Grimstalker

Copyright Protected @2017 by DarkWorX

In these woods, I am the boss. Least, this is what my fellow brothers and sisters say. Most days I am pretty easy going and you really have to go out of your way to really piss me off. When you do, well, let’s just say you opened up a frosty keg of Old Testament Retribution. Naturally, I’m not religious, and make no mistake, all religions say there is no room for my kind in any heaven. I will say look at the big picture of things, I can’t see my sorry ass sitting on some cloud playing a goddamned harp and that would be a living hell. Nevertheless, something about the unforgiving vengeful god that just gives me some righteous wood. You know what I am saying and if you don’t best mind your own business.

I love rolling with my kind like thunder through these beautiful black hills sporting our colors, our tribal colors that is. Ours is like no other and those fucking sissies that say they are some outlaw biker don’t know the meaning of, “The 1%.” Sure, just because we look human, act human, and on any other day, have empathy of a human, well, there is just more than just leather jackets, high octane, and the crack of an opening throttle. After all, happiness is a flick of the right wrist away. However, you see, there is more than what you can normally see about my kind. There is so very much more beneath the skin as they may say.

Human shell on the outside and our truer selves on the inside. Believe whatever makes you sleep better at nights thinking you know there is no such things as ghosts, phantoms, vampires, monsters, and my kind, the werewolf. Yeah, that’s fucking right, there’s all kinds of creatures walking day or night. We are your doctors, nurses, service men and women, the police, the fire fighters, and shit. But one goddamned thing you got to understand is that we are indeed only human on the outside. Inside of my kind is a blizzard of wrath that no man can contain though many have tried — tried and died. There’s a whole goddamned nation of a cemetery full of them. More scattered to the four winds in the form of shallow graves and rotting remains hidden away. Up here in the hills, there are more old mine shafts than people, and in the bottom of these are hills of bones who thought once upon a time that humans were at the top of the food chain.

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Listen, the moon does not hold its sway over my kind. Piss me off and have me in a corner, and I will show you the animal within from zero to spilling your guts in less than a couple of seconds. Not to worry, you’ll be plenty alive when your small and large intestines splash its payload on those new boots of yours. Also, let me clue you in on something else, religious relicts, crosses and such, spells and incantations don’t do jack shit either. Once upon a time long before you or I were a pup and then some, we overcame the silver bullet thing. I mean, in the spite of what you’ve seen in the shows, Hollywood, and shit like that, you’re in for one hell of a shocker when your silver hallow-points has no effect on us other than messing up our clothing. Not to mention, pissing any of us off.

Like I said earlier, I am a pretty easy going guy. I’d rather smile, laugh, smoke weed, and hang out at the Gallows talking shit, and meeting other members of packs from out of state sorts.

We all have specialties, I mean, you know, what we do in our more natural, or perceived in your eyes as, “Unnatural” we have our own names, handles, and skill sets. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking and you’re already wrong.
When we are in our natural state, we are cunning, fast as lightening and the weakest among us is as strong as any ten men you may want to chose. The brothers and sisters of my pack and those of my kind call me the, “Grimstalker.”

Trust me, every since I was a pup, I made it a profession in tracking down the free-range rubes that tend to get a little too close to things of ours, our business, our way of life, our land. Oh, for the fuck of Christ, trespassing on my land really raises the fucking hackles on the back of my neck.

Sitting up at my cabin here in the Black Hills you have to go off the beaten path, the roadway, and follow an old mining road and then turns to a path and a bridge over a small creek just to get to my land. I have no use for “visitors” of the human kind let alone uninvited assholes. Trust me in saying, I can hear a real dumbass walking up from the road far below. If the wind is blowing right, I’ll pick up the scent of the poor son of a bitch. Then your goddamned ass is all mine.

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This is where I turn from a guy catching some porn on the tube to my namesake. I jump up and already I can feel the change come on. I keep it in my pants if you know what I mean. Then on my way out, I grab my stainless mattock. It’s a custom job like a stainless tomahawk or one hell of a bitching hatchet with one unfucking-forgiving business end. You’ll never see it coming, you might hear it buzzing through the air and maybe, just maybe the sun will dance ever so briefly just before I take the top of your fucking skull clean off.

Again, you’ll be still alive when my gifting separates some of that grey matter of yours. Then as you slide down next to a tree, you’ll be sure to see me. Though because of the missing portions of your fucking brains, you’ll be not doing much else except look up at me as blood flows from your mouth and ears while shitting and pissing yourself in doing so. It usually happens to most people and I don’t hold that against anyone just so you know.

Then with my claws I dig into your exposed brain for a fucking taste and that is when you fade away right when I got a good paw full of your brains as your body has its fits, seizures, and shit. I’ll let you die as I eat and fetch my mattock right above your body pulling it from the tree along with the top of your skull and scalp. The scent of fresh blood in the air — your blood that is. You won’t know it, but very soon, day or night, we’ll be feasting upon your remains.

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Werewolves of Deadwood; The Legend of Connolly Pettimore

Blackened

Introduction and Shit Like That

Since the beginning of my works of, “Tales From Under the Concrete” that shatters the normalcy of compliance in the macabre and horror genre, the “Werewolves of Deadwood” has appeared as short stories. This includes segments and side stories that I love to do as it adds to the ambience of not only the tale itself but that of Deadwood itself.  Now on to the next thing I would like to bring to bare and that is the fact that DarcWorX and myself, Douglas S. Taylor are one of the same. With so much written and the energy that I put into this blog over the long haul, anyone who isn’t deaf, dumb, and blind should get more than enough proof in becoming exposed to my talents without excuse.

Yes, I know that I am not for everyone in the adult horror, thriller, suspense, dark fantasy to say nothing of the macabre genres I write – I can also assure with equal measure that everyone out here isn’t for me either. Having said this, I am who I am, I write in a unique sort of way, a style of my own, and an International fanbase that expects nothing less from me. Though, this fanbase is small, means everything to me to include my loyalties with each and everyone of them. Yes, I even regard most of these people as friends. Oh, dare I even say that (enters sarcasm). For those who are just becoming writers, authors who are entering the world of the Internet along with the social media I would like to welcome you and warn you. You shall find friends and fans who are anything of what they seem to be. They are anything but positive influences and most you shall find out are envious and are cruel shadowy reflections of humanity.

Be warned.

More importantly, you continue being yourself and constantly strive to perfect your gifts and talents. Rise above and beyond the shit-eating trolls, imposters of those called friends, fans, and critics. Critics, real critics will always point out the good with those things that needs work on through a constructive atmosphere – Thank them, take their comments and opinions in heart. With all else, fuck them, press on, and give no more thought to these posers.

With the advent of the Internet, the creation of Social Media via the web, everyone has a voice. I would concede that for most, they don’t need a voice and remaining silent would be the best choice they can make. Alas, the genie as it were, is out of the bottle.

Over time, I have been accused of many crimes against humanity as suggested by this particular article of a man who disguises himself as a woman and another pretending to be a human whose interests are into exploiting Asian underage girls.

Nevertheless, if you strive to be the best you can be, you will run into parasites like these. Put the dogs in the ditch with plenty of lime and bury these and move on. I have been accused of being a racist because of the dialogs of characters and what they have said in the course of a particular story. This is utterly shameful and a pathetic of poising the well and reputation of the author.

How fucking lame is that? 

How fucking ignorant is that?

I hear it all the time about others who are more well-known. “Oh they must be pedophiles because they write or create monsters like these…” Disturbing albeit. Nevertheless, horror based upon the cruel realities in this world. Still, these hypocrites say anything to bring another down so they, these spineless fucks would make them look brighter and better – It shows how lame, it shows you stunted fucking minds is what it does.

Evils

I think there are some comments made on Amazon that I allowed to leave there about some pretty ignorant fucks who gave it their best shots. There are other comments that are good and reflect an accurate opinion. There are also some negative comments that has absolutely nothing to do with the particular book or story – What the fuck?

It is what it is…

I wanted to add this material and things said to set the stage with some of my own angst to share. I also have the need to share some sage advice to those beginning their literary journey in these realms I have made mention. Do not give into the hubris and the gut-shot howling of these lesser primates. Live your dream and perfect your endeavors.


Now let me move on with the second half of this article; “The Werewolves of Deadwood.”

I wrote in some detail a few years ago while I was still a slave to the W-2 indentured to the Game. I remember it was a terribly dark and dreary night in the month of November. Walking in the mist and patches of fog dressed head to toe in black I moved through the night unseen as my mind wondered. I will admit that my imagination became ablaze with visions of supernatural monsters like vampires, phantom specters, psychotic killers, the criminally insane on the prowl, and then like a bolt of lightening electrifying my spine, werewolves!

Yes, werewolves indeed. Right then in the absolute darkness, I could almost hear the howls of such beasts. I imagine that I was one or vicariously traveling within one following the further shore of Elk Creek hidden in the forest and brush line. I could almost feel its blazing red eyes gazing upon me as I walked alone. I remember smiling from ear to ear at the thought that I may be pray. Yes, the hunted as the werewolf hidden watched me with such contempt. Finding myself smiling even more where others may be frightening themselves with their own scary thoughts I walked on thinking about the imaginary creature that wanted the end of my life and the taste of my flesh and blood in his mouth.

I did not have the time or energy to divert to some self-induced fear. No, my mind now totally in flames of creativity. As I walked on this dreary lonely road, the world of, “The Werewolves of Deadwood” began its infancy socially secretive world. You know, the beginning of the particulars, some of the main characters came into mind, and with them, their names, where they were from, what they do in human form in Deadwood. I also thought or entertained the possibility of Deadwood having its own clan or tribe of werewolves.

Moreover as my mind burned with brilliant visions and a budding storyline, the walk home concluded as I found myself on my front porch. I was already home least physically but not mentally.

How in the hell could I be?

My mind was spinning up a new darker world. Already the world of Deadwood, my Deadwood I was creating and sharing through short stories such as the Whispering Pines Sanitarium, Blackstone Rising, and others were already in print. Yes, I was then at that time tying all these persons, places, and events though totally fiction into my world. The story of these werewolves would become part of it. With these werewolf clan would be a need of history behind them, events that happened in the past, cause and effects, ant-heroes, villains, and an age-old rival, the vampire coven. Moreover, a vampire coven unlike that of the baneful romantic glowing bullshit mythology of young teen vampires. Instead, a blood-thirsty parasitical group or coven who were akin to the idea of the destruction of the werewolf clan in some Underworld sort of way. No, I wanted to add to what I have created on my own. So, the vampire coven based upon an insurgence of a biker gang that recently moved into the area in reality and with it, a level of crime not seen since the late 19th century.

The biker gang would later be all rounded up by the DEA and FBI for the manufacturing and distribution of Crystal Meth in the Lawrence, Meade, and nearby counties. Yes, this would be something that I shall use in the story line. I had it. The vampire coven would take the place of the biker gang, but not only take the place, but to kill off the biker rat-bastards themselves. No love loss, and all overnight. This would be excellent. The Vampire coven needed a name, a leader, a few of their own meth cooks with their own brand of crimson meth. These vampires would also come to the knowledge of how to keep a shifter, (werewolf) from changing from human into their animalistic powerful supernatural selves.

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Oh, the fucking gears in my mind were grinding. First, I made mention of these things in some rendition of “Morbidity News” on here, on this blog a long time ago. Some people picked up on it and actually enjoyed the piece of fiction. However, most of those that lived in Deadwood, Lawrence County, and as far as Wyoming thought of it as some sort of fabrication, fake news being passed off as real news.

Now, how fucked up and simple-minded is that?

I then needed a dumb-like character that is a werewolf. In human form, eye-candy for the women. A tall and powerful man of the usual average intelligence from the back woods of Louisiana near the Mississippi boarder swamps. A man came to mind, his description of a dark skinned brown eyed and matching hair that is shoulder-lengthen tattooed fellow that goes by the name of Connolly Pettimore. Basically a good natured and fair man attached to a ruthless bitch for a mate also from the same region who came up here after a conflict of a clan in New Mexico. I shared a bit of history of Connolly and the troubles his mate got themselves into. I think I may even shared a measure of personal regret on his part for keeping her. Though, she blames every ill-deed on him. She is nothing less than a sociopath and quick to anger. Any other emotion is nothing but a conjuring effect on her part. Now enters the drama aspect.

As I said earlier, I wrote several very short stories of, “The Werewolves of Deadwood” that appears in the Tales Series. Nevertheless, I believe that this particular story needs to be its own novel in paperback and eBook formats.

As for Connolly and his henpecking, he will end the latter abruptly. A man can only stand so much insanity from a stunted mind. This woman, sure, she is based upon a sociopath I once had the most unfortunate time then in my most miserable life. I don’t care if man or woman, you all can see faces being painted across your mind’s eyes right about now – no doubt.

So, the story, the original piece was told through a character who is the owner of the Gallows Saloon in which was an actual place here in the historical Deadwood. I was offered an opportunity to visit this place by the late owners. Fascinating this adventure was and it was, at that time, all that I could imagine and then some. Now, some ex-FBI agent turned it into a pistol shooting range and bar – Yeah a fucking bar with drunks with loaded weapons.

How fucking stupid is that?

I couldn’t have made that shit up.

Again, the story, or the history is told by a werewolf in human form that describes John Joseph “Jack” Nicholson to a fucking “T.”

Character names withheld; the story starts with the introduction of the werewolf clan and how it fits into a dark history just before and during General Armstrong Custer’s infamous 7th Calvary’s 1st and 2nd Expedition into the Indian Reservation of the Black Hills from Fort Meade, South Dakota. Fort Meade is now a Veteran’s Hospital Facility east of Sturgis in Meade County – You never know, the question could come up in Jeopardy or something and this information may be priceless to you all.  

Yeah, the historical portion, a portion in a draft format is fascinating on its own merits though will be re-done from the ground up with a good many things in a novel format. The history speaks of actual events along with the accounts with the views of the speaker. This history laced with both facts, truths, and my license of fiction will certainly blur the lines much like the pseudo-history told as actual history in today’s classes of education, the Museum of Deadwood that has about as much truth as a few grains of Fool’s Gold.

Not to get a head of myself in the least. Connolly Pettimore hears through the elders of the Deadwood clan that resides up in Roubaix, South Dakota of the current treaties they have with the neighboring vampire coven not to mention, the manufacturing of the crystal meth operations. These facts, this alliance is something that Connolly can’t even conceive since the history of Vampire and Werewolf is more of a story of master and slave. Pettimore’s personal dealings in the south with the vampire covens there has proven only one thing of certainty; vampires cannot be trusted in the least.

For Connolly, he harbors only contempt and seething hatred since both of his parents were killed by the order of some elders of a vampire coven. Again, he would be faced with another deadly alliance in New Mexico that his woman helped greatly in exacerbating the tension placing the clan there in peril. Truce was only achieved by excommunicating Pettimore and his mate from the region. Yeah, there is far more to the story or I mean, more to it when I write it.

Nevertheless, Pettimore finds the secret location of the Vampire Coven’s Elders. He manages to ditch the warnings from his own elders and enters the secret grounds hidden in the ancient Roubaix Graveyard. There he waits in hiding for mid day. Then he executes his plan. In basic, a shallow but effective plan. He is to break in and being undetected by the surveillance system short-circuited by a huge solar flare he knew nothing about. Otherwise, he would have been out-numbered and killed by his own kind protecting the Elders. A betrayal made by a pact with his own elders and kept secret. He opens all the window protection mechanisms after quietly opening the caskets. The Elders turn to dust, screaming, flames, the whole bit.

Pettimore realizing that the guardians are coming upon him, he bolts out of the den of elders and blocking the only door behind him with some sort of old railroad tie. He watches the place burn and all those that die inside. This obviously includes his own species.

With this knowledge gained and the betrayal of his own Elders he goes to back into Deadwood where those there in power have a very hard time believing Pettimore. Proof is presented as a small band of werewolves investigate and report back. The coupe ensues with the demise of the treacherous werewolf Elders. This swift and bloody action raises issues with the Custer, South Dakota and Wyoming Clans. A Blood War is immanent as sacred laws seemed broken because of the deaths of the werewolf elders. This will have to wait as the more powerful covens of North Dakota, Montana, and Minnesota along with Nebraska demands retribution of the near total destruction of the meth-making, hence, money-making coven in Lawrence County.

Free

One thing is for certain, Connolly Pettimore may be a hero to some in the region, a hero to those immediately around him but has a death bounty on his head along with those who help conceal him from a twisted form of vampire justice and then, if he survives, he may have to face the wrath of his neighboring clans.

Well that about does it here for me with this subject. It would be considered kind indeed if you would let me know of your thoughts. I know I have exposed some intriguing plots within plots and a high-powered overall synopsis.

I will also say, don’t get any fancy ideas of using any of this matter and subject as your own. Though, you may kid yourself into thinking of taking this work as your own and that would be a fucking grave mistake since all this, everything is copyright protected to include all within.

This brings me to the finality, the conclusion of this article, this post on WordPress. Unlike many other bloggers that have posted some sort of Anti-Plagiarism banner. You will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. This is proprietary work owned by DarcWorX. I have seen my work on other blogs. I have seen my stories and literary material on other blogs and stories. Yet, these same dullards say my work is poorly written as to discourage me. They take the entire story and the only thing that is changed is their name pinned to it.

These egregious actions do reveal themselves and those phony fucks pay dearly and more often than not, much more than they can afford.

For all those new talented writers, authors, and such. Protect your work. Learn what is, “Fair Use,” “Public Use,” “Non-Copyright” and “Stock Images.” I recommend the following, “Adobe Photo Libraries,” “ShutterShack,” and a vast array of online catalogs of additional images you can graft into your own, make it your own like any other business online and traditional magazines do.

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