The Sotadic

By Newton

Enter the world of the Sotadic! A food critic’s unusual appetites and a bodybuilder’s unhealthy ambitions collide as they both bite off more than they can chew.
Enter the world of the Sotadic! A couples marriage is torn apart and chaos reigns when a deranged, shape-shifting goddess is freed from centuries of imprisonment and a team of highly unlikely suspects is tasked with recapturing her.
Enter the world of the Sotadic! A member of the fabled Ministry is set to resign and factions scramble as the Ascension ceremony designed to elect a new Minister draws near. Will Sophia the Binder prevail, or will The Lover of the Blade finally realize his ambitions?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newton
• Release date: Jan 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005422288

Newton

I am the face in the window, the noise behind the doorThe creaking of the gate, the shadow on the floorI am the whisper in the dark, unnervingly close, and clearI come bearing gifts of Wonder, Lust and FearScratched from the dirt on the side of the CrossroadsDeciphered from tablets etched in Knossos CodeSifted from the ash of ancient VolcanoesPlucked from the winds of violent TornadoesDredged up from the muddy waters of AbyssCarried delicately down from the mountains of BlissI bring forward Myths long forgotten, and Tales never toldCenturies spent buried in dust or frozen over in coldNow dragged into the light and stretched out for displayThe Horrors and Splendors of Time’s bygone days

Book preview

The Sotadic

Newton

Copyright © 2021 Newton

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9798467066400

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

Design/Cover Art by Newton – 2021

Additional Artwork by Natasa Ilinca - 2013

Table Of Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A SEED

A SACRAMENT

ASCENSION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank all of the authors, artists and oddities that have inspired me, lo these many years. And, as always, a great many thanks to my Special K.

A SEED

Samuel Goldfield sat in his Miami high rise apartment waiting impatiently for the phone to ring. The chair in which he sat was a gaudy, overpriced and overstuffed affair; much the same as he was. Both the chair and its occupant strained beneath the weight of time passing. Finally, at long last, the house phone rang. He snatched it from the receiver before it even finished the first ring.

Goldfield, he said.

Yes, Mr. Goldfield, sir. It’s Andrew. The package you mentioned yesterday has arrived. It’s a bit… larger than I had anticipated. We’ll bring it up shortly via the freight elevator.

Excellent, Goldfield replied, Please take every precaution with it, Andrew. It’s incredibly fragile and very expensive. It must not be tipped over or even tilted at any angle.

Of course, sir, Andrew assured him, It arrived on a roll around dolly, and I’ll have Juan and Eddy come up with me to offload it.

Perfect. I’ll be waiting for you at the door.

Goldfield did a once around the apartment to make sure everything was ready, which it already had been for hours. He’d spent the entire morning planning for this moment. Satisfied with his preparations, he headed out the door and proceeded down the hall. A low rumble followed by a bell chime announced the arrival of the freight elevator. The doors slowly opened revealing Andrew standing in front of an enormous white box ringed in champagne-colored ribbons. His two helpers were behind it, steadying the package.

Where to, boss? Andrew asked.

I have a space arranged for it in the living room, Goldfield replied.

The trio of hired help eased the giant box down the hall, into the apartment, and then on to the living room which had been cleared of all furniture; Goldfield offering unwanted instructions the entire way. Once in place, two of them lifted the package from the dolly while the third slid the wheeled contraption from underneath. Goldfield held his breath as the two men set his prize down gingerly, intact and unharmed. He then thanked them exuberantly and tipped all three men handsomely as he quickly ushered them back out of the apartment.

With the door firmly closed and locked, Goldfield found himself alone with the massive, gift-wrapped package. He stood and stared at for a few moments, his heart beating faster. He could feel himself starting to sweat even though he had the AC on full blast, the thermostat set to the mid-fifties to keep it from never shutting off. Steeling his resolve, he forsook the front door and plodded off to the bedroom.

Once there, he set about the task of grooming himself for the evening’s activities. He undressed, changed underwear and socks and then slathered on deodorant and cologne. His recently dry-cleaned tuxedo hung from a hook on the closet door. The pants and shirt went on easy enough but wrestling his way into the jacket was a challenge on account of his substantial girth.

He’d always considered being overweight as simply a consequence of his occupation. No one would ever trust a skinny food critic. But people trusted him. His ample figure along with a remarkably refined palate and superior sense of smell, coupled with a biting yet humorous writing style, had made him one of the top food critics in the nation. He regularly contributed to more than a dozen culinary magazines and newspapers and was revered among Foodies worldwide.

With his wardrobe malfunctions conquered and his cufflinks and coif corrected, he surveyed himself in the full-length mirror hung on the back of his closet door. He looked one hundred percent prepared for any formal black-tie event, from his slicked back hair all the way down to his mirror polished shoes. Like an overachieving seedling, he felt a tinge of pride sprout its way up through the gravel of doubt that was his self-image. He’d never looked better, he surmised. Today was his day.

In the living room, he pulled a perfumed card from the ribbons around the box. It was encircled in a purple sash and sealed with red wax. He popped it open and read the note within.

Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials!

All you need do now is say I do.

Best wishes, Veronica

Taking a deep breath, Goldfield removed the top of the box, then reached out and tugged at the ribbons surrounding his prized package. With a sighing sound, the sash came undone and fell about the bottom of the box. All four walls of the package simultaneously collapsed outwards revealing the treasure within.

It was a bridal cake. Or rather, it was a cake conceived to look like an actual bride. A beauty in buttercream standing nearly six-foot-tall, resplendent in a shapely mermaid style dress crafted entirely of spun sugar. A gossamer veil adorned with edible pearls rested lightly over her exquisitely sculpted marzipan face, her lips cherry red. In her hands she held a bouquet of red and orange flowers finely fashioned of cream cheese frosting.

Goldfield stared in amazement. Even though he had commissioned this piece to very exact specifications, he was still utterly astonished at the finished product. Veronica had truly outdone herself this time. As the artists name came to mind, the enchantment broke, and he remembered the card. He reread it and then placed it in the pocket of his tuxedo coat. Taking his position before the bride, he straightened his bowtie and followed the card’s instructions.

I do, he proclaimed.

The bride’s eyes fluttered open. Her gaze was hazelnut brown tinged in gold flake. She smiled brightly as she observed her husband-to-be for the very first time. To both their credit, the moment that passed between them was electrified with all the adoration and excitement of any traditional wedding ceremony.

I do, she replied, her voice honey sweet.

On cue, Goldfield lifter her veil. He brushed her cheek lightly with his fingertips as he stared lovingly into her eyes.

I now pronounce us Man and Wife, he stated.

Leaning forward, he kissed his bride delicately, savoring the taste of her lips, raspberry, and sugar. Hand in hand, the newlyweds departed the living room and made their way into the bedroom. Goldfield teased the veil from her curly, coconut flavored, dark chocolate hair; crumpled it into a ball and gleefully stuffed it into his mouth. The honeymoon had begun.

As he removed his coat and tie, Goldfield watched enraptured as his bride sexily sauntered across the room, pausing before the California king bed. Hands on her ample hips, she glanced back over her shoulder at him with a come-hither look that would have roused any man. He approached her and knelt, his hands seeking out the tiny pearl-like buttons at the back of her dress. He popped them off, one by one, and subsequently popped each of them into his mouth. Her wedding dress began to slowly peel away until finally dropping to the floor in a crumple of frosting and crumbs.

Naked, she turned to face him. Her caramel-colored skin glistened with a sugar maple syrup glaze. Two pretty, pink gumdrop nipples adorned her melon-like breasts. The scent of cinnamon sprung from the cleft between her legs, promising delicacies beyond measure. With a wry smile, her hands sought out the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Goldfield stood. He cast off his shirt and then practically jumped out of his trousers. His undershirt and boxers promptly followed. Grabbing up his newly minted wife, the pair crashed into the bed together in an enthusiastic display of both desire and delight. She gasped, wrapping her legs around him as he entered her. The two quickly fell into the rhythm of lovemaking, as newlyweds so often do.

Their passion soon began to build to a crescendo. Goldfield, his face buried in his bride’s neck as he thrust away, took a bite. Delicious red velvet cake with a succulent cream cheese frost filled his mouth. A low moan escaped her lips, whether of pleasure or pain it was impossible to tell. Greedily, he took two more bites.

Next, he nibbled hungrily at her breasts, their milk splashing across his face and dribbling down his chin. The bed was soon soaked with their sex. Goldfield climaxed hard, his obese body shuddering as it spent. His bride, torn with toothmarks and melting from their heat, writhed beneath him.

His lust now slaked, Goldfield abandoned any pretext of matrimonial fantasy and simply set to his dessert. He devoured her entirely, handful after messy handful. She offered no protest, but simply collapsed in layers of lemon, vanilla, sugar, and spice. Ever the attentive husband; he consumed every bit of her, savoring every morsel from her angel food cake ass all the way up to her chocolate-coconut flavored curls.

No stranger to over-consumption, Goldfield soon found himself hunched over in pain. His gut gurgled and sweat poured from him as he sat on the side of the bed panting. He suffered no regrets, however. The nights entertainment had cost him a small fortune, but it had been worth it. Who had ever enjoyed such a meal as he just had? What monarch or dignitary or celebrity had ever dined as such? None, by his reckoning. And as a food critic, as someone who made their livelihood judging culinary experiences, he had just done something that most only ever talk about. He had literally just married his work.

***

The alarm clock next to Ashely’s bed announced that it was 5 AM. She never hit the snooze button. In order to live it up you have to get it up, that was her motto. That coupled with the fact that she was still single, and appeared to be destined to remain as such, meant she didn’t have much reason to stay in bed anyway. She rolled out her yoga mat and after a few sun salutations and downward dog poses she wandered into the kitchen for a spinach omelet and a blueberry smoothie. A quick change of clothes and she was off to the gym.

Even this early in the morning, the South Beach Sanctuary was doing a brisk business. Nearly half the treadmills were already occupied and there was a CrossFit class already in progress. Ashley surveyed the gym for any acquaintances but came up empty. She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and jumped onto the nearest elliptical. She soon fell into a rhythm, a familiar routine for her body that allowed her mind to wander.

Unfortunately, it didn’t go anywhere interesting. There were bills to be paid, and phone calls to be made, deadlines to be met and editors to e-mail. She needed to do laundry. Her thirtieth birthday was just weeks away, a milestone she didn’t exactly relish and for which there were no celebratory plans. She hadn’t called her mother back in Minnesota in at least a week. She hadn’t spoken to her father in California in at least three years.

Just as the tedium of life in general threatened to drag her into a fit of unbridled depression, a figure appeared at her elbow. Her friend, Trina, had arrived and was firing up the elliptical next to hers. Happy to see a familiar face, Ashley unhooked her headphones and engaged her companion.

Hey beautiful, she exclaimed, I was beginning to think I was going to be her all alone today.

Sorry, Trina smiled as she began her workout, Had a late night. Overslept.

No worries. I’m going to just assume that Corey kept you up doing things unmentionable? she laughed.

Oh, he kept me up alright, but not doing anything fun, Trina said, I swear that man is going to be the death of me. It’s like arguing with a brick wall. You cannot win.

What’s wrong with him now? Ashley asked.

You know how he is. He always gets stressed out right before an event. Him and all his boys get to talking shit and, sooner or later, somebody gets pissed off about something. And then he has to bring that shit on home to me. They’re all seriously worked up about this weekend.

Saturday night was going to be a big deal for the local South Beach body-building scene. Qualifying rounds for regionals were being held. The winners would have a chance at going on to State finals and from there the Nationals loomed large. Trina and her boyfriend, Corey, would both be competing. Ashley would be there covering the event from a journalistic standpoint by doing write-ups for a couple of popular websites as well as for her own blog.

Well, I know they’ve all been working very hard this past year, and this will be a big night for all of them, Ashley said.

That’s not even it, though, Trina said, Corey was having fits last night because apparently some dude from the Ukraine just got into town and they went ahead and let him sign up to compete even though the deadline has passed. And I guess this dude is super jacked and juiced to the max and now they think it’s all rigged.

Rigged? This is a local event with hometown judges, Ashley argued, There’s no way some no-name from eastern Europe is going to show up out of the blue and stand a chance. One of our South Beach boys will win, just like they always do.

I hope you’re right, Trina said, Corey was all kinds of angry last night. He kept going on about this guy being well-connected.

What does that even mean? Ashley asked, Connected to who?

I have no idea, Trina replied, It’s like it was an Italian mob thing or something. Like the mafia is suddenly into body-building.

Seriously? Ashley laughed, Why would the mafia, any mafia for that matter, give a single shit about body-building? It’s not like there’s any money in it.

Girl, you got that right, Trina said sullenly, I’m about to give it up.

You’re still going Saturday, right? Ashley asked, suddenly in a panic.

Yes, I’m still going, Trina said, But I swear this one is going to be my last. It’s not even worth it anymore. If I can’t get an endorsement deal or get signed on with an agency, then I feel like I’m just wasting my time. I need to just focus on being a personal trainer and work on getting me some celebrity clientele.

Well, if anyone can do it, you can, Ashley said. And she meant it. Trina was a well-tanned, long-legged, Latina bombshell who had been racking up second and third place finishes at fitness competitions for years. Her spotlight had always been just inches out of reach. You’ve got the looks; you’ve got the experience and you’ve got the attitude. Just promise you’ll remember me once you’re famous.

Thanks, love. You can be my first celebrity client.

Me? Ashley asked, I’m not a celebrity.

You’re a published author, at least, Trina said, So that makes you the most famous person I know.

If I’m the most famous person you know, then you need to get out and meet more people, Ashely laughed.

Well, that’s probably true. But you’ll always be famous in my book, Trina said, Can you do me a favor though?

What’s that?

Do you think you could do an article on me for your blog? I’m going to need all the exposure I can get from here on out.

No problem, Ashley responded, I’ll see if I can get Todd to do something on you for his website as well. He owes me a favor.

Are you still working with that photographer? That cute guy from Daytona?

No, that didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped, Ashley said, But, I know a couple of others that will be there Saturday. I’ll put in a good word for you.

Thanks, love. You’re the best. I hear IFBB is sponsoring the after-party this year. I’ll make sure you’re on the list, Trina said, Oh, and if you manage to find out anything about this guy from Ukraine, I’m sure Corey would be all ears.

I’ll have my Super Sleuth hat on, Ashley said as they both dismounted their respective elliptical machines and headed for the free weights.

***

With his large nose and heavy jowls, Sam Goldfield resembled a pasty gargoyle as he hunched motionless over a steaming bowl of thenthuk, a traditional Tibetan soup made of noodles, mushrooms, red onion, radish, bok-choy, and beef. He sniffed loudly, inhaling the aroma of the dish before him, and then leaned back in his seat allowing himself a moment of contemplation. Satisfied that the scent was to his liking, he picked up his spoon (he always brought his own cutlery and flatware to every restaurant) and ladled a small sample of the soup into his mouth.

The owners of the establishment, an aging Chinese couple whose life savings were invested in this exact moment, watched anxiously from the kitchen awaiting any telltale sign of either delight or disgust. Finally, after an agonizingly long pause, their particularly important patron smiled and then went in for another, this time slightly larger, spoonful. An audible and enthusiastic sigh of relief filled the galley where the cooks had been cowering.

Upon finishing the meal, Goldfield stood up and crossed the room to meet the owners. They all shook hands and swapped compliments as well as traded some secret family recipes. He assured them that a glowing review, along with the notoriety that accompanied it, would soon be theirs. With this customary cordial exchange complete, he bid them all farewell and headed for the door. Just as he was leaving, one of the busboys discretely slipped him an envelope filled with one-hundred-dollar bills. This was another custom he insisted upon. Bribery was part of the game and, if played properly, incurred neither harm nor foul, in his opinion. He had other appetites that required satisfying and those demanded cash.

To his surprise, a car and driver were already awaiting him as he exited the restaurant. The driver, a well-dressed man with a nasty looking scar over his right eye, opened the door to the vehicle and ushered him inside.

The Flamingo Hotel, I presume? Goldfield asked as he settled into the deep leather seat.

Yes, sir, the driver replied as he shut the door and then ambled his way around the car to slide into the driver’s seat.

The pair rode in silence.

Every hotel has a cult. They tend to start out innocently enough. It may be something as common as a recurring convention group or even one of those frequent pyramid scheme meetings (if you get ten people to join and those ten people each get ten people to join and so on and so forth). Other times it might be a church congregation that has simply somehow found itself with nowhere else to meet other than the banquet room of the local Holiday Inn Express. Whatever the original intent of the group may have been becomes irrelevant as they inevitably end up getting twisted into something strange as a direct result of prolonged exposure to hotel culture.

By no real fault of their own, hotels have a propensity for breeding deviant behavior. People come to hotels to get away from their normal lives, which in turn, gives them license to act in ways they normally would not; to engage in activities they would normally never dream of doing. People go to hotels to party. People go to hotels to do drugs. People go to hotels to have sex with strangers. People go to hotels to plot and scheme and hide. People go to hotels to commit suicide. This chronic and collective loosening of scruples then forms a source for the perversion of unsuspecting assemblies. It seeps through the walls, and it wafts through lounges and half lit conference rooms like a fog. It disorientates and confuses people leading them in directions they never had any intention of going. Spokesmen become Shaman and attendees devolve into devotees and, before you even know it, a cult has been born.

And so, it was for the Flamingo.

Built in 1920 overlooking the smooth waters of Biscayne Bay, the Flamingo Hotel was Miami’s first truly luxury accommodation. Eleven stories of bright pink, Art Deco decadence crowned with a thirty-foot tall glass dome that lit up different colors at night, it was impossible to miss. A Japanese tea garden and aquarium stocked with actual Flamingoes imported from Africa were added a few years later which only enhanced the resort’s appeal. As such, it attracted an array of vacationers; some of them famous but all of them rich. Movie stars, politicians, and captains of industry all began to flock to the Flamingo for their summer getaways.

The success of the Flamingo heralded the advent of southern Florida becoming a holiday hotspot, and other posh hotels almost immediately sprang up all around it. Competition quickly became cutthroat as each new establishment vied for its share of the tourism trade. By 1950, the proud Flamingo had been outmatched, overshadowed and all but forgotten amidst the onslaught of newer venues with more modern amenities. The grand hotel, once noteworthy for its upscale guests, had now become notorious for its inhabitants. Artists and addicts, radicals and revolutionaries, prostitutes, pimps and all the assorted human flotsam and jetsam of Miami’s coastal community came to call it home. Least infamous of all, however, the Flamingo had become a sanctuary for an exceptionally secretive society known as the Sotadic. It was to this group in particular that Samuel Goldfield owed his familiarity of the hotel.

The driver guided the car around the circular parkway and came to a stop just outside the front doors of the Flamingo. He quickly came around and opened the door for Goldfield who grunted loudly as he got out. No gratuity was offered nor was one expected. The driver simply smiled, got back in the vehicle and sped off.

The midday heat outside the building was utterly oppressive, but Goldfield stood lingering in the sun for a few moments. He understood, better than most, that anytime one stepped inside the Flamingo had the potential to be the last time one ever saw the light of day. The temperature finally got the better of him and he wandered into the foyer. He stepped up to the front desk and quietly announced his arrival to the clerk.

Yes, sir, Mr. Goldfield. She’s expecting you, the clerk said, I assume you know the way, yes?

Yes, he replied and then inquired, How does she seem today? I mean… what’s the mood? If you don’t mind me asking?

Oh, the mood is quite positive, sir, the clerk responded, I would say almost… jovial even.

Excellent, thank you, Goldfield exhaled in relief.

Leaving the front desk, he walked down a hallway to the left and then took a sharp right that led into a small alcove that housed the elevators. Forsaking the relative safety of the hallways, he stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the tenth floor. The doors wheezed shut and he felt the car lurch a bit as it slowly ascended. Whatever dregs of society that filtered into the Flamingo on the regular were relegated to the lower levels. The ninth, tenth, and eleventh floors along with the rooftop terrace and dome were strictly Sotadic domain. To enter into this sacred space without the appropriate invitation or authorization was more than just ill-advised; it was suicide.

The elevator doors shuddered open, and Goldfield exited onto the tenth-floor hall, the walls, and doors of which were all adorned with elegant works of art portraying the nature and vocation of each occupant. The first door on the right, hundreds of tiny seashells pasted along its frame, featured a fresco of an Asian woman being orally pleasured by an octopus. The door to the left was cluttered with what appeared to be ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics depicting the discovery and subsequent deification of an enormous penis. His knowledge of the Sotadic was severely limited, but he knew that it was divided into at least a dozen different sects; each with its own set of customs, curiosities, and capabilities.

The last door on the left, his ultimate destination, lacked the formality and graphic impact of the others. Here there was only a plastic baby doll unceremoniously nailed to the door; unabashedly naked, hair uncombed, its lone eye staring into infinity. Unaffected, Goldfield knocked. A