Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Review of Game OVer (LONG!) REAL LONG!!!

Review of: Game Over, by Nickolaus Ablert Pacione AKA Sparkle Pony

This review is protected by Fair Use, which allows the reprinting for parody, education, critique, or discussion.

OK… Ugh…

So, this is one of Pacione’s longer works for a year of so ago, before he stopped writing fiction and moved on to him rambling and mumbling in a ‘creative non-fiction’ way with his ‘regional writing accent’ that ignores the laws of grammar and sentence structure.
But, let’s talk about this one.

I tried to clone Clippy to help me, but just got a tangled line of code that somehow was drinking and weeping and writing “THERE IS NO PROGRAMMER” in binary across the disc sectors. So I tried loading up Bonzi Buddy and had the horrible experience of watching a digital purple monkey douse himself in Twitter feeds and light himself of fire screaming “PRAY FOR BONZI!” as he burned.

So that leaves all this to me.

God help me.

Well, this piece of pig-shit isn’t going to review itself.

“No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man”

-- John 3:13

So, Pacione starts out quoting the Bible at us. He does this lot, quoting or referencing more famous and better written works in order to give his ‘work’ some stain of legitimacy. I’d counter-quote it, but my Cntrl-F search of the Bible online didn’t return any results for “squalid hunchback with a mouth full of brown teeth” so I gave up.

Magazine deadline comes soon and not enough submissions,

I don’t know how he does it. Somehow he damages MS-Word so that the fonts mess up every time. I don’t know what it is he does.
Anyway, this right here could sum up his latest attempts to fill his own shitty magazine. Pacione has been resorting to using public domain works (illegally, believe it or not!) in his magazines to fill up the page count.
Eugine Verner ran a magazine which publishes everything and anything under the sun. He often shunned the idea from doing a genre mag, but he geared to the Gothic just not the blue collar kind though.

Blue collar goths? I’ve known lots of Goths, and while many of them worked at Wal-Mart or Fred Meyer, I don’t think that blue-collar Goth is a subset.
Unless he’s picturing a construction worker trying to put up siding while in Goth regailia. Of course, Pacione thinks black jeans, boots, and a black-T-Shirt makes someone goth.

Ugh, this is gonna be slog, isn’t it?
He tends to like the elegant side but something ate at him, the deadline was ticking as a dark beast brooding in.

Is the dark beast repressed homosexuality? It’s repressed homosexuality isn’t it?
The day was coming that he had to get it done. He had blue collar writers asking to be featured in the magazine, but he usually ignored their requests.

Having ran a magazine for almost two years, I can basically say that nobody gives a shit what your day job is. Hell, don’t quit your day job is kind of the watchword for beginning writers.

So anyway, he has a problem getting enough stories to fill up his publication, but won’t accept stories from blue collar workers? Well, his mag deserves to fail.

What’s sad is that Pacione is going to use this as a way to make everyone hate this guy, but he will fuck this up like he fucks up everything.
One blue collar writer actually invited him to contribute to a publication he ran, the response was one that was rather cold. That invitation was for The Bleeding Epitaph, a horror magazine based out of Kankakee, Illinois, where the influence of the magazine came from a magazine from 1990 that was based in Kewankee.

What the FUCK does all this mean? Verner was invited to submit to a magazine? Who fucking cares, get on with the story.
Eugine was DJ on the north side of Chicago that spun EBM, and refused to read Stephen King or Robert Bloch.

DING! There we go, it’s Sparkle-Pony raging against some DJ in Chicago that he thinks he is mortal enemies with. Great, now I’m fucking bored.
The writers he turned down were the ones that were trying to kick down the doors were just those kind of writers.

Ugh. Just fucking kill me.
He published various paranormal groups but he refused to run the authors that the paranormal groups would read.

This makes no sense. He published groups but didn’t publish the authors the groups would read? How the fuck does that work? It’s a nonsensical sentence that shows just how badly Pacione meanders and babbles.
Though he's read some of the titles that were out there, but he usually covered the titles that many small press authors will not touch with a ten foot pole. Some of the pictures scared him a little bit because he received one with a voodoo doll on a dart board.

He got a picture of a voodoo doll on a dark board and that is supposed to be scary? Jesus, is this going to be the worst we see for horror?

“What the fuck is this?” he said to himself.

A doll on a dartboard. DUN DUN DUN!

“Sick bastards putting a likeness of me on a voodoo doll,” he continues.

Oh, now we found out that the voodoo doll is his likeness. Still not scary.

“Some of these writers are just sick, but they refuse to touch the stuff I publish. I want PVC not denim clad, someone who spells alternative. Not these damned blue collar takes of Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits – Rod Serlings with long hair and listen to Metallica,”

Pacione is attempting to describe himself right here. But he’s not blue collar, he’s a welfare queen. I want to make fun of this more, I really do, but I think I’m getting a migraine or having a stroke.
Having a stroke
Having a stroke
Having a stroke
he adds while setting aside the picture with the voodoo doll on the dartboard. Someone also sent him a video of them playing darts with a voodoo doll of his likeness some of the shots from the darts nailed two inches shy of the balls.

Still not scary.
An unsettling picture to him but things like that he got over the years.

So he’s a scared little mangina who probably shits himself when he sees a spider in the bathroom. And not a wolf spider or one of those big man-eating Australian spiders, but a little tiny speck of dust that looks like a spider.
He refuses to review publications that don't get support from the mainstream media. He showed his co- editor the voodoo doll on the dart board picture and there was a minor freak there, show of disbelief. The other editor couldn't handle the factory workers who would give their own twist on Rod Serling – or some sick take on a supernatural horror yarn, Sometimes

they have unsettling pictures in the back of their head of these guys putting the editors into their stories and killing them off in some fucked up way.

This is Pacione trying to impress everyone with how he used to write his enemies into stories and kill them off in lame and stupid ways and then claim it was dark and scary.

Christ, his own hangups and desire to show everyone how badass he is is going to get in the way of the story, isn’t it?
His girlfriend collected publications from the independent press and seen some of the writers from there – some of the covers were similar to the old Weird Tales.

Fuck it, another name-drop. Go buy some whiskey and get drun,. This will be easier on us both, I swear.
Just lay back and think of England.
He was unsettled by the writer who came from Glendale Heights, Illinois,

Self insert found!
found within those pages – one who'd often be pictured wearing a Levi's denim top with the silver buttons, jungle boots and Levi's jeans.

Just a quick his right here: Pacione has NO CLUE what Jungle Boots actually are. He just thinks it sounds cool. For those of you that don’t know, Jungle Boots are:

I wore them, they were comfortable as hell.
Hell, I’m wearing the desert version right now.

But can bet Pacione has NEVER worn a set of jungle boots. The most he wore was ‘cruit boots, and he didn’t even pass Navy basic training before he was booted out for (according to some sources) sexually harassing other male recruits.
Just something with those kind of magazines never really sat well in the back of his mind, something about them that he doesn't like and he wonders why his girlfriend collects them.

Because she likes them? This section makes you wonder if the author of the piece has ever actually interacted with other people? Judging from his other stories, I’d say… nope.
Sometimes she would leave a copies of the magazines in the editorial office. He doesn't like reading Twilight Zone yarns because he would feel like he just stepped into the pages of the horror pulps when he reads them.

Reading Twilight Zone yarns is irritating because most people trying to replicate the Twilight Zone shows with the written word screw it up.
He found a copy of In The Depths laying on the couch and hissed,

Spraying venom on the unsuspecting victim!
“Damn it, lady, why the everfuckinghell do you leave these laying around where the other staff can see them? I don't want covers that look like tarot cards! As much as I like to publish dark shit, there are some things that truly scare me and these magazines that lay around truly scare me. I don't like the idea of her dropping this shit off in the office. Christ, Leigh, what is wrong with you?”

What the fuck was this shit? Tarot card covers aren’t scary. They’re trite, overdone, and frankly, not scary.
I want to tea-bag this guy with “BOO!” written on my nutsack to scare him.

“What's wrong Eugine?” Another in the magazine asked him.

He saw a spider.
“MY GIRLFRIEND AND HER DAMNED HORROR MAGAZINE COLLECTION , she keeps leaving these independent horror magazines laying around. Some of them get to me, I mean I don't like the idea that someone did a voodoo doll of me and played darts with it. These writers from the magazines give me the creeps -- look at their fucking pictures, they even look frightening.”

Ugh. You know it’s not scary. Holy fuck, they’re just people. The people who try the hardest to look scary usually look the lamest.
The others from the magazine found In The Depths, “Whoa she reads In The Depths, I heard of these guys! They don't publish too often, usually publishes once a year because the editor is often hospitalized for some physical condition.

Ugh, another Pacione self-reference.
Point of order: Pacione once called 911 and had himself hauled to the ER in an ambulance because of an ice cream headache.
They would say he drinks blood twice a year to keep himself healthy. He's always pictured wearing a black Lord's Gym hooded sweatshirt because he's a Christian.

Blood drinking Christian. Quite common.
The covers often portray people being pulled into hell or Christ walking among the streets where the black plague is resurrected.

Wait, so the Jesus used his powers to resurrect the bubonic plague?
Dick Jesus is a dick

The magazine is a digest sized paperback. They would often say In The Depths is The Reader's Digest of horror and dark non-fiction magazines.

Another Pacione reference to his own works.
Oh for fuck’s sake.
One of the stories in the magazine actually borrows from Metallica's One about a guy who lost his limbs, sight and hearing in a war and he describes the macabre nightmare of such in detail.

It’s called Johnny Got His Gun, and shows that Pacione is a fucking moron. Johnny Got His Gun is an anti-War novel from the 1930’s and is pretty goddamn famous. The Metallica video shows clips from one of the movie adaptations.
For fuck’s sake, Pacione, read a fucking book.

The editor amassed a controversial reputation because he's driven by his faith in the direction of the magazine he went from publishing blasphemous yarns to being more faith based with Gothic Horror yarns.”

Eugine was unsettled by the dark war horror image, “What's the fucker's name?“

The one reading In The Depths actually shouted, “He's known as Bruce Philbin,

A shoutout by Pacione to his best buddy Mike Philbin, a fucking UK based nut-case who thinks every picture of an American soldier stnaind in the airport is evidence that the USA is about to go into martial law. It’s a weird obsession for a guy who lives in Britian to have.
and that's a pen name for him. He's better known in Christian circles under his real name but he took the pen name to edit the much darker magazine. Under his real name, he's been published in evangelical publications but he wanted to do speculative fiction since year one.”

Who gives a shit?
Eugine hisses, “FUCK, the magazine is helmed by some god-mother-fucking-damned religious fanatic! No wonder why it's so disturbing.

He doesn't publish erotic yarns in the mag, but in some way it's more disturbing than anything out there today.

Pacione’s puritanical streak showing through.
Which is funny for someone who inserts his bondage sleepsack fetish into everything he writes.

Some of the people trying to contribute to our magazine originated from his rag. Damn it Leigh! I should have told her not to leave this shit laying around because they got the address from her. She was using the address of this magazine for getting that material. I knew that I shouldn't have kept my magazine laying around the house because some of the authors from In The Depths been sending me their stuff.”

For fuck’s sake. Shut the fuck up.
The other editor glanced at the magazine, and cringed a little.

I’d cringe too if I found one of Pacione’s magazines on my table. I’d probably burn the table. And the house.
Just to be sure.

He couldn't believe there was a flesh and blood copy of In The Depths laying around, and the cover gave him nightmares because it was Lucifer spreading his black wings along with someone laying on the ground nailed in the position the way Jesus Christ was crucified – captured the horrors within the inferno.

Yawn. Overdone Eighties Album Covers for $1000, Alec.
The other editor seen some of the writers of In The Depths in other magazines and know what they're capable of doing. All the stories in there have Conservative leanings. There was a ghost story where an aborted fetus was driving an abortion doctor to the point of suicide and he screams from hell asking God to forgive him.

This is supposed to be scary? That sounds like a Jack Chick Tract or maybe some shit a Sunday school teacher would try to scare toddlers with.
Jerry read one of the stories aloud to Eugine, “If you died to night were would you spend eternity...”

Yup, Jack Chick Tract.
Eugine had the chills when the other editor read that line. Something he didn't want to hear outright. The last thing he expected was to see a dark magazine that was helmed by a Born Again Christian, especially one that has an imagination that gives Rod Serling a run for his money.

OK, right here. Pacione always says this, but he NEVER shows us why the character is that good. Not one fucking example. We’re just told that and expected to believe it.
I hate that shit.
You should too.
And Pacione should brush his teeth.
Bold as he was with his background, he wanted stories that were even darker than what he wrote personally. Something about In The Depths bothered him.

Something rang in the back of his mind about the magazine that made him hate it all the more. The themes that were in the magazine deeply bothered him to the core. It bothered him that his girlfriend sat down and read the Bible after reading the magazine. It bothered him because the girlfriend actually went to church twice a week, often contradicted what he did with the magazine because he would publish alternative content. It bothered him that she actually prays, it bothered him that she tried to share her faith.
She actually read a story aloud at home called “GAME OVER.”

Sigh… that’s this story. Is this where we’re supposed to fist pump and yell “FUCK YEAH, PACIONE!” at the top of our lungs?

Shit, that whole part is just… stupid.

That one bothered him the most because it was talking about life in the fast lane but the main character wakes up in hell. The kind of thing that leaves him unnerved as much as he keeps a print of PISS CHRIST on the wall in the office. The image he had in the back of his head was of Christ being crucified on the cross in the present times with a crown of bared wire on his head, returning to a present where the black plague's been resurrected.

Ugh, again with the black plague.
There are things that really get to him at times, though he has a reputation for publishing a dark magazine in Chicago, but the one that gets to him is out of Lake County.
In The Depths is actually based in Zion, Illinois, they published a story where a tornado actually ripped the roof off a Kingdom Hall. They actually photographed the aftermath and made fun of them hard with the dark joke of them being “murderers” or worshipping a “torture stake.”

Ugh. More shit.
The kind of questions that bother him the most are the ones that Christians ask when they share their faith. The very nightmare he has is the one that he stands naked before the Lord. It leaves him unsettled because it's the thing his girlfriend actually reads in the editorial office. He keeps thinking about how often she prays, an unnerving thought because she used to be heavy into the alternative side of things.

So he’s having nightmares that he’s in a Jack Chick Tract? Booooring.
“Jerry , how does the lady get copies of In The Depths?” Eugine asked with an unnerved tone to his voice.
“I think she's friends with one of the writers on the magazine. One of the writers is named Tony Osbourne, the story he wrote in there is a namesake of the magazine. It was a cross between Cliff Burton and Rod Serling,” Jerry answered.

Of course she is.
Of course it was.
“How are you so well versed in the metal community?” Eugine asked.

“My older brother plays in a thrash metal band called Damnation's Fall,” Jerry answered, “Many of the writers of In The Depths are well versed with heavy metal music

Of course he does.
Of course they are.
and one of them read the book The Great God Pan while another was well versed with The

King In Yellow. They did a story which made references to Victim Of A Higher Space. ”

“Oh by the way, I found a note in front of the office. I figured you might want to take a look at it,” he adds.

Oh shit. Not a note!
The note was folded into a small envelope, and didn't seem like it was from someone in this area. The kind of thing that rings in the back of his head because he knows a deadline is coming soon and he must put the magazine out to print. It was looming over his head like a ton of bricks.

So instead of working, he’s running his fucking mouth.
“Shit not another one of these, I had enough of them.” Eugine moaned. He kept thinking about the deadline coming around the corner for his magazine and wanting real a kicker for the cover. There was a sense of dread in the air when he saw the letter, so he refrained from opening it because he's seen many of these and one of them was the picture of him on the dart board as a voodoo doll.

Let’s hope he gets to work.
The unsettling picture there because he can feel the sharp pain in his right arm and a red welt would show up. Each time a dart hits the doll, the pain becomes even stronger.

Oh for fuck’s sake.
The very thing that really disturbed him was someone actually sending him a video with the voodoo doll on a dartboard. Sometimes he actually feels like Nero and wants to feed Christians to the lions, but the voodoo doll thing scares him more than the Christians do.

OK, so why does he want to feed Christians to the lions when Christians don’t use voodoo?
This guy’s all over the map.
Just that one question is very unsettling for him and he heard his girlfriend ask him that question. He wants to draw and quarter them because of their preaching.
“If you died tonight where would you spend eternity?”

How many times d oyou think he’s going to repeat this in this shit-show?
I bet a bajillion.

“Damn them all to hell,” he mutters as he stares at the computer screen.

“Fuck this magazine, In The Depths! The fucker got my girlfriend praying every night.” he continues, “I need something with my magazine two woman nearly making out or something of that nature. Something that will get the attention of the reader. I don't want the damn fanatics sending me mail saying that I need to be 'saved.' They're talking to someone who keeps a copy of PISS CHRIST on the wall in the main area of the office.”

So edgy…
Eugine was looking for some angle to take the magazine, just that the envelope was staring right at his face. Almost if the fucking thing was staring right at his soul. Just something about that small envelope gets to him, if it wasn't from this world in itself. The return address on the envelope read Wheaton, Illinois, not just Wheaton but Wheaton College. He thought when he stared at that envelope, Wheaton College, oh shit, what the hell do they want from the Protestant Vatican? These fuckers force the fire and brimstone act down everyone's throats – they're worst than my girlfriend Leigh.

If you don’t like the pussy, don’t fuck the pussy, basics.
“I need something for this, something that will make the fucker stand out! Something

that will say, 'Read me fucker!'”

Deep down he was getting nervous from that note because it reflected that he was part of the assembly of fools. Deep down he knew something, he knew what he was doing was going to cause him to burn in hell. Sometimes when his girlfriend would bring In The Depths to the editor's office, he had nightmares seeing himself with two coins over his eyes much like one of the stories about a lady pastor that died in her hospital bed and her soul was holding two coins. Things like that scare him more than the photography in his magazine, just something about In The Depths bothers him.

This is starting to read like the guy might be an unmedicated schitzophrenic.
Jerry was in the other room sorting out photographs to be uploaded to the computer. While they did that they tossed in a CD by Skinny Puppy to help them get the mood going for the rag. They wanted to keep an alternative lifestyle tinge with the magazine but they were haunted by the Southlands Blue Collar Horror Movement.

The what? The who?
And Skinny Puppy? :headdesk:

A bunch of bastards who openly crank Stranglehold by Ted Nugent, Disposable Heroes by Metallica, Sober by TOOL, or Empire by Queensryche – some of them were photographed wearing a Master of Puppets shirt and some drawn sitting with Edgar Allan Poe and Rod Serling in a diner.

Holy shit, you just know Pacione thinks all this is tough.
Talk about media mainstream music. And photographed with a Metallica shirt on? Fucking poseur, that shit went out in the 1980’s. I’m not sure you can even buy a Master of Puppets shirt any more.
And that fucking drawing. Ugh. Pacione was offering free copies of his books to anyone who would paint him in that exact same thing.
Needless to say, nobody took him up on it.
Some of them actually wrote about some church burnings in Central Illinois with the remains of the patrons left in the church – then took pictures of the charred bodies.

That’s just a bunch of sick fucks, right there. Tramping across a fucking hate crime scene in order to take pictures of charred murder victims totally makes them edge, right?
Fuck those guys.
“What is it with these Blue Collar types? Are they trying to piss me off with the banning of faggot written content?” he hissed, “They're not Gothic they're just a bunch dark Gearheads writing their factory worker takes on Rod Serling and Tales From The Dark Side. Stories containing rat rods, choppers, Semi trucks, desolate diners in middle of nowhere, and other Gearhead shit!

While all of those sound like good things, it all would get fucked up by Pacione.
Goddamn this manuscript. It’s almost impossible to milk this lolcow.
I don't want that shit, I want elegance not rugged!

So he wants to block gay writers, but he comes across as gay as hell.
“I don’t want faggots submitting to my gay lusts erotica magazine!”
Christ these assholes from the Southlands, they're the ones who are sending the stories to the magazine. I want to see them go up in flames for their dark pictures of the community.”
While he was putting the body of the magazine together, the envelope appeared if it had a pair eyes.

Wait, the envelope just reappeared? And this sentence makes no goddam sense, although your brain will try to plug in the missing words.
How’s this: “the envelope appears as if it had a pair of balls danging on it’s forehead like Pacione’s fantasies.”
It was staring at him for good two hours, almost if the thing had a life of its own.

Scary envelope?
Holy shit.
The things he publishes spits on the grave of the lineage of horror. One of the contributors sent him something actually urinated on the grave of Robert E. Howard then photographed it. That contributor died in a matter of weeks – found impaled on a steel rod in vein of Vlad The Impaler. His arms and legs dangling like some macabre exhibit of flesh, and the photograph was used as a backdrop for one of the stories within the pages of IN THE DEPTHS.

So the people doing In The Depths are taking pictures of murder victims? What are they, some kind of thrill kill cult?
And notice how the bad guys are ramped up to… um… evil>
Talk about being disrespectful of the dead, especially of one who killed himself. The

person who did that became a child of the grave, he died in a motorcycle accident and found with his head severed from his body. That's one thing about Eugine Judas Verner's magazine, some of his contributors actually die in months after they get published. He ended up going to three funerals in all in the two month time frame the contributors died. Some of them in car accidents while others actually jumped in the icy waters of the Fox river – while others were found with a dirty needle hanging from their arm.

It’s starting to look like the people from the rival magazine are killing his contributers.
Could also be why he’s not getting any submissions.

“Have you read the obituaries? One of your other contributors had paid the boatman

– one of them called Cyber_Boy. A former DJ from overseas they found him with a noose tightening around his neck and a line of blow on a mirror,” Jerry shouted from the other room when he reached for a beer in the fridge.

– Ugh, more.
He grabbed the clipping from the table of one of the contributors just recently dying. They found her lifeless body laying in a bathtub filled to the top with a small portable television plugged in and pulled into the water. Her demise was that of riding the lightning.

Showing the Pacione likes to take song and album names without understanding it.
Riding the Lightning is usually attributed to the electric chair.
The neighbor located her lifeless but staring into the abyss. There was no note when she did the final deed, but the imagery is there laying in her coffin with two quarters over her eyes. Somewhere back in Jerry's mind, he had nightmarish images of how these contributors would die and how they would have coins over their eyes or placed in their mouth. Almost if it was right from the pages of In The Depths magazine.

Yup, it’s starting to look a lot like murder.
“Eugine, read these. When I read through them, they gave me the creeps. Some of them among the dead are our contributors. Going so young either by suicide or by car accident with horrific results. I had a nightmare about the one, you know the one who pushed the small television set in the bathtub! I could still see her staring into the abyss if she was still alive,” Jerry added.
“Don't go telling me about your nightmares again man,” Eugine added as he was staring at the leather jeans hanging in the closet.

Wait.. .what?
He thought, I hate these blue collar types trying to take over. Just something about them really bother me – just the way they present their Gothic story gets to me, especially when they do the death scenes. Damn them all to hell, fucking bastards.
He add, “I want to get this magazine done so I can launch it at a night I am doing. I would invite my lady, but she's got some fucking prayer meeting. It pisses me off when she goes to them, almost if she was trying to share the Love of God to me when I don't want to hear it. Her church is one of those that sees things that aren't dark or twisted, but I just see them as puppets praying to a God that doesn't listen. She's starting to sound like my older sister because she attends church somewhere on the South Side.”

Ugh, more Chick Tract quotes.
Jerry said as he was staring at the clippings, “I take it these deaths don't really get to you. It bugs me when people die, I am scared of meeting my own demise. I keep thinking about that one story in the magazine In The Depths called GAME OVER.

Sigh. This story
These guys write with a very haunting sense of conscious, it's so intense it scares me. The story is about a woman who dies at twenty-nine and stands before God, but it tells a dark testimony of horror leading up to her death. This editor isn't fucking around when he's publishing stories. This editor when looking for stories doesn't play any games, you might be over your head with these guys.“
“I don't want to hear it Jerry! I am sorting out JPG files. All that religious mumbo jumbo bugs me enough as it is with my girlfriend being a Born Again Christian,” Eugine mumbles.

Of course.
He was staring at lime green his Mac with all the photographs taken and trying to paste hem up to word. The tone of the story GAME OVER rang in the back of his head as he could see that envelope staring right back at him. The fact the person who wrote the story was actually disabled still got to him. The idea that a woman died at the age of twenty-nine, so young and standing before God gets to him in many ways because it reminds him greatly of what his girlfriend was telling him. It almost left a chill in the back of his spine thinking about how the woman died in the story, it was almost if it was exactly like the one who had the television set in the bathtub.
“I really need to think about this night I am doing though this damn deadline is lingering over my head; they've been harassing me for a street date. It's two weeks late,” he stresses over the screen. While typing up his editorial. He was eyeballing those black leather jeans hanging in the closet and the black long sleeved shirt that said Bauhaus on it. He had an uneasy feeling with that envelope staring back at him if it was staring into the depths of his withering soul.

A Bauhaus shirt? And black leather jeans?
Is he going to an S&M club or to a concert? Holy shit.
It was saying by just sitting there, “No more games! All you got to lose is your soul, come on read my contents. You really got nothing to lose by reading me.”

It was unsettling to Eugine as that envelope sat there. It was if it was actually looking into the depths of his twisted soul. He was looking at the envelope with intense frustration, thinking what the damn contents would be.
“Okay fine I will open the envelope!” he hissed to himself. There was a sense in the air that he was growing more pissed off by the second about that note especially since Jerry was watching the video of the voodoo doll of his likeness being used for a dartboard.

Is it just me, or is Jerry kind of a dick?
“Jerry, must you watch that fucking thing? It bugs me to death that someone was sick enough to do a voodoo doll of my likeness and throw darts at it, I got welts on my shoulder from where they nailed the mother fucking thing,” he screamed from the corner of the room.
“Sorry man, but this video is like a damn carwreck. I can't stop looking at it. You must have really pissed this person off for them to do a voodoo doll of you. If some asshole did that to me, I'd be a little scared because they might be aiming at my heart with the dart,” Jerry responded as he took a drink of beer. He was thinking about the hot number that would be on the cover wearing a gas mask. Something that really captured the spirit of SINNERS DANCE magazine.

OK, that’s a cool name, but I thought that Jerry worked for a different magazine.
And nude with a gas mask? That’s pretty hot.
“I don't want to hear anything about that voodoo shit, it gives me the creeps,” Eugine answers when he opens up the envelope.
“What is this, the letter says meet him out to a diner along North Avenue in Lombard on Saturday. They were being very cryptic with the letter but the person is a contributor to IN THE DEPTHS. I guess they caught onto SINNERS DANCE and wrote stories about the contributors of our magazine that die grisly deaths,” he continues.

So instead of showing us the letter, we just get told what it is in it.
Christ, Pacione, could you get any fucking lazier.
“I see you found your way to reading that letter,” Jerry quips.

That word does not mean what you think it means.
“Don't be a fucker Jerry! These kind of letters give me the creeps when I get them,” Eugine shushes Jerry, “The letter said for me the meet them at a diner on Saturday during the afternoon. The person behind the letter will reveal themselves then. They drew out a map of the area for me to find the place, I am familiar with Lombard. Just never go out to that area. I just don't want to be the one with the pennies over my eyes going out there. I have plenty of skeletons in my closet thinking about how many funerals for the contributors of this mag; I could hear them screaming up from hell from the depths of my nightmares. Something I hate thinking about because it reminds me of what the girlfriend would say, 'If you were to face the Good Lord, and he asked, Why should I let you in my kingdom?' I really fucking hate when she does that. I kept having nightmares about having blood on my hands, the blood of the contributors who died mainly. It was like they were screaming up to me saying not to make their same mistakes; something I really hate thinking about because some of them die within days of the magazine going to print. It disturbs me that I would be forced to put a death date for them in their biographies along with the photograph used in their damn obituary.”

Oh my fucking god. Blah blah blah.
And if some random stranger sent me a letter asking them to meet them in a diner in the middle of nowhere, I’d bring a knife and a .45 and backup waiting in the car.
Horror movies start that way.
“Those contributors deaths really do get to you then! I don't blame you one bit for acting like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Jerry quipped. He was still watching

the video with the voodoo doll on the dartboard.

“Don't even fucking joke asshole!” Eugine responded in a cynical tone. He was looking for a cigarette as he continued to read the letter. There was a sense of horror growing as he got further in the body of the letter. It was typed up on a word processor using a formal document paper. Then the author's signature was signed in lamb's blood.

OK, why doesn’t he know where his cigarettes are?
Why is Jerry such a dick?
Why does Eugine (which is a misspelling of Eugene, btw, coming from a man who misspelled his own name) feel guilty over the psychos from the other magazine serial killing his contributors.
I thought it was a note, not a letter.
How does anyone know what it was signed in?
And signed with lambs blood? Yeah, horror movies start this way.
Bring Grampa Ralts his .45.
“What the fuck, did they really sign this letter in blood?” he started to have a chill down his neck thinking where they got the blood from. He started to realize that the contributors for In The Depths magazine were really emotionally disturbed driven by both mental illness and a faith in God.

Great, a religious psycho.
Those never turn out well.
His eyes grew more in a nerve shattering terror when he realized he was messing with people who summon powers that he doesn't even want to understand.

Wait, so some idiot smears lambs blood on a probably incoherent letter, and now his eyes grow? Holy shit! What kind of magic spell is that.
I hope he doesn’t turn into a chibi!
He couldn't understand why his girlfriend brought the magazine to the office, but he started to realize they were drawn to the idea of contributors dying after they got published mysteriously. The created dark yarns off the expense of the contributors who died, they would read the magazine then the little Rod Serlings would do dark blue collar yarns about the ghosts of the contributors.

Yup, sound like serial killers.
Eugine thought, wait these little bastards are creating stories at the expense of my contributors meeting the maker! They would actually have the boatman collecting their souls at the death bed sick fucking bastards. Seems like they're drawn from The Night Gallery with their burnt offerings, crap this is fucked up even for us. The SINNERS DANCE doesn't even does things like this. We're deviants but we're don't write like we have a few screws loose.
There was something about that magazine he despised with a passion. Just the very idea of reading fiction about his dead contributors gave him the creeps, it was almost unsettling if they collectively took turns using their headstone as a toilet.

Yet we’re supposed to fee Eugene here in the bad guy.
It’s the sick fucks writing fiction based on the dead people who are sick fucks.
But Pacione thinks that’s OK, because in the few cases where someone he hated died or had a loved on die, he always writes fiction about how they’re tormented in hell.
Oh, yeah, and the little racist called a dead mixed-race child a mongrel in true KKK fashion.
There was just something about In The Depths that truly scares him, the writers make the reader stare demise right in the face and at the same time have their soul staring right into the depths of the abyss.
It was if they were taking part in some kind of necromancy with the written word, some how they knew about the dying of the contributors in SINNERS DANCE.

Maybe because they killed them.
What Eugine wanted with SINNERS DANCE was Gas masks and PVC not something that would fit The Night Gallery. He was unsettled by the little twisted takes of Rod Serling that were living and breathing within the pages of In The Depths. It was if the magazine had dark supernatural powers like the Necronomicon.

Holy shit, he just keeps trying and trying to make In the Depths seem more and more badass, isn’t he?
“Christ these writers from In The Depths, doing stories inspired by the dead

contributors of my mag. It's unsettling because they were detailed about how the contributors died,” Eugine hisses as he saw a copy of In The Depths staring back at him.
“WHAT DO YOU SICK FUCKING ASSHOLES WANT FROM ME?!? Do you want me to give my life to God!?! FUCK NO, and FUCK YOU GOD – you sick mother fucker,” he screams. When he read that letter, it disturbed him because of the use of lamb's blood to sign their name. They had the gall to write Jesus Loves You in the same blood they used to sign it!

Call. The. Cops.
Seriously, that falls under some serious laws.
In horror of what he realized what they done, he tossed the letter down on the desk and ran for the liquor cabinet.
“This shit isn't real! No one writes that kind of crap in any kind of blood,” he fumbles for a shot glass and the vodka. He was shaking in sheer horror because of the letter signed and inscribed with lamb's blood, almost like how they would do the deal for the Passover when God killed the firstborn in Egypt. It was if he stepped into a horror story that was published in that infernal magazine. He tried to get the memories out of his head about the contributors who died days to weeks after seeing their work published.

Ugh, the lamb’s blood just shows he has no originality, and then to firmly rub our noses in the fact that he has no originality, he flat out tells us where it came from.
Holy shit, I still have 39K words to review.
Fucking kill me.
Sometimes he'll reach for the bottle just to get those ideas out of his head of seeing the coins over their eyes, or that was how he pictured them in his nightmares especially the one who had the television set in the bathtub. That magazine forced him to stare into the reflection that he didn't want to see, the reflection of his own mortality. The very thing he tried to avoid with SINNERS DANCE. He published people's inner most fantasies, not their inner nightmares or torments in fact that was his darkest fear and his girlfriend mad him face it every day in his life since he met her.
“This is just a bad dream,” he whimpers to himself as his hand shaky from fright. That letter was just a really bad figment of his imagination or what he thought. Just some sick fuck Rod Serling types trying to get in my head, and fuck it's working!
He takes another gulp of vodka as he goes back to the desk to pick up that letter. It bothered him very much that he got a letter that was signed and messaged in blood as much as he likes to publish dark stuff in SINNERS DANCE. He just wasn't prepared for what was in that letter nor what was published within the pages of In The Depths.
Jerry shouted to Eugine, “Hey man whats wrong? It looks like you seen the Grim

Reaper himself.”

This just keeps getting worse and worse.
Send help…

Eugine shouted back, “Man, don't joke. I just read that letter. The person who wrote it is actually one of the writers from that fucked up magazine. They want to meet me in a diner on Saturday in Lombard. In the letter was the address to the diner the person

wants to meet at, and it was addressed from Wheaton College. Isn't that a school for religious fanatics? I hated going through there unless it was to the Quest Bookstore. The rest of the fucking town gives me the God damned creeps. I swear if I come across another Pentecostal, I will shoot them square in the nuts with a pellet gun.”

You know, I don’t blame him for hating religious people.
They constantly mail him threatened letters signed in blood and harass him.
Jerry suggested, “Man you must really hate that town.”

He adds, “My girlfriend goes to the church somewhere in Glendale Heights. I can't remember where the fuck its at for the life of me. I prefer not to know where it is because she's been trying to drag me there ever since she gave her life to the Bastard of Bastards. It's bad enough these sick demented blue collar fucks actually were crazy enough to write about the deaths of my contributors. I am really getting to hate these Ted Nugent look alikes and think alikes. Their pro-guns, pro-hunting, pro-life, Loving God, gun-ho, support the troops, and eat more meat attitude is starting to really piss me off.

This is just Pacione trying to put make the worst straw man he can.
People like that really get to me, as in every time I see a jet black Mack truck it sends a chill down my spine.

Pacione tried writing a story based off a show he saw that had a black Mack truck in it.
He thinks this is scary….

He should have went with…

At least that was kind of cool.
Just as much as the little towns south of Joliet give me the creeps; you know what they say about small towns. Those sort of towns are crawling with everything blue collar – those towns produce some of the scariest people I ever came across and this is the spawn for those blue collar dark magazines.

This is Pacione trying to make himself seem like a badass.

It's like they got one Stephen King living there, or some similar sick fuck who collects dead cat skulls. They have posters of Metallica on their wall and Iron Maiden blaring from their speakers.”
“Sounds like you've been through one of those towns,” Jerry said as he lowered his voice.
“Yeah once, one of the contributors to another magazine I used to draw for was from a town called Diamond,” Eugine continues. He started thinking about that author from there, an author who goes by the name of Damien Gregory Wise. The story was a dark pro-guns yarn. It was something that didn't exactly leave him because in the horror yarn, everyone and their mother in the community had a gun.
“Wait, you were in a magazine with Damien Gregory Wise? I heard of him, very controversial in some circles for his Ted Nugent like attitude towards the Gothic. I read the story that your work was in with his – very disturbing. Left me the chills, the kind of author that Richard Matheson or his kids are if he took it to a whole different level. I found him published in a magazine based in Clear Lake, Iowa,” Jerry adds.
“Yeah that was Damien. He was dark and scary at what he did, the magazine actually put his name out there,” Eugine adds.
“Did he write GAME OVER in the pages of IN THE DEPTHS?” Jerry asked.

“No that one was actually written by his cousin,” Eugine answers. “How did you know that one?” he then asked.
“I was over at the house where his cousin lives, and I read a rough draft version of GAME OVER. Even in that form it gave me the chills because it told the story of a man who was about to burn in hell, the rewrite version is the one that's in In the Depths,” he continues, “The original version of GAME OVER was a hell of a lot darker, and what's scary about it is that his cousin is like my girlfriend is. A damned Christian and they are the ones who come up with the most disturbing horror yarns because they find more things to write about when they rule out the sex there's a wider broad scape to use to scare people.”

Oh holy shit…
Of course he knew the cousin. Of course he read a rough draft. Of course it’s supposed to be scarier because it doesn’t have the sex.
I guess if you have sex in the book you automatically can’t use a bunch of topics and stuff for the test of the work by some kind of law or something.
Jerry commented, “So you've been exposed to Christians before your girlfriend then?” Eugine sighed, “Unfortunately I have, but the writer left me with a dark chill down my
spin because of that unsettling question, If I died tonight where would I spend Eternity?

Oh for the love of fuck…
I don't really like thinking about that question. It's too unsettling to really put to words! The very idea it rings strong within there after going to those funerals of past contributors seeing those open coffins with them looking if they were alive and sleeping, not deceased but lucidly dreaming. Someone there said they were not going to heaven because they didn't accept the sacrifice on the cross. In other words, according to the lady that was at the funeral they were caught in eternal separation without God. It was if she knew they were damned before they died for the kind of art they contributed to the magazine; it was if it wasn't of God. She must had seen one of the magazines as they went to print when one had a painting done of Aleister Crowley then seen the pentagram on the back cover, actually a hand drawn Baphomet. Then a scantly clad woman wearing a black robe if she was taking part in Black Mass.”
Jerry replied, “Someone tried to save you at one of the wakes? I wonder if they ask the question, does it hurt when you die?”
Eugine sounded a little annoyed, “Man don't even say that question, the very thought of hearing it scares me. It's about as bad as some horror writer's desktop of a cooked demon served up as turkey for turkey dinner on Givestaking. Something I really don't want to think about but the mental pictures of the contributers dead in the open coffin, gives me the chills and I don't want those bastards from In The Depths getting the obituaries because the sick fucks might do something disturbing with it! I don't want those little Stephen Kings running around here – one Stephen King is just really disturbing and I refuse to read him. I prefer the sissy type horror myself

Said nobody ever.
Christ, this guy is strawmanning so hard I’m expecting flying monkeys to tear him apart any second.
authors like

Stephen King just scare me along with similar authors that came before him. The girlfriend often leaves Frank Perretti's The Oath laying around and that bothers me more than the copy of Stephen King's Night Shift along with copies of AG Magazine, dropping hints for me to go to church with her. Her cousin is a writer too and she writes some unsettling yarns as well, not anything I would publish personally but it's the kind of shit which one's most disturbing nightmares are made from.”
Eugine had a unearthly chill going down his spine when Eugine gave that particular narrative about his lady leaving copies of The Oath behind. The telltale hints are also getting to Eugine in some way or form because he usually reads the more sensual yarns of horror, not the ones dealing with spiritual warfare head one. The girlfriend is starting to really scare him with copies of AG Magazine.

He's now starting to have the unsettling pictures of the contributors' blood upon his hands. Especially of the one in the bathtub starting into the depths of the abyss with the words “Game Over, I stand before Him,” written on sheet of paper before the television fell into the tub full of water.
He also got an envelope and it was the final note of the contributor that was found in the bathtub lifeless with her eyes open. The five words that haunted him the worst were the ones written, “Game Over, I stand before Him.” It left him with an unnerving chill at the back of his soul knowing that the contributor actually committed suicide a week after she did a photograph laying on top of a crypt covered in a black sheet up to her neck then tucked under her. Almost if she was doing a tribute to the Black Sabbath album, We Sold Our Soul For Rock And Roll. She actually fell asleep during the shoot on her back almost like how Snow White was found in the glass coffin in that Disney flick.

Oh God, there’s Pacione’s fetish rearing it’s ugly head.
And I’ll be honest, it’s starting to look more and more like the guys from the other magainze are killing his contributors.
Which is fucked up that Pacione thinks that it’s OK that it’s going on.
Anyone who doesn’t submit to his magazine and submits to others deserve death,basically.
Talk about a self-centered little bitch.
The overhead shot of her sleeping on top of the above crypt was used on the cover of the mag before she decided to cash in her coins to the boatman. Some of the other contributors who actually got published were in a car accident and later found their heads decapitated. Laying in the back seat with their eyes still open – staring forever into oblivion as a second death looms over them.
Almost if they saw their own deaths coming before they knew the ferryman was going to come for their tormented souls, escorting their withering remains personally to the blackest abyss. They had no second to pray or a second to ask for eternal life, just as the first they too had met their maker and into the depths of the underworld they return. They weren't even given a chance to let loose their bloodcurdling screams as the eternal horror greeted them. Even in the darkest nightmares they've had when reading IN THE

DEPTHS, they could feel the horror whispering, game over. Jerry stared at the newspaper clipping in sheer nerve breaking horror because he knew exactly who died, two of them were his best friends for nearly fourteen years -- now their souls are in the inferno.

Blah blah dee dah.
And sheer nerve breaking horror needs to be gouged out of Pacione’s brain with an ice-pick.
And holy shit, now his two best friends are dead?
Call. The. Cops.
“T-their gone, just as in the stories within the pages of In The Depths Those bastards are either psychic or made a pact with the devil to do such dark horror yarns. They actually showed the pictures of their death scenes in the paper this time the heads laying in the back seat while the rest of them is in the front bleeding out,”

So the guys from In the Depths were at the wreck, took pictures of the heads in the back seat WHILE BLOOD STILL GUSHED OUT OF THE NECKS!
Yeah, they were totally there, they totally caused he accident, and this is going to look like murder to even the most retarded DA.
Jerry started freaking. Within his tormented imagination when he read those obituaries he heard the tolling of a loud funeral bell, and somewhere in the back of his head it rang loudly. Unsettling pictures of how they died burned back in the darkest depths of his psyche, mortality is something they never thought about with SINNERS DANCE – it was something written about within the pages of IN THE DEPTHS. Also within the back of his head he thought about the question asked at the last funeral, “If you died tonight where would you spend eternity?”

Jerry thought to himself, man I don't want to be thinking about the idea of heaven and hell! There is so much to do with this mag and a night to worry about. There's people we need to entertain and this deadline is coming close. Eugine seems distracted by that fucking letter about some mysterious contributor to In The Depths at a diner in Lombard, Illinois. I better go with him just so he doesn't get the creeps from the contributor – thinking about those contributors, they actually look like they could truly get into a fight and kick someone's ass. Some of them look like they can put us in the hospital for a few weeks. Fuck, he's over his head here – they write about mortality and in detail. They got the balls to write a supernatural story ab---SNIP---ched the pennies being placed over their eyes.
The blackened horror displayed on the screen of a person wearing a black “Lord's Gym” hooded sweatshirt and holding the long sickle blade on a long pole – either that of Father Time or The Grim Reaper. Eugine came across that photograph and had a chill growing in the back of his head, almost if the Reaper was in human form or some entity that was collecting his contributors weeks after running their submission. The way they die would be straight from the pages of IN THE DEPTHS. In their nightmares they can hear the whispers of death and of the horrors of something macabre this way comes – some how the pages of IN THE DEPTHS actually forced them to look into something they didn't want to see, their own mortality. They were looking into the depths of horror where the scribes of IN THE DEPTHS were all clad in denim and leather (faded Levis, black construction boots, and biker jackets.)

So they’re 1950’s greasers?

Jesus, this thing is a goddamn slog.
If he ever bothered to get an editor, this shit would be waaaay cut down.
As it is, it just deserves to be used as kindling.
All this work has done is encourage the heat death of the universe.
I can’t even say anything funny anymore.
Help me.
Eugine had a deep fear crawling in the depths his soul while reading the newspaper articles about two more contributors meeting thy maker.

Holy shit, that’s, what, like 12 just today?
Call. The. Cops!!
It was if he was actually seeing the photograph of the boatman standing right before him. It was if someone took the lyrics to How The Gods Kill and wrote a story based on the concept.

This, Pacione thinks, it the height of artistry. Taking a song (which is probably based off a book) and writing a shitty story about it.
For fuck’s sake, he’s cramming as many references as he can into this like he’s being paid by the companies.
He was staring into the depths of a horror that he didn't even want to face when he was publishing the things with SINNERS DANCE. The letter staring back at him with the cryptic invitation stood there as a huge brooding message if the letter was written straight from hell, it sounded like a letter written from a person who was in hell because no one offered her the gift of to go to a diner called Borderlands.

Wait, so she went to hell because nobody offered her the ‘gift’ of going to a diner?
WTF, over?
Since when does going to shitty diner save your soul?

“That newspaper article is unsettling – almost makes me want to close up shop and stick to DJ'ing exclusively but I am going to take this mysterious stranger up on their invitation.

Then you deserve to get kidnapped, sodomized, and hunted for sport out in the desert by cannibal mutants, you mouth-breathing retard.
There is no contact information as far as e-mail addresses to reach them at or a phone number, something about it leaves me rather unsettled.

Except, you know, the return address.
My girlfriend would call these kind of letters divine appointments,

Your girlfriend might be stupid.
or something of that nature – I don't exactly feel comfortable with the invitation but I am going. Eugine you're going to come along with this one, safety in numbers. I have this weird feeling the girlfriend will be coming along because she was wanting to meet the authors of In The Depths. This world that I was invited to I know nothing about except it's ran by a denim and leather editor.

A sweaty panting leather daddy?

Those kinds scare me because they actually look like they would urinate or take a shit on The Portrait of Dorian Gray and photograph themselves doing it or actually physically maul the more alternative types.

I get the creeps thinking about these kinds because they are almost monsters in their own right, almost if they actually let their own monsters out and lacerated the sky or actually unleashed the four horsemen. That's what scares me about the writers of IN THE DEPTHS – they actually do what bands Obituary does but in print. When I see a magazine like that, it feels like I am staring right at my own obituary
– waiting for some sick asshole to bury me in a story. That's what I hate about the more hardcore type of horror writers who don't mess with the alternative fringe – it's if they would take the alternative fringe and use it as their personal urinal.”

Oh. My. God.
I’m so tired already of Pacione trying to make these other guys sound like badasses, when instead they sound like complete assholes who are probably murdering other people.
Taking a shit on the book Portrait of Dorian Gray sounds just stupid.
Eugine was looking at some of the photographs for the magazine and was disturbed by the fact he was forced to read the memorials of the contributors who die so young, at their prime. Some of them only eighteen years old when they handed their coins to the boatman. He had nightmares about them standing in a hospital room – their soul with the coins over their empty shell or the coins being placed in the mouths of the empty shell. Similar to the way the dead where prepared for burial in Ancient Greece – they would put two coins in their mouth so they can pay the boatman to cross the river Styx. He had a disturbed notion that there was something that will go down at the diner and he kept thinking about the question presented at the funeral, “If you died tonight, where would you spend eternity?”

I’m devolving into screaming at my monitor.
For fuck’s sake, again wit the coins, again with the murdered contributors, again with the “if you died tonight…” bullshit.
He keeps repeating himself over and over and over and over and over like he’s being paid for the fucking word.
That’s what makes this thing hard to critique and review. He just keeps repeating the same shit over and over and over.
He kept thinking about all those open caskets with young faces laying in rest. Kept thinking of the image of –SNIP-- him for a few days.

I literally just cut 4 pages of the same shit over and over and over again.
And you know what, you wouldn’t be able to tell.
You really couldn’t. The asshole is just sitting at his desk while Pacione repeats the same shit over and over, to the point wher it all loses emotional impact and any kind of weight.
Let’s try some more…
The invitation to Borderlands had left him a little disturbed, though he was used to publishing dark hued photography – though the blue collar horror style scares him because what they represent. And with his deadline approaching, there was a shadow of doom and gloom wandering around in the back of his head. The guys from IN THE DEPTHS really got to him especially writing about the contributor dropping the small television into the bathtub. The way they did it was even more unsettling, and the invitation left him unsettled with a deep sense of frozen terror.

He should be afraid of that invitation. He’s going to be sodomized and hunted for sport, and only Burt Reynolds can save him with a well timed bow-shot.
The very thought that an IN THE DEPTHS contributor secretly invited him to a diner, a diner named for a William Hope Hodgson novel -- rumors are the diner is owned by another contributor to In The Depths. He's disturbed by the thought some of the writers could pass for members of The Hells Angels, they were documenting the horrors that were a walking abomination – writing horror stories that were locked in chains.

No, none of the writers he has described could pass for a member of the Hell’s Angels. After Vietnam my father rode with them sometimes, and what Pacione has described does not describe those guys at all. Unless things have changed in 40 years.

Pacione has no idea what a biker gang member looks like either.
He just wants the reader to think that all the contributors to the magazine are total badasses.
Because that way the editor/owner becomes a total badass too. These badass guys respect the editor so much that he magically becomes badass too!
The stories in the magazine were starting to really get to him because they were penning stories about the deaths of his contributors. He really started to think that he was living out the horror written within those pages – almost if they were trying to summon up something long been dead as they were each wandering, breathing from the depths. He had no idea how to explain this to the staff of his magazine, especially when he was trying to get ready to DJ his night -- he couldn't think about what CD to put in the set because he couldn't stop thinking about all those funerals all those wakes.

Wait, he’s going to go DJing?
Nice of the story to drop this on us like 8000 words in.
Fuck this story. Fuck Pacione.
All those funerals and wakes he was forced to attend, all the eulogies he had to speak distracted him from doing a proper set as a DJ --- it was if he could hear the dead contributors each sing in the devil's choir. Each minute as he DJ'd the night, he became more distracted almost if he heard the dead trying to communicate with him like they did with D.D. Hume.

OK, notice that dude skips from his desk to his DJ job?
No description of the actions in between. No showing us his apartment or him getting ready to go DJing, showing up at the job, a description of the club.
Mainly because Pacione has never been inside a club.
He in the back of his mind could see the coins being placed over their eyes – the preparation of the dead, and sometimes in those days in the club he could see the dead standing there staring right into the depths of his soul. He could still see the shroud they used to cover the dead and hear the body bag zipping them into their death shroud. The distracted look on his face told the story, it didn't need to be written – the In The Depths contributors forced him to be afraid of the thing he didn't want to see, his own mortality and in the mirror he saw the Grim Reaper staring right at him.
Jerry was with him at the club with his fiancée, Janis Davies.

BOOM! And Jerry and his fiancé teleport to the same club that Disphit teleported too.
Why don’t characters in a Pacione story walk anywhere? Why isn’t passage of time actually shown? The above words we’ve looked at are actually only about 5 minutes of conversation, then teleporting.
We know nothing about what the office looked like.
We have no idea what any of the people look like.
We know nothing about anything, really.
Nothing has been described, nothing has been explained, nothing has been shown.
So far this has been nothing and 5 minutes of stilted dialogue.
He watched Eugine become very distracted, almost if he could see the dead in the room. It was if the question that his girlfriend and many at the funeral rang in the back of his head – the mental picture of the one contributor laying in the bathtub of water staring into the depths of infinity. It was if the magazine that his girlfriend left in the hangout area of the editorial office was tearing into the depths of his wounded soul.
“What's wrong with the DJ?” one would ask Jerry.

Oh God, it’s always “one would” when he is feeling lazy, or wants the reader to imagine themselves being in the story.
I’m so sick of seeing “one would” in his works. It’s in almost all of them. He has no fucking idea how to even actually use it right, he just throws it in there as if ‘one’ was a generic character he can just whip out to move along what he thinks the plot is.
I’d like to give him one…

“He's seen too many of his contributors die within days or weeks of publishing them. Then the guys of In The Depths magazine were writing stories based on the deaths in grisly detail,” He answered as he took a drag from his Clove cigarette.

OK, number one, Cloves are just nasty.
Number two, shouldn’t that have alerted the police and DA to the fact that these chucklefucks are involved in the deaths? That these sick fucks from In the Depths are killing these people and profiting off of it.
At the very least, the families of the deceased should sue.
“The magazine, as In The Depths magazine? Those bastards are collectively similar to H.P. Lovecraft

No they aren’t.
if they were writing with Jack The Ripper,

Still not.
I read the magazine but I can't sit down and read it in one sitting because they scare me more than Stephen King's Pet Semetery

A terrible book.
– it's like all of them emerged from the pages of that novel. They are the Weird Tales from hell,” the clubgoer shouted back.

No they aren’t.
She took a sip of her mixed drink and started to think about how distracted the DJ was, the thoughts in her head about the deaths of the contributors intrigued her but at the same time left a horrifying chill in the back of her mind – the looming madness of having to bury each and everyone of the contributors would get to anyone. She sort of read one of the stories, the one called GAME OVER --- the one where the author is photographed wearing a black Lord's Gym hooded sweatshirt holding the Grim Reaper's blade.

Oh God.
You just know that the Lord’s Gym gibbon is Pacione’s Gary-Stu.
And posing with a scythe? In that outfit? That’s not scary, that just looks lame and stupid.
The combination of that photograph with the story GAME OVER got to her in some way – almost if that story and photograph made her stare into the depths of her mortality; an impending shadow of death stared in the back of her mind and nightmares.

Here we go, more Pacione rambling from a woman who has no characterization and just serves as a vehicle for Pacione to spout bullshit about how great his GaryStu and his magazine are so that the reader will think that Pacione and his magazine are cool.
I want to flying suplex this woman into a turnbuckle.
Almost if she could feel that the contributors weren't even dead but dreaming – in truth they were in the depths of the netherworld singing the torments of the Devil's choir, separation for all time. She kept thinking about what was written within the pages as the DJ was playing Bela Legosi's Dead.
While that played she kept thinking how some of the dead were found with pennies over their eyes---SNIP--- The fear of a neverending hell was wandering around in the blackest depths of her mind. It was if they knew something, and it grew within the depths of the human soul. She knew what Eugine Verner knew,

Of course she does.
And I snipped a LOT of garbage out.
Just repeating more and more shit from above.
I’m serious, I could slice all that shit and cut this pig down to about 1/3 of the size.
On that…

We’re going to take a few minutes break. I’ll post this, you can push a toilet brush up your nose and scrub out your brain, and we can all be a little dumber from our loss of brain cells.

This whole thing is going to be a complete shit-show, and we all know it.
I personally wish I could just shoot this fucking story out back of the wood-shed like Ol’ Yeller, but I think the manuscript is probably too brain damaged to follow me.

OK, welcome back.
Ready to dive in to Part 2 of Game Over?

I will warn you, these reviews aren’t as funny as the earlier ones because there really isn’t that much comedy in them. Pacione repeats the same things over and over and over like he has paragraph tourretes, and we all get to suffer for it.
With that being said, could you imagine paying like $4.99 for this on ebook and then trying to read it? You’d be PISSED.
So far all we have is blathering on and on, teleporting main characters, and random people showing up and vanishing.
The world is completely undescribed, the characters have had no real characterization and we have no idea what they look like beyond the fact that Pacione’s Gary Stu wears a black Lord’s Gym hoodie that is probably encrusted with food and semen stains.
But, hell, let’s dive back into the big helping of pig shit.
each contributors was going to end up paying the boatman before their time – waiting at the edge of the underworld, their tortured whispers invade his more haunted of nightmares. Eugine didn't really concentrate about his set because the mental pictures how his contributors died were strong in the back of his mind – some of them being buried in the clothes they would wear to the club

Nobody has ever been buried in club clothing unless they were sad motherfuckers with retarded relatives.
Of course, Pacione had nightmares about a funeral he never went to, so…
and the pages of Sinners In The Hand Of An Angry God rang strong when he was at the funerals. Sometimes the other surviving contributors would sometimes pull out the Ouija board to contact the dead ones – just with no result or they open the doors to hell.

Not pictured: Opening the door to hell
Sometimes in the back rooms of the club there would be some drug use,

Like every club ever.
but he tried to keep clean of that.

did no DJ ever
His friends will get together and roll a huge fatty of weed. The smell of the sweet smoke filled the place, and all he could think about is the passing of his friends and contributors – death was following him everywhere he went and everywhere he walked.

that weird twinge in your head just now?
You just had a stroke.
No matter how many times he could get away, he knew there was nowhere to run – nowhere to hide and he knew the writers of In The Depths were going to level the place.

Holy shit, these guys from the magazine are starting to look like terrorists.
He could hear the words “GAME OVER” screaming loudly in the back of his mind, the words written near the dead of his contributors – the words “GAME OVER” as one was found staring into infinity as they met their end in a bathtub. In the tub full of cold water, she was holding the coins to pay the boatman -- and the parting note read “GAME OVER.” That note he ended up retrieving from the place of the contributors death as the reaper came for her soul – the last grain of black sand had dropped for her life to exist and he heard it drop within his tortured nightmares. He could see every last one of his contributors being buried within days or weeks of having their work published, every wake and every funeral – death was knocking upon the door, will he answer?
Eugine was the most haunted by the death of the one in the bathtub more than anything. He was growing more paranoid by the invitation to the diner, and in his mind he was expecting to be on the receiving end of a sick horror plot – something that couldn't be ran past the writers of In The Depths. Something was growing in the back of his mind, and it was the question that was presented to him – the one about God was

burned in the back of his mind especially when his girlfriend was leaving behind copies of AG Magazine.
If you died tonight where will you spend eternity?

We should have known that that line would appear again.
And correct me if I’m wrong, but Eugene here went and stole evidence from what is obviously a crime scene. (One of the reasons that suicide is a crime is so they can declare it a crime scene so they can fully investigate the scene and ensure it was really suicide)

Something he really hate thinking about – where he's going after he dies. Death was trailing him as a wounded animal as they waited patiently to become prey – the abyss was calling his name while he stood outside of the nightclub. He heard the tormented whispers of the dead contributors calling out to him – the torments of the mind as he could see one of the female contributors appearing if they were being prepared for an Egyptian burial rite.
Yet she was screaming for her last strand of life while she would end up being entombed with pharaohs.

No shit? They put her in a pyramid? HOLY SHIT!
He would have the nightmarish images within the back of his head of her being placed in the stone coffin with the coins over her eyes -- within his nightmares he could still hear her pleading for them not to bury her alive, the kind of thing that would had made Edward Munch proud. He kept having such unsettling images in his head how each one of his contributors died, that he started freebasing coffee

I REALLY wanna see someone freebase coffee.
just to make the deadline. Sleep was something that he became deathly afraid of because he would have such troubling nightmares of the contributors in the open coffin with their eyes open staring into the depths of hell.
He returned to the editorial office at two in the morning. Distracted by the thoughts of the contributors passing, how they departed this world so young – all the evil seems to live forever.

OK, notice that we got no description of the club, no real description of what he did.
POOF! Back at the office at 2AM. Most clubs close between 2-3, so… wow. This guy sucks as a DJ and probably as a human and Pacione probably fantasizes about this guy anally mastering him in a bondage sleepsack.
He screamed as he looked at that letter, “What the fuck do you want with me! WHY ARE YOU COMING FOR ME – IS IT SOMETHING I'VE DONE? WHAT ARE YOU FUCKERS DOING TO ME – PUTTING MY DECEASED CONTRIBUTORS IN YOUR WRITTEN PAGES, THAT'S NOT RIGHT – IT'S SICK! Why the fuck did you send the writers of IN THE DEPTHS my way? Is there something you're fucking trying to tell me asshole! FUCK YOU AND YOUR SALVATION! What have my contributors done to deserve the fate they were handed – the gift of demise they received at a young age. Some of them were yet to have kids or be married off!”

I’m sorry, but his screaming at the letter is funny.
Although this is probably most realistic nervous breakdown in the story. I mean, he’s basically having everyone he knows or works with murdered, then he gets an invitation to some shithole diner by a random stranger?
This guy is so going to end up making friends with this guy…

If you know what I mean….

And I think you do…
He picked up the coffee mug and violently threw across the room in a fit of anger, because the weight of the death of each one of his contributors were too much –---- While he just sat there with the magazine staring back at him, the grim reaper in the flesh is an editor that publishes grisly horror yarns about his contributors -- how would they find out about the deaths were beyond him.

I just deleted a bunch of shit we’ve read already, because fuck that.
Repeating something over and over again doesn’t make it scary, Pacione.
No matter how many times you tell me it’s scary, it’s not going to be scary.

“I guess Jerry went to a few afterparties so I have to work on this myself,” Eugine muttered while he saw that letter staring right back at him – almost if the fucker was alive and breathing at him.

More shit from the envelope with creepy human eyes.
The unearthly invitation stared at him almost if the damned thing had a life of its own. While he worked, he'd would feel the dead in the room – they were watching as he tried to meet his deadlines with shitload of contributions from the recently deceased. At the same time sorting them out he had to write the memorials for each and everyone of them – something that weighed heavy upon his conscious, knowing when they sent their pieces they were still alive.

Wait, since when do magazine editors wire people’s eulogies? Usually that’s done by family.
And no matter what Pacione thinks, being someone’s editor for a magazine does NOT mean that you’re as close to the submitter as family.
It got to him that he had to write obituaries for every single one of his contributors.

Said no editor ever.
The only one that didn't die was the one who was pictured standing in front of a cross in a cemetery reading a small Gideons New Testament – that was taken somewhere in rural Iowa.

Probably one of Pacione’s self-inserts.
Holy shit, does he have a lot of them. I mean, he literally packs himself into about 4 different characters in each show like we won’t notice.
And this is a whole bunch of “unless you write conservative religious fiction you will burn in hell and die! Shit is just getting on my fucking nerves. Some of the greatest horror writers were seriously hard core Christians, but Pacione wouldn’t know that.
Some of the other contributors were found burned to death – nice and crispy, he found the burned bodies thrown up on the web and realized their names. It truly got to him how young they were when they died – ---SNIP--- one thing when he was staring at those pictures – one word, MORTALITY! It sat there staring at him – the fucking note had its own living conscious, it stared at him if it had eyes. The invitation appeared if it was pounding like it had a heart and a soul, but it was only printed in black ink and parchment – the invitation to the staring right at him if it had a pair of eyes and a soul. The words and address read – The Borderlands Diner, Lombard, Illinois. It was if the note knew it was coming, the thing called divine appointment – the very thing his girlfriend was waiting to happen, and he kept imagining the blood of the dead upon his hands and living out the plot of a story from the magazine IN THE DEPTHS.
The letter was signed simply, ORION.

Oooh, supposedly this is going to be our bad guy.
And wait a minute, wasn’t the letter unsigned before he left?
Now it has “Orion” as the signature?
Fuck Pacione.
The invitation wasn't outright – just told Eugine to show up, but didn't matter the time, show up because there had to be something to do with a future contributor whose life was about to expire. It seemed the wall of death was growing around him and with each death, it grew more visceral by the second the pictures went to print. He could still see the ones that died in the fire with their remains being nice and crispy from the charred

black flesh – from the depths, he knew their luck ran out with the last grain of sand of their life fell into the hour glass; GAME OVER. Time was hunting them down without mercy and when their submission got published, it was their demise coming closer – they knew from their soul, death won't let them stay. Eugine would imagine every horror coming to life out of the pages of the infernal magazine IN THE DEPTHS with Lucifer spreading his black wings -- an in the pages he could hear the souls screaming from the depths of the blackened abyss.

More fucking bullshit that gets more and more boring as time goes on.
Holy shit. I was tempted to fucking snip it, but….
I hate this story so much. I’m like 10K words into it and it could all be summed up in less than 2K words.
The printed pages which echo the cold black winters of Chicago . They're breathing as a cold dark entity from the stranger aons when death may die, the crawling chaos staring in the reigns of his maddening nightmares.

And then he quotes someone else…
Fuck, I want to take this store and shove it into a garbage disposal, but my garbage disposal saw me coming and blew out and now I have to mop the kitchen and fix the pipes.
Thanks, Obama.
A dark angry entity growing within the pages and staring right at him, breathing, watching as the blasphemy whispers in the shadows – something that seems to be a black figure with eyes of fire pointing right at him. The divine appointment stared at him in the face as if he was standing before thy maker when he's not even dead, he felt like he was in the nightmare and the soundtrack was Reign of Blood by Slayer –

Fuck, another namedrop.
he felt like he stepped into a place where time stands still. With that letter sitting there breathing and staring at him as if it was a living entity. It was if he was being dragged into a horror story that was written by Mancow Muller – nightmares seen from the promised land (world of shit.)

Another namedrop. What the fuck is his obsession with namedropping more famous people. Does he honestly think fans of those people’s works are going to buy his bullshit just because he namedropped them?

Eugine was more intimidated by the entry from IN THE DEPTHS written by Judas Orion Cicerone (pictured wearing a PANTERA shirt – the author is a cousin of Nickolaus Allan Cicerone,)

Look at that goddamn insertion.
Not only is this Orion motherfucker a self-insertion, now he basically puts himself in there. As the Orion gibbon’s cousin.
I’ve never wanted to punch two literary characters in the face so bad in my life.
the very story he wrote left him the chills – especially with the death behind it. He actually wrote the story about the contributor of his magazine being found in the bathtub full of water with a small television dropped into it while still plugged in – whilst dead, she was still staring into the depths of infinity. Eugine felt his heart pounding violently in his chest as that cryptic letter was staring at him, if it knew the shadows in the darkest regions of his human soul -- it was if he was being tormented by the words of a wrathchild

Holy fuck, here Mr. WrathChild Pacione puts himself into it…
I don’t know why he insisted for over a year that everyone call him “Wrathchild” when he took it from lyrics, then claimed that everyone called him that, then insisted everyone call him that, then he ended up getting called Sparkle Pony, which was funnier.
who've penned the grotesque details of the demise of one of his contributors days within their untimely death. He could hear them in the back of his mind screaming silently as they fall in a slow descent into the blackened abyss.
The letter stared at him for a good two hours as he nervously assembled the last pages of his magazine – the deadline was looming over his head and the obituaries grew by the day. As the letter of the invitation burned into his eyes, the dead from his magazine rose within the weeks into the months – taxed into his psyche as he gulped combinations of coffee and whiskey, f—SNIP--- when he went to the club, not knowing that he was going to end up in the whipping dance of the dead with his deadline lingering over his head. Editing the magazine for him is like pushing a large rock up the hill just to do it all over again, and with his contributors paying their coins to the ferryman at the bank of the river Styx.
One of the contributors who recently died was named Karen Lynne Mosley, age 33 – they found her hanging from a rope in her living room. Staring into the black infinity with the words “GAME OVER” written as her final words.

Blah blah blah.
He’s drinking Irish Coffee, getting drunk, and feeling terrible about the dead people.
Now it’s gotten to the point where ALL the dead were found with coins over their eyes.
Holy shit, this is definitely moved to CUT ALL THE BULLSHIT out to make it shorter. Holy shit, what I cut out was just the same shit over and over and over.
And the Karen Mosley, a thinly veiled attack on one of the people he hates. Just him writing revenge fiction that he thinks is going to completely shock his victim.
See, it might be fun if it was actually described out. A real revenge flick should highlight the nastiness. Several authors have done stuff like make hated people into child molestors, murderers, nazi’s, tax evaders.
But Pacione just fucks it all up.
And who the hell can hang themselves in their fucking LIVING ROOM? I mean, where the fuck are they going to find a beam to do it?
She was wearing a long black Victorian dress and lace up high heeled boots when she

introduced herself to the noose. The coins for the ferryman were left on the floor prior to introducing herself to the noose around her dirty neck..

And there’s the coins. I’m telling you, it’s a serial killer picking on Eugene’s writers.
When they buried her, they didn't care enough about her to even give her a headstone –

See, this is just contemptible, making it so that the person was so unloved that they didn’t get a headstone.
That’s because Pacione can’t compute anyone caring about someone else.
Hell, if someone I knew died without a headstone I’d try to scrape up the money. If nothing else, I’d go to the river, get a big rock, carve their name on it, and drop it at the grave site.
finally joining the love that died at 18 from murder. Body found in a ritualistic homicide with two of his fingers cut off and his heart carved out of his chest.

OK, we’re seriously moving into serial killer territory.
And that’s sad.
See, if it wasn’t Pacione, we’d be suspecting that what we’re reading is someone running afoul of a murder cult, and being drawn in as everyone around him is sliced away by the killer(s). Instead, we know that this is just going to be a poorly written revenge fantasy that will go nowhere and nothing will really happen that was worth reading.
They found a pentagram carved into his forehead, the coins were left for him years ago with his bloodied carcass.

There’s the coins again.
Could easy been the lyrics for a Cannibal Corpse song with the way they found the poor fucker's body in Glendale Heights, Illinois, somewhere between the apartments on Fullerton and the convenient store.

OK, namedrop a song.
Then, Pacione is using his old apartment as where the killing was performed. Holy shit, why can’t he just use his imagination. This definitely shows that there was a steady decline into his work from fiction to ‘real world fiction’ where he saved everyone from laser guided parakeets.

She actually told some teenager to kill themselves via e-mail and they did – they introduced their wrists to a cold steel blade then bled to death. The parents found the teenager laying on the floor in ten pools of still flowing warm blood with the said e-mail on the screen glowing in the darkness.

Ugh. TEN POOLS OF BLOOD IS BETTER THAN ONE! RAWR! I R WRATHCHILD! Jesus, Pacione, that’s not how they work. And still warm flowing blood? Umm.. OK.

She closed the letter off as “BLESSED BE.... MOTHER FUCKER!” Her false Gods provided no salvation as she dangled from the rope and the noose tightened around her neck like a tourniquet, snapping the vertebrate in two!

And Pacione shows he didn’t research hanging. The snap noise isn’t so much ‘vertebrae snapping in two’ as it is the cartilage crunching. Well, it can happen, I mean, that one guy in Washington had his head pop off when he was hung in like 96. But that guy lived on Snickers and shit to get to 350 lbs so they couldn’t execute him and the state said “LOL no” and did it anyway.
Which is a much better story than anything we have read here.
The witch is no longer going to be in this world – forever spending eternity in the black abyss, returning to Mephistopheles where the soulless whore belongs.

Once again, Pacione shows his tolerance. Sexist, racist, and religious bigot. Why can’t he just write instead of telling us how to think? He’s worse than Hienlien.
Eugine saw the pictures of her demise and was forced to do another obituary in his mag. Another death as that letter stared right at him – demise loomed over him as a black cloud staring at the pit of a tormented soul. Mortality was crawling up on him as some particular spider as it sings its lullaby while his contributors sing the devils choir in the pits of eternal fire. Especially since one of them was buried without a headstone, and in the nightmares he watched the dead scream for their lives in the abyss.

So spiders sing lullabys? Is that why they crawl on your face, gently lullingyou to sleep with a lullaby so they can drink from the water in your eyeball?
He was wondering people were planning his funeral before his body dies. The coins where placed over his eyes in his nightmares – the ferryman was waiting for him and the dead were whispering his name. If was he being pulled into the pages of a story by Zorn Hritz, a writer who died at the age of 30, from unknown natural causes – his last story “DANCE OF THE HAUNTER,” was in the pages of In The Depths. Some of the deaths could be something that fit the pages of a Barbara Malenky story – the pages of Human Oddities.

Ugh. Now we get another Zorn, who, of course, died of ‘unknown natural causes’ (read: Pacione couldn’t be fucked to give him an actual mysterious cause of death and just pulled something out of his zit covered ass)
Eugine's heart violently pounded in his chest because he had no idea who was the sick fuck playing games with his mind – leading into the darkness as it would be the whipping dance of the dead. While the pages of In The Depths were staring right him, he feels like he entered the realm of the dying room.

Tense change, drink, motherfucker!
He stared at that letter as it was breathing at him – if it was almost a living entity in

itself penned by a wrathchild,

OK, so now the envelope is alive. And we get the wrathchild drop again. God, it makes me want to punch someone right in the face.
and the deaths documented in the damn magazine were written by a collective of wrathchildren. Almost if the fucking bastards knew the ferryman was coming for each and everyone one of them.

What the hell? I mean, seriously, what the hell?
So the wrathchildren is the murder cult? I think I’m having a stroke, so I’m confused.
In the back of his mind, he knew something evil was growing – haunting him as he watched his contributors die left and right. The letter that stared at him, the invitation scared in the back of his head, as much as those evangelical magazines that his girlfriend would leave laying around. With the pictures and drawings, they were an ominous sign that someone was about to die and perish within the blackened abyss screaming in the devil's choir. Their physical bodies were found in bathtubs full of water with some small electrical object tossed in there or were found nice and crispy.

Or hung. Or decapitated. Or eaten by spiders that grant immortality and fill the victim with cats.
He was stepping into some twisted sick horror writer's nightmare as he was starting to be greeted by dismal times – when the Devil and the Grim Reaper are often the playthings of a horror writer. As disturbing as someone tacking up a voodoo doll of him and play darts with it, as he waited for the bastards to become the guest of honor of a torch and pitchfork party for what they've done – documenting the deaths of his contributors before the wake and funeral or even penning morbid visions of them being dragged off to the underworld to pay the ferryman.

Once again, killing his contributors and taking pictures for trophies.
The meeting at the diner was a few days later – he and Jerry made their way to Borderlands, the nervousness was growing in them not expecting what was going to happen.

BOOM! Teleport and time jump all at once.
And of course they’re nervous, they’re gonna be hunted for sport.

Diners named for an old horror story, no one knows what to expect. The diner was done up in gun metal gray along with some black and had pictures of the grim reaper on the walls. A huge poster of the Death tarot card was on the back wall of the diner along with a huge pencil sketch of William Hope Hodgson staring at The House Of The Borderlands

This description of the diner is so bad…

-- the owner of the diner had a very macabre way of seeing the world, said to sleep in cemeteries when he lived in Southern Illinois.

Only a pseudo-hobo like Pacione would think this was impressive. Instead, he just described the weird homeless dude down the road.
They would say the preacher in front of State Street would sometimes travel to Lombard to come into Borderlands – usually to try to save the souls of the demented people who come in there. Many of the horror writers in the DuPage County area would come down the diner to get some disturbing ideas for their stories – since the place had a dark razorwire vibe to it, almost if the diner itself was trying to communicate with the dead.

But wait, I thought that these ‘denim clad wrathchild blue collar goths’ were all Christians? Make up your fucking mind, Pacione.
The staff looked like they could be a character of old Gothic horror short stories from the early 20th Century.

Of course they did.

The proprietor was tall and muscular,

Of course he is.
looked like he could pass off as a roadie for Type O Negative.

Of course he does.
He had the Type O Negative green circle with the

negative sign tattooed on his arm.

He even looked like he could pass of as Dani Filth's kid brother

Of course he does.

except in black denim, dark olive drab solid flannel, and a pair of black construction boots – blue collar hued Gothic.

Actually, Pacione, that’s called backwoods hillbilly chic. It’s not impressive, all of me and my friends grew up wearing some variation of that.
I liked blue and black checkerboard flannel, band T-shirts, heavy jeans, and jungle boots.
Eugine and Jerry were getting the creeps from going in there – they might have looked spooky, but this place was right out of the pages of one of the writers of that magazine that wrote about the deaths of their contributors.

Ugh. The place isn’t spooky, it’s a try-hard diner full of posuers and dumbasses.
Eugine had that letter that was staring at him in his hand.

The letter is still staring at him.

And Todd Hollins’ roommate is still being gored by a spider.

“This is the place but where is this person called Orion? This place is giving me the creeps – as much as I do spooky events, this place feels like it was decorated by Edgar Allan Poe.

No it doesn’t.
Poe lived in an entirely different era. He’d consider some diner with pictures of the Grim Reaper to be trite and boring and then would go home and fuck his wife.
They're even playing 'Ride' by Cathedral blasting from the speakers,” Eugine commented while had a chill down his spine.

Why is that chilling? That song isn’t even that good.
He and Jerry felt like the diner was similar to something breathing within the pages of the stories written by Zorn Hritz.

Oh man, not with the breathing shit again.
And isn’t this Zorn dude dead?
It was if they were in over their head because this was the hangout of many of the writers from IN THE DEPTHS.

Well no shit, they’re in a den of murderers and serial killers.
The kind of place that plays in the minds of those who come from a Blue Collar angle with the Gothic.

Blue Collar


Blue Collar


Blue Collar


Yes, I can totally see those goth guys running a fucking drill press or a welder or working at a construction site.

Holy shit, Pacione, you’re a goddamn moron.

Some in there would come in with their Windows laptops and type up the true paranormal accounts to chilling evil horror yarns would come out of drinking a cup of Joe within these blasphemous walls. Their imaginations covering the funeral dirt upon the staring faces of the dead -- watching the sinners catch fire within the pages and they are forced to see one thing, MORTALITY!

I became aware of mortality when I was 5 and saw a car-wreck where someone died. It was the early 1970’s so I just had death explained to me and then had ice cream. ICE CREAM! YAY!
This isn’t scary. This is boring as shit.
Jerry had a cold chill touch him within the diner, almost if the diner had a few ghosts as well as a macabre atmosphere. Just something about that place was too much for his fragile psyche –

Translation: Jerry is a huge pussy who gets shits himself when the EBS runs a test or a commercial features something frightening like a bald guy with magic power or a woman.
You know, the same things Pacione is afraid of.
almost if the imagination of that State Street Preacher burned into this head of sinners dying in a pit of eternal fire.

And of course, gentle reader, Pacione once claimed that his friends called him State Street Preacher.
Except he doesn’t have friends.
Such minds sitting in the diner having a coffee and smoking Newports.

Newports were what the brothers smoked in the military. All of them. Like every single black guy I served with smoked Newports.
So now I think all these guys are black.
They seem as they're a bunch of denim clad rough individuals that appeared like they could beat the shit out of the next person they see

Not scary.

Notice he TELLS US that they look like they can whip ass, not describing someone who can whip ass.
-- the kind of crowd that leaves a blackened chill in his spine, though he may appear spooky he stepped into somewhere evil.
In that diner they were facing their own dismal times, while they had in the back of their minds heard the screams of sinners burning in the abyss. In that diner, they felt their souls burning down to the ground – as they heard the contributors screaming from the abyss as they were forced to watch the funeral dirt cover their graves. Wandering within the nightmares they stand in the diner waiting for the person behind the letter calling themselves Orion.

Blah blah blah sinners blah blah blah hell blah blah blah
Fuck you, Pacione.
They felt as they were living out a horror movie as they stood in that diner with the

macabre decoration almost if the diner was mocking them and the deaths of the contributors of SINNERS DANCE. They were in a den of wrathchildren

I’m sorry, but nowhere has he described anyone I’d consider someone I’d call Wrathchild.
So far he’s described dudes that man glory holes in truck stops.
while they were penning the details of the funeral dirt covering the graves of the deceased artists and photographers of Eugine's magazine. They were disturbed enough to do such an act and create them into a frightening horror yarn – it stands in their mind as it disturbs them with the horrors of IN THE DEPTHS pages staring at them within the diner waiting for Orion. Eugine seen the atmosphere and didn't feel comfortable because he felt he was in ground zero for the sick, disturbed assholes of In The Depths.

They are sick, disturbed, and contrary to what Pacione intended, obviously goddamn scumbags and probably murderers.
They aren’t impressive.
They were doing things which documented the deaths of the most talented of SINNERS DANCE -- they were entering a whipping dance of the dead when they were standing in the front of the diner where they were in the shadows of the disposable heroes, they started wearing their other elegant Gothic wears.

Oh fuck. He has NO IDEA what Disposable Heroes even means. He has no idea about the song, the protest behind it, and what it meant.
He’s a goddamn moron.
They looked at each other and thought they stepped into blue collar horror hell.

That’s the country bar Stetsons in Killeen Texas.
Everyone had blue denim, some form of ink, and black leather biker jackets.

You know, that outfit and the tattoos is called ‘country living’ where I’m from. It isn’t impressive.
This reminds me of a virgin trying to write a sex scene.
A diner that could been owned by members of Iron Maiden or members of Biohazard;

Doubt it, those would be classy place.
truly a rough appearing bunch. The characters penned by the writers in the diner would write actually beat up the Byronic Hero as they would fill the place with blood.

This shows that Pacione knows jack and shit.
A Byronic Hero would fuck these guy’s girls, beat them to death, and ride off on their motorcycles.
Pacione doesn’t actually know what a Byronic Hero is. He just thinks that stating his characters are more badass than one makes us believe it.
For reference…
With apologies:
He knew himself a villain—but he deem'd
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd;
And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did.
He knew himself detested, but he knew
The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded too.
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
From all affection and from all contempt

Yeah, I think that Pacione is picturing in his mind an effeminate fop.
That ain’t a Byronic Hero.
They thought in their mind – game over for them as they waited for Orion. They, in the back of their minds, could see these bastards tossing the funeral dirt on the graves of the contributors of their rag. They were capturing the hell of their dismal times as the sinners were in the cold abyss of the underworld. In their nightmares they saw the funeral dirt covering the open caskets. The Borderlands was the hangout for Zorn Hritz before his passing, and immortalized the diner in a story called “The Borderlands Diner.”

Who gives a shit about Zorn? He’s some asshole. Either put him in the story or shut the fuck up.
I’m serious, I could cut this pig down to about half the length if I got rid of the stupid shit.
Wait, getting rid of all the stupid shit would just be hitting DELETE and having done with it.
Eugine had this impending dread that he was stepping in a place where the sinners burn to the ground. The kind of place like Borderlands gave him the chills because it echoed everything that frightened him about the magazine with the authors who wrote about the deaths of his contributors. Especially when they covered the suicides with the funeral dirt, where they are sinners burning to the ground – burning until they die. Zorn would write to Relentless by Pentagram or some doom metal act blaring according to his biography, capturing the thundering whisper known as mortality within the apocalypse.

Blah blah blah Pacione wants to suck Zorn’s dick behind a diner blah blah blah sinners burning to the ground blah blah blah Pacione’s a fucking moron.
“What are they serving up here, the black plague?” Jerry whispers with a sense of growing horror.

Yeah, because that’s a common dish served in a diner.
He started to think this place was too horrifying even for him, and he collects macabre medical oddities.

Thought nobody ever.
The atmosphere within the diner seems like something

spiritualist D.D. Home would dream up.

Namedrop, drink, bitches.
That vibe gave both Jerry and Eugine the chills. Almost if someone was covering them with their own funeral dirt, they each felt the wind get knocked out them.
They felt like the death could still see their face as they watched themselves become buried. The very idea of having the dead watch themselves being covered with the funeral dirt leaves an impending chill to their warm pulsing blood – they were holding back the steaming piss from flowing down their leg.

Blah blah blah…
Did scratching the back of your neck with a pen give you a septic infection that rotted your brain? I mean, I know you’re a filthy hunchback, so the chance of infection from your own rotting skin was bad, but holy shit, how does someone write this over and over and not realize they’re doing something wrong?
Eugine looked across the diner for the one they called Orion, since they knew the mysterious stranger with the ominous letter is bound to appear.

Because they know what Orion looks like.
Just fucking leave already. Orion is just going to say something retarded.
He pulled that letter out of pocket, and still gave him the chills because it asked the question, if he died tonight where would he spend eternity? Sounds like something the street preacher on State Street will say.
Chills crawled up his spine as he took in the diner with the letter in hand, felt if it was written from one in the abyss. Reading the letter in the diner seemed more sinister, it truly felt if it was a breathing, beating entity. Somehow the writer knew more of SINNERS DANCE's contributors were about to die – if they had the coins to leave for some of the contributors of SINNERS DANCE.
Somewhere within the back of his mind he could still see the funeral dirt covering faces of the deceased – he could still hear their tortured souls screaming as they are dragged off to the underworld as they watched the funeral dirt being covered over them.

Holy shit. More “IF OYU DYE 2NIT WARE WOOD U SPEND ENERDITY?” bullshit, along with funeral dirt bullshit repeated over and over.
This is like a broken record tried to write a story.
The vibe of the diner was it was a stopping place for everyone dwelling within the Greek Underworld.

Ugh, more tyring to make the diner seem badass.
And failing.
A large poster sized tarot cards hanging on the walls portraying death on a pale horse. That pale skeletal horse rider collecting the souls of his contributors. Eugine was looking to Jerry with a nervous look on his face, then he lit up a clove cigarette. Nervousness grew in him as he waited for Orion to arrive. Jerry could see that Eugine was deathly nervous almost if he was approaching a party where one of the guests of honor had a red masque – then everyone dropped dead because of the sight of the masque.

No, everyone dropped dead because of the plague, you blithering nincompoop.
That was what Eugine was feeling when he stepped into the sinister looking diner –

With blacklight velvet posters ripped off from tarot cards?
So sinister looking. All they need is a fat shitty Elvis impersonator and it would be hell itself.
No. Literally.
almost if they were collecting the souls of the dead that he was forced to bury. Good die young while the evil survives on forever. He was forced to say a premature farewell to them all – one by one he had to commit them to the ground, and they were forced to watch him pour the funeral dirt upon their graves.

Blah blah funeral dirt. Blah blah souls blah blah
He started to think about the pages fr0m the short story “From The Ashes, I Shall Rise” and thought of all the people had to bury.

Of course he did.
He had to bury the children from the grave and the place he was standing in

reminded him of every wake and funeral he had to attend within the past few months.

Of course it did.
He and Eugine felt the impending horror in the air – a horror they didn't want to experience though they like to appear spooky. They felt like they just stepped into the hand of doom with a black figure staring right at them. They were expecting someone named Orion to walk through those doors – just what greeted them was Death in human form. The blackening aeons that grew with the floors of the diner, a smell of old decay – that of long dead. The darkness they encountered in the diner was one that actually burned down cities – something that lived for many eons, not a vampire but something a little more evil. They felt like they were standing against the wall when standing in that diner – the atmosphere to them created a sense of looming horror.

Oh for the love of fuck.

Again with another quote.
And now he tells us that Orion is death in human form?
Man, there’s got to be a name stronger than what I’m thinking.
A horror that Eugine faced when he had to go to each and every wake of his contributors, the dead memories dwell and he won't be born again. The letter actually asking, “If he died where would he spend eternity?”

Again with the Jack Chick Tract line.
The letter cut into his mind like a warm razor across the wrists. Reading that letter aloud in such a sinister looking place reminded him of all the funeral dirt he had to pour upon the graves of his contributors. Then the nightmares about the sinners burning as they scream for the Devil's choir would come to mind as he eyed over the letter.
“Where is this fucker at?” Eugine asked while looking at the paintings of death on the walls.
It seems like the paintings were whispering to him in some blasphemous way. Almost if they knew his contributors died or were about to drop the coins for the ferryman, one of the contributors actually stole something from IN THE DEPTHS – a drawing of a woman sitting in the shadows, they went and made it into something pornographic and SINNERS DANCE had the balls to published it.
The contributors die mysteriously in a house of flames, almost if they were dragged into the lungs of hell on earth. Death came sudden for them. They didn't suffer but they died from inhalation of smoldering black smoke. The footsteps they felt in the flames were the touch of Death. Their trip to hell began the moment they died, and within the pages of SINNERS DANCE was a bastardized version of an illustration done for IN THE DEPTHS.

Ugh. Holy shit. Pacione heard “Lungs of Hell” and doesn’t get that it’s used for hot wind. I makes me want to punch him in the hamburger eating device.
The death of those contributors could have been in the pages of those wrathchildren with word processors.

Ah, yes, the wrathchildren again.
Fuck you, Pacione.
Jerry stared at the walls with an uneasy glance, knowing there could be something sinister drinking a cup of Joe and sitting with a word processor upon the the coffin black table. They stare at the macabre atmosphere and get the ideas for

such grotesque stories – allowing the demons in the dark to be penned on a glowing word processor. Jerry grew nervous as he heard the keys ran across the keypad and their evil minds became flesh upon the glowing screen. He took a slow drag of his Clove cigarette but there was nothing to calm his nerves especially when they unleash their inner psychopath. Eugine took another drag of his Clove and started shaking because he stepped where demons wander. Places such as this diner is were the sinners burn to the ground. Where they dance upon the dead in dismal times and watching them as they die
– waiting for the madness to wander within such a blasphemous place. The kind of atmosphere nightmares are made, as they heard the last breath of the contributors – they waited for a figure named Orion.

Ok, so the diner is where demons wander, but where sinners burn to the ground?

Fuck you, Pacione.
“This place – reminds me of something in the pages of that damn magazine my girlfriend leaves laying around,” Eugine mutters as he takes a drag from his Clove. He is trying the best he can from holding the piss from flowing down his leg. The place gave him a hard scare with the imagery of Death hanging on the walls. Eugine started to feel very uneasy in the diner as they waited for the writer of that letter. They were standing there for a good two hours thinking the person wouldn't show up. The diner staff escorted them to the booths with coffin black tables and crimson red seats. The waitress looked like she could been an extra in a Tim Burton movie with her long black hair, black lipstick, and waitress outfit.

Of course she does.
“What would the two of you take,” she said as she took a puff of her Newport. While the cigarette dangled from her mouth she took a notepad out with a pencil so she could take the order.

The waitress smokes chitty menthol cigarettes while taking my order? Fuck you, lady, this isn’t the nineteen fucking eighties.
“Which one of us first,

To plow that waitress ass.
this place give me the creeps,” Jerry whispered to Eugine. He felt he was sitting in a diner where Rod Serling had some input on the layout – inspiration being Night Gallery in some ways, and with the paintings of Death it gave him the creeps.

Ugh, more namedrop. I hat this story so much.
It made him think of all those people Eugine had to bury and how they were watching him toss the funeral dirt upon their graves. The waitress was there taking the order and was giving the two in the booth the creeps, they didn't know what to make of her with the crucifix around her neck and the black denim outfit. She had a thin chain hanging to her mid thigh for her small notepad. They thought she was ready for a séance or some other form of activity that communicates with the dead.

Oh for the love of fuck.
OK, Pacione, this woman is not creepy, not scary. Black denim isn’t scary, they sell that shit at Hot Topic. Hell, they used to sell that shit at K-Mart back in the day.
She sounds like she’s a typical truck stop waitress, probably using the crucifix to snort meth.
“Okay lady, I will take a coffee,” Eugine said to the waitress.

“What would you want in it?” she asked as she took a drag of her cigarette.

“I will take it black,” Eugine answered.

“I will take a coffee with sugar only,” Jerry answered the waitress.

Loud heavy metal music blasting from the speakers while she took their order. They weren't prepared for a heavy metal diner – and the grotesque paintings on the wall portrayed scenes of demise covered the walls along with a painting that seemed to be staring at them. One of the paintings seem to have the portrayal of Christ's return in a realm of the black plague in modern times – walking around in blue denim and a leather jacket where people are coughing up blood and part of their lungs upon the concrete.

Dick Jesus is a Dick.

The artist who portrayed this dark return was an artist out of Roselle, Illinois, who took a lot of Christian hued themes and made them into dark dystopic images of horror. Some of the writers would come in just to get ideas from the paintings and pen the stories of unsettling horror to the mind and soul.

Of course they do.
Man, this is all stuff I thought was badass when I was nine.
Grow the fuck up, Pacione.
They sat in the –SNIP--- Orion by Metallica filled the speakers in the back of the room, and this was scaring Eugine because it matched the sinister tone to the paintings.

I cut out more shit abougt the lungs of hell, funereal dirt, and other shit htat he’s repeated 50 times before.
And of course he named one of his Gary Stu’s after a Metallica song. He has NO imagination or originality any more.
He just. Plain. Sucks.
The paintings reminded him of all the people he had to commit to the ground – such as the horrors drawn upon his dismal times. He couldn't really think about his coffee staring at him because of every damn funeral he had to attend or every wake he had to speak for a eulogy. It was if they were making a blood covenant with the dead – just thinking about having to cover them with the funeral dirt disturbs them. Eugine took out a small silver flask he keeps for whiskey and pours some of it in the coffee cup – his hands were shaking with fright.
Especially since some of the paintings look like the ones done by the dead contributors of his magazine. The paintings from the walls rang true to him because they resembled how the dead were sleeping within the open casket. Also if they were getting ready to document their own demise as they were getting ready to die. The painting portrays them sleeping in an open casket as they're in their own wake. Being the witness to that really gave Eugine Verner the chills as he took a sip of his coffee spiked with hard

liquor. He was growing nervous waiting for Orion, the nervousness in his eyes told everything and Jerry knew that something was going quite wrong – ungodly wr0ng! He saw the paintings on some of the walls and they happened to be the wake portraits of the dead of his contributors with pennies over their eyes.
One of the c0ntributors to SINNERS DANCE actually touted to one of the contributors to IN THE DEPTHS saying, “I hope you die alone, you sick fucker – how dare you write about someone's death!”
That contributor fell into the icy Fox River. No one was able to find her body until months later – they were a frozen slab of flesh with no signs of life. They perished in the abyss of the underworld where their false Gods have no dominion. The little pentagrams around their neck couldn't save them from the horrors to come, the horrors came for them where they don't have the coins for the ferryman. They found the body with the eyes still open – staring into the black infinity with their soulless eyes, forever joining the demons in the dark.

Yeah, I’m still in favor of the guy’s from In the Depths are serial killers.
We’re not seeing them as heroes here, they’re getting to look more and more like psychopaths who kill everyone in their way.
Their frozen screams forever descending into the blackest shadows of infinity where the souls scream in the Devil's Choir – the horrors of demise becomes the playground for those who wrote within the pages of IN THE DEPTHS. T—SBIP----. It was if God himself actually gave them the middle finger because He saw something wrong in his eyes, the death was a touch of his wrath – not since he sent Sodom and Gomorrah in the depths of brimstone that the wrath had been fully unleashed to the contributors of SINNERS DANCE and judgment was in the pens of IN THE DEPTHS. The contributors of SINNERS DANCE had pawned their souls to be in the magazine and this is something that looms over Eugine's head as he drinks his coffee in the booth over macabre atmosphere.

OK, so God himself is punishing Sinner’s Dance? Being published in a magazine is the same as living in Sodom & Gomorrah?
Goddamn, Pacione, we all know that In the Depths is a stand-in for your shitty magazine, that all the named ‘cool’ writers are supposed to be you, but trust me, God is not going to strike anyone down for being in other magazines or being better writers than you.
You suck so much.
His hand started shaking in horror when he found out another contributor was found dead on the icy waters of the Fox River for trying to put a hex on a contributor from IN THE DEPTHS for writing the dead of the other magazine as re-animated corpses. In the vein that Dr. Herbert West did in the film The Re-Animator injecting them with a glowing green liquid.

They were writing stories about the fresh dead bodies of the contributors of his magazine – some of them hanging with their neck snapped in two! He saw the

photographs of that suicide and looked on in horror as he saw the two coins for the ferryman. The person who documented this was named Tony Goldburg, and actually wrote the detail of the neck snapping – the parting words for the dangling cunt was GAME OVER dropped at her feet. Another contributor to SINNERS DANCE plummeted into a sharp head of a fence about two days later – cold steel impaling her eye.

He repeats more, and then starts throwing in ‘cool deaths’ he saw in movies. I mean, the Re-Animator was a good movie to watch stoned or with your girlfriend because you’re both 13, but come on…
Lisa Carglio was found impaled to the top of the fence like the way Vlad The Impaler would impale his victims while eating his diner – he would put them through a long spike and they would bleed out. He used their blood to dip his bread – her blood was covering the entire fence as she plummeted out of the balcony window of her second floor apartment in Chicago. Basically her death was showing the world how the gods kill

No, it wasn’t. No they weren’t. And Pacione, you’re a goddamn moran. (sp intentional) and holy shit this is just goddamn stupid.

Here, have something to cheer you up…

– her fate became in the hands of the whipping dance of the dead. The pits of the eternal fire became the place that greeted her as she saw her spiritual death – she was watching her body hanging from the fence in a grotesque display as she was pulled to the abyss with her tormented silent screams. Eugine learned of both deaths while nervously drank his whiskey spiked coffee and looking at the menu. He seemed more distracted by the demise of the last two contributors because they died in rather horrific ways, and Misty Gersley wrote one of those yarns in the pages of IN THE DEPTHS actually documenting the graphic death of Lisa Carglio – the 0ne that gave Eugine the most nightmares. The story was called IMPALED BEAUTY QUEEN – something that gave Eugine a decent into madness as he sat in the diner waiting for Orion. Nervousness grew in him as he observed the painting of his contributors laying in the caskets all in a row – with the coins over their eyes,

Sick fuck alert.
Not only did they publish pictures in the magazine, not only did they write about the deaths, they then have a life-size painting in the diner?
Why are the cops not arresting everyone? Why is Orion still on the loose.
the horror in his eyes as he saw those portraits on the wall with the drawing of William Hope Hodgson staring at The House of Borderlands. The nightmares in print were really wearing Eugine down as he was taking a smoke from his Clove, and the atmosphere was uninviting to him.
He stepped into the lungs of hell when he thought about the death of Karen Lynn Mosley, the way she hung herself and the noose tightened around her neck as a tourniquet – in the back of his mind he could hear her neck snapping in two. The mental picture of her dangling in the living room with her black Victorian dress and lace up high heel boots. He couldn't get over the literary shrapnel and napalm fire in print delivered by the writers of IN THE DEPTHS – especially when Gersley had the gall to write IMPALED BEAUTY QUEEN, a visceral yarn about horrifying demise of the SINNERS DANCE contributor, Lisa Carglio, waiting at the edge of the river Styx. The writers of IN THE DEPTHS take to the gruesome deaths like sharks in a feeding frenzy – to them, it's

blood on the water. He was growing more agitated as he heard about the recent deaths, as the Grim Reaper came for his contributors. Sitting in that booth he felt the impending horror of the walls crumbling down upon him as the hand of doom. Between sips of coffee laced with hard liquor, a sense impending horror was looming over him like a black cloud of misery. In his mind, he knew the contributors of his magazine were each taking turns committing deicide. With each photograph they contributor and each drawing they send in – they were collectively taking turns nailing Christ to the cross. Within the weeks of being published on the magazine, they've already written their obituaries and the pennies were placed over their eyes.

OK, you know what? He still hasn’t explained why GOD HIMSELF is killing these people? There’s no reason for it. I mean, Pacione hasn’t been murdered by God, why is what Eugene writing so goddamn terrible?
The writers of the other magazine were writing macabre stories about them as they haven't yet rotted in their tomb. They would describe in gruesome details of many ways that would scare the little Hot Topic Mall Goth kids. Horror that would tear right into the soul, almost if they personally each had the keys to death and Hades. Eugine was thinking about those deaths and gave him the chills – continued to look around for this one called Orion.
One of the deaths happened right near the diner, one of a Hanna Yellin – found her blood soaked body with shards a windshield impaled in her forehead.

On Law & Order they would call that “probably cause” and we’d watch Ice-T ram a nightstick up someone’s ass.
She had a story in SINNERS DANCE, but later standing outside of the diner – a 1989 Buick ran into her full force and she hit head first into the windshield. In the story, she called one of the In The Depths contributor's Satan's Minion because he wrote about the death of one of her friends.

A reasonable reaction.
Her half-rotted soul was dragged off into the underworld the instant her death was handed down to her. God really saw something wrong in his eyes when it came to her, pretty much gave the female abomination the middle finger as the bitch died.

A kind and loving God, ladies and gentlemen.
She was staring at the black abyss as she had the shards of windshield hit her forehead impaling deep into her brain. Salvation was denied to her when she paid the ferryman – for her perverse takes on the dogma and making it work for the spirit of Sodom and Gomorrah. The silent screams from her lungs as she was dragged off to the second death greeting her at the age of twenty-two. She had a photograph of herself that was standing on an American flag with dirty shoes on the ground.

I’ve fought for my country when it told me to, and I still don’t think that the woman deserved death. I wouldn’t be friends with her, but the Supreme Court ruled it freedom of expression, and with the state of the US and its labor laws right now, I sure as shit understand why someone might do it out of frustration.
And it sure as shit doesn’t deserve death.
That death didn't get to Eugine yet, but there was a looming horror in the diner as Eugine was sipping his coffee laced with hard liquor. Jerry was growing nervous as well – Orion wasn't there as they waited, and the death toll grew by the minute, by the hour.

So while they are sitting in the diner, the contributors are getting slaughtered?
Dude, you’re gonna end up in the back room, tied up, with a gimp climbing out of a box.

The horror within the place grew upon their tormented souls as they knew they were already in the lungs of hell – and it was breathing down their necks in form of the

pictures on the wall of their contributors laying in open casket with coins over their eyes. Within the time they sat in that diner, another group of contributors have coins to pay the ferryman – their sorry wayward souls were dragged off to the underworld. It got to Eugine at how many people had taken a dirt nap after getting published in his magazine
seeing in the back of his mind, all the coins that. It got to him as much as seeing his friend Stephen Nicolas Marshall getting impaled in the forehead with a two inch wide and a eight foot rod flying through the windshield of his 1973 Olds.

– Stolen from many movies.
Eugine wasn't able to do nothing but watch. The already dead motherfucker didn't see it coming – the Reaper wanted his sorry ass and the leftover brain matter decorated the back seat. The poor plagiarizing bastard saw it coming too and was not able to do a damn thing about it. Mortality was knocking at the sad motherfucker's blood soaked car door with what was left of his brain matter in the back seat. He was staring into the abyss of eternal damnation as the rod impaled him between the eyes – the most grotesque way of meeting the Master Reaper. Marshall watched himself being ripped out of his blood mangled body, and seen in horror where he was going to spend the rest of his dying days. He personally watched the coins being placed over his eyes as he died a horrifying death – came for him at the flash of a blade. Eugine actually stood outside of the editor's office when he witnessed his friend die and be pulled back into the realms of Hades.
As Eugine drank his liquor laced coffee, his hand started shaking in horror thinking about how some of the contributors of his magazine dies. What really gave him the chills was how the writers from In The Depths would capture the detail of their deaths in every grotesque description – especially from Misty Gersley. IMPALED BEAUTY QUEEN actually left an unnerving chill down his spine because she was detailed in the way his contributor died.

Contrary to Pacione’s belief, not one bit of this is hardcore or impressive. Like I said before, it’s like that fat kid who smells like spoiled milk trying to explain the movie he stayed up late to watch on HBO when you were both in the fourth grade.
Go fuck off, Pacione.
Plummeting down a second floor balcony then head first hitting the spike on the fence, echoing the way Vlad The Impaler would kill his enemies. Dipping bread in their blood and eating it with his dinner, one of those things that Eugine used to not read about – macabre acts written in in the pages of history. He can't get the death of the one left hanging from the head on the sharp point of a fence.

Jesus, how many times are we going to have to read this fucking Vlad the Impaler part. I mean, the dude was cool to read aobut when I was in 6th Grade, but beyond that, not really.
This is like the fourth or fifth time he’s made reference. It’s long since had any gory or scary parts worn away.
And the fact that the magazine writers keep writing all the details about the killings, still make me believe that Pacione accidentally wrote about serial killers.
Just a reminder…
Todd Hollins’ roommate is STILL getting gored by that spider.

He sat there nervously with Jerry drinking their coffee while the waitress was making the rounds – the paintings on the wall had this unearthly feeling to them, as if they were recording the deaths of his contributors.
The coins over their eyes as they were prepared for burial – coins are there to hand to the ferryman to cross the river Styx. The atmosphere started to give Jerry the chills as well with the loud heavy metal music blaring. It made the place even more frightening

when The Thing That Should Not Be by Metallica started playing in the background.

Of course it did. Between being surrounded by serial killers, having the world champion of the White Trash Waitresses Working in a Shitty Diner take their order, and the velvet paintings of murderers, of course it would play a fucking 30 year old song.
He actually thought the hybrid children with gills upon their chest were going to walk in the diner. A looming horror grew over both their heads, and abject terror was slowly growing within the depths of their human soul – knowing each photograph they publish or story they run, another demise loomed over their collective heads. Jerry's hand shook as he was trying to light up his clove cigarette. He and Eugine couldn't stop thinking about the eerie painting portraying the SINNERS DANCE contributors. All of them, laying in open caskets with coins over their eyelids all in a row. It was if they were reliving the horror of having to watch the people pour the funeral dirt upon their casket – while the dead watched themselves get covered with burial dirt upon the final resting place. The burials became fodder for Nickolaus Allan Cicerone's short story “The Burial Of The Young.” In the story, he would be describing how they would be scratching at the inner walls of the closed caskets if they were buried prematurely.

Ugh. Self insertion. Just kill me again.
Then as they were buried they were being greeted by the second death. The Shades of Hades howl for them as they reach the dead by their legs pulling them feet first into the depths of the underworld – the final separation between man and God. The elegant clad visitors didn't know what was coming for them as they waited for the person who actually dropped the mysterious invitation for them to meet at a Borderlands Diner. They saw some of the paintings in abject horror especially one done by Lilith Skeezix, someone who just wants to be known as a pen name or painter's name. The paintings in some way had left the In The Depths writers inspired to pen the more horrifying yarns.

Christ, he’s repeating himself so badly that I’m worried I may have actually suffered a stroke. I’m starting to root for Eugene and Jerry to escape before they’re hunded for sport.
Holy fuck, I’m almost done with this piece of pig-shit and fucking Orion STILL hasn’t shown up? What, is hunting down BMX riders in the New Mexico desert?
Ugh. Fuck, I was wrong. I’m barely 2/3 of the way through this shitty book, and so far they haven’t done jack or shit.
My God, I’m bored I could probably masturbate to Scooby Doo cartoons.
Eugine and Jerry each looked around for the individual named Orion as they stared up and down the diner they were getting more nervous by the hour. They were having unsettling thoughts about the contributors who are now in the stages of a second death – spiritual death, they're --SNIP-- ground as the Shades pulled him into the concrete feet first. It appeared almost if he was caught up in an oceanic undertow as they pulled him into the underworld, a rude awakening to the horror within his dismal times. Stephen Marshall's death was the thing that haunted him the most because he actually watched the sorry fucker die.
“What's wrong man?” Jerry asked Eugine as there was a growing worry in his face. “These fucking paintings – they are giving me the creeps. Some of them actually drew
portraits of our contributors laying in open caskets with coins over their eyes,” Eugine answered as he gulped his liquor mixed coffee. Those paintings to him gave him the chills thinking about them in abject horror.
Especially the ones which were done by Lilith Skeezix, and they could hear the howls of a black cat on the other side of the diner.

Oh Jesus, you don’t want to know how much I pulled out that just repeated shit.
I mean, how many more times he just repeated this shit.
Oh, and SURPRISE BLACK CAT. Holy shit, in order to get what the diner looks like you have to mine it out of like at least six pages.
And to remind you:
The Story So Far: Gay man gets letter to meet strange gay man in diner for buttsecks. Nothing happens.
The owner of the diner has at least six black cats and they sit at different points of the diner's area, as familiars to a unearthly disturbed Man of God.

Of course they do.
Of course he is.
You have to wonder: Why does Nicky seem to think all of this is cool and interesting to the reader? It comes off as seriously try-hard.
They sat there staring at the patrons as some of them thrashing their fingers across the keyboards penning their disturbed yarns of abject terror within the glowing bluish white screens of their word processors at nerve-breaking speeds. The deaths of his contributors —SNIP--clouded over their heads as they could see the funeral dirt being tossed on the caskets of their contributors within days to weeks of being published within the pages of their rag.
One of the other deaths that happened was of a Janis Beresford who ran a venomous

gossip blogzine that took a shit upon people who wrote within the pages of In The Depths. They later found chatty little bitch beheaded from a shard of steel. Her dead fuck of a boyfriend was also found similar to a cut off chicken about the same time, both laying in pools of blood as they were both introduced to Lady Guillotine. Both were staring into oblivion as they were beheaded with a large shard of steel – death came for them at the flash of a blade.

More bullshit cracked out.
Some revenge fantasy from Pacione about someone else.
Ugh, this is just getting stupid. Stupider? Spputiters. Help help help
She's now spending her second death in the underworld where her brother's rotted corpse was for the past few years – both fucks beheaded like chickens prepared for a meal. Her dead fuck of a brother appeared in Sinners Dance – they actually photographed him when he became a stiff, they met a fate worst than burning at the stake.

So they waited for this guy to stiffen up?
They were friends of Jerry, and he was forced to see the closed caskets because the deaths were too gruesome to show an open casket. Their heads were cut off at the bottom of the neck – Beresford often stalked the author, Zorn Hritz in his life because she didn't like what he did and later stalked Misty Gersley. The obsessed nobody constantly stalked her due to the fact she published Zorn's work posthumous in an anthology – his cousin was in charge of his estate, and found some finished stories in his hard drive. Something which she complied featuring writers who were published before In The Depths was conceived. Misty wrote a story killing Beresford off similar to how they killed Marie Antoinette by sending in the guillotine. Beresford over the past years, sent a volume of harassing letters to Gersley because she was publishing Zorn Hritz.

Who gives a shit about Zorn Hritz?
This is really starting to turn into a revenge screed.
Beresford was responsible for the torch and pitchfork party and making Zorn the guest of honor with her message board and website. She would be posting photographs of setting fire of the mag—SNIP-- standing over the coffins of flesh they leave behind while the friends of Zorn Hritz would actually write the descriptive horror stories about how they died – or when they stare at their own fleshly coffins as they died.

I cut a shitload of stuff from the story. Just repeating shit over and over and over.
But, I figured I’d leave the next part, because holy shit…
The kind of thing that would be coming from the pages of Nickolaus Cicerone, since he writes about people going to their second death; a spiritual death. Cicerone and Hritz often traded ideas back and forth for stories, sometimes using each other's stories as backdrops for eerie tales of the afterlife. Cicerone actually revised some of Zorn's

Of course he did.
works that were finished, but still on the word processor as his best friend passed away. They even collaborated on one which the subject matter was about retribution from the afterlife called “Pacione's Laugher.”

And here’s Pacione just shoving himself in, or missing his own name in the Find/Replace.
The “Pacione’s Laughter” thing is supposed to be…. I don’t know…
I guess it’s supposed to be impressive, supposed to get the reader to go “FUCK YEAH, NICKY!” and fist-pump, or whatever. But it’s just… sad. I mean, I know he intends it on being some kind of chilling thing, but since we all know he’s a squalid hunchback with the hygiene of Bub from Day of the Dead and a voice like a chipmunk that inhaled helium, all I can think of is wheezing high pitched giggling.
That collaboration appeared in Misty Gersley's magazine and she even added a sequel to the story of her own. The elements of that sequel became the framework for IMPALED BEAUTY QUEEN. Jerry actually read “Pacione's Laugher.”

Ugh, he just can’t help himself.
Like a chronic masturbator in court.
A lumbering chill that went to his very soul. Especially in the story they killed off a Madison, Wisconsin, based industrial performer screaming about being liquored up. Found him beheaded with a thick sheet of metal while driving drunk down the highway. It was two weeks before James Michael Fanalle's death when the story got published. The head of his label, Chad Arpe, died by his own hand because of an overdose.
The medical examiner found him with a dirty needle dangling from his veins with his flesh turning a pale shade of green. His eyes were staring into oblivion, while his spirit was looking upon the old greenish gray corpse – touched by the hand of doom over time with his breakfast on a mirror or the black liquid shit cooking up on a spoon.
The head of his label met his end just as Fanalle did because he actually messed with

the publication date of IN THE DEPTHS. He would constantly send dead dismembered cats to the members of the magazine, especially to Cicerone's family – often to his older sister who looks after the family. Fanelle made them a target because the entire Cicerone family each carry Conservative values, something that Cicerone wrote on a solo basis left him a disturbed feeling.

Ugh. Even doing this, I could see it as a justified escalation.
And who gives a shit about the fact they have Conservative values? Ann Rice has conservative values and nobody gives a shit.
Almost if he was writing a prophetic tale of Fanalle's death and the descent of the maelstrom of addiction of the owner of his record label. Since they had pictures portraying some of the authors of IN THE DEPTHS as kings and queens of misery and woe, seated with the lord of the flies. The album covers of James Michael Fanalle would often mock the stories of the IN THE DEPTHS roster often portraying them in unflattering situations. One of them urinated on a photograph and used it for an album cover of a deceased spouse of one of the writers after they urinated on it. They had the brass balls to send the fucking thing to the editorial office of IN THE DEPTHS. Shows how many times the two had their breakfast on a mirror or drank down their earnings, especially when they desecrate the dead. Time was ticking down for them, life for Fanalle and Arpe were out of season – beheaded and the other with a dirty needle hanging from their arm.
It was almost if the dead was trying to send some of the deceased whispers of madness into his heart. Something within that diner gave him the chills especially when he thought about the collaboration between Cicerone and Hritz.
The photograph and illustration of Hritz's portrait gave Jerry and Eugine a sense of abject horror. Almost if the illustration was alive and breathing within their minds; in a way if Zorn Hritz's ghost was in the room watching them from beyond. The illustration was of Zorn Hritz sitting in the graffiti room at The Exit as he took a sharpie to the torn up seat – done sometime prior to his passing, they immortalized his signature and sent copies of the photograph to Borderlands.

Ugh. So this guy is so immensely popular he can vandalize shit?
Oh, wait, he’s ripping off a sort of famous bar in Chicago that I heard about a long time ago.
Christ, Pacione, at least try to make up your own shit.
Blah blah blah, I, Nickolaus Pacione, like to sniff my mother and sister's panties while I furiously stroke my medically diagnosed micropenis and imagine myself being anally mastered by Brian Keene, who I love so much and --SNIP-- living out some sick horror writers creation. His hand was shaking in fright while he takes a drag from his Clove cigarette while Eugine was taking long swigs of his whiskey. They truly both feel like a couple of jagoffs waiting for the writer of the mysterious letter who goes by a moniker of Orion.

Ugh, he’s STILL drinking that cup of coffee. So either it’s the size of a goddamn German beer stein, or he’s sipping it so slowly his backwash is filling up the cup.
And it’s the same Clove cigarette.
Once again, here’s the problem with Pacione’s writing. All of the characters are action figures that don’t actually do anything, secondary characters are cardboard cutouts, and the world itself is just a flat gray plain that very little detail is added.
What do we know of the diner:
It has at least on waitress, who’s dressed like a lot lizard. There’s losers wearing denim and boots typing on their laptops. There are booths. The diner is gray and chrome. There are velvet paintings of Elvis, I mean, Cicerone Pacione, it’s owned by some gay mass murderer named Zorn, and… umm…
It has a door?
Seems if their life was depending on this particular meeting. They almost felt like someone from their roster was about to ride the lightening and the IN THE DEPTHS roster was personally going to pull the switch. It was looming there staring back at them in form of the illustrations of their contributors with coins over their eyes laying in –SNIP-- their eyes. Jerry stared at this coffee while Eugine took a nervous drag off his Clove. There was a sense of looming horror over the both of them as they sat in that booth, almost if they were being watched by the Master Reaper himself.

I just cut out ANOTHER description that was damn near a copy-past of the shit we’ve been reading.
As if he was the one who was doing the whole game over for their contributors – as Eugine was forced to attend the premature wakes and funerals. The racing thoughts and nervous ideas wandering in his mind as he took that drag, the horror of knowing his –SNIP--eaper was in human form.

Again, almost the EXACT same thing I just snipped out.
Lungs of hell. Check.
Funeral Dirt? Check.
Man, the whole hing just sucked.

One of the deaths was of a Jessica Wagner who actually stole some of the stories in the magazine and plagiarized the characters to make them hers. She got a story published in SINNERS DANCE by stealing from Zorn Hritz – she openly plagiarizes his content. They found her dead as she was found floating belly up somewhere in the Atlantic, also found dead in ocean was Joe Capote with an arm chewed off by a shark at the shoulder. Eugine published her in a heart beat because he can't stand Zorn Hritz.
Her plagiarism was perfect for the mag along with the collaboration of Joe Capote who openly steals from Nickolaus Cicerone's work.

OK, I personally want everyone in the story to die now.
Both their ends came sudden, they didn't even know they were going to hell for what they did. The obituary for both plagiarizing losers came as a bolt of lightening for Eugine, it was if he didn't know what hit him because they found Capote as a mangled mess in the ocean. Harsh lesson of stealing being the wages for it, demise! Demise hit them both hard as they were getting published within the pages of Eugine Verner's magazine.
Demise and decay were the constant companions in his magazine and stomping grounds for the writers of In The Depths – following the touch from the collective kings and queens of misery and woe. Within the walls of Borderlands. There were abject horrors breathing in some blasphemous form were some entity or being documented; madness becoming the written downfall – observers within the depths of a second death.
In Eugine's alcohol drenched eyes, what he knew that he was sitting in a place where the king of misrule was looking down upon both he and Jerry. All the while they waited for a mysterious moniker who called themselves Orion –

You know what, I don’t even care any more.
in the back of his mind he was about to face the lord of this world. In that diner, Eugine Verner and Jerry were feeling an impending horror weighing down upon them.

The reality staring clearly at them as an open casket—SNIP-- their flesh being cold to the touch as a long black Chicago winter.
Eugine thought about one of the magazine writers actually lived with a washed up interviewer who hasn't seen an interview in print for nearly twenty years – but he ended up writing a weird story about this interviewer and got picked up in the magazine.
The interviewer spent five years in a mental asylum somewhere on the outskirts Tinley Park, Illinois. Eugine was actually friends with Carrie Anne Russo, retired interviewer and promoter – but when she got published in SINNERS DANCE, she was later committed Jeremy Usher Insane Asylum because of the story written by the room mate.

Ugh. Just, Ugh. I stripped 4 pages of bullshit out, and you can’t even tell.
And of course she spent time in the mental asylum for the terrible crime of… ummm… because of a story written by her room-mate?
She went mad because the words about the author describing how she was haunted by the homicide of her brother who was a cab driver somewhere in Itasca, Illinois.

And here we see one of Pacone’s most disgusting habits. He ties in personal real life tragedy to his shitty characters and then donesn’t understand normal people’s reactions.
I’m drunk as fuck and I can see how the room mate was a shitty person.
This room mate decides to write a story based on the murder of the person’s brother, going into horrible detail.
She sees him in the halls of her apartment with his throat slashed from one end of the chin to the other. The author and room mate of Carrie Russo who actually documented this portrayal of unspeakable horror was Gurnee, Illinois, based true crime author David Rule and ghostwritten in part by Keith Gregory Cormier of Coal City, Illinois – Cormier did many stories that were true ghost stories and they were published within the pages..
The story could easy been out of the pages of a D. Paul Cooley book. Carrie Russo was a little overweight and carried herself as a Glam Goth who went to Glenbard West High School, The Class of 1987, while David Rule who attended Lake Park High School. He actually graduated in the class of 1994, would have a grunge look to him and wore his hair long – went to college at Harper Community College. Eugine actually found this

story in the magazine when his girlfriend left it laying in the office – the illustration for the story was done by Walter Kane. The drawing of her was of her in a padded room shrouded up mouth to toe in a sheet with belts around her. Resembled a kidnapping victim in the scene of a Crime Noir film or found within the pages of a dark whodunit.

Ugh, we get details that don’t matter.
Then we get another peek at Pacione’s BDSM mummying fetish.
They portrayed her as being entombed alive within the rubber room where she could live out the rest of her little world only thing keeping her company are her bloodcurdling screams of madness. While in the rubber room they kept her system pumped with hypnotics –

They kept her pumped up with hypnotics? AHAHAHAH! No.
mainly keeping her loaded with 100 mg Zyprexa and 2000 mg of Seroquel then injecting Lithium through an artery in her neck while they keep her under tight shrouds.

As someone who is on a multi-thousand mg dosage of Seroquel, I can say that normal people, with 2,000 mg of Seroquel daily, would need nothing more than someone to just wipe the drool off of their mouth.
Dr. Joseph Kaforski would be giving her enough medication so she can remain somewhere in her head and macabre fantasy world – haunted by the nightmares of her slain brother as they were taking turns slashing his throat. Within that forsaken place she would be disconnected with the fractured reality. That fragile reality she had were being buried as a premature burial within the walls of a rubber room – the kind of things that would be written within the pages of David Rule.

So the a shitty person. Rather than snapping her out of this world, he’s keeping her in it.
Why is everyone in the stories Pacione writes complete pieces of shit?
Another who was a patient up there was one named Travis Anderson, whom would continually open and close The Holy Bible on his genitals. The other disturbing acts he did within the walls was take his fecal matter then smear it on the walls of the wing.
Him being committed was immortalized within the pages of a short story penned by a Jason Zima whom known Anderson personally since middle school, Anderson's insanity inspired some of the most psychotic psychological Gothic short stories ever written. The very thought of him being locked away for opening and closing the Bible on is genitals was disturbing enough, let alone painting the walls with human fecal matter – the thought of using human waste to decorate the walls leaves a disturbing picture that leaves third degree burns in the back of the human soul.

No it doesn’t. Most people, seeing that, would just shake their heads in sorrow and hope that the poor person can get treatment.
You know, human compassion?
Of course, that’s all alien to Pacione.

Such stories about being institutionalized become a looming shadow to Eugine while he eyeballed his coffee.

Pacione projecting his own fears on his writing and assuming everyone else feels the same way. If I was completely gone, I’d want caring institutionalized where people would care for me and keep me from hurting myself and making sure that I’m not in constant pain.
Pacione can’t imagine others caring for him because he can’t care for others.
The rough drafts of those stories are often published in a small magazine by the same editor – showing where the writers came from; the institutionalized Carrie Russo was --Bah blah blah--- dead around the time his best friend, an actor named Kevin Hughes was found dead in a seedy hotel somewhere in Chicago – they found him with a dirty needle hanging from his arm and skin was turning green.
“This fucking place is really giving me the creeps with all these paintings of the dead

--- OUR dead!” Jerry whispers to Eugine out of the corner of his eye. There was an impending horror that was living within that diner.

Oh, now he gets creeped out.
---SNIP---king them as they could see the dead in their tortured minds. As they stare at their now cold coffee,

So they’ve been sitting there long enough for their coffee to go cold?
Man, Pacione really does leech off of people and businesses if he thinks that it’s OK to sit there till your coffee is cold and not order anything.
Oh, and I snipped 4 pages of him just repeating himself.
they see the nightmares hanging upon the wall staring right at them as if they were alive and breathing entities documentations of death itself. The works of Skeezix were almost if she made a pact with The Father Of Lies – the uncanny use of the dead in the paintings were staring right at them if they were done without a soul. Jerry pretty much was holding back the piss from being released in his pants. There was something he felt in that room as he and Eugine were waiting for the one who called themselves Orion. But deep down in their soul they could hear God laughing at them because they did something tha—SNIP--rom the dying of the second death as they were being observed by the Master of Lies. One of the dead was named J.K. Willard who they found knocked into pieces outside of Wheaton walking down a rail road track he called himself “AngryInIllinois” -- the contributor was offering doctored pictures of Zorn just as he died. The God wasn't too happy with that one so he was struck dead because his crime was as unforgivable as the blasphemy of the Holy Spirt.

Ugh. More poorly written revenge screed.

They collected his remains with two coins in the dismembered hand where they can see the stil exposed bone. His remains became food for the angry Demi-Gods, and God was laughing as the corpse was picked apart as the coins for the ferryman were still in his hand. Damnation in hell as Charon awaits. The crime he did against the dead was take a story written by Hritz and put his byline on it then contributed it to SINNERS DANCE – thou shall not steal. The laughter of God is heard in the walls of the diner as another met thy maker, the shadows upon their mind – when nature plays God saying, “I will take your life from you. To whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee. Another death that happens just once after 10 thousand years while their soul remains trapped under ice.”

Notice that Pacione thinks that God himself gives a shit about his writing, and that even looking at Pacione’s writing will get you punished by God.
The only reason he claims to be religious is so he can spew hatred all over everyone.
He’s a racist, a religious zealot (as long as he can pick on people), a sexist, a gaybasher, and a bully.
Another case over in Oxford, England, of a young editor-in-chief actually plagiarized another story. The found the bitch impaled chest first into a fence staring into infinity – the editor-in-chief in question was named Sarah Elizabeth Cochs. They buried her closed casket because the family couldn't handle the huge gaping would coming out of the chest of the heartless bitch.

Pacione seems convinced that the mortician wouldn’t fix the whole and that she’d be in the coffin without a shirt.
Remember, he’s never actually been to a funeral.
She plagiarized another story of Zorn's and sent it to Sinner's Dance – somewhere

beyond the grave he's laughing because he sees revenge in his eyes. Revenge being in the form of a second death, vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord. There is a special place in hell for someone like them and it awaits them as they die.
She not only put her byline on Zorn's stories but also put a byline on a story written by Albert Joseph Poe.

Another Pacione self insert.
The moment they buried the heartless bitch, people started to use her grave as a toilet – as in they actually pulled their pants down and deficated on her tomb while they were still burying her. Some of them actually had the balls to take a piss on her in her open casket, according to the public record.

He actually thiks this is cool.
Someone had a video of this act somewhere on her website which they hacked on the day she died. She actually posted some of the plagiarized stories of Albert Joseph Poe on her site House of She even plagiarized the one that is now called THE FANDOM WRITER. The editors of SINNERS DANCE were motified tha someone actually took a shit on the bitch's grave. In life she prayed to graven images and called them her God. Even she watched in horror from the bowels of hell as they were doing that to her in death. That's what happens when one is a frozen cunt in life. Her site was vandalized with the words “pariah in mortality” upon them.
A sense of horror went down Eugine's back as he was holding back the shit from flowing down his pants. He found a photograph of the burnt house of J.K. Willard after his death, they immediately set torch ot his residence and vandalized his vehicles saying, “ROT IN HELL FUCKER.”

And this is aimed at me.
Like he thinks it’s going to bother me.
They were taking turns smearing horse shit on his headstone and diging up his remains so they can stick his servered finger up his ass –

So edgy, Pacione.
Sorry, you fat fuck, but nobody will do this too me based on what you say.
while his corpse rots in his grave, his soul screams from the lake of blood. The Bastard of creation he shall become, abominati0n, death within his sin. God was giving them the highway salute because of the acts they've done in his eyes – the act they've done which was the equal to the blasphemy of the Holy Spirit. Someone above wasn't really pleased with the act that they actually committed a sin from the ten commandments, of thou shall not steal. Gersley wrote about this fuckers death too in a story called “God's Highway Salute.” Appearently these were getting to Eugine Verner as he was holding back the shit from flowing down his leg. He saw the painting upon the wall of their deaths, the dismembering death of J.K. Willard and the Vlad The Impaler death of Sarah Elizabeth Cochs complete with the spike impaled where her heart was supposed to be. The horror in his eyes when he saw the two coins laying within the severed palm of the h---SNIP---were watching their souls get fucked in a second death.
It was said that the brother of Zorn Hritz actually buried a Brian Baupauder alive for catching him with a manuscript of his brothers – putting his byline on the thing then publishing it as something that Baupauder wrote.

So Zorn’s brother is a murderer.
The brothe found the alleged plagiarizing son of a bitch, dragged him into a cemetery then beat the shit out of him then after beating the shit out of him he tossed his body into an open grave then dumped dirt on him. He took a plane ticket to where Baupauder lives then dragged him out of the house. Baupauder was beaten unconcious in the cemetery then when he came to he was shot in the head like a zombie then he was continued to be buried – the brother urinated on his freshly dead body. The fact that this was documented in the paper and Zorn's brother got off on a legal technicality – a self-defense justification and temporary insanity, he wasn't institutionalized for killing Baupauder, in fact he got to walk.

Right here shows that Pacione thinks that the fact he’s bipolar means he can get away with everyone.
Self-Defense? He flew to the guy’s city, drove to his house, beat him up, drove him to a cemetery, beat him again with a shovel, put him in an open grave, dumped dirt on him, then shot him, then buried him?
Temporary insanity? No. He planned, plotted and carried it out.
Sorry, Nicky, but you’re ‘hero’ is guilty of Murder One.
At least own up to it.
He recognized the story as being written by his brother and B. Paupauder had a photograph of the same manuscript with his byline on it – tracked his address down and hunted him like prey.

Murder One
One of those things where Baupauder was desecrating something that wasn't his and something that was written by the dead. Taking something that was of the dead that didn't belong to them either unleashed a supernatural wrath or a human willing to play God in some circumstances. There were no coins for Baupauder as he was beaten badly, buried alive then shot. The kind of thing that frightened Eugine the worst that his contriburtors WERE plagiarists, and it was bothering him all the more when he saw the gallery of death hanging on the walls of the diner.
Baupauder's death wasn't documented because it wasn't one of those freak deaths the

other contributors suffered – he actually died at the hand of another, justified violence.

No. It was not justified. No matter what Nicky thinks.
It was cold blooded murder by a psychopath.
Madness lived within that diner, it was about to nail them as a ton of bricks as they waited for the one called Orion – though as they waited they felt as they were being judged by the horror upon the walls. Such horror deplicting the horrific death and grotequese displa---SNIP---ing for the crimes but his sentence is life without his wife as she was buried while she had her eyes open. Because of being foced to watch the gaping wound seen in her neck, he went into a downward spiral praying for death to come upon him too so he can join his dying bride in hell. There was a card put in her open casket upon the opened wound her neck and the card read when it was opened “GAME OVER.”

OK, I cut a shitload of it. It was just the same shit over and over and over.
But here we have someone “forced to watch the gaping wound in her neck” and then she was in the casket with it untreated.
This just shows Pacione’s never been to a funeral or done any research.
Then, he thinks that it’s cool that Zorn and his supporters do this shit. This isn’t cool, this isn’t edgy, this isn’t tough. It’s fucking cruel acts done by shitty people.
And the fact that Pacione thinks that it is acceptable just shows plenty about him.
Another one who went to this slain bride's funeral is one called Mike Mullig and when he showed up a posse of Zorn Hritz supporters actually turned around then punched him to death. One of them held Mullig's arms and then counted each punch as it landed in his chest.

The reason they did this was because of something Mullig had done to Zorn just before he died and that was actually wiped himself with the creative nonfiction work that was detailed in the death that Robyn Hintz had done. When they were done beating on him, they dragged his bloodied body to an open grave then shoved him in.
Just before dumping the funeral dirt upon him, one of them unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and relieved himself on the libelous son of a bitch.

Oh, but it’s OK, because, see Zorn is actually Pacione. And those people did things that Pacione doesn’t like.
Honestly, he really fantasizes about this shit happening to people he doesn’t like.
This one actually kept threatening to send a mental health letter to his brother to have him locked away for a good long time in a padded cell and placed in four point restaints. All the while they pump a continous strain of pills where he can't function in the world. Kept in a room as a sick wartime novelty. Jerrod got Zorn's brother committed by a petition he did online, and they sent this completed petition to a mental health facility so they arrested Zorn's brother and sent him to the mental health unit.

Holy shit, he’s terrible.
The details of these two deaths were actually written in the magazine by Zorn Hritz as he co-wrote with the editor of In The Depths of this in grotesque detail. This was called “The Nail In The Coffin” and Skeezix had a painting on the wall based upon this. Both the painting of Robyn Hintz and the painting of Mick Mullig after the aftermath of him getting punched to death. They punched him so hard and repeatedly in the chest that one could hear the plexis cracking. The painting on the wall staring back at Eugine was the painting of the beaten corpse – what dawned on him about Mullig was that he was a contributor to SINNERS DANCE. Jerrod Hintz was docmented to die almost two months later because of a blood clot in his brain, almost if he prayed to God to let him die because the only person in the world he loved brutally killed herself. In a sick way, it serves the bloated faggot right for doing a

plagiarism of Zorn's entry and submitted it to SINNERS DANCE.

So doing a plagiarism deserves being punched to death by an psycho mob?
Pacione, get fucking help.
This isn’t even a fiction story any more, it’s just Pacione wishing death on all the enemies he’s made for himself.
In other words, his wife's insanity became the catalyst for the last nail that would be his coffin. The day when he saw his entire world come cashing down upon him, a world where he will be spending it without his dead bride. The whole horror that followed both the nigthmares of Mullig and Hintz were that they were looking into the eyes of death, while one was condemned to dying alone and the other was punched to death. The bearers of retribution were the ones willing to send Mullig back to hell because he actually told the world that Zorn's final story was written by Jerrod Hintz. Therefore, actually submitting the creative nonfiction story as a work of fiction for Jerrod while he was burying the wife who committed self-murder. What she couldn't handle was the entire lie that Jerrod fed the world about writing a certain story when the truth got out that the story was written by the late Zorn Hritz.
The disrespect for the creations written by the dead seems to be a very common thread when it comes to Eugine Verner's publication; just that he has an open hatred for the writers of IN THE DEPTHS that he welcomes plagiarized stories with open arms.

So that’s OK that the In the Depths panting denim clad S&M Daddy’s fucking murder people?
Pacione, you’re making these the most unlikable piece of shit good guys in the world.
As in they doctor up everything to make the story into something they wrote, but seems like the moment they get a plagiarism published – death is greeting them in a way where they will not –SNIP-- It was if the damned were screaming WELCOME TO YOUR MORTALITY ASSHOLE in the back of his head as he was looking on at the horror upon the canvas.
“F-f-f-u-u-ck this man, we need to get the hell out of here! Fuck this Orion bastard because I think we were lured here to see the book of life erase our names from it,” Jerry shammered in horror as he saw all the paitings of the grotesque deaths of what was the portray of his friends in a second death.

And yeah, I think he’s right.
It was getting to him as he felt his hand shaking almost being that he was the sole witness to a person who got knocked to pieces from

walking in front of a Metra rail.

This was just after he got offline after stealing the idenity of another author, but some of his family caught wind of this and followed was a downward spiral that would been the media shitstorm. They actually left a message on their blog, a final parting message when they posted was how they were having Johnny Law breathing down their throat. Officer Michael Barlow caught wind of this on another website and actually took the intitiative and started the manhunt. Barlow was one who knew Zorn Hritz since childhood, and Barlow made a vow to crack down on anyone who'd smear Hritz's memory.

Abuse of police powers.
Jesus, Pacione. You really can’t make anyone seem to look good.
I hope this cop ended up in trouble.
The body of this one was found knocked all over the Metra Station in Glen Ellyn, Illinois. They found two coins in the poor sack of shit's hand and a farwell note, with two words written on it “GAME OVER.”

Killed by the cop.
There was a clipping about this death on one of the walls entering the diner along with a blown up picture of the dismembered cadaver. According to the clipping, the dead body was that of a man named Scott Garton. Barlow left a message on Scott Garton's board saying, “I am coming for you, and throwing everything in my power to see you locked away, you son of a bitch. I hope you find the dumbest motherfucker to represent you.” Eugine was a follower of Scott Garton's website “The Barbwire Hanginging” and Garton's site would try to bootleg Zorn Hritz' entire catalog. He even loaded a video up lighting Zorn's photo on fire and it was showing his face doing it, Jerry looked at this photograph when he was sitting in the Chicago office but when he sees the clipping of Garton' cadaver slewn all over Glen Ellyn, Illinois. It left an unhinged nerve in his body, almost if he was living out some horror writer's sick nightmare.

So the cop is also killing people?
It was if Jerry was the sole witness to the second deaths upon the world of the contributors. The world that were his friends or connected to him in some way. Wandering in the nightmares of an endless funeral – life and death become the endless cycle but the horro—SNIP--ing within the ground. Almost if they were wandering close to their own deaths as they held the coins over their bodies which were cold to the touch as they were staring into black infinity. It was though they were watching their contributors were being buried alive before them but they were already dead before they knew they were to meet their fate. It was if they were in the grave from the womb. From Eugine Verner's waking nightmares he saw everything painted before him in the eyes of Lillith Skeezix.
Jerry turned around and bolted out of the booth saying, “fuck this, this Orion is fucking with us – I am getting the hell out of here. Whoever sent that invitation wanted us to see our nightmares and this place was true house of horror. Almost if we were forced to see what our friends suffered as they turned their back upon a God that had unleashed another wave of Judges upon us, and this Zorn Hritz is one of thoze judges as his work was purposely left in the booth conjoining us – this is true hell upon earth and I don't want to see this.”

Blah blah blah. I snipped a bunch of shit because Pacione sucks and just repeated this shit over and over and over.
So now Jerry runs out of the diner. ::sigh:: This could have been done 50 pages ago.
At that point, Jerry was doing all he could from not releasing a stream of piss down his leg. There was blood where sweat should have been because of the intense fear of what was burning in the back of him, he felt like the grave was more inviting than what he was forced to see within that diner. He didn't want to be in the Midwest version of The House --SNIP---ually torched the thing in the bookstore because of what Cicerone did to one of his friends in that one. It drove his friend mad

because of the horror invoked within the pages because it was all real to him.

“Fuck this Orion asshole, it seems like these IN THE DEPTHS fuckers set us both up. Setting us up for our own deaths in some way,” Jerry screamed to himself in terror. He was wondering what horror waited Eugine and as much as he hated to leave his friend alone in the diner, he was too frightened to return. It was if that the person painting the nightmarish paintings in graphic detail of their friends with the coins upon their eyes, it was if she was actually doing the horrors as preminitions.

Oh man, please let something fucking happen.
There was a stranger there, a male who was in his mid thirties overhearing Jerry screaming this of Orion. Walking up to Jerry then taking a drag of a Newport cigarette, then taking an end of the cigarette and putting it out between his eyes.

Ofcourse these was.
Of course he did.
Only Pacione would think this is cool and badass.

“Fuck who?” this person said as he was putting the cigarette out on Jerry's face.


“Who the hell, no, who the FUCK are you? That fucking hurt putting that cigarette out on my face,” Jerry writhed in pain.

Standing there, writhing.
“I would be Orion,” he hissed.

Oh, of course it is.
Pacione probably thinks this makes Orion into a bad mother-fucker instead of a fat sad fuck.
“I was reading up about you Jerry, I find it funny that your contributors were dropping like flies. In fact I was the one who took the photos of your friends who were found charred and beheaded – that was a good photo to take,” Orion brags as he takes a drag off the same cigarette he puts out on Jerry's forehead.

Wait, how can he take a drag off a cigarette if he put it out on Jerry’s forehead?
“You faggots piss me off – I wanted to kick Eugine Verner's ass for publishing the plagiarism of Zorn's story. Especially after Zorn been dead,” he continues.

This whole time Jerry is doing NOTHING.
Jerry looked on in horror, he saw that he was about to either be killed or have his ass kicked royally.

OK, this just shows that Pacione has no idea what any kind of pain comes from anything he talks about.
Which just reinforces that he’s never had anything actually bad happen to him.
Like he went to the hospital for an ice cream headache, went to the ER for an infected scratch, and called and ambulance because he scraped up the back of his neck with a ballpoint pen.
“What do you want from us?”

They obviously want to give you some surprise buttsex.

“Your fear. Your nightmares, you see – I am another Judge. Us Judges lived within times of the Old Testament and we killed the persecutors, as what Samson did shoving the pillars,” Orion continued. He looked on at the diner where Eugine still sat.

Of course he is.
Of course they were.
Of course they did.
“Hritz wrote of these things, and the nightmares he had were of Cicerone being the one who was able to unleash the wrath of God upon the world in his words. Many of your magazine feared Ciceron for this and for Gersley with her story, Impaled Beauty Queen,” he said as he dragged from his cigerettes.

Blah blah blah.
“Why us?” Jerry shammered. He fell backward as he was trying to get up, blindsided by the pain of the cigerette burning into this head and could smell the metallic fuild coming from his head.

Wait, what?
Metallic fluid? Is Jerry an android? This story might be cool after all.
“It's because I've seen you pervert the views of the world for far too long. I've seen

this for many years, you see I might not look old but I am the oldest of the Judges. I am not a vampire, but I have been blessed with a long life or cursed with a long life – the first murderer, Cain is my father,” Orion continued.

Of c ourse he is.
Which explains why he kills everyone.
“I was forced to carry his curse being the one to wander the land for centuries as observer but haven't aged. I still look like I was when Samson destroyed the temple where a woman shaved his hair to take away his strength. The knowledge of In The Depths was given to the editor's by me to have the writers come and tell the stories of horror as it was seen from the eyes of the modern Judges.”
Jerry looked on in even more horror, “S—SH—I—I-T-T! WHY HAVE YOU PICKED US? What have we fucking done for these nightmares – for them to torment us within that fucking diner?”

No shit.
I agree.
I mean, seriously, Orion? You’re worse than Cain was. At least Cain’s crime was a crime of passion.
And that God fucked him. Abel sucked.
Jerry stared wide eyed and acted if he was staring into the lungs of his own death. Orion grabbed Jerry by his head and thrown him at least 14 feet across the terminal. He barely missed the oncoming Metra train hitting him.

Of course he’s super strong.
Christ, Pacione, just quit writing.
“I have to find Eugine,” he said as he was gasping from the near death experience. He knew he was staring at death's face when he was looking at the son of the original murderer.
The original murderer, if I remember right that would be Cain killing his brother. God please help me, I don't want to die here. I need to find Eugine and get the fuck out of here, Jerry looked on as Orion started running after him.
“SHIT!” Jerry screamed.

So Orion is a bad guy.
Orion is actually the villain.
Called it.

He was staring in horror and thought about all those contributors. They met their maker at a blink of an eye especially Karen Lynne Moshley the story written about her death was handed by Zorn Hritz. That was one of the first stories he got picked up within the pages of IN THE DEPTHS with Lilith Skeezix illustrating the fucking thing. The story was called “A Perfect Day For A NeoViccy Hanging.”
“The whole thing with Zorn Hritz, where the fuck did he get the idea for the suicide story? The whole thing about one of our contributors who actually convinced someone to commit suicide,” Jerry was asking while shaking in mortal fear. There was something happening there, one thing he wanted to cheat – his own death.
“His research came from way back on that one, she used to call him a fucking retard and shit like that. The editor of the magazine read of this on Zorn's website and invited him to test out the story—he even got the suicide down to the last graphic detail The grave without the headstone, they considered that poetic justice,” Orion answered in a

cryptic tone.

“OH FUCKING CHRIST!” Jerry started bolting there as Orion related the death there of his best contributors there, also a dear friend of his. He had nightmares for weeks about that

Jerry sprinted to the diner to fetch Eugine Verner.

“Eugine, we need to go. I mean now. I encounted Orion. He nearly threw me into a commuter train and put a cigarette out between my eyes!” Jerry screamed.
“FUCK THE TIP MAN,, FUCK THE TAB. DINE AND DASH MAN,, DINE AND DASH – NO TIME TO EXPLAIN!” Eugine saw the cigerette burn between Jerry's eyes.
“HE DID THAT?” Eugine shriked, “ACTUALLY PUT A FUCKING CIGARETTE OUT RIGHT BETWEEN YOUR EYES!” “He revealed something and this is even more horrifyijng. You ever heard the story
about Cain and his brother Abel, well this asshole is a direct descent of Cain who lived for eaons,” Jerry tried to catch his breath.

Oh man.
Fuck this.
“DAMN IT JERRY, I DON'T WANT A FUCKING SUNDAY SCHOOL LESSON. This isn''t funny, if I wanted that I would have joined my girlfiend as she would go to evening service! But if you say he did that to you, then I have to get out of here too,” Eugine responded a little annoyed if not pissed.
“Okay let's get the hell out of here!”

Both Jerry and Eugine headed out of the diner. Jerry was in middle of the street and a car was speeding at him at about fourty miles an hour.
Eugine shoved Jerry out of the way and took the hit. “Eugine! What the fuck!”
Blood was spurting out of Eugine's mouth, the bones in his ribs cracked and impaled vitual organs.
“Please God don't let Eugine die on me, not here! Not fucking now!” Jerry pleaded. The license plate was from Illinios and read “Immortal 1.”
It was a black and gray 1985 Buick Grand National.

So Orion drives a fucking Buick PoS?
And is killing people?
He’s the bad guy.

“He saved my life! But at what cost --- I am about to lose my best friend because of the ferryman was trailing him all along,” Jerry lamented. Orion was looking on and had this mug look on his face.

The car hit wasn't premediated, but a freak accident as the other deaths were.

No, it wasn’t.
We all know that Orion killed him on purpose.

“Jerry, I knew my days where numbered when I found out about Moshley's suicide. Tell my girlfriend I am going to hell anway!” Eugine said as he took his last gasps blood

was filling up in his lungs from where the bone impaled the outer wall.


The fire department EMTs came to get Jerry, they called in for a blue ambulacne because he was dead upon arrival. Eugine was frightened because he knew the fate that was coming for him as Orion threw the two coins to him. Money to pay the ferryman and the coins were from Ancient Greece!
The one EMT was looking on as the blood was continueing the flow from Eugine Verner's mouth. Jerry knew one thing, Eugin ended up one thing and that was dying alone along with a violent death.
“Someone please stop this shit! I am sick of seeing my friends die God Damn It!” Jerry screamed as he was running for sacred ground. He saw what came for Eugine as the doors slammed on the blue ambulance. That one is usally called in when someone was about the die, a grim reaper with an engine andweels.
Jerry thought more in horror and the nightamres about seeing his editor in chief being a painting for that grim wall of fatality.
He was walking for about two hours up the Illinois Prarie Path.

“Why? Tell me why must all my friends and contributors have to die!” he was screaming as he fell to his knees.

Just… stop.
It was about 11 PM when he approached Central Dupage Hospital, he managed to swipe a thermal blanket and a pillow then sneaked into the chapel to lay down. They hardly checked the place because the chapel was accessible twenty-four hours a day.

You know that Pacione has probably done this more than once.

“ALL. MY. FRIENDS. D—D--D--E-A-D!!!” he started sobbing. He was as frightened as a child who would be repeatedly receiving physical abuse from a parent and made them promise not to tell. He took off his boots, and went to lay down at the corner of the chapel that was the darkest corner, he took his coat off to make it like an additional pillow.
In his dream he was standing in a funeral home with twenty open coffins. Every contributor who died from Sinners Dance were laid out in a mass wake. It played out as a story that was written from an IN THE DEPTHS contributor. When he was wandering around he saw the open casket of a face he didn't want to see – his own!
“NO! I DON'T WANT TO SEE THIS---I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING SEE THIS! OH GOD NO, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME!” Jerry was trying to run out of the room but the doors were locked from the

outside. He was like a rat, and that was one thing – trapped.

In the dream, Zorn Hritz walked up to him and punched him in the stomach. The punch knocked him back a few feet.

And Zorn is still a bully.
“That's for every person you published who plagiarized my work! I saw that the ferryman was trailing your friend, Eugine Verner. He was waiting for him, and Skeezix was documenting all the deaths as they were painting their souls on the wall. All of us were watching all your mistakes, and were documenting your downfall.....”
“Zorn Hritz, I thought you were.....?” Jerry squeaked.


Of course he did.
Of course thre was beer.
Goddamn, Pacione’s ‘tough guy’ characters suck.
“How about a drink Jerry? You're going to be here for a long time, by now you haven't slept for days with all the funerals and wakes you've been attentioning. The Grim Reaper would leave the parting note of Game Over and I would leave the coins for them as they died so Charon can take them across the River Styx. I became the angel of death,” Zorn sat back clad in black leather, lace up leather boots, and a long leather quarter jacket.
“I get to help reap the souls of the dead, and I get all the beer I can drink. Pretty damn cool huh, not a bad way to enjoy the afterlife if you ask me don't you think?” he said taunting Jerry.

So he’s a cheap hitman dressed up like a gay S&M dome?
He sucks.

“Well comes with the territory, after all I write horror drawn directly from real life,” Zorn responded with a smug look on his face.
“Why don't you say your last goodbyes to your friends? They've been waiting for you. They can't hear you because they've been empty shells for a long time, their souls right now are in a second death! The judges were sent to do my Boss' will,” he continued.
“What they did when they wrote for In The Depths was their tithe.” “Who is your boss?” Jerry asked.
“It's not old split foot! I hold here the book of life, and none of their names are on it. Want to have a see? Have you received Him Jerry?”
“W-w-h-a-a-t d-d-o-o y-o-u fucking mean by that?” Jerry now becoming more frightened, he was turning pale white.
“Do I smell something coming from you Jerry, as in do you need a change of skivies? It smells like shit, is that the final shit you take Jerry, you know the one that dogs take

before they die. I had dreams of Him sending demons to the pigs, and your contributors are bringing back those demons in their perversions. DO I SMELL THAT, IS IT ME OR ARE YOU TAKING WHAT THEY CALL THE DEATH SHIT?” Zorn inquired almost if he was making fun of Jerry, “almost like you need a fucking diaper change, motherfucker.”

“Death shit! What the fuck is a death shit?” Jerry shammered trying to regain his composure. He was looking in the book of life and seen the name of his friend that died at the hands of The Watchtower Society.
“What? He's in there, how!”

“Look inside, and you will see why when you wake up. I can see where you're sleeping at, I am not God but I work for him. It was too late for your friends, Eugine Verner was given plenty of chances but he spit at the offer at all the times it was presented to him,” Zorn replied.

And now we revert to being a Chick Tract.
“I don't have hatred for your staff at a person, I am just doing a job,” he continued, “Go and have a look at the open caskets in this chapel of bones. You see this is a replica of the chapels made of human bones, and this is where I remained since the day I died. It was because I did nothing wrong when I died, I didn't kill anyone or took illicit drugs like your friends did. I knew some of them in life as well, and what I knew it was already too late for them—-I've written about 300 manuscripts, and left instructions for my family how to get them sent out on my behalf. On my last will and testament, I asked that the money from each sale is done in a Zorn Hritz Memorial Writers Fund to help other writers that your boss had fucked out of being published. Eugine tried to fuck with my legacy, what would make me immortal on earth. Immortality on earth lies with your name in the pages of a table of contents, if you want immortality in the next – you would have to talk to my boss personally and on your own. You know that He's listening,” he added.

And Zorn makes himself out to be a fucking GI Joe villain.
He wanted immortality, and kills anyone who interferes.
Someone throw a bucket of water on him.
Jerry looked on at the one, a sense of horror was growing on his face because he can still hear her muffled screams. It was if she was actually burined alive the sufficated she was taped up then put in a pine box the same length as her.
“What happened to this one?”

“Egyptian Mob hit! She did something that pissed the mob off so they wrapped her alive in vet wrap from head to toe leaving her eyes exposed so she can watch them bury her,” Zorn answered.
“What did she do? Sounds like she did something bad!” Jerry looked on bewildered. “She pocketed $300.000. They practice the way they punished people in the days of

Anicent Egypt. They made her breathe in some kind of numbing agent but kept her concious to watch what they were doing, they made her eighteen year old son watch but they let him go as they were finished wrapping her for a premature burial – it's a terrible way to go, and this one her soul is still trapped inside her body though her body been dead for about a week. No rigor mortis on her body, she still looks like the day she was buried,” Zorn candidly looked on with that one.

So they tortured and murdered a woman in front of her 18 year old son, and we’re supposed to see these guys as the good guys?
Fuck. No.
“That one isn't going to hell or heaven, but condemned to be in the Egyptian afterlife where she's left for their God of the dead. She can still see everything around her. She was about 190 lbs so they put her in a white flannel sheet first like a shroud, then they added about 10 layers of vet wrap on her. She used some of the money she pocketed to finance the project she sent to your magzine,” he added from there.
“Wait Eugine told me he heard a woman screaming from the darkness and being mummified alive, that was her? Oh God, I know who she is—it frightens me that I found out she got caught uyp with the mob,” Jerry looked on reached for her hand. She looked at him with a muffled scream then her body was just her coffin as well as being in an oblong box.
“Sadly, that was her I am afraid. She was only 44 years of age too. Her life to look ahead of her but now her after life she was condemned to have her soul mummified in the body she died in – her body perfectly preserved. They kept all her organs in place but they finished the burial processes after she finally expired what made it more horrifying her son R,J Oslen was forced to watch all this unfold – they didn't kill him, but gave him a fate worst than dying forced to watch a loved one die,” Zore added.

You juts know Zorn sucks a lot of cock.
Jerry collapsed in the chapel of bones ended up waking up on the hospital chapel again. He heard a few perple walking into the place a couple nurses.
“I think we got a vagrant here, someone call security...”

“Wait, I am not a vagrant. I was seeking sanctuary because I just saw my best friend die before my eyes – he saved my life as he died, shoving me out of the way of a car,” he quickly sat up pulling the thermal blanket off of him.
“Oh thank you for the bedding, sorry I had to borrow it without permission. I hope that's okay – he died from having a bone fragment impale the wall of his lungs. I couldn't get over the horror before my eyes – all that blood, and had the worst nightmare,” Jerry continued as he was completely in shambles.

blah blah.
“Wait, we had a gurney come in from that. The person had this Gothic appearance to him, internal bleeding I think. Would you like to visit him, if you need to lay down there

is a pull out bed in the waiting room ove there. Stay as long as you have to. My name is Elizabeth Stoker, and I use to work at a hospital were it was overran by a horrifying bug problem.”

Of course she is.
Of course she was.
Pacione never heard of fumigators, obviously.
“I think I knew a little bit about that, didn't parts of the hospital get burned down because of this? I think I will take you up on your offer with the waiting room deal,” Jerry decided to take them up on the invitation. He was weary and downtrodden, they provied s place of rest for him. He knew one thing with Eugine, his life was a game and now his final life was expired.
Jerry walked over to the room where they had Eugine laid out they were prepared to cover his head and wheel him to the morgue.

So he was brought to the church? Where Jerry was hiding?
How the FUCK does this work?
“I never had a chance to thank you for saving my life. You know the things your girlfriend had around the office, I am going to keep them around. I will do some changes, but keep the intregity of the magazine. Something that you refused to do, though I am going to keep some things going in your memory because that would be something you have wished,” he said as he lamented for the weary.
Eugine didn't say a word, the touch of his flesh was colder than a Chicago Winter. Sinner's Dance will live on but the direction it took was a little more darker but welcomed more blue collar guys.

So he’s going to do what Pacione wants.
This isn’t ‘learning a lesson’, this is flat out “do what I say or I’ll kill your ass” learning a lesson.
Jerry walked back to the waiting room area where he retired on the hide-a-bed usually kept in the rooms for the dads to stay in the room whit new moms They kept one here for those who are looking to stay and watch over their loved ones. He saw a priest, walk into the room and gave Verner Last Rites. There was a crisis councilor who came in to speak with Jerry as he sat up in his pad for the night.
“My name is Elaine Pacione, and if you need anything – feel free to ask. If you need estra clothes, my husband keeps a few pairs of his jeans in the locker room. He's an orderly here, I am sure he wouldn't mind if he parted with one pair of them – he gave a man his Sketchers Boots in middle of a cold October morning when he was released from the hospital in sock feet. He's what they call the modern day Good Sumeratan,” the councilor introduced herself.

Oh. My. Fuck.
He just can’t resist, can he?
And I doubt it that Pacione ever gave anything to anyone else ever.
“That would be great, thank you for providing the actual bed and a change of clothes. I honestly haven't slept in days because I kept going to funeral after funeral and wake after wake, I am sick of seeing my friends die before my eyes,” Jerry was now calmed down from coming very close to having a nervous breakdown.
“I never came across anyone that generous in my life. Not even Eugine was that, until

the very end where he gave his life to save mine. I just had this very fucked up dream about seeing a mass wake in a chapel made of human skulls, there was a writer named Zorn Hritz saying he was working for God and The Grim Reaper for all the beer he can drink. His job was to hold the book of life for him within people's nightmares and those who were forced to see the a modern day version of the Judges.”
Elaine Pacione sat down at the corner of the bed and listened attentively.

“You know what they say of dreams, that is the way God talks to his people or through messengers. I think have a plain black pull over hoodie in the office closet. It's a mens and I will see if I can get that for you, and I will talk to the nurses to see if they can get you some estra bedding,” she added.
“Holy shit – the generousity. I never came across anyone this kind,” Jerry responded.

Once again, basic human decency and charity is beyond Pacione, so it’s beyond his characters.
They left the room and told him there was a magazine on the table if he wanted to
read it. He walked over in his sock feet to take a look at what it was, there was a horror over his eyes. It was a drawing of Zorn Hritz holding the book a life.
Jerry stepped back a bit and thought, just as in my nightmare. I am going to stay for a while though all the people here are offering me a place to rest for a few days. I better call Eugine's ole lady and break the bad news to her. Lord please help me with the courage to do this. I've been guilty of a lot of things in my life but all the things that I've seen Jerry do in the past. He did something he never did before, and that was lay down his life. So please, though I never spoke to You in the past but take me out of this damned valley of shadow of death! Will Eugine ever rest in peace?
“It was just as Zorn Hritz said in the nightmare, the friend of mine who died in the hospital among the Elders actually appeared in the Book of Life,” Jerry said as he was looking at that magazine.

Oh for fuck’s sake.
This whole story sucked.


It was weeks after they finally laid Eugine Verner to rest, after the funeral and his passing. The horrors that plagued Verner in his life seemed to end as well, but the weight of the world is now upon Jerry as he was currently in charge of the magazine.
“It's what Eugine wanted me to do if anything happened to him. I owe him for that....” Jerry said on video addressing the future contributors. He not only kept some aspects of what Eugine did but did as he said with the contributors who came from blue collar background writing Gothic works. He was acting upon the convictions he was given.

Some of the past contributos couldn't understand that when they walked in they saw him with his eyes closed and kneeling.
“Ever since Eugine saved Jerry's life, it's been strange seeing him like this...”

Yup, this is a Jack Chick Tract in literature form.

Another looked on and thought at least he lived. Jerry will have one hell of a story to tell that's for sure. He will be strengthening the reach of SINNER'S DANCE – kept the name to preserve Eugine Verner's memory. I –SNIP-- to get that much done, well that's a start. This path took being a writer as well added something more to the magazine. Not bad for an ex-ass kisser.

“It is finished....”

Thank fucking God.

OK, this ‘story’ could be easily cut down to about 11K words before an editor got ahold of it.
It isn’t even a fucking story. It’s just Pacione writing death/revenge porn about his enemies, then his Gary Stu’s scare or kill people so that another magazine does what he wants.

In closing:

You suck, Pacione. Get a job sucking dick.

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