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madderchanse photos downloadPart 3! ...through coked up, heavily armed sex traffickers and their illegally obtained werewolf/winged companions...he spoke to initiate a tussle. "Hey, cuntsluts."::::::::::: Coronary. Let's see how long it takes me to finish this one.

Part 3! ...through coked up, heavily armed sex traffickers and their illegally obtained werewolf/winged companions...he spoke to initiate a tussle. "Hey, cuntsluts."::::::::::: Coronary. Let's see how long it takes me to finish this one.

madderchanse photos downloadPart 2studio headphones. Just enough to hear clearly, but not block out the sound of the screaming that alerted him to danger. Sweet, sweet danger. Unique yet familiar, varied each time, succinct, viscerally revolting yet guiltily satisfying.Sometimes they were commands, in some language or another, angrily telling one person or thug or beast or soldier to flank or take cover or throw something that would explode and hurt him, or whatver was around him. Sometimes it was racial or homophobic slurs, misguided anger that was, in and of itself, about to paint a nice target on whatever it was they had for a head. Other times, just really, really creepy animal noises. Things-That-Like -To Kill Other Things noises. Whatever sounds would blair from outside his view, he knew it meant something was going to try to hurt him, badly. And could. And probably would.  Which meant he had every excuse to pull the trigger, lean into the splintered, wooden stock of the machine gun/explosive-launching apparatus and turn it that mean thing into a fine tomato base. It took mere seconds before the source showed itself. Not that it mattered. He was so obsessed with the clang of each round as it ripped out of the barrel, the rhythmic muzzle flash, transforming whatever space he was in into a lightshow for the ages, hypnotizing. He just wanted to feel scared, and hurt something. The simplest joys he was ever able to find, now in abundance, and (mostly) free, besides the occasional dose of amphetamines to stay in the fight when sleep wouldn't, Hydrogel for the worst and only type of pain he couldn't stand, burns and water to...well, drink. None of that was ever dropped by his targets, heroin pushers, half multi-dimensional werewolf, trained militia or giant wasp he was fighting. He decided, despite him not being in their view or within hesring distance yet, he should greet them somehow. Have fun with the caper. That's what it was all about, right? The paycheck was the work. He lifted his helmet just above his nose, being sure to inhale before so and to keep his eyes covered. With perfect diction, as if he hadn't spent the last three hours running, stabbing, shooting and slashing his way"

Part 2studio headphones. Just enough to hear clearly, but not block out the sound of the screaming that alerted him to danger. Sweet, sweet danger. Unique yet familiar, varied each time, succinct, viscerally revolting yet guiltily satisfying.Sometimes they were commands, in some language or another, angrily telling one person or thug or beast or soldier to flank or take cover or throw something that would explode and hurt him, or whatver was around him. Sometimes it was racial or homophobic slurs, misguided anger that was, in and of itself, about to paint a nice target on whatever it was they had for a head. Other times, just really, really creepy animal noises. Things-That-Like -To Kill Other Things noises. Whatever sounds would blair from outside his view, he knew it meant something was going to try to hurt him, badly. And could. And probably would.ย  Which meant he had every excuse to pull the trigger, lean into the splintered, wooden stock of the machine gun/explosive-launching apparatus and turn it that mean thing into a fine tomato base. It took mere seconds before the source showed itself. Not that it mattered. He was so obsessed with the clang of each round as it ripped out of the barrel, the rhythmic muzzle flash, transforming whatever space he was in into a lightshow for the ages, hypnotizing. He just wanted to feel scared, and hurt something. The simplest joys he was ever able to find, now in abundance, and (mostly) free, besides the occasional dose of amphetamines to stay in the fight when sleep wouldn't, Hydrogel for the worst and only type of pain he couldn't stand, burns and water to...well, drink. None of that was ever dropped by his targets, heroin pushers, half multi-dimensional werewolf, trained militia or giant wasp he was fighting. He decided, despite him not being in their view or within hesring distance yet, he should greet them somehow. Have fun with the caper. That's what it was all about, right? The paycheck was the work. He lifted his helmet just above his nose, being sure to inhale before so and to keep his eyes covered. With perfect diction, as if he hadn't spent the last three hours running,ย stabbing, shooting and slashing his way"

madderchanse photos downloadProud AND nervous to share this, way different than anything I've ever written but If you take the time to read this, please let me know what you think! A piece of the opening chapter to my new novel! Part 1! "The glass breaking in the distance sent a sweet surge of adrenaline through his huge frame. His breath smelled of blood and an empty stomach, easily picked up by his own nose thanks to the polyfiber/aluminum respirator mask that was keeping his lungs from overworking and his eyes from becoming pulps. There was broken glass in the air and each inhalation was like swallowing little knives. The mask made him feel safe, hid his identity, and made him feel brooding. Badass. The filters for the respirator protruded like the teeth of a large, ancient predatory beast, the single panel goggle portion covered in some odd serial printing, was clouded with sweat, debris and gore. It was the kind of mask that, at some devolved point hundreds of years ago could have made folk think, on a hilltop or mountain crest somewhere, during the zenith of a sunset, or rise, or whenever, that some type of demon god had arrived. Each echo followed by another shattering pane, slamming a smile onto his face as he lifted the chunk of metal to chest height, pointing it down the wide, florescently lit tunnel. He threw himself to the right wall, the breach area of the black, fifty-caliber silver-scrapped monstrosity of weapon clanging against the oddly clean tile of the wall. It was fully loaded. The heat of the last belt of rounds still glowing into his hands, the tendons of them shaking like suffocating rodents. Damp. Regripping over and over as he nodded his head to some grungy riff playing on large headphones hanging around his neck. Studio headphones. Just enough to hear clearly, but not block out the sound of the screaming that alerted him to danger. Sweet, sweet danger. Unique yet familiar, varied each time, succinct, viscerally revolting yet guiltily satisfying.Sometimes they were commands, in some language or another, angrily telling one person or thug or beast or soldier to flank or take cover or throw something that would explode and gurt him, or whatver was...

Proud AND nervous to share this, way different than anything I've ever written but If you take the time to read this, please let me know what you think! A piece of the opening chapter to my new novel! Part 1! "The glass breaking in the distance sent a sweet surge of adrenaline through his huge frame. His breath smelled of blood and an empty stomach, easily picked up by his own nose thanks to the polyfiber/aluminum respirator mask that was keeping his lungs from overworking and his eyes from becoming pulps. There was broken glass in the air and each inhalation was like swallowing little knives. The mask made him feel safe, hid his identity, and made him feel brooding. Badass. The filters for the respirator protruded like the teeth of a large, ancient predatory beast, the single panel goggle portion covered in some odd serial printing, was clouded with sweat, debris and gore. It was the kind of mask that, at some devolved point hundreds of years ago could have made folk think, on a hilltop or mountain crest somewhere, during the zenith of a sunset, or rise, or whenever, that some type of demon god had arrived. Each echo followed by another shattering pane, slamming a smile onto his face as he lifted the chunk of metal to chest height, pointing it down the wide, florescently lit tunnel.ย He threw himself to the right wall, the breach area of the black, fifty-caliber silver-scrapped monstrosity of weapon clanging against the oddly clean tile of the wall. It was fully loaded. The heat of the last belt of rounds still glowing into his hands, the tendons of them shaking like suffocating rodents. Damp. Regripping over and over as he nodded his head to some grungy riff playing on large headphones hanging around his neck. Studio headphones. Just enough to hear clearly, but not block out the sound of the screaming that alerted him to danger. Sweet, sweet danger. Unique yet familiar, varied each time, succinct, viscerally revolting yet guiltily satisfying.Sometimes they were commands, in some language or another, angrily telling one person or thug or beast or soldier to flank or take cover or throw something that would explode and gurt him, or whatver was...

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