military adviser, world-class hunter, expert marksman, unmarried and ladies man.

“You should have quit the hunt and taken it up at daybreak?” said Mr. Jim Mortimer Manson who had heard the story a dozen or more times but was more then willing to help pump up the suspense. “Why, why, I would not have gone into that diseased sewer of a jungle after nightfall looking for a wounded animal, and a man eating tiger at that, for all the hashish in Turkish warehouses’, all the diamonds in South African vaults’, all the gold in Fort Knox and all the oil in Saudi Arabia.”

“Gura San, my tracker,” said Lord Wellerin, “who I trusted without question, even with my life, believed a storm was coming our way and that it would arrive before daybreak. It turned out that he was right, about the storm. We believed at the time that if we didn’t get that murderous cat, while his bloody trial was still fresh, the storm would destroy any chance of that. We believed that he would escape, reappear several days or weeks later, in another state, rested and full, to continue his killing rampage.

“I was point, Gura San covered my back as we moved through that accursed jungle. Suddenly, I saw less then fifty-feet-away in the thick, dark undergrowth, by the reflective light of a torch that Gura San carried, the man killing tiger glaring at us with hate, pain and hunger. I knew, and he knew, as we looked into each others eyes, that one of us was about to die.

“The big cat roared – then charged!”

Lord Wellerin threw the unloaded big gun that he had donated to the club and that had once been his most prized possession and was now one of the most storied possessions of the club, to his broad, muscular, right shoulder. Thunder boomed out in the night as Lord Wellerin took aim and mock fired at the snarling head of Ghost Killer that was mounted at the center of a far dark big game wall of trophy heads.

In a one-story high volcanic stone fireplace burning, crackling oak and cherry logs cast dancing, goblin like shadows and soothing warmth over the members of the club. Four of the six members reclined in rich leather chairs that were scattered liberally across the lounge that could seat one hundred, without crowding, with ease. The five men present quaffed expensive, liquors and smoked world-class Cuban cigars. Out in the night thunder boomed, lightning flashed, near hurricane caliber winds blew and heavy rain began to fall from the black sky. The Gentlemen’s Club flesh of stone and bones of steel easily shrugged off the beginning of the storm’s assault. The five men present visibly winced as a monstrous thunderclap exploded above the armored mansion. Mrs. Rachael Tinkle, who was heavy with child, did not.

Mrs. Tinkle, with an angle of a face was a youthful looking lean, long-legged black beauty of a woman. She lay upon a black kidsoft antique leather couch. She wore an exquisite, black, ankle length designer dress of superb craftsmanship. At her feet, on the richly carpeted floor lay diamond-studded slippers that twinkled and sparkled from the reflective firelight. The lady’s right hand was bare, her left hand was sheathed in a black, kid soft leather glove. The lady retrieved, always with her right hand, a tiny cup of expensive, imported black tea. She sipped sparingly from the non sweet beverage that she retrieved from a small, museum caliber redwood table that sat in front of her. On the table sat a silver antique teapot of exquisite craftsmanship that was half-full of her favorite beverage.

“I saw,” said Lord Wellerin, “smelled and tasted death, but I was not afraid!”

“Not afraid?” said Mr. Jim Mortimer Manson. “I find that hard to believe.”

Mr. Manson was the current president of the club and fourth generation old money. He was a tanned, handsome, cultured, middle-aged man of solid athletic build. He looked down into his lead crystal goblet of one hundred year old brandy of superb vintage that he held in his right hand to cover his mocking smile. In his left hand he held one of the before mentioned cigars. He was dressed, as all the men present, in a black rich custom tailored suit white handmade cotton shirt diamond cufflinks and a handmade finely crafted black silk tie.

“Yes,” said Lord Wellerin with a sudden antagonistic edge in his voice. “Not afraid, tired, weary, cautious but afraid, no. You see, there wasn’t enough time for fear, later yes, then no. I fired a single shot . . .”

“Only one shot?” said Mr. George Sinclair Archibald interrupting. “Why not more? I, would have blasted away at that foul beast . . .”

Mr. Archibald as all members, except for the lady, had heard the story before and found it sport to tease Lord Wellerin. Mr. Archibald was the past president, current chairman and the one of the oldest members of the club. He was a brood, short, portly man, who was also born into old money. He puffed contentedly on one of the Cuban cigars of the highest quality and quaffed three hundred year old red-black wine of superb vintage.

“Damn it George!” said Lord Wellerin cutting him off, “there was only time for one shot before the beast would have torn me to bloody pieces! I had to make that kill shot or die trying!”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Michael Ganvin continuing the mild harassment, “you shot him in his left eye kill . . .”

Mr. Michael Ganvin was the club’s treasure whose family had lost their fortune. Mr. Ganvin was a tall, handsome rail-lean gentleman. He had married a lady whose family was old money and had managed to hold onto their rich fortune.

“No,” said Lord Wellerin, “I shot him right between his eyes blowing his brain out! Ghost Killer tumbled roaring to my feet where he lay dead! Only Gura San stood beside me ready to back me with his double-barreled shotgun loaded with steel slugs. As for the rest of my party, a sorry excuse for a white man who had prematurely wounded the beast that morning, and four equally sorry black porters, cowards all, had dropped guns, supplies and ran away into the jungle screaming like frightened women! Bah! With the exception of Gura San it was the last time I went on a hunt with that lot of losers.

“Only brave men could have stood their ground, looked into the jaws of death and taken that kill shot . . .”

“Be careful Harold,” said Dr. Tom Frenton, “we do not want our newest member to think that we are, hostile, toward the fairer sex.”

Dr. Frenton was the club’s secretary. He was young, handsome man. He was a brilliant brain surgeon, new rich and the youngest member of the club at forty-years of age.

“Men are wolves by nature,” said Lord Wellerin as he carefully, gently returned the unloaded big gun to its rack on the wall of guns. “Women are by nature sheep.”

“Say!” said Dr. Frenton as he rose to his feet. “You can’t . . .”

“It’s okay Tom,” said Mrs. Tinkle cutting him off using her soft, sensuous voice. “No need to defend my honor it sadly being beyond defending. I thank you kind, handsome, young sir for your concern.”

“You two are proving my point,” said Lord Wellerin with a wicked smile on his face. “One passive a woman, the other aggressive a man.”

Lord Wellerin picked his glass of one hundred year old cognac up off an antique table. He savored its aroma then drank it down with great relish. The thunder grew louder, the rain fell heavier the wind blew harder as the storm intensified.

“Lord Wellerin, sir, unlike you, who faced that tiger, a lowly imp of hell, I have faced a high prince of hell.”

“I don’t know about the rest of these gentlemen, but I find your statement suspect,” said Lord Wellerin with a touch of contempt in his voice. “Women know little of fear, nothing of hell on earth. What I mean by that is combat. You know nothing of flying bullets and bombs as young men to right of you and young men to left of you are cut down in the heat of battle. You, women, stay locked in your homes where it’s safe, raising babies, cleaning, washing, cooking, gossiping with your female friends, while us men go off to the ends of the world to make our fortunes, defend country, and, you women. Most women live long lives and die comfortable, in bed surrounded by weeping family and friends, of old age.”

“There is some truth in what you say,” said Mrs. Tinkle who did not meet Lord Wellerin’s challenging eyes with hers as she continued to knit away with large, bone-white ivory needles. “And you good men are to be commended and shown a hero’s welcome when with, proverbial shields in hand, come home victorious from war. And tears of loss and flowers on your grave, when you return from war on your shields. But it is untrue that evil and his hound death, stalk only men and not women.”

“Right,” said Lord Wellerin in a patronizing way, “Women succumb to an occasional killer house fire or pneumonic cough. And well we know how women make their fortunes, by opening their . . .”

“Lord Wellerin!” said Dr. Frenton, “I know it’s difficult for you, but try and be civil . . .”

“Ah yes,” said Mrs. Tinkle cutting off her defender, “the oldest profession in the world. When the devil comes a calling to ruin a woman’s reputation with unwed sex when you men are away. Yes Lord Wellerin, I know the ways of the fallen angel well.”

The storm was growing more intense as hurricane speed driven rain arrived and hammered The Gentlemen’s Club and its ten thousand well-cultivated acres. Foliage and branches from trees, bushes and plants were ripped off. Lightening strikes punished the land. The storm mauled; two unoccupied guest houses, an indoor and outdoor Olympic size swimming pools, a professional caliber golf course, a jogging track, two indoor and four outdoor basketball courts and a combination football, soccer field. Only the animals occupied horse stable and dog kennel absorbed the storm’s savage assault as well as the mansion. The mansion quivered, as did the half dozen crystal chandeliers in the lounge, with what seemed like fear. The four-seated male members of the club came to their feet. They looked around through four-dozen, three-story high closed steel reinforced, shatterproof windows through black partly open three-story high drapes out into the savage night. The men silently pondered the menace of the unexpected, unforeseen storm. They closed their eyes as bone-white lightning flashed. Mrs. Tinkle seemed indifferent to the storm as she continued to lay and calmly knit away.

“You surely jest Mrs. Tinkle?” said Lord Wellerin as his confidence begun to wilt. “So who did you encounter – the devil?”

A monstrous bolt of lightning struck a giant oak tree. The two hundred feet high, three hundred year old tree was sheered completely through at its base. The tree fell and crashed, barely missing the Gentlemen’s Club. The tree’s impact made the ground quake beneath the club.

With an unsure smile on his face Lord Wellerin poured, with sure hands, two fingers high of his favorite dark liquor. He drank it down with a steady hand, set the glass down on an antique table and then walked to one of a dozen north facing windows. He threw the partly open drapes wide and with his back to the rest of the club members looked with a critical eye at the damage the fallen ancient tree had made to the front lawn.

“I jest not,” said Mrs. Tinkle. “And no, I did not meet the king of hell. I met his captain. A lesser-fallen angel. A high lord of hell.”

For the first time all evening she stopped knitting and lay her needles and knitting down in her lap. A flash of graveyard white lightning showed that the tranquil smile had fallen from her lovely, beautiful, youthful looking face to be replaced by an ancient ghoulish mask.

The four men, who continued to stand and the doctor by her side, saw the newest member unmasked in that instance of fell light. They looked at her with a new more cautious perspective.

“Mrs. Tinkle,” said Mr. Manson, “if, you have a story, and if you wish, would you be so kind as to share it with us.”

“A wish!” cackled Mrs. Tinkle with a hint of the maniac in her before cultured, sane, voice. “That’s what brought a fallen one, a hell lord to me those long, long years ago! A wish!

“George dear sir, would you be so kind as to bring me a bottle of brandy?”

“Do you think it wise?” said Dr. Frenton. “Your condition and all . . .”

“My condition kind sir, be damned!”

“A first,” said Lord Wellerin, “Mrs. Tinkle drinks with us, and curses as well.”

He left that window, crossed the lounge threw wide the drapes to one of a dozen south facing windows and looked out into the dire night from that direction.

Mr. Archibald’s went to one of half a dozen well-stocked bars located throughout The Grand Lounge and retrieved a clean crystal glass and a decanter of superb one hundred year old brandy. Ignoring the glass offered to her Mrs. Tinkle with cat like quickness snatched the bottle out of his hand with her left gloved hand. She turned the open, lead crystal antique bottle up to her sensuous, rouge lips and to the astonishment of the watching men, drank down the full bottle of potent liquor.

“Mrs. Tinkle!” said a shocked Dr. Frenton as he got up from his crouching position beside her never having seen a woman, or a man pull off such a feat. “I must protest!”

“Calm down good doctor,” said Mrs. Tinkle with no seeming ill effects as she handed the empty container back to an astonished Mr. Archibald and laid a calm, steady hand on the equally astonished doctor’s coat sleeve with her bare, dark hand. “The baby I carry has suffered far, far worse then a little alcohol. It only makes it stronger. You will understand after I have told you my story. And you, and the rest of these fine gentlemen will not think so highly, or kindly of my condition, or my person, once you have heard my story.”

Mrs. Tinkle pulled a black, cotton handkerchief of superb quality from her left sleeve, dabbed her moist lips and returned it to her sleeve.

“Where to begin? I guess, at the beginning. I was born into slavery in the American south. When I came to young womanhood, I was sold at auction to a wealthy, powerful man. I came to call him Mr. Master. I came to learn that he was a black warlock. After buying me he clamped a black iron chain around my neck and put me in his black carriage pulled by two big black horses. We arrived at my master’s rich, well maintained, but sinister plantation on a full moon night. He led me by chains down into a deep, candle lit dungeon where he chained me in a dark corner. He sorely neglected me. Thus I became dirty, filthy and ragged as I slept on a ragged blanket and pissed and shitted in a crack in the black stone floor where cold black swift water ran. With wicked leers on his face Mr. Master would toss scraps of food to me like I was a dog from his table. Every day that table would be filled by black magic with the finest steaks, hams, stews, breads and wines. I scrambled for the meager offerings with two great, free roaming black hounds. I rarely won to those great snarling beasts getting nipped on hands, arms, legs, back and face for my efforts. Lord Wellerin, I believe together those hounds could have killed that tiger you slew. As for me, they could have killed me with ease but they knew Mr. Master wanted to torture, not kill me.

“As for Mr. Master, he was cruel, very cruel. His was a cruelty of the mind, master of that was he for he never laid hands on me in rage or in pleasure. As I watched from my dark, dirty corner he would mumble spells in the dark of night that he read from a great, black book that he kept on a black alter that stood in the center of that dungeon. He would then have congress with small nether world creatures that I feared to look upon as I huddled chained on the floor in my far, dark corner. Then, one day, Mr. Master followed by the two great, black, red eyed, long tooth hounds climbed up out of the dungeon locking it behind him. It was the last time I ever saw him.

“Days went by as I consumed the bountiful food and wine that Mr. Master had left on the table in that black dungeon. Then the food was gone. I began to wilt from thirst and hunger for Mr. Master had not bothered unchaining me before he left and I could not escape those chains.

“Fortunately my mother had taught me in secret to read which was illegal in those days for coloreds. It was fortunate and a lifesaver for me, or least I thought it was at the time. For you see Mr. Master did not take the great black book with him. Beyond desperation as my life leaked from me from thirst and starvation I read from that book of evil and mimicked what I had seen Mr. Master do. Thus I was able to conjure up imps, those same nether world creatures that Mr. Master had dealt with and demanded they give me drink and food. They did, supplying me with banquets, equal to that that Mr. Master had enjoyed. My hunger and thirst satiated, full strength returned to me. I demanded that those hell spawn free me of the chains that bound me. They could not, or would not claiming it was beyond their meager powers to break them. They said that only a demon and a powerful one could do that and conjuring up one would cost me dearly. They refused to say what the price would be. I grew desperate driven near to the brink of madness by loneliness, isolation and confinement. I built a pentagon down in that black dungeon using my own blood. I lit black candles, and using a black spell, the most powerful spell in that black book I summoned the aforementioned demon from hell.”

“What,” said a sober and nervous Mr. Ganvin, “did this uh, demon, want of you?”

“He, told me that for my soul I would receive three wishes. I told him I was not interested in such a dark pact.

“You cannot take my soul,” I said to him defiantly, “against my wishes!”

‘Wrong,’ said the demon whose name he refused to divulge, ‘Once you summoned me your soul belonged to me. I, am your master’s master and now I am your master. I grew tired of toying with him and so summoned him to his destruction and his soul down to hell. As we speak his soul burns eternally with my two black demon dogs chasing and ravishing his backside, great sport that is. You are a new soul to be toyed with. All the riches and wealth in this world, that were once his, are now yours.’

“My soul lost, I made my three wishes.

“I wish,” I told the unnamed demon, “to be free.”

‘You are free,’ said he as the chains that bound me fell away from me and the locked door to the dungeon opened, ‘in body, but never your soul.’

He laughed and it was more sinister then the death of all life on earth, his teeth, in that instant, more rabid then the most potent botulism, his face more beautiful then any corpse that ever was, or ever will be.

‘Your second wish.’

I was young then and loved life so much, far less so then now.

“I wish to be long lived,” I told the demon with great reluctance.

‘Granted,’ said the demon. ‘Your third wish?’

“I wish to have a husband to protect me,” I said hopelessly.

‘Granted,’ said he with a wicked grin. ‘I shall be your husband.’

“No!” I wailed in terror as I tried to run.

‘Yes!’ said he in triumph as he grabbed my left hand in his as I reached the threshold of the unlocked door.

‘As your new husband I shall give you what a husband gives a wife,’ said he to me as he took me up in his corrupt, soul-stealing arms. ‘I shall give you child.’

“No!” I wailed.

‘Yes!’ said the demon as he held me and laughed his wicked laugh.

“I struggled, to no avail, as he swept aside the black book that sat on the alter. The book burst into flames at his touch. He then threw me down on my back on the black stone alter. He tore my raged clothing from my young, funky body. Suddenly the dark demon was disgustingly naked as he threw my legs wide, with little effort, as I struggled mightily to no avail. And then, and then, to my everlasting horror, fear and damnation he rammed up into me taking my virgin womanhood. I screamed in pain and agony as blood gushed out of me. The demon laughed with lust filled glee as he pounded the hell out of me.

“And then gentlemen just when it seemed I could not take any more of his pain filled ravaging and raping, just when it seemed that I would lose my sanity, a high prince of darkness spent himself deep down inside me. It felt like my very insides were on fire as the demon’s molten black seed filled and corrupted me, mind, body and soul, forever and ever . . .”

All was silent in The Grand Lounge on the second floor of the Gentlemen’s Club. All was quiet out on the club’s wrecked grounds that the storm had passed over.

“A story well told,” said Mr. Jim Mortimer Manson.

“Yes well told,” said Mr. George Sinclair Archibald.

“I agree, well told,” said Mr. Michael Ganvin.

“Yes well told,” said Dr. Tom Frenton.

The four men to cover up their growing unease, Lord Wellerin being the exception, raised their glasses to Mrs. Tinkle then drank. Lord Wellerin, whose back remained to his club members during Mrs. Tinkle’s telling of her tale, left the south facing window. He walked briskly to the one of a dozen east facing widows, threw the drapes wide and looked out into the stormy night. The four other members all hoped, and silently prayed, that they were listening to the delusional raving of a mad woman.

“There is one small detail which defies logic,” said Lord Wellerin to cover his own mounting unease, “I do believe you Americans abolished slavery what, two hundred years ago?”

He walked to one of a dozen west facing window, threw open the drapes and stared out into the night.

“Lord Wellerin,” said Mrs. Tinkle as she roughly stroked her quivering, swollen belly. “How old do you think I am?”

“My good woman! A gentleman does not guess a woman’s age . . .”

“How old!” demanded Mrs. Tinkle.

She leapt to her feet from her couch, tossed aside her knitting and knocked over the table in front of her. The cup of tea and teapot, which sat on it, went flying to crash and spill on the rich carpet.

“Hum,” said Lord Wellerin without looking back as he continued to study the dark weather, “You have the looks and suppleness of a sixteen-year-old. But the way you carry yourself, the look in your eyes and when you speak you sound far, far older and wiser then someone of that tender age. I would guess thirty-years of age, give or take a year or two.”

“You sir are far, far, far too modest in your assessment,” laughed Mrs. Tinkle in a sinister way. “I am in all honestly two hundred sixteen years old!”

“That’s, that’s impossible!” said Dr. Frenton.

“No man, nor woman can live much past one hundred! No woman can get pregnant past fifty!”

Mrs. Tinkle returned to calm and with a helping hand from Dr. Frenton again lay down on her couch.

“Anything and everything is possible in the high realm of angels and the low realm of demons,” said Mrs. Tinkle. “And woe is me for I have been in constant pain from the demon child I have carried in my corrupt belly for two, long centuries. The unborn demon child is a foul, evil bastard, like his foul, evil demon father. As for proof as to what I have said, I have it here on my person.”

For the first time since joining the club Mrs. Tinkle pulled the black leather glove, slowly, from her left hand with her bare right hand. She held out her dark left hand, palm down, fingers spread and extended her hand for the four men to see. Suddenly the power went out throughout the Gentlemen’s Club. The club’s redundant backup power systems for some reason failed to activate. Emergency lights kicked in throughout the club casting everything and the present members in the club’s Grand Lounge in gloom. Inside the club the storm’s fury seemed muted, as though it were far away. All around the edge of the club’s storm wrecked property, the storm’s rain continued to fall fiercely from the black sky, the winds howled unrelenting and lightning struck savagely. In The Grand Lounge an antique clock fell from a wall and shattered. The hands forever stopped at midnight.

“Here gentlemen,” said Mrs. Tinkle, “look at the wedding ring my hell-hound of a husband forced on my finger. Look gentlemen at a wedding ring forged in a molten furnace of hell by imps of hell.”

The four men came forward and looked down at Mrs. Tinkle hand. Then they reeled back in disgust, loathing and shock for Mrs. Tinkle had only four fingers. Between her pinky finger and middle finger, there was no ring finger. There, between her four fingers, floated a hell-forged band of absolute black. At the center of that demon wedding band shone a marble size white diamond that sparkled with concentrated malice, corruption and evil. The flaming, pulsing hell-crystal was like no other in heaven on earth, or in hell. The four men reeled back in loathing, anxiety and fear. All knew deep in mind, body and soul that Mrs. Tinkle was telling the truth.

“Would you like to look at a ring forged in hell Lord Wellerin?” said Mrs. Tinkle as she raised her hand in his direction. “Would you like to see proof of my damnation?”

“There’s no need for me to look at the abomination on your hand,” said Lord Wellerin with obvious strain in his voice as he continued to stare out the window with his back to his club members, “I believe you. For what I see outside the club is proof enough that what you say is beyond refute.”

“What in God’s name is out there Wellerin?” said Mr. Michael Ganvin. “What can you possibly see out there that is more terrifying then what is on Mrs. Tinkle’s hand?!”

“God’s name no. The devil’s curse yes. For I see strangeness out there that can only have been engineered in hell. Lady, gentlemen we are trapped here in The Gentlemen’s Club. Powers beyond our control I believe are stalking us on this hell-forged night. For currently The Gentlemen’s Club is the bull’s eye of, for lack of a better word, a demon storm. The storm has completely surrounded us. To attempt to escape, to pass through that wall of destruction would be suicide.”

Lord Wellerin turned away from the window as the four other men rushed to and looked fearfully out into the night. Lord Wellerin walked slowly to the couch that Mrs. Tinkle lay upon. He looked down at her as he would an enemy on the field of battle – as he looked at that tiger in the bush that fatal night long years ago.

“Mrs. Tinkle,” said Lord Wellerin with ice in his voice, “why did you join our club?! Why are you here among us?! You who are corrupt and damned! You being here among us may very well kill us all and doom all our souls to hell!”

“I’m here because after all these long years of life, loneliness has become an almost unbearable burden to bear. I am ten times, make that a hundred times richer then you five men here wealth combined. It took a king’s wealth, pocket change for me, to buy and bribe my way into this club. To be sure I have an army of servants but that is all they are, hired help. You men of the club are the closest I could find on earth to being my equal. For you are worldly, intelligent, rich. I am here because women of all walks of life loath, hate and shun me. For you see gentlemen, women’s instincts are sharper then men’s. Women know that I am corrupt, foul, doomed . . .”

Suddenly, a look of shock, pain and fear was stamped on Mrs. Tinkle’s black face as she grabbed her swollen belly.

“God have mercy on my soul!” cried out Mrs. Tinkle as her eyes flew wide with terror and pain. “God have mercy on all our souls! The storm makes the darkest, blackest of sense now! After all these long painful centuries, his baby, a prince of hell, is about to be born into the world of men!

“Heed my warning good men, I beg of you, flee! For a hell lord is coming and you cannot protect me, and you cannot stop him! His damned and corrupt baby demon is about to be born, and he will be here soon to collect his demon spawn, my body and my soul! He will collect your lives and your souls if you stay!”

“Flee damn you where?!” said Lord Wellerin. “The storm has us trapped like rats in a storm-flooded sewer!”

Suddenly an intruder alarm sounded. The alarm echoed hauntingly throughout the great mansion. Motion detectors and lasers had locked onto someone or something that had come out of the hurricane velocity winds, rain and lightning saturated storm that encircled the club. All heads turned and looked to a far dark wall that was opposite the wall of trophies. External cameras on The Gentlemen’s Club were pointed north, south, east and west. Four of sixteen blank, sixty-inch flat screen monitors that were hooked up to the external cameras on the property activated. The four screens covered the properties to the north. The four cameras showed a single intruder in high definition.

The cameras showed a black werewolf.

“Hell almighty,” said George Sinclair Archibald, “how could anything, man or beast come out of that storm alive! Why, why it borders on the impossible!”

“Not impossible for something vomited up out of damn hell,” said Lord Wellerin. “Something that is not alive as we know life! It is, I believe, the lady’s demon husband! He, it, the damn thing is . . . coming our way! Coming for his damned wife and demon child, coming for us! Coming for us five doomed lives and souls!”

Shock and fear hammered each and ever member of the present club members as they saw the werewolf storming closer and closer to The Gentlemen’s Club. Four of the five men backed away from Mrs. Tinkle. Dr. Tom Frenton was the exception. He remained on his knees at the lady’s side monitoring her worsening condition.

Lord Wellerin turned and walked swiftly to the wall beside an ornate steel cabin next to the wall of weapons. With steady nerves and steadier hands he pulled several keys from his jacket pocket. He rammed one of the keys into the small black box and turned it. Steel shutters on more then two hundred windows throughout The Gentlemen’s Club came swiftly down and locked.

Lord Wellerin reached up on the wall of weapons and took down his big gun. He then used a second key to open the steel cabinet. He extracted a box of high caliber ammunition the biggest and most powerful ammunition in the well stocked cabinet. He put the box of ammunition on a no nonsense black table next to the cabinet and opened it.

“This is the first demon that I’ve encountered!” he said as he extracted four big bullets and begun loading his weapon. “And I fear it may be the last! The good news is that the weapons we have at our disposal are some the best if not the best in the world! The bad news is that the ammunition we have at our disposal I fear lacks the ability to stop the vile adversary we face! As this club’s security officer, I hold myself fully responsible if one, if not all of us die here tonight! For in hindsight each and every one of us should be loading our weapons with silver bullets! Once long ago in Timbuktu in my youth when I was prone to recklessness and felt myself invincible I encountered a witch doctor one full moon night. Drunk and encouraged by a gorgeous whore I paid him a gold coin and asked him to throw his white bones down on his black clothe that he sat cross legged on and read my future. He did. He told me that one day at the peak of my power and strength a hell knight would fell me when silver would have saved me. I didn’t know or care what he meant then, I do now. I had all but forgotten that encounter, until now. I laughed in his old black face and with a bottle of black wine in one hand and the black whore in the other went elsewhere for drink and sex. But alas we must use what weapons we have at our disposal to defend ourselves. We must use weapon loads meant to stop the most violent of men and the biggest, strongest and most savage of beast! But even if we only had clubs, sticks, our bare hands and teeth we would not stand down for we as members of The Gentlemen’s Club have sworn to defend ourselves and each other – or die trying! I’m no fool and neither are you good men! I would be the first to start running and the last to stop if it were possible but it is not. We gentlemen as I said before are trapped!

“Each of you men pick from the wall a weapon you feel most comfortable with and lock and load!”

The four other men, including the doctor who left Mrs. Tinkle’s side, hurried to wall of weapons and took down his favorite gun. He then checked it, went to the ammunition cabinet selected the correct ammunition from it and loaded up. The doctor then returned to Mrs. Tinkle’s side. The four other men, guns in hands, faced the locked front door. It was a door forged by Elfcraft Security Service, as were the shutters on the club’s windows, by an American owned and operated private company. The four men faced a door built to withstand light to medium armor piercing rounds. They faced a door, as were the windows, built to withstand the assault of a Swat Police mobile battering ram. They faced a door built to withstand high explosives. They faced a door, as were the windows, forged from the same classified properties as that of an American mainline battle tank.

Lord Wellerin held his custom built gun to his shoulder and pointed it at the front door. Jim Mortimer held a full automatic M-16 to his shoulder and pointed it at the front door. George Sinclair and Michael Ganvin held full automatic AK-47′s to their shoulders and pointed them at the front door. Dr. Tom Frenton laid his ten shot, forty-five caliber automatic on the floor beside him and went back to monitoring and assisting Mrs. Tinkles in her painful, difficult delivery.

“A prince of darkness is at the gate!” wailed Mrs. Tinkle in agony. “You cannot stand against him good men! He’s come for his son who is at the gate of an unholy life! He comes for me at the brink of death! I am doomed! You are all doomed!”

Suddenly there was a soft knock at the attack resistant armored front door. Then, the door imploded. There came the foul odor of rank sulfur blown in on the invading cold, night wind.

Through the forced breath into The Grand Lounge of The Gentleman’s Club stalked a huge black werewolf. At eight-feet in height the Herculean built demon wolf had to stoop down to enter uninvited. His arms, legs, chest and thighs pulsed and rippled with muscles of coiled steel. His claws on feet and hands were long, black and razor sharp. His muzzle was filled with white, sharp fangs that dripped foam that fell to the rich, Persian rug-covered floor and burned with the intensity of sulfuric acid. The hell lord growled as he began to stalk across the lounge toward his six intended victims. His growl was the kill-all-hope growl of Satan himself.

“Fire!” screamed Lord Wellerin.

Lord Wellerin fired three of four high velocity rounds, at the werewolf’s heart, from his big gun that he had used in the past to down a charging bull elephant. Jim Mortimer Manson fired four shots, at the werewolf’s head, from his M-16. George Sinclair fired five shots, at the werewolf’s heart, from his AK-47. Michael Ganvin fired six shots, at the werewolf’s heart, from his AK-47. Dr. Tom Frenton picked up his gun and fired seven shots, three at the werewolf’s heart and four at it chest, from his forty-five caliber automatic. All five men were expert marksmen. Most of their kill shots hit the werewolf on the mark. The hellhound was driven back and out through the shattered front door into the black stormy night by the accurate, withering punishing gunfire.

The five men held their breaths as they looked hard and long through the broken doorway out into the black night. The only sound was the roar of the wind out in the night and the whimpers of pain from Mrs. Tinkle. The five men of The Gentlemen’s Club continued to train their smoking weapons on the shattered doorway where they had ejected the intruder. All prayed silently that they had eliminated the demon from hell.

“He’s here!” cried Mrs. Tinkle as tears of pain, anguish and lost fell from her swollen, bulging red eyes. “His baby . . . is, here!”

Mrs. Rachael Tinkle screamed in agony as her black water broke. Dr. Frenton put his gun on the floor, got down on his knees and positioned himself between the woman’s legs. He reached into the foul corruption that gushed out of her and found the infant’s tiny head. The doctor began to guide the infant out of its mother’s tortured womb.

“There, there,” said Dr. Frenton reassuringly as the newborns head appeared. “He’s almost here Mrs. . . .”

Dr. Frenton went white with fright upon seeing the newborn’s head pop out of his mother. He blinked and held the infant’s head with his hands.

The newborn’s little head was nightmare-black. It had eight red spider eyes that looked up at Dr. Frenton with malevolence hunger and infinite hatred. It did not cry when it opened its mouth, it growled. Its mouth was full of little needle sharp teeth. Dr. Frenton, who was holding the newborn’s head with both hands let go. He was too late. The baby monster clamped down on his left hand.

“Oh shit!” screamed Dr. Frenton in pain and agony as he yanked his bloody, mangled hand out of the baby monster’s mouth and fell back on his ass. “My fingers! My fingers!”

Blood shot out of the doctor’s hand where four fingers use to be.

“My hand! My hand! Damn it my hand!”

Mr. Ganvin turned away from the door, took his finger off the gun’s trigger, dropped his gun from firing position and took a step toward the wounded, shouting Dr. Frenton.

“Hold your position man!” said Mr. Archibald. “We have unfinished business with that damn kid’s damn sire!”

Dr. Frenton continued to shout and scream. Mrs. Tinkle continued to wail. Lord Wellerin, Mr. Archibald, Mr. Mansion and Mr. Ganvin continued too silently point their weapons at the shattered open doorway. The infant, who was still in his mother, except for his protruding head, chewed with relish on the doctor’s fingers. Then he swallowed them, flesh, bones and blood. He continued to growl like a wild, feral beast. His eight beady, satanic red eyes were locked on the black doorway.

“Shut up man!” shouted Mr. Archibald to Dr. Frenton. “That woman’s wailing is more then enough!”

Dr. Frenton bit his bottom lip. He held his mangled hand with his other and began to use his silk, one thousand dollar, necktie as a tourniquet on his mangled, bleeding two fingered left hand. He glanced up with mounting pain, dread and horror at the black thing that was sticking out of Mrs. Tinkle’s black, bloody womb.

Again from the outer darkness into the lesser darkness of The Grand Lounge stalked the black ace of hell. The werewolf had grown in height, width and depth. He had to almost swat to enter through the doorway. The king of werewolves was now even more menacing, more powerful and was mad as hell. Before his fall he was the third most precious, the third most loved, the third most beautiful angel in heaven. Now he was the second most powerful angel ever fallen. There was maniac horror in his horror hound face. The black hairs on his body danced with pent up hell fire. On his hell burned back were black stumps where were once golden and radiantly lovely wings. They were burned and forever destroyed when he was cast from heaven, down into hell. He exuded and radiated total, complete, corruption, wickedness and infinite black evil.

“Fire!” screamed Lord Wellerin as for the first and last time in his life he faced an adversary he knew he could not defeat.

The five men, even the doctor, who had retrieved his gun in his right hand, poured round after round into the black werewolf as he came for them. The werewolf ignored the bullets as a crazed man would ignore mosquito bites.

Mrs. Tinkle threw her left hand, with its hell forged wedding band on it, to her mouth and screamed like a lost soul upon sight of her husband and master who was the father of all monsters and the greatest of them all, ever. She screamed so hard that something broke inside her and splattered crimson-black blood all over her un-gloved hand. In an instant her blood was sucked into the fell sparkling diamond of her hell forged wedding ring, which made it throb and sparkle red like a living-dead thing. And for the first and last time, she looked down between her gapped open legs at her newborn child’s, black, puppy size head, with its fang filled mouth and eight red eyes that stared back at her. Her very heart froze in terror at the sight of her child – then Mrs. Rachael Tinkle heart stopped forever.

The king of werewolves as he came for them generated; more power then a runaway freight train, more meanness and savagery then every snake that ever lived and more evil then the entire human race. He came with satanic rage for the five men and one woman of The Gentlemen’s Club as a mayhem maker, a life destroyer and a soul taker. But most of all he came for his son a high prince of darkness.

A high captain of darkness, a war master with few equals in hell the werewolf king sensed whom to kill first. He clamped, with the speed of lightning and the sharpness of a guillotine, down with his mighty jaws on Lord Harold Randolf Wellerin now empty big gun, right hand and forearm. The doomed lord’s hand, arm and weapon were pulverized and completely destroyed by the mayhem generator in the blink of a wild dog’s eye. The lord’s blood literally exploded out of him and he was pancake flattened by the werewolf’s murderous onslaught. Every shred and iota of life was knocked screaming out of his proud, handsome body.

The black dog of war slashed right with a sharp clawed foot. His monstrous blow ripped Mr. Jim Mortimer Manson across his stomach. The doomed good man’s blood and guts exploded out of him. He was hurled back across the lounge with tremendous force, killing him.

The warhound slashed left with his black clawed hand tarring Mr. George Sinclair Archibald right arm off. Shockwaves of death knocked the life completely out of Sinclair.

The wardog of hell whirl kicked right. His monstrous blow cut Mr. Michael Ganvin completely in half killing the hell out of him.

The kill master kicked left with his black clawed foot. The blow ripped Dr. Tom Frenton right arm and shoulder from his body killing him. The five men of The Gentlemen’s Club had been slaughtered and butchered within seconds. The king of werewolves had knocked them down into death quickly, brutally, without mercy, without hope.

The bullets The Gentlemen’s Club members threw at the black werewolf blazing guns did no damage whatsoever to him. None on earth, and only God in heaven could do the dark angel harm, and God had done him all the harm he could when he cast him from cool, tranquil, love filled heaven down into savage hot, hate filled hell. For it is beyond the power of God himself – to destroy evil. Then the werewolf king did a monstrous thing. He twisted Lord Harold Randolf Wellerin’s, Mr. Jim Mortimer Manson, Mr. George Sinclair Archibald, Mr. Michael Ganvin and Dr. Tom Frenton heads from their wrecked, bloody, mangled bone shattered bodies. He held all of their heads in his left poison clawed hand. The skulls had looks of absolute horror frozen on their dead faces’.

With a wicked snarl on his face the werewolf king stalked up to the wall of trophies and with a trick of black magic hung them up. The demon then howled long and triumphantly.

The werewolf king’s newborn had watched the entire evil fight from Mrs. Rachael Tinkle’s dead bloody womb. It used a black claw on its appendages to cut its way out. The newborn was nightmare-black, the size of a large puppy and looked like a spider. It crawled forth on its six single clawed legs.

From the newborn’s bulbous, black thorax shot a string of red webbing that hit and wrapped around his father’s black mighty left arm. The father werewolf pulled on the webbing. His son flew to its father and landed on his chest. The demon baby opened his black fang-filled mouth and clamped down on his sire’s left nipped. He began to feed and suckle greedily on the demon’s black poisonous blood.

Cradling his newborn son in his right arm the king of werewolves strode to the fireplace. He waved his left arm. Fire shot out of the fireplace and began to burn The Gentlemen’s Club.

“Come my slaves!” said the lord of darkness to the six dead members of The Gentlemen’s Club. His voice was full of hatred and death.

The dead, birth-mutilated corpse of Mrs. Rachael Tinkle rose from the bloody couch and came to her husband and master. She then reached up and grabbed the black hairy forearm of the fallen angel’s, her husband that held their newborn.

Lord Harold Randolf Wellerin, Mr. Jim Mortimer Manson, Mr. George Sinclair Archibald and Dr. Tom Frenton headless corpses lurched to their feet and staggered zombie like behind the werewolf king. Mr. George Sinclair Archibald and Dr. Tom Frenton right arms began to crawl toward the werewolf king. Mr. Michael Ganvin two body parts began to crawl and slither toward the werewolf king. The fire in The Gentleman’s Club burned hot and out of control. It was a fire that no man could extinguish.

The king of werewolves, a dark fallen angel, a lord and master in hell, with his six slaughtered humans and his newborn male child, walked down through the burning Gentleman’s Club to the burning kingdom in hell.

THE END.