Family of Dog: The Harvest

By Jake Bannerman

The Family of Dog Series begins with The Harvest.
Part one of a 3 book series takes you on a journey of Satan who has been raised from Hell by 18 individuals who are suing him for breach of contract after they are displeased with the results of selling of souls!
A hurricane of terror erupts as mankind takes on and creates a war between the deities, critics are saying The Family of Dog is the most dangerous peice of work ever to hit paper and The Family of Dog takes what we know of Hell to an entirely new level!!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jake Bannerman
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466008670

Jake Bannerman

About Jake BannermanJake BannermanTheological Horror authorOKC, Oklahomawww.nightcorebooks.com or email me at [e-mail]

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Family Of Dog: The Harvest

Jake Bannerman

License Notes

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Foreword

un-der-dog: 1. a competitor thought to have little chance of winning a fight or contest

 2. a person who has little status in society

I know the underdog; we all know him.

One of the most troubling plagues that mankind has suffered from throughout history is complacency. It has been more damaging than polio, more putrid than the infamous Bubonic Plague and more rampant than influenza. And it is getting worse.

Our children are indoctrinated into the religion of ‘don’t ask’ from the first moment that they can open their mouths to question all that is around them. But unlike polio, the plague and the flu, the disease of complacency is very easily cured – by asking questions!

Questions are important, the questions that we would normally stifle and ignore. This Orwellian ‘ignorance is knowledge’ campaign must end. Instead of relying upon a television to inform you what you want to eat, drink, wear, sell your soul to – why not get your mind a little dirty and find out for yourself what you need and want?

Oh, but times are different now that we have technology, you say anxiously? Wrong. The present era is not so very different from two millennia ago. Times may change, but people never do.

Now, that being said, you must bear in mind that this story is a work of fiction. I dreamed of an idea, and that idea evolved into a burning question: what happened to Lucifer?

There is no one involved with this story who believes that any of the events contained herein are true. Those closest to me know of my love for controversy, as well as my love for the simplest of questions – ‘what if?’ I am not a Christian, although I was raised in the Church. I am in no way attempting to change anyone’s mind concerning faith, chance, kismet, or whatever other title a person defines their existence by.

I hope you enjoy the story.

I hope that you think, ponder, and above all else – question!

CHAPTER 1

Esrever

Mastema, mastema, mastema. He softly chanted the word over and over like a mantra in his mind. Remember the word. Mastema.

A smile of pure, blissful joy illuminated his face as he opened his eyes. He was seated cross-legged – Indian style, it used to be called before the Indians changed into Native Americans and opened all the casinos – upon a plush white rug.

He was completely naked, for he never wore any clothing when he was praying. After all, if God is capable of seeing everything at any time, then a few thin layers of synthetic cloth to hide the body would be pointless. He took great pleasure from the way that people reacted when he told them of how freeing he found it to pray naked, how calming it is to approach Lord God hiding nothing from him. They were shocked for just an instant before the simplicity and rightness of his words dawned upon them.

There were two phrases that he heard most often in response to his naked devotions. That makes perfect sense! was almost always their first exclamation, and it was usually followed by an incredulous, why didn’t I think of that?

Those two simple statements sum up exactly what it is that separates the successful celebrity and your common rube. To rise above the rest, you just had to find a simple and effective way of doing something better; a way to twist the norm into something new and exciting, not to mention enticing.

He stood up gracefully, stretching his arms above his head whilst standing on the tip of his toes, warming his body up again after being seated so still for so long. Finishing his stretch, he headed towards the luxurious bathroom to prepare for his evening.

This was it. This was the evening that he had been working towards for his entire life, and he fully intended for it to be perfect. After a quick shower, he faced the mirror to shave his face. As he picked up the razor, he could hear the dull roar of many voices speaking at once seeping underneath the sliding glass door that led out to the balcony of his hotel room.

An impish grin formed underneath the layer of shaving cream. He had checked in under a false name, of course, but it had somehow leaked that he was staying here. His legions of followers were all screaming out their support for the oracle, the messenger, the prophet of God that he was. He felt himself getting hard just thinking about the fame that was now his.

An artist for the masses, they called him. He had recently been voted as one of the greatest performers of all time. Nobody could withstand the appeal of his work. Rich or poor, devoutly pious or shamelessly sexual, they all flocked to him alike. They slobbered and cried, adoring each and every little thing that he did.

The greedy demand from the public concerning his faith was blindly sated by his potent praise for God, the Father. His showmanship was unmatched, his sleight of hand unequalled by any who had come before.

A Frenchman by birth, he retained the briefest hint of a sultry accent that, when coupled with his remarkable good looks, gave him an awesome power. Women were irresistibly drawn to the riches that he so eagerly flaunted, flocking around him like moths around a flame, and the men came to be near to the sexuality that rolled from his body like sweat, perhaps hoping that some of it would rub off onto them.

He preached that the beauty and softness of a woman’s body was the most explicit proof of God’s wondrous works. Even as he ran his tongue in circles around the pink candy hardness of his model’s nipples, as she sighed and moaned out her pleasures whilst her hand worked between her thighs, he preached to her of the love and glory of the great I Am.

The Heretic Exhibit that he was debuting tonight in New York’s Central Park was to be the most unique, stunning and unforgettable performance of his entire career – the best that the world had ever seen. A carefully orchestrated and wildly expensive advertisement campaign along with subtle and skilled manipulation of the world’s media had come together to make this event spectacular.

Attendance was confidently predicted to smash all previous records. The thousands of tickets that had been made available had sold within an hour of going on sale, and much to his surprise a valet had quietly come to him requesting tickets for the President of the United States and his guest, the Pope, who had arranged a state visit to coincide with the show. He had arranged for them to have private seating right next to the stage to give them the best view of what was to happen.

The red limousine slowly crept through the crowded streets, bringing him as close as possible to the private trailer that had been set up as his dressing chambers. He was hustled out of the limousine and straight inside, just thirty minutes before he was due onto stage. Walking around the room, he nodded in appreciation of the decor.

He was alone in the trailer, just as he had requested; he was very strict upon being entirely alone as he prepared for a show. His rider had been executed to the letter; Venetian wine, freshly made sushi, ocean water with white wash cloths and de-oxygenated water for his servants to bathe his feet in should he require it.

The bed was queen size, draped in white silk sheets and a white down comforter, with white mosquito netting cascading down from the ceiling. The entire room had been crafted to look like an angel’s wing; everything sparkled with the purity of a world without dirt. He may have had more bones in his closet than all of the people waiting for him put together, but he sure as hell knew how to live it up.

With an attitude of smug narcissism, he gloated over the event he had created as he stripped away his clothing in preparation to pray. Under the canopy of the night, with lights put in place to illuminate no-one but him, he would perform the greatest stunt in all of history. Under the stars of heaven and the gaze of all men he would take his own life.

He had advertised the Heretic Exhibit as promising something that had never before been attempted, never even dreamed of; and he had no doubt that he would deliver.

He had brought a small leather satchel with him into the trailer. This was precious to him, so much so that he allowed no-one else to touch it and insisted upon transporting it himself. Checking the silver and crystal analogue clock that was mounted to the wall he saw that he had only fifteen minutes left before show time, so he reverentially opened the satchel to check upon the contents.

Satisfied that everything was in order, he bowed to the floor and began his pre-show devotional prayer. The prayer was, by nature, short in length. He simply prayed for strength, for grace, and for eloquence. When he was finished, he rose and began to dress himself in his showman’s finest as the sound of the introduction tape penetrated the trailer, the crowd’s reaction of screaming glee almost drowning it out completely.

He steadily made his way down the slope that led to the stage as the images on screen switched from portrayals of nature’s majesty and the stunning feats that he had done in past shows to display instead just one single word. ‘HERETIC’, it screamed, the same word flashing over and over, morphing just slightly to burn in a different color each time that it appeared.

The smoke from the fog machines billowed out across the stage, rolling in thick, carefully created waves that were as purposeful as a lion stalking its prey. The image then changed again from the single repeated word to photographs and paintings of heretics through the ages; criminals, martyrs, zealots and disturbing images of the most macabre kinds, wrenching astonished gasps from the crowd

Reviews for Family of Dog

[Bruce Campbell's sock · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

a poor read for sure. Also looking on Facebook and twitter this author seems to post a lot of offensive garbage. Best to avoid.