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|"Parallel" (standard:science fiction, 68314 words)|
|Author: Saxon Violence||Added: Mar 27 2013||Views/Reads: 4441/4944||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Ward is on the run from the Law when a Secret Society offers him passage to an Alternate Dimension.|
Prologue It was after midnight and it was raining heavily when someone knocked on my door. I grabbed my sawed-off 10-gauge shotgun. The Gun was legal, because it was a muzzle-loader. It’s Hell to reload with any degree of speed, but for the first two shots it’s better than Roadwarrior’s sidearm. I had a high-capacity 9mm inside my trousers. The Double Barrel was cake icing. The dude at the door was a big man—over six foot, easy, his weight somewhere in the mid two hundreds. He moved too gracefully though, like someone who’s trained extensively in martial arts or gymnastics or dancing. Practice enough and the difference between those lines of endeavor shrink drastically. Our brief tête-à-tête through the door proved that he’d spoken to my cousin, so I let him in. I backed well away from the door before I bade him enter and I kept him covered the whole while with my Howdah Pistol. My three Bullmastiffs watched him as if waiting for an excuse to tear him into pieces small enough to hide. In fact, they were waiting for some indication that it was okay to play with him. Still, if he had threatened me in any way, they would swap mission protocols abruptly. He was dressed in black from head to foot, with a long black leather trench coat and a black slouch hat pulled low over one eye. “I am an Acolyte of The Society,” he began. “Your cousin asked that this manuscript be delivered to you. It tells of something of the fate of your cousin and other folks of your acquaintance.” I had him covered as he reached inside his long wet duster for a package, but he produced it without doing anything sinister. “I will give you time to read Down’s words and to form an opinion. “I will call again in a few days,” He said and then abruptly, he left. *************** ************* ********** My name is “Sour Mann”. Yes, that is my real name and yes, it is a pun. My uncle and my father had discussed how American names were becoming ever more conformist and conventional and they resolved to buck the trend. My cousin’s name was “Down Ward”. If you have a good memory, you might recall the middle-aged Pentecostal Preacher who snapped and went on a shooting rampage. Yes, it’s the same Down Ward. God love the Mass Media. They generally leave out the good parts. There was a small-time gang lord and drug dealer named “Rubenstein”. Rubenstein asked Down’s fourteen-year-old daughter Sabrina to have sex with him and then become one of his street-walking whores. Click here to read the rest of this story (10723 more lines)
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