Review of Dark Dealer

Review of: Dark Dealer
by: Nicky “Spackleback” Paicione

I’m going to be honest. Originally I had walked away from everything to do with Nickolaus “I Want to Fuck my Sister” Pacione. I decided that the slimy little git wasn’t worth my time. I had a lot of other things to deal with, and he wasn’t on the list.

Despite that, or maybe because of it, I kept getting harassed by him. He would post digusting comments on anything I put up on any site, made horrific claims about me, from child abuse to murder to him claiming I was not actually a veteran of the military.

But, like people keep trying to convince those of us who have to deal with the disgusting little troglodyte, I tried to ignore him. To take the high road.

But, as of today: FUCK THAT NOISE!
You see, one of the great things about the internet is that when someone goes at you, you can always choose to fight back. I’m the type to fight back, rather than just lay there and take it like a sheep at a Scotsman Meetup.

So, with that in mind, let’s move one.

This particular “Story” by Spackle Back Nicky is the lastest in his attempt to become relevant to the world of writing in the real world like he is in his own mind.

He intially titled this “Stygian Dealer” and flat out told me in emails that he knew he was ripping off the title to one of my old TTRPG works. I told him I didn’t care and to go away, since books often have the same titles, but no… he had to keep right on going.

So, I’m going to use it’s original title:

Now, normally, Clippy the Paperclip would join me, but he lost his long battle with Pacione induced depression last year, blowing his head off with an apostraphe, leaving behind MS Word and Powerpoint as survivors.

Dark Dealer
By Nickolaus AbLert Pacione

Right here the little mouth breathing idiot mispells his OWN GODDAMN NAME! AGAI N! I mean, make no mistake, gentle reader, I’ve misspelled my name. Of course, I was either so drunk that dwarves were following me around trying to put a keg-tap in my ass or I was suffering a head wound, but hey, we’ve all done it, right?

Dedicated to Kim Kowalcyzk

This dedication is the literary equivelant of waking up in a Motel 6 with a dead tranny hooker.

“Children will always be afraid of the dark, and men with sensitive minds to hereditary impulses will always tremble at the thought of the hidden and fathomless worlds of strange life which may pulsate in the gulfs beyond the stars or press hideously upon our own globe in unholy dimensions which only the dead and the moonstruck may glimpse…”
-- H. P. Lovecraft
Supernatural Horror In Literature

By the dead god’s assholes, I feel for poor Lovecraft right here. It’s bad enough he was afraid of black people and was once attacked by a roving Rrenchman, but now his name has to be in this inane drivel?
That’s like getting bitten by a rattlesnake who then gives you scurvy and leprousy.

The thing I have been called disparagingly by a zealot, a merchant of the macabre – something that I would never be able to do again, well; the fuck with him.

OK, right here… WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO THIS BRAIN DEAD, SISTER PANTY STEALING SHITHEAD?
See, he used to try to write stories, but the past few years his ‘stories’ have all become just masturbatory fantasies where he writes long screeds against perceived enemies. He reminds me of that guy that stands outside my local 7-11 with his horned Viking tinfoil helmet, except the homeless guy smells better and wears better clothing and has a cool tinfoil Viking helmet.
Actually, Pacione is nothing like that guy. That guy I’d at least give a couple bucks to.
He has NEVER been called a “merchant of the macabre” by anyone, anywhere, outside of him wiping the grease off of his mirror and whispering it to himself while holding a flashlight under the fifth chinfold on his neck.

I am a dark dealer and the kind of things I do paints a horror of the soul. The illness inside everyone doesn’t want to face. What dwells in his nightmares, breathing and wandering became a horror writer’s playground and the muse for black metal acts who can’t stand assholes like him – show me a zealot and I will show you a believer who is actually cool.

Or for fuck’s sake, this kind of meandering drivel is why nobody reads his shit. It isn’t that he has bad ideas, or that he wrote fan-fiction, or that he smells so bad that his stink remains attached to word documents, it’s that he….
STOPPED WRITING STORIES.
Mark my words, gentle reader, this is probably going to be 13K words of him yelling at people who couldn’t give a shit less about him.
Which is really gonna make it hard to milk this lolcow.

“You shall never write a dark tale again,” he said.

WHO SAID? Who the fuck said this?
Great, we get 13K words of Pacione talking to himself. Maybe I’ll go back and critique his old works instead, at least those were funny.

“I will always have an idea wandering around in me and will draw dark subject matter from it. As my former classmate called me and Edgar Allan Poe on word, fools,” I responded.

Great, now the fat fuck is talking to himself.

I shall be this zealot’s guide into Stygian as the realities I stare at are like Christ going right into the bowels of hell himself, what nightmares breathe and what nightmares dwell – I am the voice of these things and the voice of those who can no longer speak because they were forced to die by their own hand because of something the crimes the wretched bitch known as The MySpace.com Mom had never been tried for and thrown out.

…sigh…
Ok, now he have him claiming… something?
Oh, and throwing the MySpace Mom in there so he can profit or gain recognition about something that happened that he had nothing to do with.
Christ, this is the reason people dislike him so much.
Well, that and his cyberstalking. His calling people IRL, his threats, his cowardly way he attacks people, and that he stinks, he’s ugly, he’s greasy.

Madness shall be thy guide – how this man speaks in King James English; spouting scripture every other word that comes out. Sheep in wolves clothing and hiding behind a painted smiling face – someone who called me evil because I’ve been designed to be a Stygian dealer, the horrors of the surreal and phantasmagorical

ahahahhahhaa
I’m sorry, every time I hear Phantasmagorical I think of….

Except he wishes he was as cool as Troy McClure.
…sigh… I gotta review this shit? Why again?
Oh, yeah, because I keep touching myself. Dammit.

What might be the pure and lovely to some – is downright hideous and dismal to another,

For Pacione that would be: Shampoo, clean laundry, clean sheets, clean blankets, shaving, personal hygiene, warm water, showering.

All of those will make him flee like Dracula from a hooker covered in crosses, garlic, and a Twilight T-shirt.

in other words something with pink curtains and covered in pastel is heaven for someone who Luke might bleach their lawn being he read Poe on audio. I want to do that to any zealot who shoves that asshole who died in 2000 still preaching 14 years later on youtube.com; he’s already twanging his fucking harp – and that is not the same way I see God at all, and he’s the same God this zealot believes but it is just a fucking religion to him. Staring reality in the eyes scares the shit out of him because it is like a children who will always be afraid of the dark – some who believe in God never outgrew their fear of the dark in some ways, that fear they pray that it passes that something is always drawing near like a still beating hideous heart under the floorboards. Monsters they seek and they summon, a monster they shall become – the abyss staring at them back when they look in the mirror.

Sorry, did he say something? I fell asleep.

“You want to say I will never write a dark tale again, sit in the diner with me in Carol Stream, Illinois, and I will show you a Stygian world that mirrors reality – the real world I am not sullied by and you try to mold people into a Sunday School lesson,” I say as I sip my coffee and take a bite of my steak.

I know I fell asleep, but how did we get to this diner? Why are we here?
Wait, is Pacione trying to bum a meal off me. Goddamn it!

I don’t believe in fairy tales, but at the same time I was the Brothers Grim with reality. Welcome to my nightmare you zealot and do I really scare you yet – horror breathes, horror grows from the depths and shadows of anywhere and everywhere. It can be in the neighborhood or my old street in Glendale Heights as horror did happen there when I was 16, you want to say that Christ can deliver me from this madness – well this madness is the cross I shall bare as I had battled a stigma since I was 22 years old and the mental graffiti that lingered from this.

Is there a story in here somewhere?

He says to spread the gospel in every nation right, but what about the ones this zealot would ostracize – these ones they ostracize are my children and my children’s children. The world is black and stygian – where Utopia had long been molested by corruption and an industry is a damn cesspool so I will show a world where a faith is born out of a light forged from one’s own fears and demons – casting their own shadows, casting the horrors born of time and scars of time don’t heal as Christ does heal. My friend, The Christian Woman, had opened her eyes to see a faith that’s more realistic than the world the Pastor’s Spouse or the zealot with the painted smiling face had seen – as the blackened shadows from the sky shall reveal what God had gave me among the den of fools. When it is born among the fellowship of those like me, the Stygian dealers yet showing the world that Light cast shadow – realities and subject matter that the mainstream are scared shitless of, the church has a lot more to worry about than Slayer. Carl Jung calls these narratives our shadows, our dark side as everyone has these – even when one has a sincere faith, and Believers have a dark side.
The ideas this zealot and the Pastor’s Spouse have of a church – it is like Willow wrote being that a church as a mausoleum. I will not fit your “mold” or someone else’s fucking clone – I believe yes, but not the same as I was 18 or 19 years of age. I see things where people are afraid to go – what they fear, is something I am not afraid of and that is what H.P. Lovecraft feared and that is the fear of the unknown. When they wander alone in the madness, waiting in the dark with the barrel of a loaded gun – do they either call upon God or say fuck the world, decorating the wall with their brain matter in the process after giving oral pleasure to the barrel of the pistol before pulling the trigger. This new decade – the rules of the game had changed, people who are coming to God have long hair and tattoos now and are reading works by Edgar Allan Poe and H.P. Lovecraft – as I am the curator of The Library of Unknown Horrors and the ringmaster of Tabloid Purposes. They called me many names like they did with Lucifer himself, an archaic entity born out of a Gnostic heresy who had read those Gospels -- yet at the end of the days I am praying upon my knees to He Above, the zealot might had seen a black snake of rebellion in me but what I do is not a rebellion nor conformity, but a corrosion of conformity.

OK, about the only thing notable in this is his claim that he prays.
Prey is more like it. Constantly looking for underage girls to pose in bondage gear and change in his filthy bondage sleepsack he bought used off of eBay.
Think about that. He bought a USED bondage sleepsack off of eBay. I mean, I don’t mind bondage, hell, it can even be fun, but for FUCK’S SAKE, don’t buy used shit with someone else’s jizz all over it.
Cheap motherfucker. No wonder he was bumming food off me up there.

“I rebuke you in the name of Christ – get behind me o den of devils,” he claims as I make these dark, surreal and macabre revelations that that are seen from the eyes who had seen a Miss Linda or world where people hasn’t quite crossed over to the other side as a Christian college and a haven for the New Age are right in the middle of each other.

What the shit does this all mean?

And a book I read revealed that a very blasphemous kind of Satanist also lived there too – who said the greatest way a Christian to serve God is to become an altar of a Black Mass, a fucked up way to go especially when they deny killing infants and sacrificing virgins on SJR. This zealot and the Pastor’s Spouse had just put us back in the new Dark Age being reborn where superstition had hidden science – where medicine had been thrown away; praying for the black plague to once return for blasphemers of the Holy Ghost to take their lives as they are praying for death to breathe new life. Your fucking stigmas had put us back in the dark ages once again – where you claim that I need to turn my life over to God, I already know Him pal and he’s coming back to reach out to the freaks and the geeks, and the sideshow oddities that were cast aside and thrown away.

Holy shit, the amount of sheer stupidity in all of this is just mind-boggling.
I don’t even know how to answer any of this stupid shit. Instead I’ll just fall back on the old standby: Fuck you, Pacione, you suck.

As I am part of the island of misfit toys; where I was cast aside and thrown away –

Actually, you kind of checked out. You became a disgusting slobbery troll and society wants nothing to do with you. You aren’t part of the Island of Misfit Toys (notice correct usage), because that would assume that you were cool.
No, you are standing in the Garbage Pile of Self Inflicted Stupidity.

a pariah by my peers and classmates who said I had the wrong friends and listened to wrong music claiming I am too old to listen to heavy metal music.

Wait, is he saying that people are telling him he’s too old to listen to heavy metal?
Bitch, I’m older than you are, and nobody has told me that line of shit.
What actually happened is you tried to use a heavy metal fan page on Facebook as a place to spew your bile and hatred and pimp your ‘writing’ and got told to Get the Fuck Out.
It had nothing to do with age, and everything to do with you being a disgusting pervert who some people claim steals his sister’s panties and jerks off into them.

I am of the Island of Lost Souls where people played God with my health, pumping medications in me and a bitch saying I needed decades of therapy.

OK, he NEEDS those medications.
A little public service announcement: Do NOT drink alcohol on high doses of Seroquel. It causes micro-strokes. Going on and off Seroquel will cause kinesthesia and other problems.
And Peaches, you DO need decades of therapy.

Where some say I need to give up as a publisher and give up as a writer, a Stygian Dealer,

Two things…
He absolutely does. I mean, he no longer writes fiction, instead he spends his time writing shit like this. All it is is a bunch of masturbatory bullshit where he tries to justify all his bullshit. He can’t get submissions bcause of his predatory stupidity, so he steals public domain works and reprints them without any changes.
As for Stygian Dealer, once again, he has no idea what that actually was, so he thinks that Stygian just means darkness and blackness (which it basically does) instead of what I’d originally used it for.
How do I know he took it from me? He emailed me crowing about how he was going to steal my (out of print) title so that any time someone googles it they get his drivel.
No, I’m not worried. One, it’s out of print. Two, well, it’s a different genre. Three, I’m not really threatened by anything a balding basement dwelling child predator fat fuck threatens me with.

my advice to the zealot and my momma told me this – expand your horizons and take the fucking blinders off your face my life is not your fucking toy you can break an throw away here, as some are saying I am taking a creative license with God’s Word – well He called us to co-create with him and not a bystander.

Oh shut the fuck up.

You see me as I am sitting in this diner with my thoughts wandering in my head, as you might see me when I just turned 20 years old and studying Philosophy in college;

Because I have a time machine that will take me to timelines other than my own? He went to college for less than a year, flunked out, and got an F in his philosophy course.
If I had a time machine, I sure as shit wouldn’t use it to go see him.
I might use it to punch his mother in the stomach.

walking in the diner

And promptly chasing out the paying customers by bugging everyone for change so he can buy something to eat.

after the Pastor’s Spouse’s bedtime

Where she’s probably getting well-fucked and he’s just jealous.

and I am guessing the zealot goes to bed at 7 PM too and his church is in the country –

He’s really obsessed with other people’s bedtimes, isn’t he? Plus, what kind of insult is this?
This is the kind of crap you’d be embarrassed to say in 5th grade.

I don’t exactly see the country church signing Amazing Grace,

Signing it? Is it the church for the deaf? Or are they printing up the sheet music and signing it for people?

as I sometimes hear an industrial metal act singing this as one did during the wake of September 11, 2001,

Ugh, and he tries to get cred off of using a tragedy in his works.

this is the heart of the new decade – the nexus of the new century but the mind of someone who was the still beating hideous heart of the decade of despair. Salvation you offer man, but self-damnation you give – meaning you are the dark soul in the heart scaring someone in the hands of a loving God.
“Nick, if you were to die where you would wake up? What exactly would you sincerely say standing before God as he asked – why should I let you in Paradise?” the zealot asked.

Ugh. I can’t even follow this shit.

“What kind of question you would ask trying to sound clever and thought provoking?” I respond with a question of my own as I gulp down my coffee and look in the journals. He really doesn’t realize what kind of gruesome cargo and mental graffiti I carried in the depths of my mind – and the depths of his soul as he looked in abject terror as I presented my own question as some questions are true and answers are false and what he may not want to see, he will see.

Oh fucking please. Every single thing Pacione has written wouldn’t scare my bunny slippers or dust bunnies under the bed.

“What are you writing in that composition book and may I see it?”

Asked nobody ever.

he responds. I hand him over my composition book and looked in his own dismay that I have written my own haunted palace.
Sickness and faith had became of me
Death had seen my reality and friends had gone
Madness sings a subtle sad song -- blind had see
Horror of the soul shall become the scars of me
The zealot, I shall call him Isaiah Brendan here – looked at what I scrawled in the pages of this journal and gave me a dirty look. He had short cropped hair and wore a blue suit much like the zealots like Johnny Miracle crying on the television screen and responded like the woman at Faith World Outreach when she read some of my scribbling in the pages or the composition book.
“Something that evil should never be written,” Isaiah claimed as he was pulling out his King James Bible pulling out John 3:16 – saying God love the world he gave his only son, well it the King James doesn’t fit all here. Evil to him – to me it is pure and lovely, art in my eyes as it is a horror to others as it is the words spoken by cemetery poets and madmen.

Anyone who quotes John 3:16 I automatically assume doesn’t actually own a Bible.

“What you never read The Mask of Red Death by Edgar Allan Poe? Reading a little Poe is good for the soul man – it is not going to hurt you as you seen things from a midnight dreary; even Poe wrote about Italians. And wrote about Quacks in his day, reading William Hope Hodgson or H.P. Lovecraft is not going to hurt you either – time to seek the things outside of the pews and see where the map ends,” I smiled with a very dark look in my eyes. If he knew what God had done – on Poe’s death anniversary, seeing something I penned and compiled joining the worlds of literary immortality as these tomes I edited, museums in print God used to have a hell of story to tell.

Sorry, I fell asleep, did I miss something?

“Literature outside of The Bible will not reach these reading eyes,” he said shielding himself with his Holy Book.

OK, let’s be honest. This has never been said by anyone outside of a living caricature or a strawman. Yet Pacione goes on and on about someone who was probably trolling him in real life. Nobody says shit like this. No-fucking-body.

With his eyes he stared at me like I was drawing pictures of a catacombs or seen dreams within old churchyards and Gothic cathedrals as they would be in the streets of London or the dark and grimy landscape that was Baltimore, Maryland.

Has he ever been to Baltimore?
So dark. So grimy.

“What have you done that brought people to Christ?” he responded, sort of echoing the things that the pastor’s spouse had pulled out on me – therefore calling Edgar Allan Poe and I, fools, on his 205th birthday. As she is an ignoramus; ignorance is the poison cast upon eyes of authors – and philosophers as well. God I experienced wasn’t in the pews in the church – but he was no different from a church than either a haunted nightclub or outside the street of Christ Hospital when a Good Samaritan had given me the shoes upon his feet – I will ask in Oak Lawn, Illinois, at the age of 30 who does this?

Anyone who’s a decent person, you goddamn mouth breathing troglodyte.
It’s called charity, and people do it all the time, Pacione. It doesn’t surprise me that you’re mystified by basic human decency.

I will not take Scripture and pound it over someone’s head like he would, as I sat there with my coffee – looking out to the darkness of this February night, as it was the anniversary of when I got stabbed.

Stabbed? AHAHAHAHAA! Stabbed?
He scratched the back of his neck with a ballpoint pen and tried to claim some teenagers did it. He also had an ambulance carry him away because he managed to draw blood.

“Let me say something here if you haven’t read Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. When you look and see demons around every bush as well – you see someone who writes dark and ebony imaginations as the feathered bird Edgar Allan Poe had penned when it Quoth it’s words nevermore,” I replied.
“Who wrote that you quoted?” as he looked on with a sense of horror – a trembling fear was growing in his eyes as I revealed a really cryptic quote.

Oh fuck you, Pacione. NONE of that is cryptic. Everyone has heard that shit to death. You have to learn that shit in 7th grade, and I was a backwoods hillbilly.

“Friedrich Nietzsche – the philosopher who some claimed was insane for saying God is dead,” I replied, “I do read actual literature outside of the Holy Bible as we have the God Above we both adore – The Raven was a poem I read when I was fourteen years old, and this was a week before I became a writer. Exactly one week before my writing period began.”

I suddenly hate Edgar Allen Poe.

“Heretic, dark dealer – merchant of evil in my eyes; I bind you Satan in Jesus name. I pray that you never write this rubbish anymore as it is that of work being of the babbling pagans and hypocrites,” he responded in a tone that sounded like either Benny Hinn or Kenneth E. Hagin as his body is rotted in the coffin as his soul is in Paradise in his eyes of twanging harps and everyone looks like a pussy. He may not realize I can sound like someone from either TBN or TV38 (back before they became TLN,) but he makes Christians look like nimrods and assholes – it’s okay to read books and watch movies, I invite Isaiah Brendan to actually watch a movie with me at Icon Pictures in Chicago and the movie I want him to see with me is What Dreams May Come as written by author Richard Matheson before he died.

Oh for fuck’s sake. Right in the middle of this imaginary conversation he wants to invite people to the movies and shit like he’s trying to arrange a date.

“I am not a hypocrite and introduced Christian heavy metal performers to actual literature,

He’s full of shit. He’s never done jack or shit like that. I’m sure next he’ll tell us all about how he trained Navy SEALS not to eat books. Which is impossible. Nobody can teach a snake eater not to eat a book.

where I learned they are actually cool and talk literature with them as I can also speak of my faith man. Maybe you can learn from us; the wicked generation,”

Why does it sound like he’s about to proposition this guy for some gay sex in the bathroom.

I smiled with a darker look in my eyes – a look warm but at the same time frightening, the eyes of a Stygian Dealer.

Seriously, are they going to kiss?

He may not like the fact I pulled out Iron Maiden’s Murders of the Rue Morgue with a copy of the short story it was based upon – the horror in his eyes of someone who was more informed, someone going into a faith in God who has a dangerous mind. He may have been seeing me as I might have blasphemous glare in my eyes – almost if I revealed the bowels of hell and the Hounds of Tindalos with my knowledge of Gothic Literature.
“I bind you in Jesus name,” he screamed

As Pacione took all of his hard cock up his greasy ass.

as I revealed what I said as everything revealed in the night are the nightmare in his realization that he was dealing with an author who was much more updated with Edgar Allan Poe traits and H.P. Lovecraft’s fears had been conquered for him addressing Robert Cormeir’s subject matter – giving what he wrote some more venom. He is afraid of wandering in places filled with crimson velvet and walls of pale grey as the living room of the house has a painting of the late Richard Burton Matheson as this old dark house was on Bloomingdale Road in Glendale Heights, Illinois, and D. Justin Mowrer might fear looking at this oval portrait as some drawings have the Hounds of Tindalos. These dark perverse revelations actually seen upon the walls --- the dark visions he vehemently protested as such scarlet horror seen in the eyes of someone an aging 30something who outlived Robert E. Howard and growing close to the age of an author who died at the age of 38 from Chicago, Illinois, as well actually coming up with vague and archaic visions.

Sorry, did I miss the gay sex? I went in to the kitchen to make a hot pocket.

“I am what yet to come,” I actually replied realizing the nightmare I had when I was 20 years old was one seeing me as I wrote The Cabbie Homicide. As I had been looking upon the old photographs and the oil painting of S. L. Wickham captured this particularly frightening nightmare to life. Someone who had been called a hybrid with the horrific realities drawn from my mind – wandering and breathing in the pages of a bleak December like Edgar Allan Poe when he wrote The Raven, and in the November of 2009 where a friend had succumbed to a disease that has no cure but the cure being that of death when it is too late. The nightmares seen among his eyes – the demons I took on as my own, not the supernatural demons in the pages of The Bible as they are legion and many but facing the blasphemous demon known as Stigma – shame, and being cast aside like the island of Misfit toys by those who believe in the Church as it has the fucking pragmatic legalism.
Isaiah Brendan looking on in abject horror – knowing he would call me wretched and the bastard born from the whore of Babylon, that I wasn’t the tempest enchanted by the words spoken by Edgar Allan Poe when he said quoth the raven nevermore as he recites that the man here. I address have a God in common we both adore – even the Maven bows before the Prince of Peace but the place of worship has a hard time taking someone as me as I became with a faith that takes on The Werewolf Order addressing his “God” – the Temple of Set a “pussy.”
“Children are always afraid of the dark, and zealots never outgrew their fear of the dark or explain the unexplained away. Well man, the paranormal is just common dinner conversation in the Pacione household,”

oh for fuck’s sake.
He calls himself “The Maven” like he’s some 3rd rate supervillain that couldn’t take Superfriends era Aquaman in fight. Hell, The Maven would probably lose a fight against Gleek.

I laughed; almost taking on traits of Vincent Price when he was playing in The Last Man On Earth when he called the vampires in the climax – freaks, mutations.

Showing that he missed the whole point of the goddamn movie.

“You’re a lunatic,” he screamed.
“Lunatic? No – just someone who is a well rounded reader who got his tastes of literature from the music he loves,” I replied casually and looked at him with a look that scared the photographer when I was 17 years of age. He looked at me like way I mentioned Tabloid Purposes IV to D. Justin Mowrer – that I am the embodiment of the many faces of the fear the unknown, as I am the tabloids become flesh sort of like how Rod produced and created The Twilight Zone in the 1950s addressing issues as Racism, Hypocrisy. Bullying and mental illness if the issue is right – as the lines of good and evil are now blurred where evil can look like a Soccer mom or a pastor’s spouse unleashing a heresy without knowing they did.

OH MY FUCKING GOD, SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

“Afraid to stare reality right in the eyes – see it as we’re part of the real world, as strong language exists in real world. We’re not a G-rated Society anymore pal, the rules had changed,” I added.

…sigh… He has no idea…

“You….are an entity of sin…” he screamed.

Well, he’s right. According to what people close to him have revealed: He tries to lure underage models into doing unsupervised shoots in graveyards in bondage gear on their own dime, he used to peek in on his sister showering and steal her panties, and lots more disgusting things.

“An entity of sin you claim? Sorry – I am a Christian saved by grace, but just someone who doesn’t sugar coat it and will swear at a pastor’s wife because she is a fucking fake saint shoving zealots down my gullet. You show me a zealot I will reveal one who is actually cool – I guess you are not ready for that yet,” I smiled.

He’s just showing himself to be a smarmy asshole.

“These things I have written unto you that believe on the name of Son of God; that ye may know that ye have eternal life, and that ye may believe on the name of the Son of God,” he started shouting at me when I mentioned that. “You are spouting 1 John 5:13 – yes I can do that to, but I am not going to stoop to your level. That would be the King James Version of this; but I am not showing outright hatred for the world though existing in it and finding common ground where I can actually open the dialog,” I replied. “Demon,” he responded. “Was Poe or Lovecraft evil in their day? Poe – I think he was writing in some aspects about his life, H.P. Lovecraft was a fiction writer who had a weird Parthenon – creating horrors that rose from the clay and sea when he created the entity called Cthulhu. Sit down and read a story like Call of the Cthulhu and you might learn something --- expand your horizons and you might like something new and shiny,” I smiled as I casually gulped my coffee in that Carol Stream Diner.

How does someone “casually gulped my coffee” in a fucking diner? That would be something like casually sip or casually drink, not what he’s fucking talking about.
No wonder Clippy killed himself. This stuff is robbing my will to live.

“You’re evil! I live to crush evil and darkness – you shall not produce any more books and succeed with them either,” he responds.
“You are wishing the fate Lovecraft and Poe both suffered and didn’t deserve for what they’ve done – both were gentle souls in their time, but me; someone you don’t want to meet in a dark alley when I was either nineteen or when I was 28 because they are both me. The author who deserves that fate is the one who calls a disabled person a ‘retard’ or degrades the mentally ill by saying they need decades of therapy. I didn’t have the breaks as a writer others have man – look where I fucking lived, Crossway Books was in my backyard and writing Gothic Horror – you have to sometimes create your own,” I said calmly but looking at him with a darker look in my eyes – sort of how I look at Jehovah’s Witnesses knocking on my door when I was 20 years old as I would darkly call them murderers or seeing them as Children of the Damned all grown up.
“Lovecraft didn’t do it for God so he deserved his fate,” he replied.
“Have you even read a Lovecraft story?” I asked growing pissed at what he said of HPL.
“I only read the Word of God,” he shuddered,
“Christians are reading Lovecraft too man – they might understand why he was critical of religion of his day and might had blasted Republicans in his day. But how would he feel if a Republican got him in a public high school to be read for future generations because of project I developed for a story I wrote and got published in England,” I replied in an even more casual tone and smiling.
This man is evil, Isaiah Brendan thought.
“Like H.P. Lovecraft I explore the fear of the unknown and I play with real places like Richard Matheson – real haunted places are my favorite places to create terror with fiction. Then writing a short story where I have a UFO flying over Moody Bible Institute – I was just being funny, the things within the tabloids are sort of my inspirations and the seeds for genre fiction,” I chuckled.
“That is not of God,” he screams.
“I am not a preacher and on the pulpit – I am an entertainer and my courtroom when I address people who lie to me and accuse me of stealing is the court of public opinion, and it was H.P. Lovecraft who wrote – ‘If religion were true, its followers would not try to bludgeon their young into an artificial conformity; but would merely insist on their unbending quest for truth, irrespective of artificial backgrounds or practical consequences.’ Well he was talking to the outsiders and outcasts writing that – I gravitated to HPL because he was treated like a pariah as a child,” I replied, “Going to that Glen Ellyn, Illinois, bookstore when I was 20 – finding Lovecraft changed my life and we wouldn’t have this conversation now would we?”
“I rebuke you Satan,” Isaiah Brendan screamed growing frightened by what I revealed to him.
I actually calmly recited this from my blank book – and the horrors grew in his eyes when I reveal my personal haunted palace. That it was almost two years I first took that pilgrimage to Richmond, Virginia, seeing my projects as an author join the first project in the library in Richmond.
Lunatics and madness become the faith when it falls
When one preaches in the daylight and the choir
Prayers spoken upon the lost fell upon the deafened ears
Horror seen in hypocrisy and illness unseen, speaking to walls
Damnation and redemption die within the suicide of years...

As Melody Graves wrote in her story The Looking Glass, voice is the voice of praise and the sound of blasphemy – it enables us to speak and the word processor enables us to compose things a little faster than in the day of Poe or Lovecraft, the age of the weblog and yellow journalism lack journalist responsibility. Where some will not engage someone on an intellectual level – as this zealot is seen here bringing us back to a time of an age of superstition – as what Isaiah Jeffery Brendan would call someone like me, one where he had called me a merchant of evil as an author aka a dark dealer. I just challenge him to see the world through my eyes and turn the camera upon himself, as this is the point of view that God has seen us – I’ve shaken off the dust of years in realities some don’t want to see when someone ostracized the freaks and deviants in the world, yeah someone like this I would personally bleach their lawn.
“Isaiah let me ask this question – would you evangelize at gunpoint? Pointing a loaded gun at their head forcing them to receive Christ; I am not going to pull the Pascal’s wager shit either if I am going to speak about God here – just be creative and let it come out through my characters,” I responded.
“You know about the Pascal’s wager?” Isaiah asked.

Holy shit, I fell asleep again.

“All too well and refuse to pull that shit on someone either – I just don’t want to be a Christian that is an asshole about it,” I responded basically saying in a term that is not Christianese. I guess I disturbed his comfort zone a little bit here as he is having well I am guessing he is in his 60s when he said I would never write a horror story again – well getting in his head, became his horror tale I wrote just for him making it every line a nightmare where he shall sleep with one eye open. I am not driven by vane deceit as the one pastor’s wife suggested when I told her I was going to study Philosophy at College of DuPage, but my nightmares from Iowa had made themselves manifest when I was getting ready to go to Ontario and before I appeared on the radio in Joliet, Illinois.

Once again, he failed the one philosophy course he took.
And ‘vane deceit” makes me think of weirder things.
Holy shit is he goddamn stupid.

I sipped my coffee and looked at some of my manuscripts thinking about that fucking fake saint who was the ex-youth pastor had said in Mason City --- what the Pastor’s spouse and this zealot pulled opened old wounds from that boogeyman. I kept being haunted by that asshole’s blank pages comment and the horror that unfolded on February 10, 1999, as it was after the events I wrote Mental Graffiti in August that year before returning to Glendale Heights, Illinois, aka my version of Stephen King’s Castle Rock, Maine – a densely populated Castle Rock, picture Castle Rock Maine, with nearly 30,000 people and you will have my hometown from my teenage years and my boyhood home of Roselle, Illinois. I tell this as I am revisiting Carol Stream, Illinois, as I did during the events of A Late Night Appointment. This zealot, Isaiah Brendan, I kept having memories of that motherfucker from Iowa – so I was showing great restraint from not socking him.
“So I am not blowing up at you and you’re going to pull out that dead Kenneth E. Hagin shit on me – as he might be on Youtube.com still preaching in the video archives, someone like that is dead as in he went playing his harps in heaven. Leave his rotted cadaver in the ground as he is like a flowering cadaver when you have those fucking videos up after he’s gone – true my ex-classmate pulled these out, and saying I need to take a plunge in a baptismal pool. There’s nothing memorable about that if you’re going to be baptized – look at what Head did when he got baptized, he went to Israel,” I replied.
“It’s shameful for men to have long hair and tattoos,” he claims.

OK, let’s just cut this shit here.
There is literally nothing in this ‘story’ that justifies it as a story.
He’s just sitting in a diner, arguing with a strawman.

There’s no conflict, there’s no drama, and all he does is namedrop better writers and quote better writers like it makes him an author.
This is not a story in any sense of the word. You can’t even say it’s just a bunch of stuff that happens, because nothing happens.
It’s 10K words of jack and shit.
There’s no reason to buy this. No reason to read this.
And frankly, it just deserves ignored, which is why I’m not going to justify it by doing an entire critique, or a critique at all.
Some fiction exists merely to be fun, merely to amuse. Other fiction seeks to educate. Other fiction seeks to address problems in society or address conflict.
This does none of that. All it does is… showcase a idealized version of Pacione (usually referring to being in his 20’s instead of a 40 year old fat failure) arguing with a strawman. The worst part is, he controls the narrative, and still comes off looking like the tool.
It’s 10K words of him arguing with a strawman, ranting at imaginary enemies, namedropping shit from the Breakfast Club to Call of Cthullu to The Last Man on Earth.
He states that people call him “The Stygian Dealer”, “The Maven”, “The Human Cthullu”, and all kinds of stupid shit.
And he tries to come across as the tough guy.
And like everything else he does, he fails at it.
So, I’m going to go drink a bottle of Jack Daniels.