Samual entered the town of Steelin Run in a flash of lightning the color of quicksilver; his boots charred
two silhouettes into the pavement. The tingling of electrical charges dissipated; the scent of scorched
leather rippled in the afternoon air. Samual turned his ice-blue eyes to his surroundings.
Traveling between times and worlds was not something that his kind enjoyed doing, but he was a
renegade. Other worlds than his own--this particular one--drew him like festering meat brings small
squiggles of maggots. His main mission or goal was the dispersing of souls, sending them back to his
own where and when; Earth souls are of high value where Samual has come from. But in no other world
has he yet to encounter the "special" souls like he has had in this one.
Although rare, these basically one-in-a-million types (referred to as confuto motor, where he comes
from: the supreme motor) are an almost inexhaustible source of power which to draw from. And these
are the souls that Samual has left his world for. He thrived for their taste.
But any soul would do for the time being because Samual was a mischief-man. The Lord of Mischief, as
he was dubbed by so many fallen and so many living. Another title that he was known as was Lochhi, a
name that some people of this Earth would undoubtedly find somewhat familiar.
So in his long, tiring searches, whenever he has come across a perfect time for his devilish doings, he
would always go into the situation with vigor and excitement.
And as he stood in a narrow passageway with short, bricked buildings to his front and back, he felt that
tinkle in the center of his brain that told him he might just have his chance at a little deviltry.
The alley was cluttered with debris of all sorts: empty beer bottles, fast-food wrappers, crumbling dead
leaves, and various other forms of trash. A green, overflowing Dumpster was off to his right. He could
hear cars in the distance and smell the rot that seemed to swell from the ground itself. He also heard
some sort of metallic clinking sound over by the Dumpster. He didn't move at all; neither did he try to
hide himself. He just stood and stared, a curious grin on his face.
Albert Lipachowsky was the rotund owner of the eating establishment known as Albie's Eatery. He was
completely hairless on the top of his head, but he had a pony-tail that reached to the crack in his ass. He
had on his graying apron as he carried an armload of pots out to throw away; his new ones had just
arrived via FedEx. The semi-shiny pots and pans were held to a comic height in front of the fat
restaurateur as he shimmied left to right, looking like a man who spent the entire weekend in the local
watering hole.
As he clenched his fists, attempting to relinquish the hot energy inside his tall frame, lines of blue
electricity flickered over Samual's knuckles. He wore his grin wide (the grin that so many have seen just
before dying an untimely--and  otherworldly--death), as he watched the chubby man waddle across the
alley towards the Dumpster. Samual faced Albert, raised his fingertips up to his lips, touched them, and
blew a kiss to the old owner.
The pots and pans quaked in Albert's arms. He stopped, bewildered, at the sudden feeling. An insane
sensation of some kind of disconnection shivered throughout his body.
All at once, Albert flung three pans and four medium-sized pots high into the air. One by one they came
down in a shimmering pillar, tumbling, twisting. Albert shot out his right hand, caught the first pan by its
handle...and slung it over to his left. As soon as the left snatched it, it immediately flung it back up into
the morning air. Albert basically looked like a professional juggler on an amazing day. All eight items were
being arched in front of him. Over and over again.
Finally, with a grimace of sheer horror on his face, he turned his head and noticed the man standing there.
He saw a very handsome man, with eyes the shade of a winter's sky. The man’s pale skin was like fine
Italian marble. Short, spiky blond hair sprouted from his well-chiseled face. His nose was slightly askew;
his only imperfection. He was clothed in a black blazer, with a dark purple shirt underneath. A rope-tie
was slung around his neck connected with a silver clasp. The clasp had a symbol on it, but who knew
what it meant? His jeans were blue, and they gripped his long, toned legs all the way down to the tops of
his reptile-skinned cowboy boots; the toes had a sharp, murderous appearance to them.
Samual watched the fatass juggle away, as he said in an alien accent, "Now that's a mighty fine way to
pass the time, my porky little jester." Samual let loose a monstrous roar of laughter into the breeze. He
bent in half and placed his palms on his knees, his back thrusted up with each new
The cords on Albert's neck screamed and bulged, begging to be let free from the strain on his body. He
barked a laugh. "How...? How...?" Albert stammered.
Samual shook his head and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Never mind, daija. It is not your
concern. So, do you want it to stop?"
"Yuh-Yes...please!" he screamed, his words echoed off the stark, uncaring walls.
"Very well, Albert of Steelin Run. Then it shall be."
Samual winked at the frightened man, the man with a trail of warm urine flowing down his thigh. The pots
and pans seized spinning--his arms froze like a mannequin's. They all rose into the air for the final time...
and came down. One by one, they hammered Albert's head; dull clunking noises could be heard. Each
one struck more true and more fierce than the last. After the second bonk, three tributaries of crimson
trailed down over his sweaty face, blurring one eye's vision.
The owner of Albie's Eatery swayed on his feet.
Sounds like a plank of wood smacking a wet sack filled the filthy alley.
Samual leaned his back against a building, placed a booted heel on the wall, and watched in grim pleasure,
the final minutes of Albie's life.
Next down was a pan with a dagger-like handle. It spiked him above his right eye, slicing it in two; the
gelatinous muck the color of puss fused with blood plopped down his cheek. Albie screeched again for it
all to STOP! PLEASE GOD, MAKE HIM STOP! as the next pot hit, sending a hairline fracture down the
center of his bloody head.
Albie fell; Samual vomited laughter.
A glistening pot mashed Albie's nose flat into his face; from the pressure, his remaining eye spurted from
the socket.
Just before the next pot fell, Timothy Shanex--a gangly, prune-faced junior in high school, with hair the
color of November strawberries--came out of the back door of Albie's Eatery; the screams would not fall
on deaf ears for long, it seemed.
As Samual wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes, he noticed the kid standing on the second step of
the restaurant. The brat's eyes were wide, and he twisted his apron in his hands.
"Mr. Lip. You all right?"
The kid was either very shocked or very stupid, Samual assumed. Probably a combination of the two.
Either way, it was going to be a good morning for Samual.
The final pot clunked Albie in his balls, sending a river of white-hot pain throughout his abdomen. Tim
cried out simultaneously with his soon-to-be-replaced boss.
Albie rubbed his pounding crotch; he patted his crimson head; he puked on his chest from tasting his
crumbled eye on his lips.
The final implement of Albie's demise hovered twenty feet above his up-turned face. It swayed back and
forth, like a hypnotist's watch. Waiting.
Tim hopped over the final step. He didn’t notice the man that stood over to the side.              
Albie's soul grasped at his body, trying to retain its alive state. His lungs and heart struggled to make
that possible.
Tim had taken some CPR classes in school. So, without thought, he knelt next to Albie's head and felt for
a pulse. There was none. Tim bent forward, stretched open Albie's mouth, and placed his over the hole.
His final mistake.
The handle of the pan javelined through the back of Tim's cranium. It connected the two in a horrific, final
Blood fountained; Tim's body twitched. And Samual grinned at the gore in this oh-so-fresh world.
Samual's heels clicked as he strolled over to the now-gone pair. He held out his medallion and waited.
Two smoky essences the shade of a ripe lime floated out of the bodies from their noses and open
mouths. They swirled and spiraled together in the air, seeming to try and escape Samual. They could not.
The medallion glowed a dark purple, with stitches of electric blue shooting through it. The essences finally
lost their battle and were consumed by the power of the antiquated medallion.
Samual's face bore sweat, his eyes were glossy, and he felt like he had just experienced an orgasm. As
was always the case when he feasted on that energy.
He turned, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked out of the alley, leaving his latest victim's
soulless shells on the filthy ground.
The Will of Samual

By Scott Wydra