Angels At Last Light (Book 1)

By Jameson S. Pabes

Navigating a failed engagement & family betrayal, Matty Broadlawn is confronted with a choice: recoil into a 'life' of solitude or take opportunity by the throat & become the very best version of himself. Coexisting with his search for personal truth are instances of astounding spectacle. Transcendental events that can't be explained away. Confronting dark deeds head on, Broadlawn unearths a scheme to trump all schemes. For in the guise of spiritual & religious iconography, lethal foes of man plot global domination. Their spoils of war...our collective souls.

'And no marvel, for Satan himself
masquerades as an angel of light.'
- 2 Corinthians 11:14

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jameson S. Pabes
• Release date: Mar 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310677106

Jameson S. Pabes

Jameson Samuel Pabes is a Showbiz ink-slinger & longtime resident of Los Angeles, California. Having earned a Bachelor's degree in Film Studies & Screenwriting from the University of California, he hopes to develop the next great Sci-Fi/Fantasy media franchise. The apples of his eye, two Boxer pups named Max & Tiberius. Jameson is in the midst of finishing his esoteric STAR-TRIBE serial along with LUNATIC UNBOUND, a deep & moody contemporary Thriller. Both available later in the year. Please check out Jameson's Cinema & Pop-Art commentary hub 'The Bunker' @ www.CelestialBunker.com for posts on the current state of Hollywood.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I.

BARONS OF INDUSTRY

Incendiary times as young nimbus blot out the late Autumn sun...

A gruff, resolute Atone! Or flame for all eternity in the crypts of hell! erupts from the bustling concrete block below, as absolved foot-traffic give its origin a wide berth. Gridlocked rush-hour motorists look on with frayed nerves, force-fed a heavy dose of cataclysm. Their communal bane, a tormented vagrant doomsayer bathed in both dappled shade and neglect. A visage contorted by terrible hardship: matted charcoal mane, mustard fingernails and toes; funk-petrified to the bone like a misanthrope cast from the Dark Ages.

A crown of raindrop spotting asphalt. Another. Ten. Stifled nature's sad, hopeless go at rinsing away the overrun borough's halo of petulance.

With certitude more potent than your average scaremonger, this prophet-of-doom scales tag-along apple crate in his sweltering trench. A black fly circuit party in motion. Boosts lamented, bone-chilling ultimatum at greying firmament: ’REPENT! REPENT! RAPTURE IS UPON US!' presented in all its holy terror. Crude vermilion letters speckled with crud. A beckon of expiry, a searing mainstay for forced witness kid-truants and adult amblers alike. Guilt-stirred imaginations near tipping point; 'what ifs...' dominate.

On time, a wind-belted 'Ground Zero relic' whisks through this thoroughfare of mounting anxiety; setting the tone for future losses. Chard Tower-Two-lift-inspection-post shuffling in and out of brisk footwear. Travails, up-gusts to obstruct elevated doomsday bulletin. Rogue history-rich remnant put on general display. Saturates, inches off and away.

Seconds in trotting down common pavement, a Fifth Avenue rich-bitch makes her grand approach. Greater Manhattan her unwitting catwalk. With a quartet of yapping Tiffany-collard Papillons in brisk tow, her Burberry umbrella accoutrement deploying aloft snooty grimace. An obnoxious exemplar of the moribund upper crust.

With rickety makeshift pulpit imploding under stress, morbid soothsayer expels forth like a torpedo. Diametric worlds converge in a head-on collision. Shopping-bag-laden madame absorbing the brunt of clumsy wallop. Evicted from prized Giuseppe pumps, then curb-slammed like a sackful of antique marbles. A shattered anklebone. Generous temple gash. Utter spite and odium in bloom. A closing sobering blow to the much-coveted, much-loathed 'One Percent' as lead stench-sniffing Papillon is punted into crawling traffic. The majority of godless street-citizenry saddled with first-hand accounts. Angry billy-clubs zeroing in on grizzly brainpan as storefront rent-a-cops come charging. Tranced witness pool stock-still and aghast as vagabond's sullied Saint Christopher amulet neck-ejects into gutter’s mouth...

Public scourge takedown just beyond rain-speckled glass as authentic patrolmen enslave crusty undercurrent. Free amusement for anyone who wants it. Funky street oracle browbeat, shackled and hauled off in tatters. The packed-in boutique coffeehouse patrons have their fill, then it's back to collective online trance. Further in, nestled in a recessed readers' corner, a shaggy hipster type eases back into his 'Brave New World' paperback. He strives to ignore a secondary disturbance that is the melancholy storm-cloud brewing proximate.

So much behind these eyes. Once teeming with unadulterated swagger and career drive, toxic love has stripped MATTY BROADLAWN of his former self. A former full-on panty dropper, now a dimming variant of the man he's supposed to be. And yet through seemingly endless abandon and pain, a sliver of hope still pulses deep. Oscillating faith in a hard-fought reconciliation that will surely never come. A testament, a battle mechanism of the Human spirit.

With maddening internet chatter, compulsive status updates swirling about, the jittery twenty-nine year old manically eyeballs smartphone. His circulatory system coursing with a kegs-worth of house espresso. Cerebral Cortex trounced like a pommel horse. 'Their' ominous love triangle playing out on an infinite memory loop: Two hearts catch fire at shared first glance. A whirlwind romance to begin, built on lavish trips, boundless lovemaking and ritualistic move-in. Minor milestone. She the only shoe that fits. A solid six months and a