Phew! The last sentences were...

One afternoon, Ariel's phone rang. He'd been overjoyed; a publisher had called him based on the Brick Of Jericho he had submitted weeks earlier. The company was one of the leading publishing companies of the country. Ariel was as confident about getting published now as the crew of the Titanic prior the kiss of the iceberg.

"We've read your book, Ariel Leak." The 'Leak' came from the synonymous pronunciation of the second syllable of his original surname. "And I must commend your efforts on it. I cannot but marvel at how Ike pulled that trick at the end of the story." The publisher, Mr. Waziri, had said. Mr. Waziri was a stout but balding man approaching his sixtieth years. The few hair on his head and his upperlip was grey. Ariel knew that the man was lying; he did not read the book in the least. It was read by one of the company's literary agents and the phrase this publisher had made about Ike's action was nothing short of what the rich publisher had been told to say. Seeing him alone, Ariel knew that the elderly man was not one who had a fondness for reading novels, or any book for that matter. The man's major interest was in making money, and someone had insisted he built a publishing company among the numerous others he had constructed. This annoyed Ariel, he had nothing but loath for a man who published books but had no interest in reading.

On the walls of the publisher's office were photographs of himself with the most powerful men of the country, past and present. There was the uniformed Mr. Waziri saluting Major General Babangida; Mr. Waziri, still with a full head of black hair, shaking hands with the military-clad General OBJ; Mr Waziri glaring balefully at General Sanni Abacha; Mr. Waziri sharing a joke with Colonel Gowon, both of them laughing like hyenas; Mr. Waziri in a business suit, deputy director of the RRS, deep in conversation with a frowning OBJ, and Mr. Waziri, now bald and wearing glasses, wagging a finger at President Yar'adua. He was pictured dancing with Stella, drinking champagne with Tinubu, and watching a football match with President Goodluck Jonathan. Whom was he trying to impress? Ariel thought with distaste. Himself, probably. Constantly seeing himself with people of the country's high echelons reflected that Mr. Waziri was an important man. Ariel's hatred for the man was growing like a balloon.

In response to the publisher's praises, Ariel smiled chivalrously and merely mumbled under his breath, "Thank you, sir."

The man continued, "You've written a great book, Mr. Shake. But as much as we'd like to publish your work, I'm afraid we can't. I'm sorry."

Ariel was instantly shocked. Don't tell me that you called me all the way from my home only to tell me this bad news! Ariel took his work very seriously indeed. So it was hard for him to sit there and hear that his novel was not good enough for publication. He studied the publisher's head, expecting to find a bruise. Perhaps the man had fallen down in the toilet this morning and banged his head against the toilet bowl, twice at least. Hence his faulty mentality.

"Why?" Ariel asked.

"Oh! It's nothing personal, Mr. Leak. It's only because you're still an unpublished writer; you aren't popular yet. So, the management of the company has reached the conclusion that publishing Brick Of Jericho could be inimical to the company's financial investment."

The writer could not believe his own ears. If a new writer was not published, how could he be famous? Weren't the likes of Achebe, Clarke and Soyinka new before getting popular? And management my sphincter! The decision came only from this ugly man sitting before him. Ariel felt like strangling someone in that office.

"Okay. Thank you, sir." Ariel declared.

As he rose from his seat to leave, the man said:

"But we're willing to make a proposition, Mr. Leak."

A proposition? Ariel relaxed back in his seat. He wished the man would stop using 'Mr. Leak' at the end of every speech he made. The publisher was beginning to make the name sound too autonomous for the writer's liking.

"What proposition?"

The publisher smiled and rubbed his palms together, like an accountant who knew that the company in which he had just invested his life saving would never go bankrupt.

"We'd want you to write another novel which we are definitely going to publish, but not this."

Ariel nearly beamed with excitement. Of course, they could publish his first book Babylon or the Ash which he believed he would be completing very soon. Then he suspected foul-play breeding. So, he cast a suspicious look at the man as he asked again:

"Why?"

"Because we want you to write something which would sell quickly; a readers' choice."

"You mean Brick Of Jericho won't sell?"

"It may sell," the publisher replied, placing a sharp emphasis on 'may'. "But definitely not quickly, Mr. Leak."

"So, what do you want me to do?"

"We want you to write something special. Like a sequel."

"I have a sequel, it's titled Babylon."

The publisher nodded as if he knew. He did not know. "Good. But we're not talking of that sequel. We mean a sequel to an already published popular novel, Mr. Leak." Truly, sequels could be written by different writers, it had been done before, Ariel knew. Alexandra Ripley wrote Scarlett, the sequel to Margaret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind. The latter was published fifty-five years before the sequel. But the idea of having him write a sequel for another person's work seemed preposterous to Ariel.

"What are you talking about?" he intentionally refused to add 'sir'.

"Imagine writing a sequel to the great book for instance."

"What great book?"

The man frowned and was lost in thought for a moment. He had apparently forgotten what he had been told to say.

"The book about something apart."

Ariel could not understand the publisher yet. "What something apart?" he asked.

"That novel written by that man who wrote a memoir which involves the account of the Biafra."

This man could be talking about our own Nigerian Leon Uris, Ariel thought.

"You mean Things Fall Apart?"

"Touché! You're on point, Mr. Leak. Things Fall Apart. Who was the man? The author?"

"Chinua Achebe."

"Wasn't it Cyprian Ekwensi?"

"No. Achebe."

"I guess you're right."

"Of course, I'm right."

"I'll contact him and talk to him."

"Who?"

"Achebe. I'll make him an offer he can't refuse, and you'll right the sequel."

Ariel knew that the ignorant publisher was not aware that he had just made the popular phrase originally said by Don Corleone, a mafia lord in the Italian novel, The Godfather. I'll make him an offer he can't refuse. And a humorous thought crossed Ariel's mind; he wondered if Sir Achebe possessed a black horse named Khartoum. He doubted it.

Ariel could not believe himself bothering to say, "Things Fall Apart doesn't need a sequel."

"Everybody wants to know."

"Know what?"

"What happened next to the main character."

"Which main character?"

"The main character."

"You mean Okonkwo?"

"Oh yes, Okonkwo. I forget."

"He's dead at the end of the book."

"You'll bring him back to life. Think of a way."

The stare with which Ariel drilled his host, however, if brought to bear on a promising geological formation in the South-South, would core the earth and strike oil in minutes.

"I can't bring him back if he's dead. I'm not Jesus Christ." he finally said.

"In America, they're always bringing Dracula back. I've watched many movies where the dead Dracula comes back to life."

"Dracula is a vampire." Ariel suspected that the publisher wasn't aware that Dracula was also a fictional novel character created by Bram Stoker. But he knew that trying to convince this man about the truth would be akin to getting the Sphinx to yawn.

"The there is your jinx; make Okonkwo a vampire."

Ariel struck his forehead with a palm and groaned. Sometimes, being a writer isn't much fun, he thought. Hell! It isn't fun at all, but one is always addicted to it.

"That's impossible! You might as well ask me to travel to Aso Rock and fetch the First Lady's undies. Don't you dare call Mr. Achebe, because I'm not going to write any sequel for Things Fall Apart."

"Why won't you? The book is going to sell millions of copies, Mr. Leak. You'll make a lot of money."

"I hate Things Fall Apart." he lied, hoping that this would shut the man up.

"Oh!" The published oh'ed. Then he smiled broadly. "You know what?"

"What?" Ariel sensed another seismograph vibrating.

"I don't like the book either."

"Good for both of us then."

"You can do something else."

"What?"

"You can write about Dracula. Make him a Nigerian."

Ariel was certain now that the publisher had really gone out of his mind. He was tired of arguing with the old psycho; this wasn't a debate he was going to win.

He shrugged and said, "Okay. I'll think about it."

"That's my man." The publisher actually stood up and patted Ariel on the back. "When are you going to give me a feedback?"

"Would next week be alright?"

"Yes, it would."

"Then next week it is." Ariel lied again. Not in a lifetime! This man will never see me again.

"I'll be expecting your call."

Ariel literally fled the office before the lunatic would call him back and ask him to perform another silly feat; like writing a biblical tale about Jesus betraying Judas for thirty kobo.

Hahahahaha. Now this one was hilarious! Okonkwo a vampire and Dracula a Nigerian. End shall never wonder. My OgaAtTheTop must read this



Seriously, this update was too short

Hahahahaha, ds one is very funny o.

Kul story. Had to start all the way from Brand Of Cain*whew*. Can't wait to see how Leba's story goes. Oh!and ever love-struck Famous(I just love this name)too. P.S-Your big grammar is killin' me!

brokoto: Hahahahaha. Now this one was hilarious! Okonkwo a vampire and Dracula a Nigerian. End shall never wonder. My OgaAtTheTop must read this
Seriously, this update was too short

Forgive me, I'm doing some serious replottings. It's not easy, believe me.

JoBlè: Kul story. Had to start all the way from Brand Of Cain*whew*. Can't wait to see how Leba's story goes. Oh!and ever love-struck Famous(I just love this name)too. P.S-Your big grammar is killin' me!

Thanks a lot. Not only is Famous love-struck, he's also quite trouble-struck; always landing himself in trouble.

*Am still following*

Seriously, i think you guys should give Larry-sun a break. ''Rushing'' a good piece of literature is a sure way to ruin it. A long time ago i used to write, and i know how long it usually took me to piece together a simple short-story - weeks, sometimes months. So, for this dude to have written this much in - what, three months? I think he deserves a medal and lots of writing space.

This isn't a movie, folks! Fans of popular writer, George R.R. Martin, had to wait six solid agonizing years between the 4th and 5th installation of his renown A Song of Ice and Fire series (4th in 2005, 5th in 2011), and since then they're still patiently waiting for the 6th...with no date in sight whatsoever! So trust me when i tell u, Larry-sun is FAST.

And by the way, good job Larry; of course i have a few critiques i'd like fixed, but on the whole i really enjoyed it

Thanks a great lot, Kay9. I'd also love to read your critiques. One of my major aim of posting my stories online is to find people point out my errors and also suggest some better points in the plot development. Bless you, sir.

Sipping Nescafé Three-In-One coffee, his favourite drink, and rereading the chapter he had drafted the previous day. He made a lot of pencil corrections in his notepad before he switched on his computer laptop to enter the changes. Ariel mostly preferred writing his chapters on paper before using the Word Processor. The feeling of having a pen in his hand was enough inspiration, he liked the smell of ink, and writing itself brought him slews of interesting ideas.

After fudging with the computer system for about half an hour, he shut down the laptop and closed it. He would have loved to continue though; he still hadn't finished typing the written scripts, but the battery was already giving warning signals. There had been no power supply for close to eighteen hours. Remembering that he had promised himself to complete the chapter he was writing this morning, he pulled out his drawer and selected his favourite ballpoint pen. He took a candle out of a packet. He lighted it, let a little wax pour into a saucer and struck the candle firmly onto it.

Books were stacked higgledy-piggledy on the floor. Barbara Cartland, Frank Yerby, Daphne du Maurier, Elsie Lee, like that. Romantic novels. Gothics. Edwardians. Regencies. Women with long glittering, low-cut gowns. Men with moustaches, wearing open, ruffled shirts and carrying swords. Castles in dark mountains with one light burning in a high window. Most of these elements of literary romance belonged to the deceased Ella. Ariel himself, like Ella, was also a romance novel aficionado who fancied the historic offerings of the genre. He sometimes saw himself as the guys on the colourful covers, often named Thor, a Viking with a stomach that resembled an old woman's grinding stone and a chest that was often continued on the back covers. Ariel, in the guise of Thor, raided towns and ravished beautiful women from Morocco to Spain and back again in a century somewhere between the fall of an ancient Rome and the rise of the Protestant reformation. Evidently, this was not healthy reading for a man years past puberty, but Ariel's interest in the genre was more of a literate endeavour than a perusal of Victoria's Secret catalogues. Even romance dominated a large percentage of his books, both written and unwritten. Ariel had read more novels than the average human; good ones and bad ones alike. As much as he had read some great books he also had read a shitload of silly stories, and most of them were probably just made up by silly novelists trying to make some silly cash while they peddled their silly manuscripts to silly publishers.

Ariel held his hand poised; ready to write, but nothing came. Writer's block again. Most times, when Ariel experienced the block, he got away from his writing table to relax himself. He sometimes could go for days without revisiting, and when he did, he always impressed himself with what he came up with. He had experienced the same creative impasse this morning and he had refused to go off for days anymore, he had promised himself that he was going to finish today that chapter he had been writing for over a week past, he was sure that when he returned to the script in the evening, he would pen something brilliant and impressive, something that would match those he had often written after every usual block in the past. Ariel was afraid that he would have to break the promise he had made to himself. All his life, he had never broken a promise; not to anyone, not to himself.

At fifteen, in the first year of his senior class, he had carried the tenth position out of twenty students in the class. The boy who carried the first position had laughed most particularly at Ariel, his sworn foe, after seeing Ariel's report card. He had taunted, insulted and made jest of him. With eyes red with fury and humiliation, Ariel had promised the boy that come next term he, Ariel, would be the one carrying the first position. The boy had laughed at him so hard that he had to be carried out of the class. The promise he made to the boy, he also made to himself.

The next term came, Ariel studied like he had never done before. He forsake novels, which was the hardest addiction for him to give up at the time, and picked up his class textbooks. He studied every subject extensively. He took extra coachings, completed the notes he had been too lazy to write, listened attentively to class teachings and asked questions on topics he did not understand. Lo, when his result was released, all his teachers were amazed; Ariel came first. Undisputedly. Shamefully, the bully, who came in the second-place withdrew from the school. Ariel kept to his promise that term; if he hadn't carried that first position, he'd promised to hang himself by the mango tree planted in his neighbour's backyard, he had gotten the noose ready when he was expecting the result. The third term, he maintained his average position, at least he didn't promise to always carry the first position forever. His classmates had blamed him thereafter for causing the shameful withdrawal of their best student.

Then, suddenly, like a bolt lightning of which lacked the preceeds of thunder, his idea came. And he almost leapt with joy. He was going to turn one of his characters into a writer! The idea had erupted from the errors he had made in the previous chapters; errors which he didn't catch before, even after reading them for gazillion of times. In Chapter 9, he wrote that a girl took a cab because it was raining heavily. Two chapters earlier he had described the same night as crisp and clear with a full moon shinning. Contrary chapters. In Chapter 11, the muscled but dumbest one of the gang of thieves, a real mor*n, said, 'I have a feeling of deja vu'. How the goodness would a mor*n know what deja vu means? Chapter 15, the policeman was moustached. Policemen generally should be clean-shaven. The bank manager was broke. That was quite silly. Chapter 16, the rich billionaire was as ugly as a vulture. Unnecessary cliché. Chapter 17, the catheral was rolled carefully. How many people knew that ganja was called cathedral? Chapter 18, the gun went Aachoo! Since when does a gun go Aachoo? B*ng, maybe. Or blam. A gun could snap, or pop, or roar, or thunder. But Aachoo? Always sounded like a sneeze. All these and more, Ariel suddenly noticed. Hence the need to turn one of the characters into a writer. A part of him was telling him that he had suddenly become Mr. Waziri, the insane publisher. But he knew it was not true. He was so glad at this sudden inspiration that he was immensely proud of himself. This character was going to have all the adventures he had not. He was going to write what appealed to him, no matter what the publishers or critics may say contrarily.

He was happy at the impressive way his pen was now dancing on the paper and he smiled as he wrote. The ideas were flowing now, there was nothing going to stop him tonight; he was going to complete this chapter today. Of course, changing one of his characters was going to affect the previous chapters and the plights of other characters, but he already had a medicine for that, thankfully. He would finish this chapter first, then make the necessary corrections and changes in the previous chapters later. He wrote and wrote, stacks were piling, pages increased and words multiplied. His phone rang but he ignored it. Nothing! Absolutely nothing was going to stop me, he decided, with grim determination. Not even if my pair of trousers was on fire. He gave a second thought about that, perhaps he would take a few minutes to extinguish the fire before it burned his cojone, then continue writing. There was no sense in having a burnt organ due to stubborness.

He wrote for over an hour, and the candle was beginning to burn out. By the time he finished the chapter and dropped his pen, the clock struck midnight and his phone carried seventeen missed calls; he wasn't even aware that the phone had rung seventeen times. And he had a text message. When he checked the missed call, the number was hidden. And the message read:

Your parents await you for Christmas. Come home.

What's the name of that Justin Timberlake movie again

Inception? Hmmm. Larry!

Larry,I luv ur last updates,maybe becos I luv Ariel.
In chp 3,I'm thinking u should state how Daniel knew the first 10 men were not the one he was looking for.
Well done.

luvmijeje: Larry,I luv ur last updates,maybe becos I luv Ariel.
In chp 3,I'm thinking u should state how Daniel knew the first 10 men were not the one he was looking for.
Well done.

Thanks, this last one is rife with errors; I posted it with slumber clouding my senses. I'll correct them.

Oh! Thank you, you're quite right. I should really explain the first ten men.

brokoto: What's the name of that Justin Timberlake movie again

Inception? Hmmm. Larry!

I've not watched that movie. I'll find it and watch, just to understand my Bro better

Larry-Sun:

I've not watched that movie. I'll find it and watch, just to understand my Bro better

its some sci-fi shite about a dream within a dream within a dream...just like a writer writing about a writer writing about a writer. Kapish?

brokoto: its some sci-fi shite about a dream within a dream within a dream...just like a writer writing about a writer writing about a writer. Kapish?

Yeah! Kapish. Thanks.

Ehmm... What is happening na?? Larrrrrrrrrrrrrryyyy!!!!!!

Sir Larry, d greatest iroko of Nairaland, I greet u...

Larry wia are you?

Another abandoned story in literature section
hw can a story be left for solid 8months without a word frm the op smh

I have a long list of apologies to make to these people:

Spendblex: Kindly forgive me for my execrable conduct. I hope you’re still around.

YOUNGKAHUNA: I hope I got the spellings right. I want you back to lead me back on the right tracks. Forgive me for my long disappearance.

Adinije: You have the right to hide a bullet in my skull for ignoring the story. I only wish you’d show mercy.

HumbledbYGrace: What can I say? I’m on my knees. I’ve offended you in more ways than a dozen.

Domido: I’m back like the prodigal son. I hope you’ll take me back.

Avicky: Larry is so sorry. Please forgive him.

Donifez: I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.

Phummiejewels: If you can have a tiny space in your kind heart to forgive me.

Iaz93: I’m so, so sorry, my friend.

Olulu: The king not from Zulu, I bow. I seek your majesty’s forgiveness.

Damex333: I’m fully back, nothing is going to take me away again. I promise. Kindly forgive.

Obinnau: My esteem moderator, your humble Larry seeks your forgiveness, sir.

Semid4lyfe: The worst mistake I’ve ever done is upsetting you (my favourite supermod of all people). On bended knees, sir.

Beretta92: I’ve been such a pita (pain*in*the*anus), I’m so sorry.

Emperortj93: I’m very, very sorry. I didn’t intentionally ignore the story. God knows. Please forgive me.

UjSizzle: Wherever you are, whoever you are….my heart seeks your forgiveness.

Redmosquito: This is one person I’m not gonna apologize to. He understands my plight . But, I’m sorry, buddy.

RightYansh: The update is here, sir. Forgive me.

Oyestephen: You deserve to smack me on the head, really.

Movmentish: I should write you a personal apology letter. I hope ‘I’m sorry’ will suffice for now.

Iv4fb: I’m so sorry

Pillzthadrugz: I’m sorry to disappoint you. I still hope you follow anyway.

Uniquexty: It’s been a while. Are you still around. I’m using this medium to tell you that I’m sorry for everything.

Nokingasgod: I so much want you back. I’ve not been the best person lately. Please forgive me, sir.

Kepsi: My friend, only two words for you: forgive me.

Eghuan1: I’m so freaking sorry for keeping you waiting.

Afamdman: I made a lot of mistakes while writing this story but the greatest is keeping you waiting. I’m so sorry.

Phatkemi: Please forgive me, it won’t happen again.

Dongok: Thanks for not turning me to a lizard yet. It won’t happen again.

Bigsholly: I have been an utter scoundrel. All I can ask is your forgiveness.

Iebanehita: I have no excuse for my rude act. Kindly forgive me. I’m nothing but a spoilt brat.

EzePromoe: it is justified if you shoot me in the head, but I sincerely hope the gun is unloaded. I’m so sorry.

Onyejiokem: I went off wandering, but the breeze has blown me back. I’m sorry, sir.

Betgal: I was not only missing, my rationality went missing alongside. But I’m fully back now. I’m sorry.

Ice4jez: Your anger is understandable, but I hope you still have an iota of belief in me, sir. Please forgive me.

PBeni: I seek your forgiveness.

Zinylizzy: I’ll let you spit in my right eye for my terrible action.

Luvmijeje: I know you are a kind-hearted lady, I sincerely hope you forgive me.

Joble: My conduct can only be described as that worse than Cain’s; I left you hanging. I’m so sorry.

Kay9: My boss, I know I’ve disappointed you. I only hope this story makes up for my terrible action. I’m sorry, sir.

Breadplanet: No word can describe how terribly sorry I am.

Wesslier: I want you back, sir. Please don’t leave.

Tekel: I seek your pardon.

Kingphilip: Only God knows what came over my befuddled big head. I hope you can forgive my silliness.

Lastly (not the least), I apologize to my brother, Brokoto, who has been supporting me all through. I discovered that he’s deactivated his account. Does anyone know how I may reach him. I so much miss that guy.

Phew! I offended almost fifty people? How the hell did I do that? I sincerely apologize to you all. You don’t have to begin the story again from the start; we’re still at the inception of the plot.

Let me just do a brief narration of the story so far:

PROLOGUE: Cain Martins went to visit his sick mother in the hospital; Pamela had summoned him to come because she had a confession to make. But the drunk Cain didn’t wait for his mother’s confession; his interest was in the money hidden in the back yard at home. Pamela died with her confession.

However, another woman gave up the ghost at the precise time Pamela died. While Pamela died with her son’s name on her lips, the other woman died after saying the word: Abel.

CHAPTER ONE: [2012] In Port Harcourt, Daniel Famous met a pretty girl in a bus; the girl was travelling to Lagos to visit her grandfather. It was a case of love at first sight, but Daniel always had a weakness for pretty women anyway.

Ten years earlier, a boy escaped the holocaust he witnessed when armed-robbers engaged in a shootout with the police. The young boy, Mark, escaped with a large sum of money. The boy never went home.

CHAPTER TWO: Jamal was seen praying in the mosque, something he rarely did.

His daughter, Ruth, was introduced coming to spend the Christmas with her parents.

David, Jamal’s son living in the East with his wife and kid, received an anonymous phone call. The caller wanted him to come home and spend the Christmas with his parents and siblings

CHAPTER THREE: Daniel Famous sought out Remi’s father and told him about his daughter’s action. The older man decided that he and Daniel would travel to Lagos to find Remi. He threatened to cut off Daniel’s arm and beat him to death with it if Remi was not found.

Ariel, Jamal’s other son, was seen behind his desk writing the novel he was developing. Ariel was a writer. He was busy editing his work when he received a text message from an unknown source. The message read: Your parents await you for Christmas. Come home.

[Now, below is the final post of Chapter Three. Chapter Four will come after that. Please enjoy ]

February 1993

It had been over eight years since the past incident; an incident that was going to repeat itself tonight. Cain relished the thought of revenge; he always enjoyed serving his meal of retribution in a temperature that matched a dog’s nose. It had taken him eight terrible years to locate his prey – eight years of green memories and endless search. At last, nature had brought his prey to his path. He’d come here to Jos only for a business deal when he discovered that the client who had bid for a mortgage over a piece of land of about ten hectares was the treasure he’d been hunting for the past hundred months. On sighting his quarry, he’d systematically refused to disclose his own identity; making sure that the man did not even sight him, for, undoubtedly, the man might scuttle off at the slightest recognition of him. And the chance of ever seeing him again might be close to impossible if he lost him – that was what he’d never allow, no matter what sacrifice it would demand of him. He’d gotten everything about the man in less than twenty-four hours after spotting the man. He knew where his quarry lived, who his family members were; and one time, Cain wondered how the man was able to raise such a quiet and responsible family. He also wondered whether his quarry’s wife knew the kind of husband she’d married. But also inwardly, he knew that he shared something evil in common with his prey., and that common interest was the reason why he was going to attack the man’s family tonight.

The night was warm; and a full moon stood proud and majestic in the midst of exalting stars. Even if anyone passed that time, nobody would notice the figure that stood under the shadow of the mahogany tree that remained rigid like a figurine in the street. Cain was always more comfortable in the shadows than in the light; for the shadow provided him secrecy whenever he planned his evils. He had been standing there in the shadows for about two hours, waiting for his quarry to arrive. He’d planned all his intentions this night even to the minutest detail. To blend with the darkness, he’d purchased a black overcoat and a black hat. He was dressed like an undertaker, and he was holding a pistol in his hand.

Patience, which had not been his strongest virtue, was what he found himself exercising. Occasionally, he would take a stroll down the quiet street and back to the dark comfort of the tree. He was already familiar with the street, as if he’d founded it. Thirty minutes after his fifth stroll up and down the street, he saw a car approach and he immediately knew that it was his quarry coming, even without seeing the man behind the wheel. He just knew that the car approaching was the one he’d been waiting for. He watched very closely as the car reached the massive gate and stopped. Cain could see his prey now; the man came down, pressed some certain code in the walls of the gate and the gate swung open. The man appeared quite tired; the day must have been quite hectic. He watched the man and smiled as he imagined what he was going to do to him. Cain had decided that he was not going to kill him; he was going to inflict upon the man a fate nearly worse than death. He could see the man clearly but there was no way the man could see him. Cain quickly came out of the dark and crouched himself close to the vehicle as it was being driven into the compound. He moved with the vehicle, making sure that he was not discovered through the back reflector in front of the driver. The gate swung close just as slowly as it had opened. Cain smiled wickedly again. The driver didn’t know that he’d just allowed the devil into his home.

Before the man could come out of the car, Cain quickly hid himself among the flowers in the garden. He watched from within the bouquet as the man walked to the entrance of the house. The man turned the knob and the door gave way; the door was not locked. This pleased Cain, the unlocked door would give him easy entrance into the house. He tarried among the lilies for another five minutes before coming out. He stood up boldly and walked confidently to the door. Before he turned the knob, he brought out the pistol he’d pocketed when he followed the car into the compound. He opened the entrance door and slowly stepped inside. The sitting room was a large and well-furnished one. His quarry was evidently a very wealthy man. He wonder who was richer between he and the man he was about to attack. Before him, Cain saw an arch that separated the dining compartment from the sitting room. And sitting by the table were the family members having their meal. Cain was filled with glee at this; he hadn’t thought that he was easily going to have all the family members in one place. He slowly shut the door behind him, making careful sure that the door made no sound as it closed.

The man’s wife was the first to notice Cain’s presence in the room. “Jesus Christ of Nazareth!” The woman screamed, dropping her fork and knife.

Cain laughed wickedly. He knew why the woman had screamed. She’d been taken aback by his ugliness. A very ugly man dressed in black and pointing a gun at you was a good picture of Lucifer. Cain felt like Lucifer.

He took five careful steps into the room now, smiling as wickedly as he could. He needed them to be very much afraid of him. To Cain, fear implied power, you could measure your strength by the level of fright found in your adversary’s eyes. And these adversaries of his – these foes – were scared beyond description.

It was a family of four – the parents and their two offspring; a male and a female. The head of the family was still fully dressed; he must have jumped behind the dining table as soon as he stepped into the room. The wife and children were already in their night wears. The daughter was a young woman of about eighteen years old and the son looked younger, about sixteen or something. Cain continued smiling in his ugly manner. This was going to be a memorable night for the family.

He was still pointing the gun at them when he said, “Forgive me for interrupting your repast. You can return to your meal as soon as I’m through.”

The man’s wife had jumped upright, her husband was standing up slowly with his terrified eyes staring at the pistol, afraid that it might go off anytime soon. The children still remained seated with fear and confusion plastered on their faces; they were staring at Cain as if he were a specie of dinosaurs that had suddenly returned from extinction.

“Who are you and what do you want?” The man’s wife asked, she was shaking uncontrollably.

“I am your nemesis!” Cain roared, “I am your nemesis! I am your nemesis!” he kept repeating that for about ten times before he stopped to catch his breath.

He looked at each family member one after the other, as if he was just seeing them for the first time. He ordered the children to stand up and bring their chairs to the middle of the living room. He was instantly obeyed. He then commanded the parents to seat on each of the chairs provided. When they’d done that, Cain dipped his hand into his pocket and extracted two pieces of ropes. He gave the ropes to the son and told him to tie his parents to their chairs. When the boy refused he gave him a hard slap and ordered him to do it, he was aiming the gun at the boy’s head this time. He was threatening to kill the boy if his order was not obeyed. This spurred the boy to do as commanded; he firmly tied his parents to their chairs.

“Do you remember you doing to me what your son is currently doing to you?” Cain asked the man as the boy continued to knot the loops. “Can you see how it feels to be tied down, helpless and incapable of freedom?”

It was at this moment that the man cast his eyes away from the gun and looked at Cain. He was sweating profusely as he studied Cain’s face. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I don’t know you.”

“Liar! Liar!! Liar!!! Pants on fire!” Cain screamed, he poked the man’s head with the pistol. “You cannot have possibly forgotten what you did eight years ago. Eight years is not such a long time to forget that. But your nemesis has returned, you are going to have a taste of that bitter brew you concocted, I promise you.”

Having said that, Cain suddenly turned to the children and said, “De-robe yourselves.”

“What?”

“Are you mad?” The boy asked, but he was immediately blessed with another terrible slap, both his cheeks had turned crimson from the impact.

“Watch your tongue, boy.” Cain warned, “Didn’t your parents teach you manners?” He paused a brief moment and asked, “What’s your name?”

The boy did not reply. This annoyed Cain immensely, he was about to shoot the boy when his mother answered, “Abel. His name is Abel. Please don’t kill my child, I beg you.” The woman was weeping now.

“Abel?” Cain was surprised. He laughed out loud, “Seriously? His name is Abel?”

“Yes.” The sobbing woman replied.

“Wow! This is God’s will. It’s God’s will that I’m here. This isn’t a coincidence, this is fate. Does any one of you imbeciles know my name?”

They all stared at him as if he’d suddenly turned mad.

“My name is Cain!” he shouted, “and Abel here must do as I command or there will be unpleasant consequences. If he ever disobeys me again I’m going to kill him. I don’t care if another Bible story is written about us.”

He turned to the children again. The girl was already weeping like a baby. Cain said, “Now kids, for the last time, get rid of your clothes.”

The boy and girl pretended not to have heard him. They were not ready to UnCloth.

Cain stared at them and said, “Oh, you’re stubborn, both of you. I’m going to count down from ten and if you are still wearing anything at all, even lipstick, I’m going to shoot you until you are dead. Do you hear me? The gun is fully loaded.” He unclipped the pistol and showed them the bullets in the chamber.

“Now, ten…”

“Please obey the man.” Their wailing mother implored.

“Nine…”

The children seemed not to have heard their mother. They were not ready to obey the intruder.

“Do you want to die? Both of you?” The woman turned to her husband whose face was cast downward, “Won’t you do something? Tell your children to UnCloth.”

“Six…” The countdown continued.

“Please obey the man!” Their father commanded with a strong voice.

“Three…”

The children began to hastily UnCloth.

“Two…one.”

The boy and the girl were totally naked.

Cain smiled. He walked towards the girl and pulled at her firm bosoms. The girl was crying as Cain tugged at her two br*asts and squeezed the n*pples.

“You should be ashamed of yourself. You’re going to r*pe a young girl.” The girl’s mother said.

Cain smiled at her, “No, I’m not going to r*pe her.” He turned to the children, “Now, Abel, listen to me carefully. Right here in front of your parents, you’re going to have a sexual intercourse with your sister.

“What!” The parents screamed.

“Never!” retorted Abel, “Nothing will make me do it. I don’t care if you kill me.”

“Of course you’re going to do it,” Cain replied, “You won’t want me killing your parents and your sister in your presence. If you refuse me I’m going to start by killing your mother.” Cain placed the muzzle of the gun against the boy’s mother’s temple. “You better excite yourself now and do as I said, we don’t have to make this unnecessarily bloody, Abel.”

“Please don’t do it.” His father pleaded.

“Abel, are you going to watch him kill Mommy?” his sister asked hysterically.

“Are you going to do it or not? I don’t have all night, Abel.” Cain said. His finger was beginning to press the trigger.

The girl, seeing this, quickly spread herself widely on the floor, “Abel, come on!”

“Abel, don’t!” his father screamed.

“Come on, Abel. He’s going to kill them if you don’t. He’s about to shoot Mommy! Come on now!”

The boy, seeing no choice here, climbed on his sister and slowly entered her. He was weeping like a baby as he thrust home. His sister’s eyes were tightly shut as she wept copiously. She was shivering with each feeling of her brother inside her.

Finally, Abel gave a loud gasp. He felt suddenly light and collapsed on his sister. Even the girl was too weak to rise. They both remained in that position.

Cain whistled and chuckled with delight, “Phew! That’s impressive.” He turned to the children’s father, “Aren’t you impressed? That boy really knows how to make love. You should be proud of him.”

“You’re a devil!” the man’s wife cried.

“No,” replied Cain with equanimity, “I’m Nemesis. Your husband here is the devil.”

“I curse you!” The woman lashed out, “I curse you with sickness and sorrow, with hunger and pain; your house shall be consumed by fire, and your children shall die terribly; your enemies shall prosper, and you shall grow old in sadness and regret. You shall die in foulness and agony.”

“Blah, blah, blah…” Cain said wearily, “I’ve got to leave now. But before I go, there is one more thing I need to do.”

He untied the woman from the chair.

As Cain left the house, he could hear behind him the wails of each member of the family. He was at peace with himself now. He’d revenged for what had been done to him eight years ago. He walked out of the compound into the darkness beyond, knowing fully well that the life of each member of the family would never be the same again.

Cain had destroyed a happy family.

Cool update Larry. Am glad you're back to do what you know how to do best.
Keep it rolling hommie...

larry is back!!! you're forgiven
instead of smacking you, i'll gladly smack cain.......

oyestephen: larry is back!!! you're forgiven
instead of smacking you, i'll gladly smack cain.......

Thanks, man. I promise not to disappoint again.

PBeni: Cool update Larry. Am glad you're back to do what you know how to do best.
Keep it rolling hommie...

It's good to see you, PBeni. Thank you.

Wow larrysun is back oooooo. I just pray you are back for real, with this update am glad you haven't loss your touch

bigsholly: Wow larrysun is back oooooo. I just pray you are back for real, with this update am glad you haven't loss your touch

Thanks. I'm back for real.

You're forgiven,Larry. Welcome back! As usual you held me spellbound. Waiting for more updates.

FOUR

They spent almost twenty-four hours before arriving in Lagos, because the rickety bus they boarded developed flat tyres, carburetor, transistor, accelerator, radiator and whatever –tor inherent in a vehicle’s anatomy problems. If left for Daniel alone he’d have boarded a plane but Mr. Johnson would never hear of that, even when Daniel insisted on paying footing the ticket fee of both of them. It wasn’t that Mr. Johnson was scared of heights, or because the price for the two of them in a first-class travel could gag a sword swallower; he was just afraid of dying. He launched into a verbal education of Daniel about the unfortunate events inherent in Sosoliso and Bellview in the years past. He explained how so many things could go wrong in the air. Like, say, an engine might fall off, probably because a mechanic sabotaged it. All these claims and beliefs had resulted from the effect of all he suffered when he lost both his parents in an air crash that occurred far back in 1985. This year’s Christmas Day would seal the twenty-seventh year after the sad event. He was still a secondary school kid when the tragedy happened.

The sudden demise of Tunde’s parents led to his opting out of school for lack of tuition funds. If Tunde Johnson had been educated, he could possibly have become a scientist or an inventor of time-capsules; he really was that intelligent. It was his intelligence, not his social status, that got him inside the hot Ruth’s pants and impregnated her when she was barely seventeen. He was at first not sure if the pregnancy was really his, because Ruth had been quite a loose girl since the age of twelve. So, naturally, Tunde had denied blowing the balloon. Ruth’s furious father had sent hoodlums against him, he was beaten so hard that he was hospitalized. But the father of the pregnant girl paid for his treatment and got him locked up thereafter. Tunde spent nine months behind bars; he was released by the police only two weeks before Ruth put to bed. The man had forgotten him there in the cell.
Some tests were conducted which confirmed that Tunde was the father of the child. The rich man had later apologized to Tunde for the hard way in which the situation was handled. He arranged a wedding ceremony for Tunde and his daughter, and both man and woman were joined in holy matrimony. But this did not alleviate the resentment Tunde fostered against his father-in-law. He hated Jamal with passion, and he was patiently waiting for the best time he would take his revenge on the man for what he had done to him. His hatred for the man grew so much that when Jamal offered to assist him financially, a pecuniary intervention which he desperately needed, Tunde had humbly, with a smile, declined the assistance. Tunde was not one of those few people who possessed the spirits of pardon. He kept every memory green, especially the bitter ones.

When Tunde was only ten years old, a neighbour had turned his ear for stepping in his garden. Tunde waited three years to get back at the bad-tempered man. Because the man was older and more powerful than he was at the time, Tunde could not twist the man’s ear in return. So, he waiting until the man got married and had a baby. When he was alone with the child, Tunde twisted the baby’s ear in as much painful a way as his father had done him three years prior, making sure that it was the left ear he twisted, for the baby’s father didn’t twist him in the right ear. The baby had shrieked with pain but Tunde had disappeared from the scene before people began to rush into the room from whence the shrill cry had erupted. Tunde had felt guilty for his action thereafter; the baby wasn’t the offender, it was the father who should be punished. He hadn’t really revenged; taking revenge on innocent people, he realized, wasn’t his style. He shrugged his guilt off, at least, the pastor had preached last Sunday from a verse in Jeremiah; about a man who gobbled a sugarcane or something without giving a thought about what would happen to the children’s teeth. Young Tunde never really cared to listen attentively to sermons.

Tunde, now an adult, was still looking for that man who had twisted his ear when he was ten. If he saw the man, he would definitely twist the man’s ear and finally be at peace with himself. Even if the man was going to become the next President of Nigeria, and if there was the likelihood that he could be shot for his attempt, Tunde didn’t care. Besides, the man who twisted his ear when he was only ten was a stark illiterate; the probability of his becoming the next Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces was very slim.

“Do you really mean what you said, Mr. Johnson?” Daniel Famous asked as they finally got off the bus. He was taking his steps with caution because, while sitting huddled among the travellers in the bus, the blood that was circulating around his body had departed his feet. For each step he took, he felt stinging and tickling sensation course through the lower part of his body, right from the patella down to the metatarsal region. His gait almost resembled that of Simon Peter trying to walk on water like Jesus.

A Coca-Cola truck was parked at the other side of the road, and the driver was unloading crates and carrying them into a restaurant.

“What did I say?”

“What you said about my arm and flogging. You don’t mean that, do you?”

The man adjusted his lips, forming what he probably read some place was known as a smile. He said, “I don’t make idle threats, Daniel.”

The younger man’s eyes opened large, “You are joking, right?”

The smile grew broader, “Yes, I’m smiling, Daniel, but I’m not joking. Just pray we find my daughter.

“It seems to me like you want people to be afraid of you.”

“Fear implies respect.”

“So far,” Daniel lied, “You are not registering high on my terror metre.”

“I will warn you not to see my threat as a-a-what is the expression I want meaning a big stir about very little?”

“A tempest in a teacup?”

“Yes, thank you. Don’t see my threat as a tempest in a teacup.”

They reached the car park and boarded another bus, this one cosier. They did not resume their conversation. When Mr. Johnson told the bus-conductor where they’d be alighting, Daniel frowned.

Because it was Christmas eve already, the traffic was slower than usual. They spent over an hour before arriving at their bus-stop. The common tricycle transported them to their exact location.

Now this is mr larrysun that I knew before he went on Sabbatical leave . Keep it coming sir