In today’s world there is arguably too much information available for people to consume. One can go to a library and find multiple books written by experts on a single subject, each with slightly different viewpoints on the topic. Then you can hop onto your computer and find 4,000,000 subreddits, wikipedia, forums and news articles also debating the subject matter.

The wealth of information is huge nowadays. Granted, probably 80% of those 4,000,000 providers of information are useless, inaccurate and barely compelling reading, but even 20% of that is still an immense resource.

The thing that education should be teaching you, is discerning the 80 from the 20, the good from the bad, the reliable to the unreliable.

Perhaps one of the biggest defining regrets I’ve ever experienced in my life, was the decision to finish my Bachelor Degree at university. I spent 4 years of my life studying Marine Biology for my Science degree, an incredible waste of time that has helped shaped my urgent nature nowadays.

A degree that should have ended a year early, I was unable to finish it due to my lack of motivation, commitment and overall care for the degree and the institution itself. Passing grades became my norm, a clear indication of my lack of enthusiasm for my tertiary degree.

It was a far cry from my distinction level average held in high school, but then being disillusioned will do that to you. I was lacking friends, willpower and interest and that proved so costly, that I failed 2 units, thus forcing me to do another year.

With such a horrific experience, what made me agree to sacrifice another 2 years to do another Bachelor, this time in Arts and specialising in Journalism and Ancient History?

Because, those two topics were something I cared about. Something I was genuinely interested in.

But what made those 2 years enjoyable and fast paced was the change in learning style.

It was journalism that made me really sit up and notice how, and what education should be.

The teacher, a hardened veteran who had cut her teeth at multiple papers, was no-nonsense, generous and efficient. She didn’t bother with the theoretical. Her advice to us was simple:

If you want to write a story, get out there and find one.

We were all daunted by the task, but there was a simple truth to that statement. You weren’t going to find a story sitting behind a desk. The simple matter of the fact was … you had to go out, you had to be the nosy arsehole and you had to ask all the right questions, whilst appearing not to twist people’s words.

I grew good at it. I excelled in this environment. My grades shot back up, to my usual distinctions and high distinctions. I felt reinvigorated because, simply put, the environment wasn’t a university anymore, it was a workplace.

What also sold that impression was that the journalism faculty was one of the most impressive and immersive work-spaces I’ve ever been to on campus. Situated in the heart of the building, was a huge media room, complete with recording equipment, cameras, microphones and a desk for news-reading. On the other side where classes were held, rows of desks had Macs instead of regular PCs, and along the roof, was an array of TVs showcasing every major news channel broadcast, from CNN, Sky News and the BBC.

I loved working there. One of my fondest memories of my entire university experience, was working alone late at night, in that very room, with a bag of Maltesers, writing up my long investigative piece on young Asian-Australians mental health, with the news bulletin issuing various soft lights across the darkened room..

In 2 years, the course and its teachers taught and impressed me more than any of the other dozens of lecturers I had come across in my science degree.

This stemmed from one singular difference … these were industry professionals that were guiding us. They weren’t interested in the theory of journalism, only the practice. I left that degree feeling confident I could apply myself in the workforce.

Which brings me back to the original discussion.

In today’s world, rote learning is remarkably archaic and almost useless by the time the year is out. Information is discovered, processed and assimilated into fact so quickly, that by the time you realise Pluto is no longer a planet, the world has already moved on to caring about the proposed Artemis program to put man on the moon again.

Which means that the focus should be more on learning how to acquire information and discern it from fact to fiction and remember the basics that will always outlast the textbooks. These basics and fundamental are drilled into you best, when put into application, when placed in the context of the real world, instead of the academic.

The irony of the current Australian higher education isn’t lost on me. In fact it’s so bizzarely terrible that here I am, writing an editorial style piece on it.

The irony, is that the system is designed to prepare you for the workplace, however almost nothing you learn is used in the actual workplace and the way how grades and exams are designed, actually ensures that you forget a lot of the knowledge you learn throughout a semester.

A frequent occurrence, is that students will trundle along their way through semesters, stumbling past assignments, before knuckling down for 2 weeks to cram 6 months worth of information in their mind, sit their exams and then anxiously wait for results throughout the holidays.

Holidays, in which the students spent 3/4 of it blind drunk, partying, determined to forget their anxious times, and thus by the time the next semester rolls around, they’ve forgotten everything they’ve learned in the past 6 months, except how to create terrible study habits and hangover tips.

This vicious cycle continues for the entirety of the Bachelor degree, cynicism, and weariness encroaching the student’s mental state with each passing year, until finally they are spat out of the tertiary system, having wasted 3 years of their lives, learning absolutely nothing, with no connections or relations to the industry they studied for and now forced to face a terrifying reality that was previously hidden behind a university emblazoned shield.

Confronted with such a harsh reality … either continue to study and pray that networking opportunities arise with even further study or completely abandon what they studied for so long and find an entirely different career, starting from the beginning again, only more disenchanted with life than before they started.

This tragic choice is hidden from view, by that aforementioned shield. The shield is deceptively attractive. It presents itself as thus.

Welcome to university, where you will meet lifelong friends, join exciting and thrilling clubs and study in the field you always wanted to. Here, at this prestigious university, in its hallowed halls, you will join thousands of other students in becoming the best academics you can be. It is an honour for us to welcome you to this enormous campus, with its sparkling facilities.

The reality though is markedly different.

Welcome to uni, where your friends shall be as disposable and displaced as your empty bottle of beer. Join uni-student run clubs, which will lack proper guidance, rules and management due to raw inexperience.

Feel free to choose any faculty, as you are doubtless fresh out of high-school, with zero clues on how to decide what is a monumental decision for any adult, let alone a fresh-faced child … where you want to be and go for the rest of your life.

Here at this university, you shall be just one, amongst thousands who are equally lost, equally poor, equally deprived of experience, know-how and personal growth. Enjoy the smelly, old, slightly dilapidated equipment that were kept barely to a reasonable standard, the musty libraries and the sheer lack of computers available for the thousands on campus.

It’s a chore to welcome you with the thousands of other faceless and nameless applicants, but here are the basics and enjoy getting lost on campus. Hope to see you at another dull graduation that we endure every year, until then leave our staff alone, because they’ll always be exceedingly bored, passive aggressive and understaffed at all times.

Perhaps one of the best examples of this shield being lowered and the spawning of my eternal bitterness to higher education came in the final year of my first bachelor degree in science. At the time, the entire marine biology cohort was relaxing, after a day of experimentation, just having finished our dinner on our first field trip. We were all listening to the head lecturer who started innocuously about the plans for the next few days.

It was then, just as we were getting excited, he dropped the truth, about how much longer this degree would need from us, if we were to get a job in the field; “a minimum of a Masters” and … that none of the jobs were here in Victoria, but instead were found in our northern neighbours, Queensland and New South Wales.

Upon receiving this news, I silently fumed with resentment, as I looked around angrily, to only see relaxed faces around me. It floored me how calm everyone seemed to be taking this news.

What’s was the fucking point of the past 3 years then? my mind screamed at the impassive professor.

Whatever motivation I had for my studies, vanished from then on, and I passed my degree with all the reluctance of Hercules with his famous 12 Labours and presumably as much struggle, though I doubt I had to face any Nemean Lions or tame the Augean Stables. That said, I still faced my despicably smug and guilt-free King Eurystheus (my professors and lecturers lumped into one authoritarian figure) after all my assignments and I never quite recovered from the multiple barely passing grades nor the incredible indifference they offered me.

What has always surprised me, is the fact that often, you do your own learning about your passions. That knowledge you attain through self-learning, is usually more extensive, more comprehensive and driven than anything you learn in a formal education setting.

Thanks to my interest in F1, I have a rudimentary knowledge of aerodynamics, engine parts and the effects of G-Forces on the human body, and which workouts are necessary to counteract those forces.

My extensive research into all things militaria has been so exhaustive, I can discuss weapon systems with actual trained soldiers, debate geopolitical flash-points, identify guns and their common calibre rounds, and know which languages are popular in certain troublesome regions.

Then there’s my useless knowledge about all things pop culture, from Warhammer 40K, Star Wars, Star Trek, Dune, NASA, Mad Max … the list goes on and on, and all them have proven to provide little nuggets of knowledge in the most unexpected of ways, such as the warp drive being one of the most feasible ways of achieving FTL travel or creating artificial gravity through thrust, as depicted in the Expanse.

I can’t forget to mention my small knowledge of American Football (NFL), EPL (English Premier League) and now recently my burgeoning know-how in tennis and card tricks.

Classical music, jazz, house, soundtracks, kitchen techniques, fine dining, table manners, first aid, event work, shooting, … the general knowledge list goes on and on

All of this information, all of this research was found for free, through vigorous and diligent research. I didn’t pay a single cent for this education. I just went out and sought information.

I look at my friends, and see a similar story. They’re low-key experts in their passions, simply because they went through the trouble of educating themselves on the subject matter.

So what is the point of formal tertiary education? Why can’t all places simply be a simulation of the workplace you want to engage in?

I’ll be honest, I don’t know. I don’t have the answer to that weighty question.

What I do know, is that there needs to be a shift in how we view, grade and learn through tertiary education. The method of rote learning is perfectly adequate for high school and younger. To still employ such an archaic method at a tertiary level and accelerate it, is foolhardy. Adults need different learning styles beyond boring power-points and a lecture hall.

Information is simply growing too fast to allow such slow, inefficient and brute-force style learning methods. People need to learn how to read information and recognise that some fundamentals are eternal and worth remembering. You don’t need to learn the fundamentals, you can just experience them.

When you enter the work-force, that is exactly what happens.

At its core, tertiary education should be about simulating the workplace. The fundamentals have been drilled into you in secondary school. Now it is time to experience them and see them in action. Whatever else you need to learn, you’ll find out whilst working and getting paid to do so.

It is already the case, that you will forget any superfluous information you learn anyway, because the moment you get a job, they’ll train you and teach you everything. So why fill your head with extra rubbish? Better to fill it with the information about your passions and hobbies.

This is why I valued my journalism course so much, because it simulated the work environment I was expected to be working in. I didn’t have to be taught how to write …. I did that in high school already. What I needed was a place that would prepare me for the stress, intensity and speed in which I had to write, for a professional news network.

For all their money, facilities and supposed brain-power, university academics are woefully out-of-touch with how to best prepare their students for the reality outside of school. In today’s world, I feel strongly that education needs to adjust to the demands of jobs. There needs to be a stronger reflection of job prospects within the context of education.

The old “here’s my degree, so here’s my job” is no longer a reality for so many here in Australia. Nowadays, it is who you know, how you network, how to engage with future bosses and how hard you work. The degree is a formality that millions possess.

It matters little how you got the degree, because if an reluctant, recalcitrant and rebellious arsehole like me can struggle through and get a Bachelor of Science degree, it also sadly invalidates the hard work of a studious, bright-eyed student who also got the same degree.

So it comes down to who got the more sparkling personality.

No-one in university can teach you that, except yourself and the hobbies you engage in.

But at the very least, they should teach you how to network, how best to find a job in your field, instead of tossing you out, after bleeding you dry and emptying your heart and mind.

If only I knew any of this, before I joined … I would have taken my time and really plotted out the course of my life and wasted a lot less time.

They say that education is an investment … they never said which part of education you need to be invested in.

Consider this long rant, this editorial, knowledge that you should be aware of before going any future in your tiertary education.

Forewarned is forearmed.

So make sure you know yourself and do your research about everything, before committing to anything that will take 3-6 years of your life away.

Because you might find out like me, that after 6 years studying, you are still unemployed, immature and with no connection to the world nor any memory of the supposed knowledge you obtained during that period.

And that is the irony of tertiary education in a nutshell, that you end up back where you started, when you left high school, only a lot more cynical, jaded and mad.

What a joke.

~ Damocles.

Y/N? Yes?

Stars: Timothee Chalamet, Rebecca Ferguson, Oscar Isaac, Josh Brolin, Stellan Skarsgard, Dave Bautista, Zendaya, Javier Bardem and Jason Momoa

Director: Denis Villeneuve

Review by Damocles.

I should never read the book before I watch the film.

I have always traditionally struggled to review films that have been adapted from source material that I’ve read. That is because, in a lot of ways, the way how the book flows, reveals the twists in the narrative and showcases all the different viewpoints is a lot easier for me to digest.

I am a bookworm first, before I am a film critic. If you placed a DVD and a book in front of me … my hand would automatically wander towards the first page of the book, no matter how trashy it is.

It also doesn’t help that I direct a lot of the scenes from the book in my head and normally what a director has in mind, is vastly different to my aesthetic.

My favourite case in point, being Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban where I walked out of the theatre, furious at the changes in plot and decrying books were always going to be superior to the films.

I think there should be a fun exercise held every 5 years, where 3 or 4 famous directors get together and make a small competition to film a short story and see whose version comes out on top.

The Dune film adaptations, a showcase for 2 visionary directors, David Lynch and Denis Villeneuve are both markedly different to the version I have in my head.

This is where I am going to struggle with the review for the film. Because I am also going to insert something of a review for the book as well in here.

It’s been said that Frank Hebert’s Dune is near impossible to translate on screen. I don’t know where that impression came from, because the story is eerily similar to Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and to use that epic as a baseplate on where to go is a good start.

I would argue, something like The Lord of the Rings was a much more difficult task to film, especially considering it’s multitude of races, fictional languages and epic quest across Middle Earth and her many factions.

The way how The Lord of the Rings trilogy introduces itself though, and the template it created for adapting the dense book, is impressive and perfect for fans of the book and non-readers.

Which is why I was very perplexed by the approach Villeneuve took to adapting the plot of Dune. Whilst watching the film, I was left with a feeling of alienation and distance from the plot and characters.

Perhaps this is a strange issue to have, but I have always valued clarity in my narratives whilst watching films, because it enables me to appreciate the visuals more. Maybe it is the bookworm in me, because I often find myself being more engaged in a film, if the characters are built well, and I can easily discern the plot.

With Dune, it was difficult to truly engage with the incredible visuals and details, because without a clear motivation behind the shots, I couldn’t live vicariously through the film.

When I think back on the film, so much of it seemed to lack that proper cinematic language. So much of the film, seemed to me, more like a long montage of all Villeneuve’s favourite parts of the book, put forwards on the big screen, instead of an adaptation of the book itself.

I can see Villeneuve’s obsession and love for the source material. It is apparent in every aesthetic and and detail. From the worm-inspired heighliner, to the subtle intricacies of the still-suits, it is obvious that Villeneuve has an incredible passion for the world of Dune and how it should look.

In particular, the wardrobe for this film is incredible, but it lacks a greater context as to why they are designed in such a way.

Which is emblematic of the entire film. Throughout so much of the film, Dune lacks that fascinating political intrigue that Herbert designed to showcase why Arrakis is such a key component in galactic politics. At no point in the film, is there a greater discussion or showcase as to why the whole universe deems spice as so important.

The very thing, that every major faction in the world of Dune clamours over, kills and obsess over, is barely discussed in the film.

As a fan of the book, which I only just recently finished, I couldn’t help but get a strange bereft feeling whilst watching, confused as to why Villeneuve never emphasised more on the politics at play, instead choosing to focus on Paul, but in a very strange restrained way that made it difficult for the character to be relatable.

So much of the film, seemingly felt rushed, despite its’ length, and never really slowed down to truly emphasise key emotional moments.

A lot of what I deemed as crucial elements in the book were also ignored, such as the dinner scene which creates a fascinating whodunnit element before the Harkonnen attack, Paul’s instinctive and strangely natural use of the thumper to draw the worm, despite having no prior experience, Kynes’ death, which was changed to a less impactful version in the film, or Leto’s awareness and discussion with his men about the trap that the Emperor has bequeathed to him in the form of ownership over Arrakis.

In a strange way, I felt that Villeneuve repeated, to a much lesser degree, the same error Lynch was forced into with his adaptation …. cramming too much into 1 film. Dune is a very dense book, with a lot of parts that can be fleshed out further, had perhaps, Villeneuve been confirmed and locked in to do a trilogy.

The fact that a sequel only got green-lit after this Part One was released is something akin to madness. Dune, logically would always need a Lord of the Rings style adaptation. The book is already conveniently split into 3 sections. Had I been in charged, the first movie in a three parter, would actually end at the tent scene, just like in the novel.

From a design standpoint though, Dune is an excellent looking film. The visual artistry on display is incredible, especially the use of CG which has a wonderful weight and scale behind them. In a time where every film has excellent CGI, it is the director’s flair and shot placement that makes all the difference.

I particularly loved all the designs for the Sardaukar, the Harkonnens and the Fremen, there is a wonderful level of detail behind every element for the costumes that I know I shall be looking up the concept art for.

What I was less enamoured by however, is Hans Zimmer’s score for the film.

Is it sad that I miss the old-school, romantic scores of the past? To me, having been conditioned to adore Middle Eastern inspired music, whilst viewing footage of rolling sand dunes and ruins, I was left very nonplussed by the usual Zimmer’s loud percussion sounds and lack of any proper melody work.

His score is not something you can just listen to, for a vibe or atmosphere, instead it is solely tied to the film, in a way that lack real character to the sounds. This is such a shame, because for a film set in the desert, it is so crucial to have a strong melodic element that runs throughout the whole film.

When you think of Lawrence of Arabia, the score is a portal to a world, that Westerners were unfamiliar with. Maurice Jarre transport you into the exoticness of the Middle East with his overture.

Similarly, Jerry Goldsmith’s score in the classic The Mummy (1999), is beautifully evocative and adventurous, showcasing the beauty of the desert, the mystery of the dunes and the danger hidden beneath the sands.

To take more recent examples, I can point to Henry Jackman’s score in Uncharted 3: Drake’s Deception (2011) where his song, Atlantis of the Sands is a wonderfully fun and grand tune that really ramps you up for an adventure.

Conversely, you could do away with more Middle Eastern sounds and go for a more Western approach, such as Ludwig Goransson’s score in the hit series, The Mandalorian (2019), which beautifully blends a Western twang with the grand sci-fi soap opera that Star Wars is known for.

Which is rather apt for Dune.

I just wished Zimmer would stop relying on his usual gimmicky loud sounds in his scores and actually create more interesting melodies again. It seems ever since his work with Nolan, he has constantly fallen back on his same tricks and I’m tired of it. Scores are meant to evoke emotions, not impress you with how good the cinema’s bass and reverb is.

Overall, it’s difficult to love Dune. I think I largely found the film decent, only due to the fact that I had read the book prior and could follow along, despite the big missing chunks and lack of clear motivations, from characters and narrative.

In a sad way, this film only reinforces my love for David Fincher whose two book adaptations, Gone Girl (2014), and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011) I have truly adored and found it matched perfectly with the version in my head.

Dune is a complicated movie, based on a complicated book, that I think should have paced itself better from a narrative perspective, to really engage an audience that is unlikely to have read the Frank Herbert novel.

To enjoy Dune, I suspect that you need to be armed with knowledge of the world (to wikipedia you go) and go in expecting to see a spectacle that looks incredible but rings, ever so slightly hollow.

It is on the strength of the film-making alone, that I am barely recommending this film. Even then, I am hesitant.

I cannot however fully adore this film, on account of the disappointing score, lack of narrative thrust and for removing a lot of the world-building Herbert placed in the world of Dune.

Villeneuve … for Part Two, you better not have a lot of clumsy exposition dumps, due to all the big parts you’re missing in Part One.

Also, for the love of God, tone down the flashbacks.

A scene to recall: Any time the Sardaukar turned up on screen, I was mesmerised. Mostly because I wanted to be one of these badass sci-fi special forces swordsmen.

Things I wished were more prominent in the film or were inserted.

SPOILERS AHEAD!

This list isn’t to say that I could do a better job than Denis Villeneuve, but more to satisfy the version I have playing in my head with his production design.

• Starting the film with a guerilla attack on the Harkonnens seem unnecessary, as is the voice-over by Chani, whose role in the overall story is light.
• Had I a choice, I would have elected to start the film with a scene, not set in the book anywhere. I would have begun in the Emperor’s throne room, where he has called for an important meeting with all the crucial factions involved. This has multiple benefits.
  • Firstly, it introduces all the key factions like the Bene Gesserit, the Sardaukar, the Suk School, the Spacing Guild, the Mentats, the Harkonnens, the Atreides, the Emperor himself, and all the other characters. It establishes and introduces the hierarchy and political machinations of the galaxy that the audience needs to be aware of.
  • Secondly, it showcases the importance of Dune and why spice melange is such a crucial element to the workings of the universe.
  • Thirdly, you can establish the motivations behind the Emperor’s intentions to kill Duke Leto and his secretive relationship with the .
• Spice and it’s role in the workings of the universe, needs to be emphasised more. Beyond Paul’s supernatural ability to see into the future and past, there needs to be an example of why spice is so valued. People buying milligrams of spice for recreational purpose at exorbitant prices could be shown, or the Guild Navigators themselves using it to navigate through time and space.
• I would have less black uniforms and perhaps have the Atreides bedecked in a different colour, a dark green or blue to showcase their home-world of Caladan. This is just to contrast them more, as heroic, versus the Harkonnens’ villainous black.
• The dinner sequence in the book would have added a wonderful element to the betrayal later.
  • Firstly, it would have been an excellent time to showcase why Duke Leto is so beloved and thus a threat to the Emperor. You want to build up more emotional connections with the Duke, so that his death near the end of the film is all the more tragic.
  • Secondly, Stilgar and a host of other characters would be there (smugglers, Fremen, Guild members etc) to create a fascinating whodunnit element for the audience to guess who betrayed the Atreides family.
  • Thirdly, you could add Dr. Yueh’s motivation for betrayal here, with a conversation about his past and family. In the film, it is so abrupt and sudden, that you do not really get anything from him.
  • Fourthly, you flesh out the side characters like Gurney Halleck, Duncan Idaho and Thufir Hawat. Beyond seeing them in their roles, you can also get more of a sense of who they are, unlike in the film.
  • Fifthly, you show the workings of a royal family, the customs and attitudes they need to adhere to in the universe, thus adding another world-building element, that will contrast with the Fremen.
  • Lastly, it slows the movie down a bit, and shows the changes that Leto was undertaking on Arrakis before his untimely demise.
• Kynes should have been captured, tortured by the Harkonnens and left to die in the desert like in the book, embittered by the fate that had befallen the character.
  • In addition, her character’s role amongst the Fremen should have been expanded and touched more upon. There should have been scenes where Fremen treated her with awe for the vision she instilled in them.
• I would have never shown any footage of the Fremen riding the sandworms. In the book, it was such a revelation, such a powerful moment to discover that the Fremen could genuinely control these creatures. To have it spoilt so early, with lame footage that lasted 3 seconds, is so disappointing from a narrative standpoint. Paul’s first attempt to ride a worm, is a key foundation in his character and it should have been reserved for that, not for a lame line: “desert power.”
• The Harkonnens weren’t grotesque enough. There needs to be more disgusting-ness to their character and behaviour that I thought Lynch nailed rather well, in comparison to the Villeneuve version.
• Chani is too prevalent in this version of the film, with continuous flashbacks to her …. a move that I think is a bit odd, considering for most of the book, Paul is more obsessed with preventing a holy war in his name, that will spread across the galaxy than some attractive desert girl. I wished there were more flash-forwards to his fear of a jihad spreading, due to his myth and power instead of repeated footage of Zendaya looking over her shoulder in different costumes.
• So much of this film could have been fleshed out and explored further, had Villeneuve stopped at the section of the book where Herbert ended Part 1. The character of Piter De Vries for example, was worth exploring and expanding, as is a deeper exploration of the concept for the Kwisatz Haderach and how the many factions involved
• I wished a lot more of the fun side characters were fleshed out more, because of how they create this intriguing extra world-building element. In particular, Gurney Halleck, should have had more screen time versus Duncan Idaho, as his songs and skills and post-betrayal role is much more significant and interesting.
• Finally, I would love to see all the deleted scenes and see whether there is an almost 4 hour version of the film, that really sticks the landing of adapting the novel.

The blue light from the laptop highlighted Hassan Malik’s sharp cheekbones as he stared at the screen intently. Reaching upwards with his left hand, he scratched his freshly shaved cheek thoughtfully, missing the feel of his beard.

Muscular, tall and intelligent, Hassan Malik was the gentleman archetype, a jack of all trades, master of none, his smarts only matched by his prize-fighter like body. Sofia Sumarwata once described her beloved, as a man blessed in all facets of his life, an angel ordained by Allah himself to do His bidding.

With his intelligent brown eyes, olive skin, dark hair and square jaw, Malik was as charismatic as he was handsome. Adept at both charming his way through life and wielding a Glock 17, Malik was an fervent study of history and military leaders. He almost always led the way in battle, his iconic royal green cloak, a rallying cry for lesser men across the chaos of a battlefield.

As magnificent as a fighter he was, it was spy-craft that really spoke to Malik’s talents. His assassinations and deviously brilliant guerrilla attacks on NATO forces across the bloody fields of Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria earned him the moniker of The Sphinx, simply because there was no one better at disguising his intentions and self.

His work set back NATO forces several months alone in their work across the Middle East, and with the backing of his Iranian paymasters, he was soon called to Europe, to strike at the heart of the beast.

A master linguist, he mastered French, German, Spanish and English during his conquest of Europe, and took great pleasure in outwitting the Continent’s finest, disappearing as rapidly as he appeared. His terror cells were so small and well incorporated into society, that it was nearly impossible to predict when or who would strike at any given time.

It was a compliment to his fearsome reputation, when Malik discovered that within 4 months of his arrival in Europe, he shot to #4 on Interpol’s Most Wanted list. After 2 more attacks within a fortnight of each other, he claimed the number #1 spot.

It was Malik who devised the food delivery system of communication. For local attacks, Malik would use the country’s most popular food delivery service, but when it came to coordinating cells scattered across Europe, Malik had a much simpler solution.

The phenomenon known as football gripped the entire world with a manic energy that was unmatched in any other sport. But it was Europe where football obsession hit its’ peak. Leagues in each country could count on scores of talent, passion, money and fans.

To disguise his movements and communicate safely with his cells, without any need for electronic means, Hassan Malik used multiple football games to provide lengthy 90 minute briefings in the safety of the crowd, with a particular short-hand language that was unique only to football. Travelling to and fro Germany, to support his favourite English Premier League team, was a move that thousands of others did with impunity on weekends.

Conversely, his cells could send a man over, sporting a La Liga uniform into England, to discuss any further attacks, with much of their conversation disguised into the vernacular of the game. Dates, times, locations and casualties estimations were disguised with scores, and statistics of the team.

A typical exchange between Malik and his terror cell leader could be:

We shall win in our game on the 12 of August against Madrid. There is no way, it won’t be a huge bloodbath, if we got the numbers on our side. (Strike at the heart of Madrid on the 12th of August)

What sort of numbers are those, mate?

You know, team player 90 and the two rookies, 15 and 7. (90 dead, if you strike at 15 past 7pm)

The meetings would continue onward, with Malik providing precise instructions months in advance at a single game, and the terror cell leader making notes on a piece of paper, that would soon be burnt at the comfort of the safehouse.

By using the 90 minutes of a football match efficiently and disguised amongst thousands of fans that looked exactly like them, Malik could easily slip in and out of countries with ease. In the case of an emergency, the game known as Fantasy Premier League provided an direct means of communication that was completely disguised behind the language of football.

For months now, Hassan Malik had waged war across the Continent, costing hundreds of lives and racking up billions in damages and political capital using food and football as his secret pigeon. His entire campaign however had led up to this moment. His final decisive strike against the British, with the world bearing witness to the price the United Kingdom would pay for its’ hypocrisy.

All the soft attacks he had conducted across Spain, Italy, Belgium, Germany and France and once a venture into Austria and Portugal had left the British complacent. They felt reassured that the attacks were not happening on their home soil. That the war was a Continent concern only. Hassan knew all too well the unique cultural psychology behind the British, and was keen to play their ideals of sportsmanship against them.

With each attack, he generated more and more concern amongst the likes of James Ashford and Richard Washington, but soon after months of stress and reassurances, Downing Street began to believe their own lies and dismiss Ashford’s concerns as paranoia.

As a result, security measures across the United Kingdom were relaxed somewhat, and to Hassan’s great pleasure all 7 terror cells that had caused so much destruction across Europe, were able to take a first class train ride into the heart of London, without a single security check.

For 3 weeks, the 14 hand-picked men for the greatest terrorist attack on a Western country since 9/11 stayed in pure isolation across London in their safe-houses, communicating only through bursts of Fantasy Football and one man from every pair occasionally meeting Malik at a football match.

The plan was 3-fold. Each pair were in possession of a rental van that would be fitted with explosives. Targeting specific popular tourists locales and high-end restaurants suburbs, they would trigger the explosives on the van, before taking advantage of the chaos to employ their AK-47 assault rifles, indiscriminately firing into the crowd. With 8 magazines each, and then a final suicide vest, the death toll would be in the thousands.

London would be left burning.

The perfect tribute to a woman he had lost in another life, fighting for a lie, a false country and an apocryphal Queen.

With less than 48 hours until the scheduled attack on Valentine Day, Hassan found sleep elusive and wracked with dreams of failures. For months, he had been plagued by a spectral figure in his dreams, whose very presence unnerved him to the core and would leave him jerking awake, gasping for breath.

Malik knew better than to worry anyone about these strange dreams, however, he could not help shake off the ill feelings he had. There was a strange sense of inevitability about the spectre, that this figure would be the death of his work.

Sighing, knowing that he would not find any more sleep, until the attack came, Malik shut the laptop down, closing the Fantasy Football app. Reaching out for his phone, Malik paused before calling Sofia, a strange sense of disquiet rustling his consciousness.

However, emotional and physical needs overwhelmed the niggling sense of discomfort.

The ringtone sounded harsh in the sterile safehouse. It also went on for far too long.

Malik frowned when he got Sofia’s voicemail. She was always so quick to respond, no matter the hour of the day or night.

Texting her through the Just Eat app, he ordered a simple Lebanese dish that he knew she loved, kibbeh, and sent it through to her apartment. Now his paranoia was spiking furiously.

Could she be compromised? wondered Malik. Impossible. Malik concluded, but he knew deep down what he had to do. This operation was far too important to risk for a woman, no matter how much she meant to him.

Without hesitation, Malik shattered the phone and broke the SIM card, before slipping on a long coat. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he propped the collar up to shield his face and his grief and walked outside with the remains of the phone, to throw into the Thames.

~

Gabriel Woods had his seat all the way down in his silver Audi A6, lying as flat as possible, watching the movements of Hassan Malik through the feed of a tiny Black Hornet Nano drone.

At only 10×2.5cm in size, the nano UAV was as surreptitious as they come, and could be controlled via a specialised app on a phone. Woods kept the drone as high as he could, aware of the noise it could create, despite the busy noisescape of London.

Woods frowned as he watched Malik make a circuitous route to throw the remains of his phone into the Thames. He was a consummate professional, always scanning his surrounding and pausing frequently to ensure no tails were following him. As Woods watched the splash from the phone recede, he knew that Sofia’s non-communication had alerted Malik.

Will he call it off? wondered Woods, as he kept watching Malik hustle past smiling couples through the tiny feed on his phone.

No. This is too important for him. The attack is too soon. He’s committed now. As is everyone else.

An effusive Ashford had already congratulated Woods on his work. Thanks to Woods’ interrogation on Sofia, the exact location and timing of the attacks had been worked out. However, they were still in the dark where the safe houses that contained these men were.

This meant that they would have to stop the attack at the target. High risk.

It was time to call in Woods’ old unit, the infamous 22nd SAS to come in, and mop up the mess.

If SOP (Standard Operation Procedure) were to be followed, the next 24 hours would have the kill-teams furiously training in mock-ups of the area that they were assigned. 7 targets, 7 different locations, 7,000,000 ways for things to go wrong. The SAS teams would know each area like the back of their hand, aware of the millions of alleyways, sewers, bus routes, traffic patterns and a thousand other variables.

To stop a suicide attack, the men would be sharpening their marksmanship skills. Headshots only.

They would seek to limit the number of civilians around, and ideally take out the terrorists before they detonated the vans. To shoot them in the car, was too risky. Glass had a strange way of disrupting bullets and there was always a chance that there was a switch in the van that could be triggered by a dying body spasm.

This meant that the team had to ID the correct van, wait for the terrorist to jump out, then nail them all in one go, amidst a busy civilian population.

As one of the captains of the kill teams said bluntly in his concluding statement after a briefing.

7 million ways for this to go tits-up boys. So let’s get evil lads.

Woods though, had faith in his old Squadron. They were the best in the world. No other fighting man came close to the warrior that was a Blade. If anyone could prevent a Valentine Day massacre, it would be the 22nd SAS.

It was Malik that concerned him though. Whilst the attacks were going on, what was Malik going to do?

What are you thinking, you bastard? pondered Woods as he watched Malik thread his way effortlessly through London.

Author’s Note

And I’m back again with another chapter in this short story!

It took even longer this time to write but I finally found a way forwards!

Let’s hope the next chapter isn’t too far around the corner.

If you forgot the past chapters, simply use the search bar on my page and type in espionage and they’ll turn up!

~ Damocles.

Note: This short story uses a lot of technical fencing terms. Please refer to this key for further clarification.

Prime, Seconde, Quarte, Quinte, Sixte, Septime, Octave and Neuvieme shall all be referred to in this story. They are merely references to the areas where the blade attacks the body.

“A slight has been perceived.” intoned the droll referee. “The two parties are to engage in an honourable duel to settle the matter. As is ordained by God, the winner shall settle down once quarter is asked.”

Francois Dubois stared at the blue eyes of the man before him, and saw not a powerful Lord, but a deadly fighter.

Likewise, Lord James Allister glared into the green pearls of Matthew and beheld a formidable Officer instead of a commoner.

Both men, striking in their appearances, turned away and motioned to their seconds. The “second” was their most trusted ally, in charge of inspecting their weapons, and ensuring that the honour of the duel was respected.

Dubois looked at his long-time friend Hubert who solemnly handed him his French light cavalry sabre. Heavy, strong and brutal in its simplicity, the cavalry sabre was a fearsome weapon wielded in the right hands. Designed primarily to be used on horseback with long sweeping strokes, the sabre was designed around the principle of speed and momentum to inflict a devastating single hit.

Unsheathing his weapon, Dubois looked at the dull steel, and ran a hand along the blade, pleased to see that it had been recently sharpened. The weapon felt comfortable in his hand, his body moulded to its’ shape, after years of combat in Spain.

Hubert leaned in and took the sheath back before whispering. Are you sure about this Francois?

Dubois looked back at Lord James Allister and felt his jaw hardened in response to his resolve. I must Hubert. He slandered Esme. Her honour and mine is at stake.

Hubert frowned at the stubbornness from his childhood friend. Francois, you know, as well as I do, that Esme is allowed to do as she please. She is not your betrothed! Do not throw your life away, honouring that woman. That English Lord … there are thousands of rumours about how skilled he is.

Francois smiled ruefully at his friend’s pleas. I’m sorry Hubert. But my mind is made up. You know all too well, when it comes to women, how I am. Besides, you should have a bit more faith in your commanding officer! I am one of the Emperor’s most feared cavalrymen. How many charges have we survived?

Justice, God and Luck are on our side Hubert. Vive Le Empereur!

Dubois sharply turned around and ignored the forlorn Mon Dieu from his friend, eager to test his mettle against the English Lord who was still talking to his second, and testing the balance of his weapon.

Lord James Allister flexed his fingers over the slim handle of his English small sword, enjoying the way how the grooves prevented any signs of slippage in his hands. An left-handed fencer, Allister possessed an unusual advantage over many opponents, due to the simple fact that the two blades were pointed directly at each other, instead of having to scythe inwards towards the body for a thrust.

This evolutionary advantage over many right-handed swordsmen, meant that Allister preferred a lighter, faster blade. The English small sword he favoured was perfect, a dancing, shimmering blaze of sharp steel, that enabled more dexterity from the sword hand.

Whilst it lacked the power and cleaving ability of the French cavalry sabre, the small sword made up for this, in precision and speed. This was a weapon made to wound, slow down the opponent, then adjust for a killing stroke.

Taking off his heavy coat, Allister rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, to reveal an unfashionable tan. Handing his coat to his second, Allister inspected the square upon which they were to duel.

Flat grey cobblestones paved the ground, upon which spots of water had been splashed by the sardonic priest to ordain the duel, ensuring the sacrosanctity of the entire matter was observed by God.

Around the square, lined attractive, brick houses, that were now lightly misted by the early fog that characterised so many towns in the Napoleonic era. The fog was an indication of early dawn, the only time where privacy could be expected in a busy district like Plymouth.

Allister kept his thoughts to himself, but inside he was seething at the temerity of the whole affair.

That French bitch. Had I known … To blazes with her. Focus on this, man!

Recalling his nobleman training, he pushed the emotional thoughts of his mind, and concentrated fully on the duel. He had spilled much blood, with his skill and ruthlessness. There wasn’t a swordsman yet who could match his pace and calm efficiency.

Perhaps this Frog bastard will be different. thought Allister, relishing the idea.

Stepping forward, almost dancing on his feet, Allister held his small sword out to the side and sharply flourished it in a salute, as Dubois returned the gesture, his cavalry sword rotating slightly in a more military fashion.

The referee, an sanguine man whose dull intonation denoted that he had seen many duels before, stepped forward, away from the priest who was too busy muttering in Latin to notice.

Gentlemen, upon my call, you shall retreat 7 paces, before engaging each other. Any movement before is strictly prohibited and shall be punished most severely. This is a matter for God to observe and show his will.

Allister felt his heartbeat start to increase, his body prepping itself for his first initial attack. Dubois found himself beginning to sweat, as he realised that the English Lord before him, was genuinely excited.

If you will, gentlemen … take your 7 paces back.

Dubois walked away, his hand already preparing for a defensive manoeuvre. He would bide his time and wait for the perfect killing stroke. Just one hit … one hit would be all it took to kill this arrogant bastard who had wronged his darling Esme.

Allister stopped dead at 7 steps and spun around sharply, his heeled shoes clicking on the cobblestones.

En garde. announced the referee.

The Latin prayers began in rise in volume, as the priest provided a strange melody to the proceedings.

Pret.

Allister and Dubois stared at each other, their eyes clashing already over their swords.

Allez!

The first sign of emotion came from the referee as he forcefully expelled the word out of his mouth and stepped back to watch the deadly dance.

Within seconds, Allister crossed the 14 paces that separated the two men, and Dubois found himself retreating instantly, side-stepping furiously, astonished by the ferocity of the English Lord.

Allister lunged forward, his left foot stamping on the ground, as his blade darted forward to Dubois’ quarte side. Dubois, sensing the feint, ignored the sword dancing to his left breast, rotated his body away and moved his sabre across his chest, as Allister scythed the point of his sword across.

Metal scraped on metal, and Allister, whilst outstretched in a full lunge, made a circular motion downwards to Dubois’ leg.

Reacting instantly, Dubois snapped his leg away from the blade and took a few more steps back.

The opening gambit played out, Allister took a breath and took up his normal en garde position, smiling grimly, his left hand moving the small sword in a distracting manner.

Francois Dubois kept his eyes on Allister, breathing heavily after the initial exchange.

Merde. He’s fast! So damnably fast. I need to be very careful here.

Allister weaved to and fro, before sweeping his small sword to Dubois’ octave, going for his right calf. Dubois panicked and swept his sabre down. The moment he moved, Dubois knew instantly it was the wrong decision.

Without any effort, Allister flicked the point of his sword upwards and scored Dubois’ hip, along the sixte line. It would have been worse, were it not for Dubois violently twisting his body out of the way.

Touching his right side and noting the blood, Dubois felt relieved it was a small cut. Gathering his wits and remembering the speed upon which his blade worked best, Dubois charged forwards, his sabre outstretched to ward off the dancing English small sword.

Allister frowned as he beheld the charging Frenchmen and braced himself for a parry riposte that he knew would work to his advantage.

To his astonishment, the French sabre was outstretched towards his head and Allister moved awkwardly, pronating his left wrist, to sweep the sabre to the side of his body, and whilst his hand was over his head, jabbed downwards.

Dubois, sensing the danger, shifted his leg and allowed the blade to pass by him harmlessly.

The two men, were now inches away from each other, Allister’s mien reflecting one of frustration, whilst Dubois’ features were fixed in a battle scowl.

Balling his left hand in a fist, Dubois shortened the distance even more and punched Lord James Allister squarely in the face.

Allister reeled back, his nose broken and bleeding. Smearing at it with his right hand, and looking at the crimson stain on his palm in astonishment, he was almost caught unaware by the follow-up attack by Dubois.

Dodging quickly to the side of the sabre that was coming down, Allister felt rage creep into his sword arm and he arrogantly directed the sabre point that was aiming at his chest to the side, with a mere flick of his wrist, a quarte parry that immediately turned into a riposte aimed at Dubois’ sixte.

Dubois smoothly retracted his sabre blade into his en garde position, and took a step back that left the small sword’s tip a mere inch from his body.

Allister swore internally inside as he sized up his opponent once more.

Frog bastard!

The pause in the fighting grew longer, as both men drew in heavy breaths to recuperate their exertions. Allister’s en garde was becoming sloppier, whilst Dubois’ sabre grew heavier with each parry, slowing down the potent weapon’s swing.

As Dubois reeled back from a flurry of attacks from Allister, he felt a second wind come in, as he learned to read the English Lord’s favourite move, which was to feint to Dubois’ quarte, then circle his parry and thrust towards octave, in the hopes of wounding Dubois’ legs.

The only obstacle that stood in the way of that attack, was Dubois’ low centre of gravity and his instinctual desperation to protect his legs, a habit garnered from years as a cavalryman. Dubois had seen too many of his compatriots’ legs sawn off by the doctor, after wounds became infected on the battlefield and gangrene set in.

The duel continued, with both men slowly getting more tired, only their desperation and anger fueled their sloppy swordsmanship.

But unlike Allister, Dubois kept his cool. He had too many years charging into battle to waste his energy. His strategy from the beginning of the duel was about to pay off.

A neuvieme attack was launched by Allister, whose finesse was beginning to wear off, the small sword clashing with a metallic tang, as Dubois blocked the blade from hitting his head.

Batting the lighter sword away, Dubois gathered all his energy and with a roar, brought his heavy cavalry sabre down in a diagonal motion that went from quarte to octave, mirroring Allister’s favourite combination.

Allister staggered backwards, his shirt ripped across his torso, his face aghast at the devastating killing blow.

Falling on his back, Allister stared up at the sky, only to be disappointed that he would not see the blue horizon, as the fog was still thick enough to obscure everything. Taking a ragged breath, he closed his eyes and felt the fog envelope him into nothingness.

Dubois sank to his knees, as the priest and doctor rushed forward and inspected the dead English Lord. Checking his pulse, the doctor shook his head at the referee and stepped aside, doing the sign of the cross, as the priest took over the last rites.

The referee looked at Allister’s second, a humble servant, who merely nodded coldly and walked away with his dead Lord’s belongings.

Scoffing at the back of the second, who he knew was going to pilfer everything that was valuable in his dead master’s house, the referee motioned the graveyard men forward, who were keen to take the body and see what they could sell.

It is done, by God’s will. I will leave you gentlemen now. Have a good morning.

With a tip of his hat to Dubois, the referee shuffled off into the town, no doubt unhappy to be the tiding of bad news to the local magistrate who was going to be apoplectic that a nobleman had died in a duel in his town.

Hubert rushed forwards to Dubois and looked at the wound on his hip. It was nasty, but nothing too serious, despite the huge red patch that had spread across Dubois’ white shirt.

Doctor, over here now! yelled Hubert at the doctor, who was startled out of his stare at the dead Allister, being carried unceremoniously away by graveyard men.

As the doctor bandanged the wound, Dubois looked at Hubert cockily.

I told you my friend. We had everything on our side to win. But mon dieu, he was fucking fast.

Hubert shook his head at his friend’s bravado.

To nearly die for the affections of Esme … you are aware that she was invited to that Lord’s party right?

Dubois looked at Hubert in shock. No, I thought she was taken by force …

Hubert shook his head sadly. Francois, you fool. How many times have I warned you to stay away from Esme? Now an English Lord is dead because of her and you, a fugitive.

But this was a fair duel, Hubert shook Dubois in consternation and dawning realisation.

A dead Lord is still worth more than a dead French officer. said Hubert forlornly.

The magnitude of what had happened hit Dubois instantly, and his adrenaline was filled with dread. This was not going to go unpunished. Fair duel or not, noble blood was spilled and such matters wasn’t going to be taken lightly. His beloved Emperor would have to exile Dubois immediately or risk further English wrath.

Merde whispered Dubois.

Author’s Note.

Drawing heavily from my own experience as a past fencer and my obsession with the Hawkwood series of book by James McGee, this was surprisingly difficult to write, with only a vague idea on how I should pace the fight. I also struggled to insert technical terms whilst still making the flow of the swordplay exciting.

I will probably come back and write more fight scenes, which I think I have a decent grasp on, but still need a lot more practice.

Onto the next one!

~ Damocles.

Modjo’s Acknowledgement was playing softly in the background, as the penthouse Halloween party began in earnest.

Situated on the 59th floor, the penthouse was exquisitely designed, with the perfect amount of glass permeating and off-setting the dark metallic interior. Moonlight flooded the two storied apartment complex, shining through every glass window that overlooked a busy metropolis.

Nowhere was the light stronger than on the sheer glass balcony, that offered thrills in any direction. Left, right, up … down, there was a floating sensation that only those without vertigo could withstand for long periods of time.

Leaning on a skinny dark railing that seemed to blend with the night, with a glass of whiskey in his hand, Michael stared out at the view alone in his thoughts.

At an excessively tall 195cm, Michael had dark features that excited and terrified in equal measure. His piercing blue eyes glittered from under his swept back blonde hair, and his tanned skin only served to accentuate the strong, sharp jawline. His face was aquiline, with shallow cheeks, that showcased cheekbones that could cut through butter.

It was startlingly attractive, in a way that seemed too perfect. Like he was designed with an artisan’s eye for detail, crafted without any flaws. Nothing marred his skin, and absolutely naught could take away his breath-taking looks that were perfect at any angle.

As he raised the glass with long, slender manicured fingers, the music in the background changed to Blue Monday by HEALTH. The lights inside the penthouse changed to a neon blue and yellow scheme, as the DJ signalled the audio-visual jockey to time his flashes to the beat of the song.

The pulses and flushes of 65 people dancing rhythmically together, gave the party a strange zombie like feel. Every single person there, was slightly drunk, riding the depressive high of excellent quality agave tequila, their bodies clashing, shaking … before breaking apart and coming together again.

Confusing scenes were everywhere as the lights changed once more to accommodate the brutal sounds of Casey Edwards’ Bury the Light. Purple hues slashed through rays of electric blue. Heads began to bob, as the monsters at the party began to ramp up their throes of ecstasy.

Mike Myers was conjoined at the hip with Juliet Starling. It, the infamous clown, was now furiously grabbing at Harley Quinn. Elsewhere, Joker was staring balefully at the bizarre couple, before distracted by a sensational Freddy Krueger. Maleficent was desperately locking lips with a Fembot as two approving Grady twins nodded in conjunction to the beat of the music.

Everywhere, depravity ruled the swanky apartment, which only magnified the scenes, by reflecting every single guest’s actions, a million fold as they stared at their mirror selves echoing their motions.

Only Michael, remained mirror-less and costume-deprived. Indeed with his elegant dark blazer, white shirt and loafers, he cut a desolate figure of elitism amongst all the fun, cheaper costumes.

It was only until STONEFIST by HEALTH came on, and the lights poured in red, and dark that Michael turned around to face his twin, Samael, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

The two stared at each other, before Samael smiled charmingly and went over to the small table in the corner. Gripping the alcoholic decanter, he poured himself three fingers of whiskey, before taking his place beside Michael.

If Michael was blindingly pure in his beauty, Samael boasted a much darker, intense attractiveness. Despite possessing the same bone structure, Samael’s jet-black hair and obsidian eyes with crimson irises warped the beauty into a much more intense seductiveness. He was made to induce reckless abandon, and wanton lust. Samael was irresistible.

Whilst Michael was serious, Samael was always perpetually smiling, his dark eyes piercing through people’s facades and armour with ease, encouraging them to indulge in their dark hidden desires.

Together, they watched, as the lift to the penthouse arrived, the solitary yellow “UP” light failing to pierce the crimson atmosphere inside.

The 66th guest had arrived.

Stepping out, he paused long enough for the vibe to change once more.

Kavinsky’s Odd Look blazed to life across the penthouse. Smoke began to issue from dry ice machines, the thick clouds pooling around ankles, then knees … then waists. Soon, the entire room was covered in smoke, with light strobes flashing brilliant, pure white, to stimulate lightning. Dark blue spotlights began to focus on random guests.

Imhotep appeared out of the gloom. Only to be replaced by a Hellboy over there. A werewolf snarled menacingly, before its fangs were replaced by a Dracula’s. The Invisible Man, unaware of the paradox, shone brightly under the spotlight, his startlingly white bandages soon juxtaposed with the pale skin of a Hellraiser.

But the blue and black eyes of Michael and Samael were transfixed on the latest guest.

He was monstrously big, taller than the twins that stood outside on the balcony. Like a boulder come to life, the 66th guest was muscular in the extreme that only added to his already towering height of 2.2 metres. His chest seemed to dwarf the tiny people dancing mindlessly beneath him, and the huge rifle he hefted in his hands seemed to weigh nothing at all.

Decked out in an iconic red/white varsity jacket that showcased a white singlet beneath, dark navy jeans, and thick cream boots, the costume was hardly horror inspired, beyond its high-school throwback vibes.

But it was the head that screamed at the world. Disturbingly white and blank, bar for crimson sabre-tooth tiger styled fangs that protruded out from the jawline of the mask, there was nothing to see. No eyes, no sign of a nose, nothing human could identify the giant beneath the mask.

The 66th guest’s head was entirely, glaringly, pure metallic white.

Standing absolutely still, the fanged blank giant waited until the first person looked at him.

It was an inadvertent touch. A Wolfman softly nudged a dazed zombified woman, who then swayed into the 66th guest.

Looking up, to apologise, she froze when she saw the black rifle and the terrifyingly vacant face that loomed over her.

Stumbling back, she began to whisper “No, no, no, no, not this party. Not tonight. Oh God, please no … not here, please, please, please …”

A bloodied Crusader Knight spun around in anger, as the zombified girl crashed into him, causing him to drop his drink.

“What the fu …” said the knight, as the curse word choked in his throat and died out before the visage of an armed lifeless statue. Soon, within minutes, the entire party was paralyzed before the feared serial killer, who had haunted the city for the past month.

VOID.

The giant’s name was uttered in complete fear. Massacres followed in his wake, merciless death haunted his presence and the screams of the dead and dying whispered unheard warnings to the living.

Every year, despite the warnings, Halloween parties were held, despite the grip of fear that VOID wielded over the populace. Without fail, they were punished for their insolence, always through the same means … by blood, bullet, blade and blunt trauma.

Michael and Samael looked on dispassionately, as VOID unslung the huge rifle from his broad shoulders and levelled it at the crowd of holiday celebrators.

The DJ was the first to receive a flurry of bullets, that dropped him on the stage of his set and set the final song for the evening.

Jeff Rona’s Crimson Cloud began its’ malevolent melody, the screams of Rachel Fannan soaring high above the chatter of gunfire, as the songstress’ wails merged with the genuine screams of the VOID’s victims.

Scores of costumed people fell in a heap, as the floor became slick with glass, blood and the sweat of the fearful. VOID never moved from his post, as he indiscriminately raked the crowd with more gunfire, pausing only to reload.

A foolish Jason Voorhees rushed the VOID, knife arms outstretched in desperation. The gunfire paused in respect, and the survivors looked on with hope. Perhaps this machete wielding killer could save them.

Letting the rifle hang loosely by his size, VOID allowed Jason in close, before his arm shot out at blinding speed and gripped the head of the hockey-killer, lifting him clean off the ground.

With minimal effort, VOID began to apply pressure, his immensely strong fingers causing the skull to crack and splinter apart, as the pained screeches of Voorhees tore to shreds, any vestige of hope the survivors had.

Bringing the struggling, writhing costumed killer closer to his blank face, VOID looked at dying Jason curiously, before lifting his head and in a violent downward thrust, buried both of his fangs into the skull of his victim.

All movement immediately ceased, and the hockey-masked corpse was unceremoniously let go, to crumple lifelessly onto the ground. Raising his rifle up once more, VOID fired into the immobile crowd, their lack of hope rendering them unable to move, struggle or resist any more.

Death was now just an inevitability. Acceptance was now rendered apart by bullets.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was only 6 minutes of carnage, VOID began to slowly walk around, inspecting victims. Any signs of life was promptly extinguished with a clubbing motion from the huge rifle, the butt of the weapon slowly becoming bloodier and grey with brain matter as savage blows were rendered without compassion into people’s heads.

His work completed, VOID looked out at the balcony and saw nobody there.

With a casual grace, VOID slung the rifle over his shoulder once more and walked back into the elevator where he disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Michael looked at his twin brother Samael.

How many are yours? he asked.

Samael, the eternal smile flitting across his lips, shrugged. 40 or thereabouts.

Michael nodded grimly. Out of mine, only 5 went straight up. The rest are in limbo.

I’ll probably be collecting them sooner or later. said Samael teasingly.

I wonder when you’ll be collecting him. replied Michael as he finished his whiskey.

Samael gave a nonchalant flick across his broad shoulders. You never question it, do you brother?

We’ve had this discussion before. replied Michael curtly.

Same old Michael, always steadfast in his belief in the Path. Forever loyal. mocked Samael as he stretched his broad shoulders, allowing the pure white wings to unfurl.

Michael, looking at his fallen brother, felt the familiar twinge of jealousy as he beheld the huge 7 metre wingspan of pure, dazzling white wings. Samael was always the one that their father had laboured the most on.

Be seeing you soon Michael. called out Samael, in sing-song, as he flicked his wings downwards and soared high into the sky. Don’t go blaming me for tonight … you chose to believe, I just dared to asked questions.

Michael scowled at the insolence of Lucifer, his brother’s new christened name and looked back at the room full of dead bodies.

Putting aside his reservations, Michael revealed his own wings, a dark obsidian colour that contrasted Lucifer’s pearls.

Floating high above the world, Michael heard his brother’s voice in his mind once more, the siren song of skepticism.

I’ve always spoken the truth … that’s why Father set me free.

Shaking Lucifer’s seductive logic out of his mind, Michael aimed himself downwards and flew to the next soul collection point. Clouds rustled his black wings, as he shot around the world, unable to do anything, except claim more people for a home that he had not seen in an eternity.

Perhaps he’s right, we’re all in our own Hell. Lucifer just chose to make it his own.

Author’s Note.

This one was meant for a Halloween release, but unfortunately work waylaid me. I actually struggled to create this one, as I originally meant for it to have an angel/devil be revealed as the monster. However, inspiration struck when I listened to the dark synth of Carpenter Brut and I tweaked the story so that the angels and demons were forced to watch a massacre, unable to do anything, except pick up the pieces at the end.

Only Lucifer take pride in this work, because to him, it has become fun to tease his more upright brother about the whole situation and only he sees the truth behind the actions they take.

As for VOID, I was originally inspired by the latest helmet design rocked by Bloodsport in The Suicide Squad (2021), which is a clear reference to the Xenomorph. However, I wanted to make it white, in homage to how a pure white room, creates too much noise and anxiety in people when stared at for too long.

White is actually a highly piercing colour, hence I made VOID’s mask/helmet design in honour of that sharp, disturbing quality. The fangs were an idea I had, just to contrast the mask and add an extra element to the brutal nature of the serial killer. I originally toyed with the idea of teeth and elongated jaw, just like Bloodsport, but I preferred an even more minimal approach to the mask. I really just wanted to strip away any recognisable human elements to the mask.

As for the music, I hope you enjoyed the links. It was a lot of fun re-creating a dark synth, Halloween playlist for this short story. I wanted to add more songs, but figured they didn’t mesh well with each other.

Until the next one!

~ Damocles.

Picture me like this … tall, tanned, leanly muscular and with the perfect amount of scruff across my jaw and cheeks.

I have dark short hair, sliced and cut into a undercut. Annoyingly when I exercise, a lock of hair normally curl over my forehead. I think it’s untidy, but apparently women are drawn to it. My eyes are dark green, and I have a habit of placing my index finger along my cheekbones when I’m thinking or being flirtatious. which are normally intertwined together, because if I am being flirtatious with you, then I’m thinking about you.

Everything about you. How you think, the way you laugh, the dimples on your smile, the toss of your hair when you’re nervous, the tilt of your head when you stare … anything you do, I’m interested, curious and intrigued.

The first thing I look at in a woman, are her eyes. Not the face, the bust, the hips or the bottom … it’s always the eyes. If she has beautiful eyes, I’m switched on, but if she has interesting eyes, then I’m turned on.

It’s always easy to tell when they have interesting eyes, because you’ll normally can’t read what they are feeling. They’ll always be enigmatic, staring back at you, without wavering attention. A woman can have beautiful eyes, dazzling different colours and sweeping lines, but she’ll never be interesting if you can see everything she is feeling.

When I make a joke, a woman with beautiful eyes will laugh along, whether she finds it funny or not, because she’s attracted to me. But an pair of interesting eyes will always keep her intentions unclear.

I’ve searched many women’s eyes in my life, but hers was the only one that remained interesting.

I met her under special circumstances. What I mean by that is that they were special to me, but ordinary to everyone else.

To all, they were attending an Opera. As for me? I was experiencing my first taste of Turandot.

It all started with the colour of her long dress. It was impossible to miss. That damn colour haunted my dreams for the next 5 months. Honeyed, warm, amber and just the right side of bright, the satin weave made her dress beautifully lustrous and created incredible dips of fabric in all the right places. A royal blue sash kept the dress around her waist like a belt, and offered generous views of her long legs, as the fabric of her dress ebbed and flowed with each step.

Her left shoulder was left bare, as the dress came up in a classic chartreuse style and accentuated her long slender neck that swept up her warm golden brunette locks into a classic bun that only enhanced her naturally elegant features.

But it was her eyes that caught me off guard. It’s always the eyes ….

They were the most impenetrable blue I have ever seen anywhere. They glittered like sapphires, radiating a confidence, intelligence and wry detachment on everything they saw.

I was besotted. Smitten, infatuated and enraptured. I knew right there and then, I had to find out who she was, even though we were just lining up for our ticket check. Even though I was a stranger. Even though, this wasn’t a bar that screamed “pick me up”.

As I walked forwards, ignoring the small murmurs of protest about line-cutting, I knew that I had to take my chance. By now, the murmurs had become general discontent, and she is slowly becoming aware of the commotion I’m causing behind her.

When you go after honey with a balloon, the great thing is to not let the bees know you’re coming.

She turns around with an amused smile and looks into my eyes. Up close, it’s hard not to catch my breath. She’s elven in looks, with defined cheekbones and full lips. Her ears tapered slightly upwards to accentuate the sweeping lines of her features and I can’t help but note the wisps of her golden hair that seem to shimmer in the light of the opera room.

Did you just quote Winnie the Pooh at me?

I couldn’t think of a better pick-up line. I figured … a woman like you, would appreciate a classier quote.

Her genuine amusement and smile at the compliment is enough for me to be assured that this flirtatious to and fro between strangers is going well. But it was the fact that she didn’t blow me off completely, that proved to me I was allowed to keep my eyes locked onto hers.

I’m surprised you didn’t quote Turandot at me. she said slyly

Love is in vain, if luck isn’t there. I replied loftily. And I’m lucky to be here, seeing someone as lovely as yourself.

She laughs wholeheartedly as we inch closer to the ticket box. Really now?

Yes. I say with complete sincerity, maintaining eye contact and trying my best to communicate the depth of emotions she has stirred in me, within minutes. She looks back and I see a tiny trace of emotion crept across her blue irises before they disappear. The ticket collector looks at our tickets, and without hesitation I demand something ridiculous.

Please, seat me next to her.

I’m afraid, I can’t … oh sir, you already are! says the flustered ticket attendant, as she looks at our tickets in confusion.

She looks at my ticket and gives me a surprised look, before it is replaced with a look of daring.

It must be fate. I say assuredly with a smile. I hold out my arm, and ask Shall we go to our seats, Ms?

Scarlett. Scarlett Greene. she says as she takes my arm.

Dorian Wilde. Pleased to make your acquaintance Ms Greene.

I can’t tell you exactly what happened in the opera, except that we were much more interested in one another than what was happening on the stage. We mimed to each other throughout the entire opera, her faux yawns matching mine, the playful looks of mischievousness replaced by daring, seductive looks in an instant.

By the half-time interval started, we were out of the door and hailing a taxi, back to her apartment. I remember the rush, of restraining ourselves. We sat on opposite sides of the taxi cab, our hands close, but not close enough, the sound of rain slowly pattering on the roof of the car.

It seemed like the rhythm of nature itself, was matching the pace of our heartbeats, our anticipation increasing with every minute of the ride. I found myself unable to look away, the profile of Scarlett’s face against the stained window, as the city lights cast shadows across her features, hauntingly beautiful.

She looked like an angel.

When the taxi cab finally pulled up to her apartment, a luxurious condo on the 7th floor, she was leading by the hand through the lobby and into the elevator. I was swept along, through the halls of the apartment block and finally near her door.

As she slipped the key in, I placed my hand near her face, on the wall and stood there, as she slowly turned around and looked up at me with those voluminous blue eyes. We stood there, for the longest second of our lives, staring at each other, nose to nose, soaking in each other’s presence.

We were hungry for each other.

A second later, we were crushed against each other, my hands, gripping her waist and the back of her head, cradling both like precious jewels, her hands running across my torso, gripping my shoulders underneath my blazer, then moving up and across my face as I kissed her passionately.

Somehow the door to her apartment shut, and we navigated the place blind, with only the moonlight to guide us. We were unable to let go, our bodies locked in tango that neither of us would let go.

Without hesitation, I lifted her upwards and onto her kitchen bench, where she panted heavily into my mouth. as she scrabbled at the buttons of my shirt. I kept kissing her, caressing her beautiful face, letting my hands explore every single dip and rise of her features, enjoying the feel of her hair swiping along the back of my fingers.

As she ripped my shirt off, letting the silken fabric fall to the ground, I grabbed her closer to me, pressing our bodies together hard, her golden brunette hair now cascaded down her muscled back, and creating an image that stunned me momentarily.

I pushed her away from me for a second, as she looked at me confused, and hungry.

Incredible, I whispered, as she smiled dazzlingly at the compliment and hopped down off the bench, to undo her dress.

Whipping her shoes away, and undoing the clasp that held the chartreuse dress together, Scarlett Greene was now my entire world, nothing existed beyond her.

Standing there, half naked, only in lingerie, with her wavy hair tossed, each every way, she posed slightly, poised and confident.

I laughed reflexively in happiness and took a teasing single step closer and pausing just long enough. Sick of the games she leapt at me and wrapped her incredibly soft, and lithe legs around me, causing us both to pant as we kissed through our efforts.

I carried her across to the wall that led to her bedroom and cradling the back of her head, pinned her against the wall, our kisses still coming thick and fast. Her full breasts pressed and heaved against my chest, as she broke the kiss, to run her tongue along my neck, whilst she shed my pants, undoing the belt and the trousers in mere seconds.

Staring at her, as we exchanged incredulous smiles and breaths, I held up my hand between us and walked past her slowly, towards the bedroom.

Laughing at the gentlemanly gesture, Scarlett grasps my hand and allows herself to be led to her silken Queen-sized bed.

As I lay her gently on the bed, she looks up at me and I stare at her blue eyes, lost for words. She runs her hand along my face, stroking my cheekbones and tracing the shape of my jaw.

I returned the favour, letting my hands slowly run down, until they trace her shoulder blades and and unclasp her bra in a single movement., freeing her breasts.

Scarlett’s hands pulls me close and down on top of her, and as we continue our exploration …. she whispers into my ear

Dorian … drive me wild please.

Author’s Note

Figured, I’d stop it there, before it gets a bit too graphic, which I notice tends to sound very gross. Genitals have never sound particularly sexy and I was definitely running out of adjectives.

This was an exercise in how I could build a highly charged, sexual atmosphere, and I credit most of it to the show where I got the screen-grab from. L

I would say, I hope you enjoyed reading this, but that’s implying a lot.

So instead, I’ll just say, don’t expect too much of this type of content in the future, although I will come back and continue to practice these sort of scenes.

~ Damocles.