I dedicate this book to Tim.

(Here is a story for you to read.)

-PART ONE-

-CHAPTER ONE-

BOOK ONE

“THE BEGINNING OF THE END”

Robert Farmilo

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON!

Some Where, No Where...

...A conference was going on between two creatures. They were oblivious to their surroundings, which was just as well, because there were no surroundings; just a void, emptiness, with no name and non-substance, even to the absence of the existence of time. They had come to this place that had no name for privacy, and they were alone.

The purpose for this meeting was simple enough: the dominant creature, Ravana, King of All Demons, was there to instruct one of His minions, the subservient creature called the skull.

Instruct in what?

Ravana, King of All Demons, strolled in strides taking up the length of several galaxies at a step, but since there was no reference point, you would never have known this. His feet spanned distances - if you laid one billion miles end-to-end, you'd be able to measure the length of a small part of his little toe. He could get bigger if He wanted to. Thing of it was, that in this place, it didn't matter. There was no beginning, and there was no end, there was no-thing, other than the presence of two creatures.

For His appearance at this meeting with the skull, Ravana, King of All the Demons, had chosen to wear ten heads; and each head laid on with thick nasty lips, succulent lips, lips that boasted the hiding of sharp cruel teeth; and with each set of lips and teeth came a thin slithering tongue with razor sharp slicing edges and a stiletto stabbing tip. Each head had eyes that could see far away and close up, all at the same time.

Ravana had ears with each face, and His ears were like His eyes, they could hear the most distant sound and the sound closest to Him, all at the same time.

Ravana had hair of the darkest black, oily and greasy hair, like the darkest pitch and blackest tar, and each hair was lit up from inside, glimmering and gleaming a glorious black radiance.

On each of his ten heads, The Mighty Ravana had a face on the front, a face on each side, and a face on the top. Ravana knew His spectacle of faces would do more than any of the words He would speak to the skull. He knew the skull well, so He had chosen His appearance with care. It was important to Ravana that He impressed the skull with His will, and the force of His will would be transmitted more through the illusion of His power than any cracking of skulls would bring.

Keeping pace with Him was His minion, the skull. It was the skull with the vermillion eyes. The skull was an it and it had no gender. The skull was Ravana's creation. The irony was that the skull did not know this. The skull was less than a slave, and more than a disciple.

The skull was dependent on Ravana for its existence, for it derived all purpose from Him. The skull was not as big as Ravana, not because it couldn't be as big or even bigger, but because it didn't dare to be. The skull was terrified of Ravana. Fear and loathing held the skull tied tight to a leash of grovelling obsequiousness. At the end of the leash was Ravana, jerking this way and that, as the fancy took Him, according to some mysterious design the skull did not appreciate or comprehend. The skull thought it's Master mad, insane, and crazy at the best of times. As it listened to Ravana's latest plot it became convinced that He had gone too far in His madness.

Ravana told the skull, "Skull, you will be the spear-point of this project on your planet. It is time to speed up the disarray. It is time to weaken the fabric, atom-by-atom. It is time to end it all."

The skull winced at this idea, and was terrified at the prospect of everything ending. It still had so many desires left unfulfilled! So many virgins to drag down, so many holy people to corrupt, so many multitudes of little children to degrade, and so much power to wield. And now it was all to be taken away? Even what little it did have? Too much!

Ravana interrupted the skull's regret. "Oh, I know what you're thinking, skull: ‘What about MY destiny? MY time to play with THE power?' It does not matter. I am fed up. Done. I will end it all."

The skull dared to speak. "But Master, how can you do this?"

"You question Me? You doubt Me?"

"No Master, not I. I merely wonder why?"

Ravana hesitated for the merest instant (which lasted ten thousand years, if our Earth based anthropological time had existed in the place these two had come to for their meeting; a place with no attributes. Even to say it had no attributes is to defy logic. But then, this no-place does not even exist in the sense that we are used to). He answered the skull vehemently, "I see all the pasts, I know all the presents, and I perceive all the futures, all at the same time. Do you know what this is like?"

"No, my Master, I do not." (‘But I'd like to,' thought the skull, ‘Have such power!')

Ravana glowered, "I know ALL this; and I am in every bit of each event at every moment of time, all at the same time...and it is very wearying. I know it will all come to pass, and the universe, and all the dimensions, all of it, will roll back into itself and become nothing. I know it will then start all over again. I know this because it has already happened, is about to happen, is happening right now. I am here, and I am there, and I am...bored. I am angry. I am furious. Do you know who I am raging at?"

The skull did not know.

Ravana sounded mad, insane, but not upset. He was talking to the skull in a matter-of-fact tone, strolling through infinity as if on a Sunday walk.

The skull answered Him, "No, Lord, I do not know."

"Skull, I am going to find out who put all this here, who made it all, once and for all. Who made the gods, who made the demons, and who made Me. And I am going to find out who made the ones who made them. And I will keep going until I have found the very starting point. Then I will have found the very source of my...displeasure. Then, once and for all, I will end this IMPULSE of life, FOREVER."

In its bewildered excitement the skull forgot itself for a moment and exclaimed, "But Master! How can You do this?"

Ravana's ten faces scowled at the skull, and ten mouths grimaced in displeasure. "I am mighty, oh yes, skull, I am mighty. But I cannot end everything all at once. No, not even I can do this. There is momentum to deal with. Momentum.

"I have a plan, skull, and it WILL work. We start in your galaxy, in that little star system, on your favorite planet, your place of domination. It is there that I will throw the spanner into the cosmic works. It is there I begin the beginning of the end...."

<<>>

MEANWHILE, ON PLANET EARTH

A description of Jake Thornwell’s birth:

Doris Thornwell was in great pain, and was cursing loudly and elaborately, placing unusual emphasis on the well chosen words, roundly selecting subjects, including her husband, Harold Thornwell, as victims of her vindictive tirade. The brunt of her storm of abuse centred on the source of her pain: the child she was giving birth to.

She lay on a bed in a bright and antiseptic room, in a hospital located in Southern Ontario, in a country called Canada. Around her a team of medical professionals had gathered, busy at their work, and with some urgency now because something in what should have been a routine delivery of just another baby was going wrong.

Ignoring his wife's profanity as best he could, Harold Thornwell asked the physician nearest him what was going on. Harold's voice betrayed his suspicious nature and his sense of helplessness as he asked in a peculiar blend of a snarling whine, "Doc Jamie, what's going on?"

The doctor didn't pause in his work, and answered tersely, "We have to take your wife into the O.R., Mr. Thornwell - right now!" The little gathering of nurses and doctors moved quickly, and Doris Thornwell was wheeled out of the room, into the corridor and along to an operating room. She called out to her husband not to leave her - though she said it in a way that was obscene, commanding, and piteous. One of the nurses alongside her tried to sooth Mrs. Thornwell, but all the nurse got for this attempt was a clear and potent direction to reproduce herself.

Doc Jamie said, "You won't feel a thing, Doris, so just stop all that cussing, if you know what's good for you, AND for that baby inside you!"

Harold Thornwell followed along behind her, and was stopped at the swinging doors of the operating room by the firm hands of one of the nurses. She shook her head, "No, Mr. Thornwell, you have to stay out here...we’ll let you know."

Harold immediately began to fire-off questions at the nurse, "What's wrong? What's going on? Where are you taking my wife? What are you going to do?"

He wondered if Doris was going to die, and the child with her - all these thoughts jumped about in his mind, and he noticed he thought about the life insurance he would get if they did croak, and then let the thoughts about what he would do with the money flow into him, soothing every bit of his anxiety. He became aware that the young nurse had been quickly answering him.

In fact what she had told Harold was, "There is something wrong with the fetus, with the baby's heart, Mr. Thornwell, and we have to get the baby out now - don't worry, okay? This is the best possible place for this to have happened. Thank God you aren't out in a field somewhere, up in some mountains. Now you go and wait, alright? We’ll let you know." She was interrupted by one of the other nurses who called to her, "Come on!" from inside the open swinging doors of the operating room.

"Gotta go!" the young nurse said to Harold Thornwell. She turned and disappeared behind the doors of the operating room, and for one brief moment, Harold Thornwell saw the pristine interior of the room and the little team of doctors and nurses performing a cesarean section on his wife: there was Doc Jamie with a scalpel in one hand, standing over Doris Thornwell, the skin of her stretched, swollen and taut belly stained with iodine. Doc Jamie put the sharp thin metal blade to her skin and made the first cut, a bright red line following the path of the scalpel. Then the doors closed and Harold Thornwell was alone in the corridor of the hospital.

Well over three hours passed before the young nurse came out to find him where he was sitting on a chair out in the waiting room. She pulled away her surgical mask, sat down beside him and sighed, and noting his look of fear, said quickly, "Everything is fine now, Mr. Thornwell. You have a son - and your wife is going to be okay, I think. But you wait here, just a few more minutes, and I'll get the Doctor to talk with you, okay?"

“What do you mean, 'I think?' What's wrong with my son?” Harold continued to ask more questions, but he was using mostly swear words.

The nurse shook her head and said, “There is nothing wrong with your son. You wait here and the doctor will tell you whatever you need to know.”

The thought came to him that maybe his wife had died during childbirth and that now he would be saddled with raising some squalling infant.

Harold was relieved and disappointed at the same time, and not the least bit guilty over the discrepancy in his emotions, not when it came to his wife. She would survive anything: "Worse luck!" he thought to himself privately. But a son! Now that was something. A son!

"A boy! You're sure?" he asked, knowing it was a stupid question, but not being able to help himself from asking. He was very suspicious of all these doctors and nurses, convinced they wouldn't tell him the truth about anything, even the sex of his own new born child.

The nurse looked at him to see if he was kidding. "Yes. It's not something we usually can make a mistake about."

Harold was oblivious to her humour.

"Is he okay? How much does he weigh? What colour are his eyes? Where is he now?" he asked in a tumble of fresh anxiety.

Doc Jamie came into the waiting room, and heard Harold Thornwell's questions. The nurse said with relief, "Here is Doctor Jamie, he'll answer all your questions, I'm sure." She turned away and greeted the Doc with raised eyebrows and a slight tilt of her head towards Harold Thornwell.

Doc Jamie said, "Thank you, Nurse Eldridge." He sat down beside Harold Thornwell and said, "Your son is fine, Mr. Thornwell. So is your wife. It was a close call, I don't mind telling you, but we did it: We saved them both and they're going to be none the worse for wear. Now wait a minute! Good. Your son weighs six kilograms and sixty-six grams. He was born at six hours, six minutes and six seconds; well, well, well...would you look at today's date! It's the sixth day of the sixth month of..." Doc Jamie paused and looked meaningfully at Harold, and then said, "This is adding up to a lot of sixes! I sure hope you don't take any of the symbolism seriously. I know I don’t. Anyway, your son's eyes are blue, and he is currently in an incubator, in the intensive care unit."

Harold Thornwell was sitting on the edge of his seat, his mouth half open, and the private world of his thoughts thumping like crazy. He wasn't exactly a superstitious man, but that sure was a lot of sixes - but to him the idea of God and the Devil was just a fairy story told to people to get them to do things they would never normally do and to keep them obedient and docile and stupid. He asked Doc Jamie, "What'd you do with my kid? How come he's in intensive care if he's so fine?"

Doc Jamie regarded Harold with a thin veneer of civility. It was all that was left after being subjected to the Thornwell's rudeness and crudeness over the last seven months. He had come to expect rudeness and crudeness from this man and his wife, but he had not grown used to it.

Holding back some choice comments, he answered politely enough, "Your son was going to die. Alright? We saved his life. Your wife was most likely going to have died. We saved her life. Do you understand? Your son's neck had the umbilical cord tied around it, not once, not twice, but six times. It is a total miracle that he is alive. Your wife was hemorrhaging - I have never seen anything like it before, Mr. Thornwell, and I hope I never do again. It was a massive breach of her womb, and she took a lot of blood in transfusions, and, well, she's alive, and she's going to be alright. Right now she is still under the anaesthetic, and she is in the recovery room...and," he looked at his watch, "I think in about another hour you'll be able to see her."

Harold Thornwell interrupted Doc Jamie, "I want to see my son, where is the intensive care place, anyways?" He got up and looked down at Doc Jamie, "Where is my son? I want to see him…now!"

The Doc was tilting his head back to look at Harold, and he felt like being very rude, but once again, he controlled his temper, stood up, facing Harold Thornwell. He said, "Come with me, Mr. Thornwell, I'll show you the way."

Doc Jamie led Mr. Thornwell along the corridors of the hospital, and soon they came to a set of doors with an automatic opening bar. There was a large sign by the door that read: Intensive Care Unit - Authorized Personnel Only - No Unauthorized Visitors.

Doc Jamie stopped in front of the closed doors and told Harold, "This is as far as I'm going, Mr. Thornwell. I need to check on your wife now. You go ahead, they know you are coming. Just ask at the desk."

"I thought you said my wife was fine," replied Harold Thornwell suspiciously, "If she is so fine, why do you need to go look at her?"

The Doc was unable to smother all of his sudden indignation. "You really are incredible! You and your wife! I'm going to her because it is my vocation to care for people, Mr. Thornwell. Even people like you and your wife! Goodbye, Mr. Thornwell!" With that, Doc Jamie turned on his heel and strode away, furious and silently cursing under his breath.

Harold Thornwell gave Doc Jamie's retreating back the finger. He pressed down on the opening bar next to the doors. The doors opened up with what he thought was a science fiction, alien intelligence, off limits, restricted-to-authorized-personnel-only kind of feeling. He walked through the doorway into the sealed corridor of the intensive care unit. He came to a second set of doors and pressed another opening bar device, and the doors whooshed open, and he walked into the intensive care unit.

It was hushed and dramatic, with a sacred and ultimate sense of the purpose of saving lives in the very air. The sound of the special climate control air circulation equipment could be heard in the background as a uniform hissing noise, and the faint, collective noises of medical equipment monitoring patients added another layer of sonic input; and there was more - the quiet voices of the staff at work in this life saver's gallery.

Harold Thornwell came up to a long counter where, behind it, sitting on a tall stool, a very tired young man was checking some paperwork.

Harold put his hands on the counter, leaned forward close to the young man's face, and said, "I want to see my son. He's here. The name is Thornwell. He just got here. He's a newborn baby. Where is he? Is he okay?" He spoke in a flat, quick, and irritating monotone, looking right at the young man.

The young man was annoyed by being peppered with Harold’s abrupt demands, and it showed in his expression as he answered, "Let me see - Thornbell."

Harold Thornwell corrected him brusquely, "I said Thorn-WA-ell...Duh-Bell-You, DOUBLE-U, not Bee. What's wrong with you, anyways? You don't look so good. You not feeling well? You sick or something?" All this came out in a tone carrying a complete lack of concern for the young man and implying a strong dose of negative judgement.

Harold said, quite sharply, "So where is my son? I want to see him, now!"

"Excuse me?" asked the young man sarcastically.

Harold Thornwell breathed out like a horse, frustrated and annoyed. "My son, T-H-O-R-N-W-E-L-L; just point me in the right direction. You can do that, can't you, pal?"

The young man wordlessly pointed to one side. Harold Thornwell walked away, saying, "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?" He used a voice he reserved for retarded people.

The young man watched him walk away and then looked down at his paperwork. "Unbelievable." the young man said to himself.

Harold Thornwell found his son in a small room filled with medical equipment, attended by a female nurse who looked at him and raised a finger to her lips. She whispered, “You must be Mr. Thornwell.”

Harold nodded and the nurse smiled and said, “Your son is sleeping.” She pointed at the still form of a little body under the warm glow of lights designed to create the perfect temperature for little babies. This little baby was in an incubator, hooked up to wires and tubes. Harold Thornwell could see the marks around his son's neck where the umbilical cord had almost strangled the boy to death.

The nurse said, “Poor little fellow, almost didn’t make it; but no worries now! He is fine, absolutely. I can always tell, Mr. Thornwell - your son is going to be a very healthy little boy!”

Harold wanted to tell the nurse to go molest herself with a pitchfork, but something else gripped his attention. The nurse noticed his strange expression and said, “Well, I’ll let you have some privacy - I’ll just be outside – doing paperwork. I’ll leave you, so....” She went out of the room.

Harold stepped close to the incubator and leaned over to get a good look at his new son and his only child. He gazed in wonder at the little creature. He said, “Don't you worry none - no one is going to hurt you now!"

The baby was sleeping, and Harold could see the breath come in and out of the boy's body, like some kind of little animated fake doll. Harold Thornwell had been raised on a farm, so the mystery of animal babies was nothing new to him. In fact, it had never been a source of wonder for him. He just took it all for granted and attributed the impulse of life to the imponderable file. For him, the important thing in birth was the breeding. He said to the little baby boy, "You need good blood to be a king! And you, you have the best there is! Mine!"

Harold took a little flask from one of his pant's pockets. He opened it up and raised the flask to his lips. He took a long swig and went, "Ahhh! There, you little pecker, I done put one in, just for you. In your honour! You IS my son, and you might as well start being trained right here and right now. No sense in burning daylight!"

***

He spent ten minutes talking to his newborn son, taking swigs from the flask, and then winked at the little baby and said, "I've got to go and check on my slaves - don't want to let things slip just because you done come along!" He left his kid and went in search of a telephone.

Harold walked up to the same tired young man at the long counter. The young man was still doing paperwork. Harold snapped his fingers. The young man looked up, saw Harold and frowned. Harold sneered, "Hey! Wake up! You got a phone I can use? How about this one?"

Harold reached for a telephone near the young man. The young man quickly put his hand over the telephone and snarled, "Hands off! Use the pay phone!"

Harold sneered, "Hey, kid! I pay YOUR salary, such as it is, and I need a telephone, and you ain't using this one...so...."

The young man kept his hand over the telephone. "Sir...the public are not permitted to use this line. Understand? Read my lips...no. Understand? NO."

Harold swore at the young man and explained where he could put the telephone. The young man paled and two bright spots appeared on his cheeks. Harold laughed at him and walked away, sneering, "You better look after my kid, bub! You bunch of incompetents already nearly killed the little bugger!"

Harold ignored the vibrations of hatred pulsing from the young man. Harold spied a telephone, and reached into his pocket, took out a quarter, and made his phone call.

After two rings he heard a woman's voice say, "Northwell Enterprises...how may I direct your call?"

Harold looked around to see he was alone and said, "You can direct it directly between your legs!"

"Harold!"

"Yeah. How's my little sex-a-tary sex-a-mary doing?"

"Stop that! You bad man!” There was a brief pause. The woman then asked tentatively, “What happened? Did she....?"

Harold snorted, "No, worse luck! She's alive. Probably eating a nurse right about now, knowing HER! But you better get ready 'cause I got me a SON! He's about the funniest lookin' thing I ever seen, but he's mine, and he's is definitely Thornwell male! Got the biggest pecker I ever seen on a little shitter!"

"Is he alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, they ain't managed to kill him yet. Though they came close! Bunch of lazy bastards here, don't know what my money's doin' in a place like this."

"Have you been drinking too much?"

Harold swore and said, "Mary Eldridge, the day comes when a woman can tell me what I can and cannot do is the day...."

"Harold, you take it easy."

"No, you take it easy, no, don't! Forget all that shit! What's been going on?"

"Oh, Harold, you know everything is under control. No problems."

Harold took a deep breath and sighed.

"Harry, you sound wound up - why don't you get clear of that place and...."

He leered at the telephone. "Unhuh. What you gonna do?"

Her voice went deep and husky. "Well, I know what to do when you get...stressed. Don't I?"

Harold's leer was epic. "I give you that, little Mary."

She cooed, "Oh, you sure can!"

Harold said, "Alright, if you need it so much, I'm willing to do you a favour. And you better savour the favour. Keep it warm. I'll be over ASAP."

She laughed, and it was in her throat and chest, and she moaned, "Oh, it'll be more than warm, Harry."

Harold snorted and strung together a list of obscenities and then hung up the phone. The smile on his face was subdivided into allotments of lust and power and greed and selfish anticipation.

Harold went back to his son. The nurse was in the room. He scowled at her and she blushed. He leaned over the incubator and addressed his son in a lingering whisper, "I'm gonna go now, kid. Go gonna and fuck the hired help. Some day, when you is the king, you gonna be able to do the same thing. And I'm a gonna show you how! So this here is your first lesson. Take your pleasure when you can, and don't let anyone know what you're up to. You be good while I'm gone, you hear me? Don't go and die on me!"

Harold stood up straight and glared at the nurse. He said in a harsh voice, "You take good care of this kid, you hear me?" The nurse looked at him with a mixture of anger, shock and growing outrage. Harold snorted, "Ha!", and turned on his heels and marched out of the room.

As he passed the young man, Harold snapped his fingers and said, "Wake up! Break time is over!" Harold laughed and ignored the young man's quiet hiss.

Harold left the intensive care unit and the hospital. He got into his car and drove away to his office.

He hadn't forgotten his wife, lying in post-op. Harold just didn't want to bother pretending to care.

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