FOREWORD-

First off, let me say that the characters in the television show 'The Sentinel' are the property of Pet Fly Productions, and are used without permission in a work of fiction for the sake of the story that follows. No profit is made on the use of these characters, and therefore is noted as beyond the scope of duties or royalties to be paid upon alluded earnings due to use of said characters.

Second, the other principal character herein utilized (the Dark Angel, and all other nomenclatures regarding same) is the sole property of Clarence P. Browne Jr. Use of said character without prior permission is prohibited. Archiving of this and subsequent chapters, including - though not limited to - websites and et cetera OR modification of this story in any way without prior permission of the authors is also prohibited. All rights to this work are reserved as it is an original work of fiction and therefore protected under copyright and all other applicable intellectual property protections.

Third, this story is intended to be regarded as 'dues' for the Angst List of which Mary Shukes is a member. Clarence P. Browne is neither a member of said List, nor a Sentinel Fan. All feedback regarding this work of fiction should be sent SOLELY to Mary Shukes, as Clarence P. Browne is not interested in receiving such feedback, nor likely to be so in the foreseeable future.

The purpose of said story is to provide 'angst' for the characters of 'The Sentinel'. With this in mind, be aware that there are adult themes, graphic violence, coarse language, and disturbing glimpses into the mind of a madman. More simply put, if your idea of 'angst' is a dog bite or a bout of the flu, then this story is REALLY going to shake your little tree. What follows is not for the weak hearted, and is the only warning you get regarding the content.

PIP: This is a PIP, so if you want to wait for all the parts, it's going to take a bit.
Since I'm not sure how long this story is actually going to be, I'm apologizing in advance. Consider it my dues for whatever period it's actually finished<g>.

    Darkness....

    Darkness is good. It helps us. It teaches us. It makes us whole... We forget how long we've been here... Maybe a week... Maybe more... We had such a long ride to wherever it is from the Dungeons, though time to one who hasn't seen the sun as long as we haven't is difficult to gauge... We have been asleep six times so we assume it's been six days travel... Not the most reliable measure, but it's all we have... Now to business. Soon it will be time for exercise.... This pleases me. Ah, the darkness tells me that the usuals are coming by for a visit... Mullins, McCloskey, and Simms they call each other... Mullins is the leader, we learned a while ago... He has a body odor issue that made his presence known to us well before we could hear him, but most men of his caliber equate deodorant with femininity. Sad, really... They fancy themselves hard men, but we hear them talk as they march to our area... They are children. And children ALWAYS fear monsters in the dark...
 

    "Yo, Mullins, this is pointless. No matter how much we work this guy over, he's still hell on wheels during 'exercise'."
   "Ever think about how he'd be if we DIDN'T work him beforehand? Even AFTER exercise it's getting tougher and tougher to get him back in that hole."
    "Why the hell does the warden have us do this?"
    "Stop whining, McCloskey! Ever since the Mudman got killed in Jersey, lotsa wardens have been clearing each other's dregs this way... It's kinda cool in a 'Spartacus' kinda way."
    "Spartacus? Ain't that that fag movie about those Roman dudes?"
    "I think so, Simms. At least I heard of something like that. Never actually WATCHED it..."
    "Hell, I think you jerk off to it."
    "Shut UP, McCloskey! We got work to do... Button up, batons ready, and let's warm it up for the show."
    "I don't like this, man... That thing doesn't even flinch at the warmups anymore. Not at the hoses, the tasers, the knucks... It's not NATURAL..."
    "SIMMS! If you've lost your gut for this detail we can get someone else."
    "I'm just sayin', is all..."
    "Well it ain't your JOB to say. It's MINE, and _I_ say we get to work... Problems?"
    "No, sir."
 

    Now they are upon us... They buffet us with their cudgels, expecting - no, HOPING - that we shall cry out in pain under their assault. When we do not cooperate, they increase the intensity... But it is for naught. We do not feel pain because we CHOOSE not to... The darkness has taught us much... We smell their fear... Hear their hearts flutter as realization washes over them... We can even taste the air that now grows heavy with their panic and sweat... For a long time I have studied the lessons of the Darkness. It taught us that the seventeenth link in our chain has a flaw... We know that they cannot hear it cry out, as we can. How it wails when we twist it in our hand... How it snapped days ago, like a cannon. How it wept when we twisted it back so that they wouldn't see the stress fracture we wrought in it... They know only what fits it their tiny little world. Soon it will be time for exercise...

    This pleases me...

    "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have quite a fight lined up! The pride of California's Penal System, Carson 'the Mutilator' McAfee, defends his unbeaten streak of forty-two victories against a newcomer that's been on a roll of his own - a roll that MATCHES that of our local champion... It is my dubious honor to present to you, the holder of the coveted 'Highest Single Perp Bodycount' at five-hundred seventy-nine separate counts of Murder One... From the City of Brotherly Love's own Graterford Ultra-Maximum Security Cells... The man, the myth, the MONSTER... 'Bobo' FIENDISH..."

    They lead us in shackles to the cage... McAfee looks cocky, which is how we expected him to look... His heart is beating nice and steady - which tells us he's pretty confident... For a dead man. He's about two-ninety of real brassy Irish. Stocky, hands like those canned hams we remember... There's a sneer on his pugnacious little pinched face... Jaw like a lantern... Heh. He probably scares regular folks... Hell, he probably scares most hardcases, too... Trouble is, to such as we he's but a measly speck of insignificance, and it's time he learned his place in the world... They lead us to face each other in the center of the cage, and we greet him...

    "Hello, my intended..."
    "Ay? Wot's this 'ere? Some koinda clowun? Ye'll be easy, sweet'eart... Mebbe 'fore Oi kels yez, we c'n hav some toime fer me to shag yez, ay? Would'je loik dat, sweet'eart? A little shag 'fore yez go inter de groun'?"
    "Gee, as tempting as that sounds, Carse, I'll pass... Besides, you'll be too busy for any fun after this..."
    "Ay? An' wotja figger Oi'll be doin' instead, sweet'eart?"
    "Desperately trying to un-shit your head after I wedge it snugly in your colon, you Irish fuck refugee..."
    "Ye derty bastid! Oi'll KILL YA!"

    He lays into us with a haymaker that's pure hate in motion... We turn our head with it, flowing along to bring a crisp spinning backfist into his lantern jaw... He hits the ground from the shot, partly from surprise we suppose... He looks at us with wonder creeping into his little world... Guess he expected me to drop dead from that punch... Just because he killed seven guys with that one punch is no reason to expect it'll work ALL the time, and we shake a finger at him in admonishment...

    He spits out what looks like half of one of his canines, and comes at us again... He dishes up a good hook to the ribs, but it costs him a raking elbow above his left eye... He's cut, but he doesn't know it yet... He rams his bulldog head into our chest, trying to steamroller us... We counter with a spin move that puts us behind him, and we shove him face first into the side of the cage.. He starts to turn away from the cage, but we've closed the distance and grab a handfull of his red hair to use as a handle as we drag the side of his head along the chainlink - to the approval of the audience, we might add... We get eight feet before the links start turning red as we pass, and another six before his left ear comes free... He shoves us to free himself, and we play along as the pain kicks in full-power on my intended...

    Rage has probably set up shop, as he wheels on us with a roar of primal fury... It's cut off by a thumb to the left side of his Adam's Apple, and he's sent stumbling by a palm-heel to his right temple... He's tough, we'll give him that... He spins at us with a left uppercut to the stomach, and he follows it with a headbutt and then an overhand right... These Irish and their barroom style boxing... Oh well... We'll let him get some shots in - good for the show and whatnot; but the big dink is losing blood pretty heavy, and we can wait...

    His heart's racing, and that familar smell of panic washes over us... He knows he's bit off more than he can chew, and this latest rally is an all-out attempt to save himself... We drop a forearm across the back of his head while he's working the ol' midsection, and snap him back to reality with a knee-lift to the point of his chin... He falls on his duff from that, and we grab him by his ankle... A smidge of pressure, and a twist, and THERE'S that gratifying crunch sound of bone and cartilidge grinding each other to pulp in our hand... He lets out a shriek of pain and surprise, and we step forward to change our grip - thus forcing the joint of his knee across the fulcrum point of our shin, which completely shreds his ACL and dislocates his knee with a pop like a gunshot... He's kicking at us with his free leg, but he can't get much behind it from his present vantage point...

    We grab him by the collar and haul him up, and he clamps us in a bearhug out of instinct and desperation... We slide our right hand palm first between his head and our sternum, while grabbing the back of his head with our left... We push against the fulcrum of our hand with his neck as the lever and that makes enough room for us to grab him by the chin as we step back with our right foot, pulling him forward as we drop to a knee and shift our left hand to the small of his back... Fear floods out of him as he realizes what's next, and we savor the moment a smidge before we lift and push with our right hand and pull with our left... We'd make a wish if we believed in such things, and content ourselves with putting the back of the poor bastard's head squarely between his ankles as the hush that comes across the crowd makes the sound of his vertebrae taking separate vacations seem even louder...

    We look out into the crowd, and catch sight of our good friend the warden... Ooo, he looks a little pale from here... This pleases me... Guess he dropped a bundle on the Irishman... Speaking of which, he's wriggling a little, still not registering that he's been dead for thirty seconds already, so we clarify his position by pressing down on his head until it collapses... We hear a few of the women hitting the floor on the outside, and the stench of a few of the men that register what they've witnessed sicking up slams into us like a wet newspaper...

    Ah, show business.

    Quite a few Californians lost their shirts on THIS guy, and we walk over to the spot on the fence where our playmate lost his ear to retrieve it as a trophy... They won't let us keep it, of course, but they're going to have precious little to say about it soon... Heh. We tuck it in our shirt pocket as the bulls rush in to restrain us... They clasp us in irons as they bludgeon us, and we feel a smile creep across our face... Now is not the time... Soon...

    It's a few moments before he comes in to join his friends... It's very quiet, with only the sound of the two of us breathing... His heart skips a beat as we shut the door behind him... We can hear him swallow, reflexively choking back a yelp... Not good for the screws to show the cons when they get rattled, or so the story goes... He steels himself before he speaks, though we detect that little quiver that betrays his bravado...
 

    "Guys? Report your positions! What kinda shit are you two pulling on me? Goddamn it, this isn't funny! Make some noise! Show yourselves!"
    "Hello, my intended...."
    "What the fuck? That's what the freak says.... before...."
    "Before exercise? Yes... That he does..."
    "Goddamn this bullshit! Stop screwing around you two!"
    "There is no two... That would make four... Four's a crowd, and not allowed... Heh."
    "I swear to God, you two dickwads just got a big fat suspension for this shit! Knock it off, and you'll just get a verbal warning..."
    "They can't hear you, Mullins... It's just you, me, and the Darkness..."
    "WRONG! It's me, and Joe GLOCK!"
 

    He fires wildly, hoping that if he can get enough lead in the air, he may find his mark... Foolish... We slide behind him and grasp his gun arm... He loses control of his bladder at this point, and we twist his hand against the normal swivel of his wrist and elbow... He cries like a child as his arm fractures in several places, jutting bone through his skin at rakish angles... He's going to be crippled for life... All twenty seconds of it... Heh. We grasp his weeping face and bring it closer to us...
 

    "There's something you should know, Mullins... Before you go on Bobo's Wild Ride..."
    "A-huh huh huh," he sobs.
    "That movie you were talking about earlier? It was 'Caligula'..."
    "What? H-how did you? You couldn't... It's not p-possible..."
    "You're welcome... See you SOON..."

END PROLOGUE-