The Law of Beasts BOOK 1 - ACT 3: SARCONIA

Once upon a time....

The multi-trillionaire, Vultorian, came upon shifter ghouls made of crystals in a church closed for the evening after his plans were dismantled by Alicia, with Khovahsh protecting her from behind the velvet curtain. He always knew that Khovahsh had a soft spot for the vagabond Queen that bore Armona, Queen Mother's body and her face. A generic, generated Queen that really thought she earned the respect Armona once had.

The only thing real about Alicia was her Soul wearing Armona's body like a bride gushed over her over-the-top wedding dress. By now the lion-gorilla strain was supposed to be unleashed through zombies in Denver and quickly spread through fourteen states before the powers that be could warn the public. Fourteen states of infected vampires were supposed to put the world on notice that a new regime was about to rule the world.

Only those that took the cure via Don Sharps's pill during a secret meeting on a Helipad atop a building with fifty stories would have been spared. As he burned with rage, all he could think about was destroying Khovahsh.

VULTORIAN:

I quietly attended Khovahsh's church, seated in the very back, the day Khovahsh bought it when the church was under foreclosure many moons ago. Well, before I encountered Kowumba Jah, before that race car event that ended with Alicia battling Le'Krock'Kah, a demi-shifting reptile that possessed Kowumba'sbody for decades, even before he became one of the world's godtier scientists.

I was an undercover assassin going by my alias, Zhivargo. I knew now that my host body was born Zhivargo, but later changed his name when I came into possession of him. I have possessed him since birth. Moving in and out of him at my leisure, and only when I hid Vultorian from the world at large. Well, until my wings gave me away. They had minds of their own.

After busying myself with something in secret, I closed my eyes and opened them in my alternate life as Zhivargo, thinking about Greg and my past, a past that was just as bloody as my supernatural life.

CONTINUED FROM BOOK 1 - ACT 2: VULTORIAN

VULTORIAN IN DISGUISE:

On the news it was reported that I was running late to my own black-tie event, because of a problem with my limo. I hadn't arrived yet, according to the Paparazzi, I was already on my grounds. I made previous plans for my escape, and everything was going smoothly. I hired three stunt men. They were the spitting image of me. Each of them wore the same suit that I wore, and thick shades...shiny black gator loafers.

Breaking my train of thought, Greg found his way to the stage and staggered to walk up the stairs. There were seven stairs...representing each year I put into his firm, even before I started officially working for him, even before I started college. I had to live, breathe and become the Firm. I had to let them degrade me and treat me like a puppet.

Doctoring cases and kidnapping witnesses to keep up my conviction rate for imaging purposes. I didn't ask for it, but controlling my destiny, giving myself the life my father never did, validated me. It felt good to cheat, the way life cheated me when my first love burned to death in her car while pregnant with my child. I was still locked deep within my inner rage about that. It happened on my graduation day from college.

I eyed Gregory...He held on...inhaling at a fast rate. Air was useless when you didn't appreciate it. In the face of death, perspective changed.

"You no longer have to worry about your Firm. I never planned on resigning or going pro bono. Do you think I was going to let you black mail me all those years, treating me like shit, just to come be your slave at this dismal Firm?"

"I...I...loved you...like a fucking...son! What have you done you ignorant bastard?"

"Nice choice of words for someone that won't live to see the sunrise, don't you think?"

"I was like a father to you!" A series of coughs shut him up. I guessed they didn't want to hear the bullshit, either. His eyes turned to a purplish color. Watching his soul slowly disintegrate into nothingness gave me joy. And I took pride in it.

"Like a father? Speak up! You're not going to be here for long."

"How could you poison..."

"Come on, Greg, the Party Pooper! You're not the only one dying. I killed the judge, the doctor and the others, too! A nigger will never become a partner in your firm. Those were your words, and the sentiment from all of the undercover racists that helped build the Firm. All of you saltine crackers smiled in my face, sat at my dinner table, ate my food, drank my alcohol, accepted my money yet viewed me as a nigger the entire time. Well...looks like this nigger will be the sole owner!"

"Rot in..."

"Rot? The way you rigged my woman's brakes and she burned to death with my child, when I was in college? You think I don't know about that? You wanted my soul, and you got it when it died with my wife to be, and our unborn child was sacrificed. And you want sympathy? Now you rot in hell!"

"Die, nigger!"

"There he is! Your authentic self! Fathers don't call their children hateful things like nigger. That'll be the last time you call me one."

I punched him, pulled out both Desert Eagles, and aimed at his head. "When you perish, I will be the proud owner of your Firm. I promise to take your business into heights you never dreamed of, Gregory! Consider this your payment!"

The bullets tore through his body and internal organs without a care in the world. The smell of free-flowing blood and flesh intermingled with the smoke from the barrels of my Desert Eagles gave me crazed eyes. It didn't hurt to peck away at his organs, since they were exposed. His lungs, brain and his heart tasted quite scrumptious. I was no Hannibal Lector, but I'd silence his lambs if he crossed me as well. Success, right now, didn't fulfill me.

Everything I hoped to gain from their murders had missed the mark. My so-called "father" was now a bloody skeletal figure. I licked the bones clean of blood, briefly morphing into Vultorian.

After a delicious meal, I slumped a bit in agony. I gripped the microphone stand, looking out at all the dead bodies. I stepped over the Emcee and made my way down the stairs, running my hands over my un-feathered bald head. Into the sea of bodies I strolled, like a long day at the office, sliding my hands in my pockets, fighting my buzzard side to stay contained. With all this death around me, I had to forget that I was a carrion eater. I ate death.

I rose my hands and all the dead bodies began to levitate. I chopped off one of their heads. Flapping my wings, I approached the last man standing as held the head above my open beak and squeezed the contents into my mouth. It was one hell of a delicious protein shake. I seemed to be Einstein right now.

He stared at me, shaking like a blind hooker in church with no idea she was royally fucked. Maybe my best friend was right. I should have gone back to church, repented and given my hurt and pain to God, let him deal with it, since he made us all, but the need to survive, the need to make it on my own without a caring father drove me to the brink of destruction. I believed in nothing, not even in myself.

My body swirled back into Zhivargo, the Assassin. I grew up in the paradise of the slaughterhouse blues. My parents were multi-billionaires that didn't care about life, love or liberty.

They pissed on the American Dream and dove into the black market and built a slaughterhouse business that turned enormous profits when they started cutting up dead bodies for tons of mafia types all around the world, including the governments within the United Nations umbrella.

My wealthy father was dead now, surely looking down at the broken man standing on the stage before the dead. All of his money, stocks and assets were mine now. My mother didn't care. She had her own wealth and never cared too much about me anyway.

I paused in front of Bryant, holding a bottle of water to wash Greg's sour aftertaste away. "Now you see why I told you to drink water, and not the Verde?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat. My wings wrapped around him, pulling him to both barrels of my weapons. I put the metal to his head. "Are you with me or against me?"

He raised his hands and pushed the guns from his face. He smiled, and then hugged me. "Hell yea, baby! I'm with you! Vultorian and Grumble Associates coming up!"

I wasn't too fond of a grown man calling me baby, but I knew he didn't mean it in the LGBT sense. Maybe he should meet Khovahsh. I was sure he dabbled along the same sex waters at some point in his life, especially when he encountered a mortal named Felix. I knew Felix quite well back in the crack epidemic 1980s. I knew him because he was possessed and under my control a few hours before he encountered Khovahsh. I'd been watching Khovahsh for centuries, unnoticed. I was also present when he faced the Chain of Command. He betrayed them by breaking the Oath of Silence to his loving wife. Every time he gazed into her eyes, we gazed back--his wife and I from within her beautiful body.

"Now for the final part of the plan. We're about to leave this place before the authorities get here. When we arrive Downtown, the both of us disguised as older men, we're going into one of the dressing rooms, where two of my stuntmen are waiting. We are going to switch clothing. We are going to arrive at my event, together..."

I handed him my guns. "Take care of the stuntmen, all of them." I said, patting his shoulder, wondering if I was the devil. No, I wasn't. I was Zhivargo, the Assassin. Vultorian for short.

"I can't believe we are owners of one of the most influential Firms in the country."

"Patience...not yet. We play it cool. When the Feds get involved things are going to get a little...bumpy, but we will pull through. Our plan is air sealed tight."

About ten minutes after I got rid of my disguise, with my cohort, I brushed off my suit and looked myself over in the mirror of an abandoned store a few miles from the downtown area. It was dark and quiet. I wasn't worried about anyone being around. I was dressed as an old man, so was my friend, with our suits under our clothes. Accordion doors were sealed tight.

I had a key for the back doors. I used a remote control to kill the cameras a few hours ago. I was Downtown when my publicist called, and she informed me of what went on. I acted as if I was stunned, and even shed a few tears (publicly, for the cameras), while walking to an awaiting limo with my cohort and we played the part, arriving at the party...both panicked and shocked.

Even though I gave...what I call The Drink of Death, my heart refused to have an ounce of remorse. It didn't have a pinch of empathy for the dead. If my life depended on that pinch of hope I'd be a dead man.

When my cohort and I arrived at my establishment, the place was burned to the ground. Smoke snaked into the darkened air. Only the stars shined down at that moment, the only true act of light. Red and blue police lights seemed to invade that moment, spinning, circling and spiraling along with thoughts of confusion wrinkled across the official's foreheads.

I wanted to hold onto this moment for life. The moment of having the government in the palms of my hands and they didn't even know I was the perpetrator. I was the assassinator of assassinators; they didn't talk about my kind in any book, until now and that was becauseI was telling my storyand controlling the narrative like it was my bitch. I was a lead prosecuting attorney, now proud owner of Gregory (Vultorian) and Hammond, one of the biggest law firms in the world. And on the side I was a deranged, blind assassin. I saw nothing and no one when it came to assassinating any and every one that knew of my secrets to success or threatened anything I loved.

I had to make sure my secrets were safe. As well as keeping my Vultorian identity a secret as well, even from myself. A few cops questioned me when I arrived, ensuring that I was safe and well. A top notch Federal agent bristled over to me with a natural, concerned look and said, "Are you all right, Zhivargo?"

I shook his hand and I looked away. As he unzipped his blazer, I squeezed my eyes with my thumbs and shook with phony pain. He gave a fond squeeze and patted my shoulder a few times, saying, "What a way to make an entrance."

"Tell...me about it," I said, making my voice crack. "This place looks like a war zone," I went on, looking up into his misty eyes and he nodded, lowering his head. I studied him, without making it obvious, for any sign that the cops and Feds were on to me or had me in mind as a suspect. Wrinkles didn't form on his forehead, which was an indication I was still in the clear.

I studied his posture, it was very relaxed, not stiff and ice cold. His fingers dangled with his arms. He shook his head a few times and sighed. Ah, it was then I realized his judge wife, who died in the blast, was no more, an invisible shade of memories now clouding his unrealistic life. I didn't show sympathy.

My eyes briefly darted around as I took in the scene before me, and behind him, since he was facing me, without turning my head. The place was completely burned to the ground. I guessed this was the part where I admitted that I had set bombs throughout my establishment and odorless Cuban gasoline in huge ceramic pots surrounding the stage area.

When the place ignited with a disastrous BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM...each heart-exploding blast 3 seconds after each other, this place was rubble and ash in 18 seconds flat. Even though my friend and I were Downtown, signing a few autographs for my fans around million-dollar stores, the dial of my watch was in direct cadence with the booming blasts. The detonator was on the small corkscrew on the side of my designer Rolex.

The Maker and I did big business together. And I killed him to keep that secret.

I got it all on tape. Every second filmed with a private cameras set up along strategic wainscoting in the stage area. Before I offered my guests The Drink of Death. If only they weren't ashes right as I thought, with a grin playing on my lips.

Now was not the time to celebrate a job well done.

He looks up and he says, "I'm going to miss my wife. We've been married twenty years, and share children together. We are all devastated."

"How do you know she died in the blast? Had all the attendees shown up before hand?"

"Yes. According to the forensics department, charred articles colored the picture that they all died in the blast. The government will work day and night to find the culprit or culprits responsible for this, this sinister act of inhumanity!"

"I lost very, very dear friends, business colleagues and people who have always supported me. They were family to me."

He pats my shoulder again. "You are a respected prosecutor. Because of you a many rapists, murderers and both small and huge minded criminals are either dead or locked up for life. I can only imagine showing up at my engagement and find all my friends and family dead."

"So you understand our pain is much different"

"Different how?"

"Your wife died in the blast, my wife still lives...she's jet setting around the world spending my money, it's what I work hard for. I'm sure you did as well...for your family."

"I understand." His expression seemed to darken.

"You can't relate. Your wife lives, and mine is gone...why hadn't she attended?"

"She is a background kind of woman. She helps me, and hates to take any kind of credit. She helps run my business, and she wants me to take the credit, but I can't, you know. I give credit where credit is due," I lied to save face, I nearly slipped.

"Yea," Agent Stills remembered, a moment of life flickering in his eyes. Paramedic and fire trucks were all around the place. A few firemen sprayed loads of water on the charred building.

Smoke continuously served its devastating, blinding farce into the heavens. From miles around I was sure that motorists and news crews saw the smoke.

He continued, after a few beats of silence. It was I that pat his shoulder now, and he thanked me. "My wife loved spending my money, too. I hated that she had a job. I didn't want my wife working, yet she insisted, showing me every day just how strong she was, you know."

"Man I completely understand..."

He smiled then. "She wasn't selfish. When she became a judge I rooted her on. I saw an equal inside her; I didn't just see her as my wife. She was giving and understanding when I went through federal training to become the breadwinner, I didn't have to worry about the functioning of my home.

"She kept the kids, bills...everything together. I came home to warm receptions of love, and quotes from the Bible...even though she eventually stopped believing in God, but never pushed her view on me and allowed the kids to continue serving God and attending church.

"So when she became a judge, it was my turn to support her career. And she excelled, rising up the ranks with swift zeal, it even shocked me."

I said, "I can understand. We were dear friends."

"I love you, Zhivargo, for always being a real friend to her. She spoke very highly of you."

"Did she now?" I gave a small smile. I was actually enjoying the personal conversation.

"Yes she did. The photo you took with her, at a restaurant a few days after you beat your murder trial, rests in a nice, expensive frame in our home. Along with a few other celebrities. I used to stare at that photo for hours when I had time off from work, which is hardly ever."

"Why?"

"She was dedicated to her career. To me that symbolized she realized her mistake in pre-judging you. She told me she thought you were guilty of murder, but going through the entire case and watching it play out on TV, she realized that she was wrong.

"She felt the authorities planted evidence to get you framed, because major contributors were angry you rose to the highest echelons of political power. I agreed with her. I researched you and did a complete background check on you. You came out clean, came from less than humble beginnings, grew up in a billion dollar slaughterhouse franchise and used your talent for Debate to get you into college. I respect a good man doing the right thing to become a success."

"I made mistakes, you know..."

"You are one of a handful of prosecutors with a 470-0 record in the court room. Man you're like the Michael Jordan of politics!"

"I'm just Zhivargo..."

I felt my eyes water, a twinge of regret in my head. I destroyed this man's life, a man that believed in my innocence when I was faced with life in prison and losing my career and being sliced and diced from the state bar.

It was me in his shoes I would be devastated if I lost my pregnant wife, that meant my child would be dead too, if this was his engagement and me and my wife were invited, and other political friends, never knowing we were lured to our untimely deaths.

He said, nonchalantly (with hints of pain), "I have to get going...Nice talking with you. We may have a few questions for you, nothing too over the top; after all you arrived on time and found all this chaos, so it wasn't as if you were late. If you were then we would cast a cloud of suspicion over you."

"I appreciate the honesty." I turned to my friend, who had been listening, quietly, sitting on a small chair, with his head hanging low.

"I'm getting ready to turn in, after I talk with the authorities, see what I can do to help their investigation..."

"I appreciate your time, Zhivargo. I promise it will be very short, painless and brief. My boss said he's really good friends with you and doesn't even suspect you at all."

Damn! I forgot I altered the time on the invitations. The ones I sent out had 8:30 p.m. printed on them, in gold, but I put in secret calls from dummy phones and told them, that under no circumstance do they breathe a word to anyone of the slight change, to keep off Paparazzi.

They agreed by signing contracts.

"Tell your superior to give me a call. And thank him for me as well. Whatever you need help with, if you need my resources, just ask. And it's yours."

"Hold a second," he said, his cell ringing. He turned away from me and walked four feet away from me. I wasn't concerned with the call when he said, "Hey baby girl...yes, it's true...your mother died tonight..."

And I heard her scream through the phone.

I cringed, not expecting the pain of her loss to sicken me to my stomach. Damn it! The shit was getting to me, but that was short lived. This act of emotion, from my part, was genuine, and it angered me.

I looked at my boy. "You can go home, man... that is if you're not wanted for questioning."

"I was already questioned while you spoke with the Agent. You were so into your conversation you hadn't noticed I went over to them and made myself known. They apologized for the timing of questions, but they were brief. Nothing they asked alarmed me in the slightest; they were more concerned with your well-being."

I grinned. "That means they bit the hook. You know I have that Agent's chief on my invisible payroll. He's pulling invisible strings to keep this puppet affair dangling from every movement I make."

He stood and embraced me, nothing too flashy, and we pat each other's' backs, then we pulled away from each other.

He walked off. And I faced the Agent, consoling his grown daughter on his cell phone. I thought to myself. Thinking about when I made a last minute decision to alter the time on those invitations.

It actually worked in my favor, even though I orchestrated it all. After sending out invitations to the attendees, I told them to show up at 7:30 p.m. over the private phone calls I made, and the event starts at 8:30.

Well...I killed them at precisely 8:03 p.m. That gave me and my boy 27 minutes to get into town, in disguises.

Once we had arrived Downtown, we disposed the disguises and made public circulation signing autographs. I blew the place up when no one was watching.

The phone would be traced to Agent Stills' brother in law, his wife's down and out, enraged, estranged brother.

Getting the phone was easy. She got it for me, and gave it to me, charging me $50,000 for the theft and another $50,000 for her silence. Ho charged me for everything!

I never lain eyes on her brother, and didn't care to or want to, but that was an example of how I will go to the lower ranks of a millionaire's fortune, starting with an outcast family member, to bring their empires down on their fucking heads.

A cell phone brought down Agent Stills' family.

He ended his phone call and strolled back over to me, the breeze blowing his neatly styled blond hair. He looked more like a cover model, but the age defined lines around the circles of his exhausted eyes revealed his true age. He looked torn.

"My superior wants me to question you, get it over with...are you up to it? Or do you need time?"

"Would you mind if I waited a few days?"

"Nah, I can do that. My wife thought the world of you. I owe her that much. Call it my thanks for being a good friend and never using her."

"No problem, and thank you for understanding. I am going to give you my private number. So you can call me when you're ready."

"That'll do."

He dismissed himself. I sat on the chair, next to a few vehicles, and a small portable of sorts, official shit looks like, and lit a cigar. I watched him walk away.

Now was not the time to tell him I paid his wife to win those cases. The money gave her a change of heart, not her belief in me through friendship. In fact I fucked the bitch in the ass in Acapulco a few times, but outside of that I hated the dumb ass bitch!

I had to do away with her; she was threatening to turn my ass in, and her sneaky dealings for the safety of her marriage and family.

She was afraid her Agent husband would find out, and he would gun for me and help bring me down. She demanded more money if I was ever tried for murder again.

And if I didn't pay her $12 million dollars in unmarked bills she would even put in a motion to have another judge, a hard-assed one, take on the case.

I had to do her ass in! I meant, damn, she charged me $100,000 for her brother's fucking cell phone. I loved money, but that was over the top.

The sudden jerk of his body arrested my attention. The hairs stood on my arms, and I held my breath.

"Oh," he said, pausing.

He walked back up to me with wrinkles on his forehead. I froze for an instant, not giving anything away. I knew this was too Hollywood.

It always is.

Those Feds are sneaky prostituting whores, would sell dick and ass to solve a case, at least the ones I knew.

"Do you have a copy of the photo you took with my wife? One for my office? I know it's a rare thing to ask, especially with another dude in it with my wife," he teased, no harm intended.

"She loved you more than anything in this world," I lied. She couldn't stand his ass, and she told me the reason. She suspected he was having an affair with his superior, the same baseless fag on my payroll.

I watched his face come alive then. I fed into it, trying to make him feel as good as he made me feel tonight and not making trouble for me.

"Oh, yea?"

"Yes. She said the greatest gift you ever gave her were the children she shares with you."

"I needed to hear that, man. And you're right. I remember tonight, before she left for the party, she called me and told me those words, that she thanks me for giving her successful kids. They are all married with their own families now. I don't like to think I look like the grandfather of a 5 year old, 7 year old, 3 year old and 2 year old. I love them more than life itself."

"Yes, man, you can get a copy of the photo. I will give it to you when we speak again."

"Looking forward to it."

When he left I cursed under my breath. Fuck! The wrinkles never left his forehead. He was on to something. And it spelled I Blew it!

It was then I noticed that the Paparazzi weren't inside the parameters. The government wouldn't allow them within four miles of the place, a very important crime scene, from what another Agent told me.

He asked me of my whereabouts during the blast, and I told him I was downtown, and that was confirmed through the proper channels so that wound up being the only question asked, besides, "How are you holding up?"

I simply said, "Barely. I lost a lot of good friends tonight. It hurts."

"So have I. Seems my entire life was in that party. I'm sad my boss didn't attend. He was one of the attendees."

"Was he now?" I asked myself, stunned by the news. His superior was supposed to attend, that means he not only has the printed invitation, but the phone call I made warning him to show up at 7:30 p.m. could bring down my plan if it comes up.

He received one from a dummy phone before he left. This investigation was going to get nasty, even when I take over the firm I would probably be cast into suspicion, but my alibi was tightly created, I had confidence in it.

I had to kill his superior, and I will.