God, it's been forever. I didn't wanna take so long, but I've been taking alotta hits lately; both with my writing and with my personal life. Personal is personal, but as far as writing, I can tell you it hasn't been easy.

Had to drop my last too stories because they were too similar to a couple stories that came out and one anime. To compound matters more, I've hit a couple medical snags; most recent of which was falling out of bed during a seizure and injuring my writing arm. It's a little better, but the pain sets in, after a short while of typing.

Speaking of which, I'm hitting that mark now.

Adios for now

Again, I ain't been on in a while 'cause I'm working on a new story and it's slowly frying my brain. Came to learn I can't use several have been taken... one of which for a children's series. I also have to hunt for an artist for the cover and all want nearly 200 bucks just to give me a rough idea.

Whenever my brain collapses and I need a break, I may churn out another fan-fic; for which one, I dunno.

The Omen

Part 5

The Rising Star

In a crowded TV studio, an audience cheer loudly as the cameras pan through them; showing their beaming/enthused faces on several monitors. Many adorn shirts with a smiling brunette, with the caption “UP LATE WITH KATE” slightly hidden behind her.

“Are you ready, ladies and gents?!” asked a disembodied voice over the speakers. “Then give it up for Kate Reynoooooooooolds!!”

The cheering grew into a roar, as the brunette on their shirts came strutting from behind a blue glitter-caked curtain, accompanied by the sultry music of a six-man band on the other side of the studio. She smiled and waved to her fans, as she took her place behind a large wooden desk.

“Thanks to those of you who came out,” said Kate, as she blew her audience a kiss. “And thanks to our viewers at home who've managed to stay up at this ungodly hour.”

She waited for the brief round of laughter to end, before she continued. “We have a great show for you tonight. We'll have Ron Howard out in a while to talk about his new movie coming out in theaters soon. We'll also be listening to the up and coming pop star, Lily Allen. But first, he's a war hero, international activist and a senatorial candidate in the next upcoming election. Please, give a big welcome, for Damien Thorn!”

More cheers and applause, as Damien Thorn took the stage; dressed in a pinstriped suit with a T-shirt underneath with the latest Kevin Smith movie on it. He too waved and smiled at the audience, as he took one of the oversized chairs beside Kate's desk.

“Thank you for having me,” said Damien, as he nodded his thanks to the audience.

“Thank you for coming. It's not everyday we have a candidate of anything on the show. In fact, your the only one.”

Damien laughed along with the crowd, before he said, “Well Kate, I'm not like the other candidates who're afraid to enjoy themselves in the public eye. Plus, I've been a fan of yours for quite a while.”

Kate found herself blushing, as the audience oohed and laughed. “Keep that up and I'll make sure you're booked every night.”

“I'd be more than happy. Which hotel were you thinking?”

Kate's eyes widened, as another round of oohs flushed through the audience, followed by shouts of encouragement. “Your approval rating just went up in my book. But this is something I'd like to talk to you about. You're known for your humor and jovial attitude, while running your campaign. Some think you're not taking this seriously.”

“I've heard that before, many times. The best way I can explain it is... I'm not fake. I'm not going to attempt tricking voters into liking someone I'm not. Even though I want to stand up for the people and make sure their voices are heard, I'm still quite young and want to enjoy my youth while I have it.”

“Doesn't this give credence to your opponents accusations that you're unfit for any kind of office?”

“Quite the contrary. I may be younger than my opponents, but I've been involved in politics for a long time. My parents raised me with the understanding how the system works and what needs to be done to fix it.”

Cheers and applause.

“Touching on your age again, you give new meaning to “hit the ground running”. You enlisted right out of school and ended up becoming a hero not even a year into your tour.”

Damien's face became stoic, as he said, “There were countless heroes in this war and many of them go unknown and forgotten. All I did was survive.”

Kate swallowed a heavy lump of nerves, before her next statement. “For those who don't know, you and your platoon were ambushed and you managed to come out of it alive and miraculously unharmed; pretending to be dead, while they left with their dead and injured. Then, you had to trek through the desert, until you came across an American friendly village. Pardon me for saying, but that sounds heroic to me.”

Damien blushed at the deafening thunder that was the audience; some cheering, some crying and many chanting “USA”.

The rest of the interview went smoothly from then on. Both Damien Thorn and Kate Reynolds continued to joke and laugh, while touching on several serious issues. He showed himself to be well educated and knowledged on his key issues.

As the interview neared it's end, Kate took a deep breath. “Now, I hate to bring this up, but you've actually had an attempt on your life recently. Some random person tried to stab you?”

“Yeah, that was insane,” answered Damien, as he grimaced with a smile. “I can't say I understand it; guy just charged me backstage after a rally and tried giving me the shiv. My friend Harvey got hurt, but thankfully it wasn't serious.”

“Does anyone know why?”

“Not a clue. He was ranting and raving about the Devil and God. I can only assume he's some religious fanatic with some issues. Now, I'm not saying it was some terrorist attempt on my life; we have our own fanatics over here too.”

“Well, I'm glad your still with us today and thanks again for coming on our show.”

“Pleasure was all mine.”

The audience expressed their acceptance and respect loudly, as Damien rose to his feet and waved at them, as he exited the stage. Once behind the curtain, he was greeted by a bald man with glasses.

“That was great Damien. You really won them over.”

“Of course I did, Harvey,” said Damien, as he threw an arm around him. “I have a helluva campaign manager. Anything else tonight or do I actually have some time to myself?”

“Nope, we're good for now. Just don't forget: Leno tomorrow and Letterman the next.”

“If I must,” sighed Damien, before bringing Harvey in closer. “Any word on the nutjob who tried to stab me?”

As they rounded a corner, Damien saw Kate Reynolds dressing room. “Hey Harv, I'm gonna stick around to have a chat with Miss Reynolds. You go on and get some rest.”

“Sure thing, Damien,” said Harvey, as he left his friend.

Once Harvey was gone, Damien's jovial expression deadened, as he let himself in. He sat himself in one of the comfortable chairs and crossed his legs and began his wait.

--

Further backstage, Harvey Dean continued to jaunt pass the TV crew and PA's, when something caught his eye. Down the narrow corridor, an Asian woman with a headset and clipboard stared at him intently. She nodded her head toward a curtain, before walking behind it. Harvey fixed his tie, as he followed.

He found himself on an empty set – similar to Kate Reynolds' – where the woman had set her board and headset on the host's table.

“It's been a long time, brother,” said the woman.

“Indeed it has, Neres,” Harvey responded, as he removed his glasses and tucked them in his jacket. “Did Klatus send you? I have not spoken to him in some time, as well.”

“Brother seemed vexed, when he saw you last. I felt it necessary to see you myself. Rumors spread of your absence. Your schemes and machinations near Father's own; you can see why we worry.”

“Then ease your mind. I've merely taken a liking to this world; it holds qualities even home cannot provide me.”

“My eyes do not deceive me, as you would, dear Paden,” Neres stated, as she rounded the table slowly. “Tis not this world that enthralls you, but that doll. How could such a pathetic creation hold sway over you?”

Harvey/Paden sighed, as he shook his head. “I grow weary of having my intentions questioned. I allow it from Klatus; he is an innocent youth who does not question Father's reign. You, on the other hand, know all too well the yoke he holds over us. Does it not anger you? Are you so diminished, you do not wish for something anew?”

“Do not speak to me being diminished. You are weak, brother. I can see now why Klatus was so upset. Come home and renew you strength.”

Paden looked to the floor and breathed deep. “You talk of deceit and yet you try to hide your true intentions.”

“What is this insult?”

Paden took of his jacket and dropped it to the floor. “You have always been loyal to Father,” he said, as he reached into his pant pocket. “So loyal are you, you savor the chance to appease him as a dog would appease it's master.”

“Your words sting my heart. Where does this venom come from?”

“From your betrayal,” answered Paden. “You wish for me to return, so you may hand me over to Father and tell him of my time here.”

“I would never-”

“I know you, Neres,” Paden interrupted, as he withdrew a dagger from his pocket. “So aroused are you for his favor, you would not consider my pain his wrath would bring unto me.”

“You do indeed know me,” said Neres, as he looked at the weapon in his brother's hand. “But you would attempt to have me undone by such a thing?”

“Best to say, I have a theory I wish to prove. Should this fail me, then you may take me back and I will sing your praises to Father myself. If I am right-”

Neres lunged at Paden, ignoring his brother's offer.

Paden's eyes watered, as he said, “Damn you, brother.”

Neres stopped just before his brother; an impact on his chest halting his progress. He looked down to see the dagger sticking just below his doll's breast, as a strange sensation rose from within.

“What is this?” asked Neres. “Something strange stirs inside me.”

“It is pain, brother,” answered Paden, as he held him in his arms and gently set him upon the table. “I felt it touch me, when I stopped one of them from ruining my plans.”

“I never knew such a thing existed.”

“Nor I,” said Paden, as he cradled Neres' head. “But what you feel next will be more foreign to you than anything you've ever experienced.”

“What is it? What other wonder could you possibly bestow?”

Black tears streaked down Paden's cheeks, as his bottom lip quivered.

“I-I was never one for dramatic pauses,” said Neres, as his breathing became shallow. “Please, brother. I wish to know.”

“Soon.. you will feel what it is... to die.”

“Truly?”, asked Neres, in awe. “Is such a thing possible?”

“I believe it so. I believe the Great Betrayer put his kiss upon this blade.”

“I-I see,” he said, as his body began to tremble.

“What is it you feel, brother? I must know.”

“I feel coldness the likes I have never felt. There is a welling in my chest, as though I feel... I feel like I do not wish to die.”

“It will pass,” stated Paden, as he lifted Neres into his shoulder and held him tight. “All will pass.”

Paden's grip was unrelenting, until Neres was still; never to move again. After an eternity, he rested his brother on the table once more and looked into his eyes. Nothing. Nothing remained within; not even the doll's soul. He withdrew the dagger and wiped it on the empty woman's shirt.

He now knew the true power it held; the power to undo all creation.

Even that of his Father.

Haven't jumped on here in a little while. Real World's been kicking my ass, as of late; injections in both knees, doped up with pain pills for my back, then a cold.

Hopefully I'll get a break soon. Maybe not for a while, if Sandy knocks my electricity out. If it does, hopefully it won't be for long; there's a crapload of out-of-state electricians staying at the Holiday Inn (we have alotta Hospitals, assisted living and old folks home around here).

Well, that it for my random pit stop. To those stuck in this Hurricane's path, good lucky with Katrina's bitchy sister.

THE OMEN

Part 4

Within Light and Dark

The sun was high and covered the Sahara like a scorching blanket, as a expedition crew worked their way through a maze of uncovered corridors once buried by the desert's sands. Looking over the men, as they toiled away, was Brother Brennan; adorned in sand-stained desert wear.

As he looked on, he remembered that day at the monastery; three years ago. The sights that had visited had come to pass, with the destruction of the Twin Towers and the attack on the Pentagon, in America. With the attacks came the war and with the war came death; so much death, he could hear the angels weeping.

He had left the brothers, telling them God had a mission for him; to find the seven daggers, shown to him in his vision. Many thought him mad, until the news of the devastation in the West came. Some called him a prophet, but he knew what he was. He was an instrument of the Lord and through his will, he would put an end to the false prince of Man.

Brennan was jolted from his thoughts, when he heard someone calling from within the dig. Wasting no time, he jumped into one of the corridors and ran pass the workers; knocking over any too slow to get out of his way. At the end, one of the workers stood beside a small black box with writing etched with gold. Aramaic; a dead language known by so few. Brennan knelt before the box, as he signed the cross over his chest.

“Thank you, for delivering unto us these weapons against our enemy.”

Carefully, he opened the box. Within, four daggers rested upon a silken pillow. Brennan shook his head; confused.

“This isn't right. There's supposed to be seven.”

“Maybe you were mistaken?” suggested the worker who found the box.

Brennan shot up and grabbed him by his shirt, as he slammed him against the wall. “I'm not mistaken, you damned fool! God himself gave me the vision; showed me the seven daggers with which to slay the Beast.”

“M-Maybe he was wrong,” said the worker.

“God is never wrong!!” Brennan shouted in the workers ears. “The Lord makes no mistakes, like a damned buffoon like you; you damn-”

Brennan rage quickly subsided, as a realization came to him. “God makes no mistakes,” he repeated, calmer and quieter. “I'm a damned fool.”

He released the worker and turned back to the daggers. “It would be foolish to have all the daggers together; in case the Devil's minions were to find them. The others are out there, somewhere. He will show them to me, when the time comes. All I need is to be patient.”

He extended his hand and laid it upon the workers shoulder. “Forgive me, friend. For a moment, I lost myself.”

The worker offered a fake smile and a nod.

Brennan looked up at the blazing sun. “I'll be patient, Lord. I will await for when I am ready.”

-

Hundreds of miles away, deep within a cave in Afghanistan, a platoon of American soldiers scoured the area for any signs of their enemy. All they discovered were the remains of a makeshift camp, empty Army rations and a couple AK-47's.

“This is BS,” said one of the soldiers. “Why the hell do we get stuck going through this shit hole?”

“Because that's our luck,” answered another.

“Quit the chatter,” their platoon leader ordered. “Until we clear every inch of this place, keep your asses quiet.”

As they continued, one of the soldiers lost his footing and fell against the cave wall; which suddenly gave way, as rocks and debris fell on him. The platoon hopped into action; uncovering their comrade and seeing to his wounds.

While the others tended to the soldier, the platoon leader stepped into the discovered anti-chamber. He shone his light across the room, until it came upon a black box with golden writing. Cautious, he walked toward it and scanned it for wires or explosives.

“What do we have here?” he asked aloud, as he opened the box.

Inside laid a single dagger atop a silk pillow. He picked it up and examined it with his flashlight. It was a simple dagger; no fancy etchings or other adornments; though something felt special about it.

He exited the chamber, as he said, “Look what I found.”

“What the hell's that?” asked one of his men. “Is that a knife?”

“A dagger,” corrected the platoon leader. “Found it in a fancy box back there.”

“Think the rag-heads put it there?” asked another soldier.

“Don't know, but I got myself a souvenir.”

“What? Some kind of holy bread knife?” joked the injured soldier; joined by the other in laughter.

While they jested with their leader, none of them noticed one of the AK-47's being picked up by a soldier toward the rear.

-

Outside of the cave, the echoes of gunfire bellowed from the entrance. There were screams, followed by more fire. Silence fell across the sun-soaked landscape, as a lone soldier exited the cave; his fatigues covered with blood. He held the dagger in his hand and the AK-47 in the other.

He threw the rifle on the ground, as he held the dagger in the air; admiring it in the light. It was blemished by a spatter of blood. The soldier wiped it across his shirt; over his name patch. A name patch that read:

Thorn.

THE OMEN

Part 3

Distant Thunder

Seventeen year old Damien Thorn sat at his desk, staring out the window from one of the classrooms of Georgetown Private School. Most teachers scolded students for daydreaming, but they didn't have to with Mr. Thorn. Even when not devoting his full attention, Damien always managed to get a perfect score. Most of the teachers barely ever kept an eye on Damien, since he was such the perfect student. Regardless, there were a pair of eyes on him, since his first day of life; the same eyes that watched him, even now.

High upon the roof of the School, Payden was perched atop a belfry. He observed his prize with such pride, he barely noticed the presence of another. He set his sights across the roof and saw a familiar winged-form.

“It has been a long time, brother,” said Payden, as the figure – Klatus – was instantly standing beside him. “I hope you and the others have been well.”

“Why do you still bother with this thing?” said Klatus, somewhat frustrated. “I've kept my eye on you, when I could spare. You've reduced yourself to living among them, living off of doll after doll. This is the behavior of a spawn; not a noble.”

“Spawn. Noble. They are but mere titles... titles that will soon have no meaning.”

“Why do you speak as such? Your machinations worry me, brother. They worry us all.”

Payden ignored the attempt to unsettle him. “So, you've told our brothers and sisters?”

“I have.”

Payden turned to Klatus, with a wide grin. “But you haven't told Father.”

Klatus looked away, as he sighed.

Payden chuckled, as he returned his gaze to Damien. “I'm honored you show such affection, as to try and ward me from my future. However, you and I know none of our brethren would approach Him with such a tale, out of fear what his wrath would bring upon all of below.”

Klatus reached out and grabbed Payden by the shoulder. “Be done with this game of yours. No creature – in Heaven or Hell – can change the fate given to them; that is the law.”

“Who's law?” asked Payden, as he shrugged off Klatus' grip. “Laws are the constructs of lower beings. There is no fate. There is no destiny. There are no laws.”

Klatus backed away from his brother; shocked by his words. “What has happened to you?”

Payden stood tall and stretched his wings. “Freedom, brother. Freedom to do as I wish.”

Payden looked upon Klatus and could see the worry and confusion on his face. “Worry not, brother. This road is mine. Remain clear of my path and Father shall not punish you, should he manage to discover my plans.”

“And what are your plans? What is it you hope to achieve?”

Payden breathed deep and smiled his crooked smile. “Best you not know.”

Klatus shook his head in defeat. “Do as you wish. I have said my piece.”

Payden stepped down and placed his arm across Klatus' shoulders. “Indeed you have. Now, though I do relish your company, I do believe you are here for another reason.”

“I see your time here has not dulled your senses,” said Klatus, with a halfhearted grin. “A Great Feast has begun. Our brothers and sisters await over the horizon. They can smell the chaos that is to follow here.”

Suddenly, an airliner roared overhead; barely a hundred feet above the school. The brothers watched, as it descended rapidly in the distance, until it vanished over the hill; toward Washington, DC. A moment later, a clap of thunder blasted through the school; cracking the windows. A plume of fire and smoke rose in the distance.

Payden nodded in approval. “I know how you despise the dolls, dear brother. But you have to agree: Without them, we wouldn't be able to enjoy ourselves so.”

“That is one item we do agree upon. Come. Join us.”

“Oh, brother, but I would,” Payden gave a firm grip to the back of Klatus' leathery neck. “There is no nectar as sweet as a tormented soul birthed from tragedy. However, I must remain.”

“I will never understand your plans, brother,” Klatus sighed. “But I do wish you success.”

Payden kissed Klatus upon his brow and took a step back. Within a blink of his eyes, his brother was gone. He watched the smoke, while memories of men clashing swords and firing guns danced within his head.

“Feast well,” he said, as he looked down at Damien; who remained in his seat, as the other students ran to the windows and yelled into their cellphones.

“Our time is fast approaching, soulless one. Let these fools have their war. We will use it to our advantage.”

Damien looked up from his desk at the belfry. A familiar feeling came over his body; a feeling he'd had since he could remember. A feeling of darkness and despair. A feeling of... joy.

–

In Italy, high in the Apennine Mountains, laid a monastery. Benedictine Monks roamed it's halls, as they went about their day in prayer and labor. The tranquility was interrupted, however, by the sounds of screaming. Two of the monks, tending a garden in the courtyard, dropped their tools and raced toward the wailing. They came upon a door and quickly rushed inside.

A fellow monk violently tossed in his bed, as he screamed like a man dying.

“Brother Brennan, control yourself!” one of the monks pleaded.

“What is the matter?!” asked the other.

“Destruction!” Brother Brennan shouted. “Chaos! Good God... they're feeding! They're feeding!”

The monks threw themselves on him, as he continued his ravings.

“Death follows him, everywhere he goes! He will ride upon a golden chariot and bring good fortune to all, but it's a lie! It's all a goddamned lie!”

“Brother, please!”

Brother Brennan lunged and grabbed one of the monks by the collar.

“The Knights have fallen and the Shield is broken! Only the Crown remains; the Crown he wishes to claim as his own!”

While the monk struggled to restrain Brother Brennan, the other let go and stepped back. He'd never seen or heard such things from the always quiet and kind Brother Brennan. While they struggled, he found his eyes wandering the room.

Paintings and pictures were plastered all over the walls. Many of them of a baby sleeping upon a cradle of thorns. Others of a winged monster that stood behind trees and doors. He came across some fresh drawings; the paste holding them were still damp.

Depicted were identical knights with pentangular shields, standing above a domed crown. Another painting showed the knights lying on the ground; arrows protruding from their bodies. Another had the domed crown with a rose underneath; a rose with heavily shaded, bleeding thorns. His eyes finally fell on the last painting: Seven daggers forming a circle.

“He showed me!” Brennan's screams continued. “He showed me how to save ourselves! He showed me the weapons to wield against the evil one! The soulless one! The daggers! The daggers can kill him!”

“Who?” the other monk asked, as he continued his attempts to restrain Brennan. “Who are they supposed to kill?”

Brennan tightened his grip on the monk's collar and pulled him close. The thrashing and screaming had stopped, as he stared his fellow Brother in the eyes – with calm and lucidity.

“The Beast.”

THE OMEN

Part 2

Happy Birthday

Seven years passed, since that fateful night at the hospital. Young Damien grew into a sweet, obedient, child, raised on his family's estate just outside of Washington, DC.

Today – Damien's seventh birthday – the young boy played party games among senator's and diplomat's children, while his parents held a huge party in their massive garden. There were clowns, jugglers, ponies, a carousel, a mini ferriswheel and a cake so large, the birthday boy could roll in it. But he knew it wasn't for him. His father wanted money to go live in a big white house in Pennsylvania – or something dumb like that – so he invited his stupid friends to beg; what a week and pathetic man.

“Gather 'round, kids,” a young woman – the party planner – called out. “Time for Pin the Tail On the Donkey.”

As with every game, Damien went first. And, as with every game, he did poorly. On his third try, he'd managed to pin the tail on the donkey's nose. Being as his playmates were being on their best behavior to appease their ever-judging parents, they clapped and said their “Nice tries”; save for one.

“You are much dumb,” said a large child. Nikapol Ivanovich – the Russian Ambassador's son. “You should be in school for retarded.”

The planner scolded him, as a couple of the children snickered. Damien didn't show any sort of care; this wasn't the first time he'd been made fun of by the chubby Russian and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

The children broke apart to play on their own, before the next party game. Damien watched, as they went off into pairs and groups, while he remained. As the lonesome child stared at the ground, a pair of polished black shoes came into view.

A smile had already stretched his lips, as he look up into the eyes of an old, tall, black man; dressed in a tail coat suit.

“Hi, Dalton,” Damien greeted.

Dalton – the butler – bowed slightly, as he said, “How are we doing, young master.”

“You shouldn't call me that. Father doesn't like it.”

“I will refer to you, however you wish... Damien. Now, I hate to say it, but you seem to be in ill spirits, for a young man celebrating his day of birth.”

“It's nothing... well...”

“Ambassador Ivanovich's son again?”

Damien nodded. “He keeps calling me retarded, every time he sees me.”

“Pay him no mind. Only foolish peasants try to hold themselves in higher order than their superiors.”

Again, Damien nodded. Dalton always talked funny, but he was always right.

Dalton tussled Damien's hair and nudged his cheek. “Now, I believe the next game is about to begin. Do have fun.”

Damien ran off, as Dalton's eyes scanned the party and eventually fell upon Nikapol. He gave the boy an eerie smile, as he made his way to the gathering of children around a large tree. They huddled together, as a donkey pinata was lowered from one of the branches, by one of the Thorn's employees.

Again, Damien went first. He held the bat tight in his little fingers, as he swung. Miss. He steadied himself and swung again. Miss. By the third attempt, the employee tried giving Damien an edge, by barely moving the pinata, but he missed again.

More halfhearted clapping and “nice tries”; followed by Nikapol's jeering.

“Jeez, Thorn. Even paper donkey smarter than you; all it need do is nothing.”

Damien remained silent, as he joined the rest of the children, as they began taking their turns. Eventually, it was soon to be Nikapol's turn. Dalton's eerie smile crossed his face again, as he winked. The employee holding the rope suddenly lost his grip and the pinata fell to the ground. It remained intact, but the rope had burned the employee's hands.

Dalton stepped up to him and looked at his hands. “My, that's a grievous wound indeed. I suggest going to Mrs. Baylock and have that bandaged. The meanwhile, I will tend to the children.”

The employee made his way toward the manor, as Dalton took hold of the rope. “Are we ready, children?”

They cheered, as the boy before Nikapol went up next. Nikapol was eager for his turn, as he stood in front of Damien. The children cried out for there to be candy spilled upon the ground, as the boy swung and missed. As the boy readied his next swing, Dalton looked over to Damien.

Foolish peasants, all of them.

Damien shook his head a little, before staring intently at Nikapol's back.

Damned peons. They need to know their place.

The boy with the bat took a second swing and managed to catch the pinata's head, but it didn't burst. He butted the bat on the ground, as he tried to get a firmer grip.

Someone needs to remind them.

Damien poked Nikapol, urging him to turn. “What is it, retard?”

Damien stared at him, with cold unblinking eyes.

“You are retarded. Maybe ask Mama to go to retard school, before it too late.”

Damien looked over Nikapol's shoulder and saw the boy had gotten his grip and was ready for his last swing. “It's you turn,” said Damien.

Nikapol shoved him back and shook his head, as he walked backwards toward to pinata. “Stupid reta-”

There was a sickening thud, as Nikapol's head was shaken by a heavy blow from the bat. The fat Russian fell on the ground. He convulsed, as blood began to run from his nose. His body began to shake even worse, as blood began to pool on the ground just under his head. He was shaking so terribly, his left eye fell from it's socket; dangling just above the bridge of his nose.

The chorus of the children's screams brought everyone running to their aid. The adults began corralling the them away from Nikapol, as others had to hold back the raving Russian ambassador.

While the adults were distracted with their commotion, Damien knelt before Nikapol. Without any emotion in his eyes or on his face, he said, “imetʹ veselʹye, v zamedlyatʹ shkola.”

Damien stood and calmly walked away; mingling into the crowd of distraught onlookers.

–

Later that day, as the sun began to set over the horizon, Dalton was walking away from the Thorn estate, with a suitcase in hand. The party planner had told the Thorn's she saw him yank the pinata up at the last minute; resulting in Nikapol being struck, instead of the faux donkey. Dalton had apologized for his error and resigned.

As he neared the end of the driveway, he turned back to the sound of hastened footsteps. Young Damien came to a halt in front of him.

“Yes, young Master?”

“Father told me you quit,” said Damien, coolly. “I wished to apologize. It was my fault as well.”

Dalton knelt down and looked upon Damien with a toothy smile. “There was no fault, in this matter. The peasants now know their place. They may tell themselves this was an accident, but deep down, they know this was a command: Never forget, you are beneath me. That boy will live the rest of his days as a simpleton; a brainless pawn to be shuffled off of the board.”

Damien nodded. “You're right, Payton. You're always right.”

Dalton lifted his hand and ran his finger across Damien's cheek. “I have to leave you now. But, before I go, I wish to show you a trick.”

Damien smiled. “Show me.”

–

Damien and Dalton walked along the tracks of a train yard. Dalton walked on a rail, with inhumanly agile footing. Damien tried to mimic him, but couldn't come close.

“Tell me... Damien. What did you say to Nikapol?”

“I don't know,” he continued his rail-walking.

“You know it was Russian, right?”

“It was?” he asked, undaunted.

“Yes. In fact, you told him to have fun, at retard school.”

“I guess it makes sense.”

Dalton released a uproarious cackle. “Your humble superiority amuses me, young Master. It will serve you well, in the times to come.”

Dalton stopped, as he saw a light in the distance. “It's time I showed you that trick. Stand over there, if you would.”

Damien stepped off the track and stood on the other side.

A loud horn echoed, as Dalton faced down the track and fell to his knees. He turned his head and look upon Damien with caring eyes... eyes black as night.

“Watch close now,” he said as he reared his head back and let forth a scream so loud and distorted it sounded like thunder. His back arched to the point the top of his head almost touched the ground as red mist poured out of his nose and mouth. Dalton suddenly straightened his back as he doubled over and vomited a black ichor onto the tracks.

Dalton gasped for air, as he look around him; confused. He saw Damien.

“Where the hell am I?”

Damien just looked at him, as he pointed.

Dalton followed his finger to the bright light barreling toward him. He held up his hands and wailed like a banshee, before being struck by a train.

Damien watched Dalton's head – still in the air – before it landed at his feet. Half of his face was gone; replaced by skull and muscle. The rest was frozen in scream. Young Damien Thorn reached down and pluck the head from the ground.

He turned the head to it's side and brought his lips close to it's ear.

“Do it again.”

THE OMEN

Part 1

The Soulless One

In the maternity ward of St. Joseph's Hospital, in London, the nurses watch over the slumbering newborns during the night. Especially tonight. The wife of an American ambassador had to be rushed into delivery right away. Twelve hours later, the five-pound eleven ounce Damien Thorn was born.

One of the nurses made her rounds among the babies. She took extra care to look over little Damien. But when she reached his bed, she found he was awake. Awake and silent. His eyes widened, when he saw her. His eyes, wide and dark.

She suddenly found herself swallowing a lump of discomfort. Something wasn't right. Something was... cold about the little babe. His unblinking gaze could easily be set akin to that of a bloodthirsty Great White Shark. The nurse shivered, as a chill ran up her spine; though it felt more like someone had brushed up against her.

“Run along, Kathy,” a voice sighed within her mind.

The nurse shook herself from her haze. She went about her business; pinching the bridge of her nose. Surely she'd been working too hard. Maybe she needed that vacation after all. When she was finished and almost out the door, she turned to the newborns and blew them all a kiss... no, not all of them. Not that ambassador's creepy kid.

When the room was empty, a cool breeze sailed through the windowless room. Some of the babies began to weep, while others cried their longs out. Through the eyes of an adult, it would appear nothing more than a room full of crying babies. But through a babies eyes, they witness sights that cause human beings to forget their first days of life.

Standing before little Damien Thorn was a tall gaunt man, with massive bat-like wings folded behind him. Strapped over his chest was a scorched, dented, breastplate. A tattered tunic draped to his knees and his dirt caked feet were bare. His eyes – black as pitch – looked over the young one; the quiet unsettling child who stared back. The winged man's head tilted, as he was fascinated by this bizarre little thing.

“Payden,” a voice called from the other side of the room.

The winged man – Payden – turned to see another winged man. This one had skin so pale the only hint of color was from the dark-purple veins that ran along his body.

“Klatus,” greeted Payden.

“What are you doing with these... things?”

Payden leaned closer to Damien; only mere inches from his face. “I'm intrigued by this little one, dear brother. There's something different about him.”

With but a blink, Klatus was standing next to Payden. “He looks no different than any other doll,” he glanced over the child. “If you're hungry, just feed and let us be on our way.”

“You look upon him with rash eyes,” stated Payden, as he stood tall. “Take a closer look and this time... see.”

Klatus shook his head and looked upon the child once more. After a deeper inspection, he found himself befuddled. “How can this be? He's-”

“Empty,” Payden finished. “As empty as you or I.”

“How is this possible?”

“I know not,” he answered, as a subtle smile stretched the corner of his lips. “However, I do know that it has escaped Father's notice.”

Klatus rose from the baby and looked at Payden. “What thoughts rattle within your mind, brother?”

Again, Payden leaned over Damien. “My thoughts are my own, brother... and with my thoughts, I could achieve greatness.”

“Be weary where your thoughts may lead you. Should you anger Father-”

“Father is always angry,” Payden interjected. “That's what makes him Father.”

Payden raised his hand to Damien's face; a ruddy, clawed, hand. He ran one of his talons across the baby's cheek, coaxing a burbled laugh.

“You know of what I speak, soulless one,” he whispered unto Damien. “We will show such wonders, all of Heaven and Hell will gaze upon us as kings.”

Klatus looked upon his brother, stunned, as a dark tear dripped from Payden's eye onto Damien's lips.

Such Wonders.

My brain's been so fried, as of late. Family drama, friend drama, tryin' to find the ever-so-sought-after job, tryin' not to lose the ever-so-life-sustaining medical insurance and then trying to work on my writing. Hard as hell to stay creative, when everywhere ya turn is a headache just boggin' ya down.

Which is why I like to pop on here to not only read over the fan-fics, but to also toss in my own, now and then. You don't have to stress on a fan-fic, like you would your own work. You don't have to worry about every single aspect of every single nook and cranny of your world, because you're well versed (or even just enough) in the comic world to know what you'd like to see happen. Hell, you can even find better critiques or words of encouragement here, than you would most other sites; or most writing classes, for that matter.

So, when I need to keep the creativity flowing and I need to decompress, I come here, do some readin' and maybe toss in the next chapter of my story; hey, I got time.

I really have no idea what prompted me to type this up. I'm comin' down from a 26 hour "Are ya tryin' to kill me with this sh**!?" kinda day. Think I just needed to get some writing in somewhere.

Have a good one and if ya haven't already... try a little fan-fic of your own sometime.

Naturally, many have heard about what happened in Denver and it's just horrible. For whatever reason, this bastard decided to become a murderer, we don't know yet, but I'm not here to bitch about him.

The people blowing up twitter, youtube, facebook and some even here have shown a very disgusting side to themselves. The terrible jokes, intentional trolling, blaming religion, laws, politicians and even the movie, it's director and actors. What the hell has happened to us? When this kind of tragedy happens, it's natural to be angry and lash out, but what I've read is enough to turn my stomach.

You'd think this site would at least have sympathetic souls for lovers of comics/comic movies. No, I read posts trying to cast blame, twist words and flat out act like revolting trash; mocking the victims and their families.

I can't even describe how much I hate the human race right now. One man is to blame for this. He wasn't sitting in the White House, he wasn't on a Campaign trail, he wasn't sitting in a director's chair and he wasn't an actor wearing a bat costume. He was a sick man with a twisted mind. Place blame where it belongs and act like human beings... just this once.