Jackson, Jacksoff

“A healthy democracy requires a decent society; it requires that we are honorable, generous, tolerant and respectful.” - Charles W. Pickering

☠️☠️☠️☠️   …Centre Bell, Montreal, Quebec, Canada… …ReVival 69… …nice.. “What the fuck are these rules?”

Max narrows his eyes at the monitors lining the wall of the WON ACTION NEWS VAN where Jackson Cooley had just issued his challenge. Cramping themselves into the other half of the van are Snark Darkly and the Herald.

“I like dice!” the Herald proclaims, the nothingness behind his glazed eyes more evident than ever in the soft glow of the monitors. Kael sighs and turns his attention to Snark Darkly. The beady eyes of his otherworldly manager shimmer with a dark intelligence.

“If I had to answer a guess, and this is only a guess mind you,” Snark begins with that seductively smooth voice,“Is that this Jackson Cooley wants you both to roll a pair of dice and you combine the two potential stipulations.”

“What happens if we both roll the same number? A double First Blood match? That’s stupid. This is stupid. We should have just done an Arkham Street Fight.” snarls the Lord of Kaelsalvania, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

A spark finally flashes behind the Herald’s empty eyes.

“What if it were a Double DEATH MATCH!”

Max glares at the Herald, his brow furrowed into an unhappy U. Realization softens his expression as his eyebrows arch upward, his scowl stretching into a smile.

“I just had a wonderful idea!” Max proclaims, standing up from his chair only to smash his head into the low ceiling of the WON ACTION NEWS VAN. He winces, swearing under his breath before regaining his composure.

“What is your wonderful idea, oh Wise and Witty Maximillian Wilhelm Kael?!” the Herald askes, the spark banished from his eyes.

“A DOUBLE DEATH MATCH!”   ☠️☠️☠️☠️   …Arkham, Massachusetts… …A few days after ReVival 69…

“The stables called earlier, I couldn’t make out what they were saying though.”

Maude d’Erlette tweets to her husband, Charles d’Erlette. The soft click of silverware on fine china punctuates her chirp of a voice while she dutifully cuts apart the small steak on her plate. Her actions are dainty and small, like a crow slowly pecking at fresh roadkill.

“Ergot is a moron, Maude, he runs those stables like he’s tenth generation inbred Marsh. If he’s done anything to Dóxa, I’ll have his balls.” grunts the Patriarch of the d’Erlette Family in Arkham. “We didn’t spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on that horse for some idiot to damage our investment.”

“Yes, dear.”

The d’Erlette Family was one of those old money estates that had settled into the Miskatonic Valley in the early days of the American Colonies. As one of the five founding families of Arkham, their influence over the development of Arkham was substantial. Their family home sat on the southern end of Old Arkham, far from the stink of the poorer areas of the city, like Fish Street and its odious residents. For Charles, it was his home for the entire sixty seven years of his life.

He had hopes that the same be said about his children, unfortunately all of his and Maude’s kids had long left the nest.

“I’ll call that imbecile tomorrow and get this sorted. If anything’s happened, they’ll be Hell to pay..” snorts Mr. d’Erlette.

Charles is a shrewd, poorly mannered man of short temperament and shorter stature. Even the act of eating dinner seems to reflect his baser nature, grunting and snorting in disgust to himself as he hacks away at his own well cooked steak.

Ding-dong.

The soft chime of the doorbell causes both d’Erlette’s to look at each other in confusion.

“Charles, is it not past six?” Ms. d’Erlette trills in alarm. “No one’s supposed to bother us past six.”

“Yes, Maude, I know!” grumbled Mr. d’Erlette.

“Then why is the doorbell ri-”

“Damn it, I don’t know!” bellows Mr. d’Erlette, slamming his hand down onto the table in frustration.

Ding-dong.

“They’re still ringing the bell, Charles.”

“Yes. Maude. Just-just, we’ll sit here and wait for them to leave.” snarls Mr. d’Erlette, staring forward, his face flushing red.

Ding-dong. 

Ding-dong. 

Ding-dong. 

The bell rings more and more rapidly, whoever is at their doorstep smashing the button more and more aggressively. Just as Charles feels his temper about to boil over into one of his famous rages, silence descends over the d’Erlette house. Husband and wife stare over the table at each other.

“Hello! Good evening, I hope I’m not intruding,” the both silky and gravely hypocrisy of Snark Darkly’s voice cuts in over the silence preceding his appearance at the dining room table. He sat there, as though he had always been there, an all too friendly, warm smile hanging onto his lips. “Snark Darkly, pleasure to meet you!”

Maude lets out a squeak of a scream, dropping her silverware in alarm. Charles leaps up from the table, knocking his chair over in the process. Angry, voluminous words build up in his stomach but before he can explode himself upon Darkly, they are choked off at his throat. Snark casts his cheerful smile at the patriarch of the d’Erlette’s.

“It’s after six, Mr. d’Erlette, let’s keep the discussion to a dull roar, mmkay? Or is screaming in the evening something you do? I’m still getting used to being human,” Snark voice, rich as slave-free dark chocolate yet abrasive as a cat’s tongue, oppresses the room. “Anyway I’ll leave after I introduce my client. Let me help you get comfortable.”

Charles feels his legs being swept from under him as Darkly suddenly appears behind him with the chair d’Erlette had knocked over. Meanwhile Maude stares, slack jawed, her brain unable to comprehend what she’s witnessing.

“From the east side of Arkham, my friend and hopefully yours… Maximillian Wilhelm Kael.”

Snark’s voice slowly fades, his presence vanishing from the dining room while a new shadow fills the void left behind. Max Kael oozes from the shadows like an oil spill, gliding his way to the table with all the slipperiness of an eel. The sheen of his fresh silk black suit adds to the slickness of his overall appearance.

“Chuckles, old boy! No one was answering the door so I thought we’d let ourselves in.” Max hisses, leering over Charles. “What’s for dinner?”

Max’s appearance stuns Mr. d’Erlette, his red face turning pale as the blood drains from his face. It’s not just Max’s appearance, there is something alien about his very nature.

Kael picks up the plate with Charles's steak, sniffing it in disgust. He drops it back down in front of d’Erlette, cracking the plate.

“What is this, Brazilian beef? You know how bad that stuff is for the environment? You’d think people as rich as you d’Erlettes could afford better cuisine.” the Lord of Kaelsalvania snorts, plopping himself down into the chair that Darkly once occupied. “You don’t mind if I join you for dinner do you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, clapping his hands twice. There is a flurry of action as several well dressed Russian mobsters flood into the dining room. Furniture is moved out making room for another small table where cooking equipment is set up. Pictures of the d’Erlette family taken down and replaced with artistic interpretations of Max Kael.

For their part the d’Erlettes look on in stunned silence, completely flabbergasted. The Russians work quickly and efficiently, their redecorating of the room finishing within a few minutes.

“... who-who are they?” Maude finally warbles in her trembling bird voice.

“I’d heard you’re described like a bird but I would have never guessed an owl, Maudey,” Max says with a wink, or perhaps just a blink out of order, toward Mrs. d’Erlette.”But you do ask an excellent question.”

As the thugs file out, a large Russian in an all white chef uniform enters and stands at the ready near the cooking equipment.

“Russian mobsters, I managed to win over their loyalty after erasing a few of the more ambitious members from all time and space… But despite my Russian allies, rest assured, I’m 100% All American… heh-heh.”

In his best Nixon impersonation, Max throws up both his hands in the double victory poses.

Maude and Charles exchange glances before they stare back at Max. Though Mrs. d’Erlette is still nearly paralyzed by terror,  Mr. d’Erlette’s composure, limited as it is, has begun to wrestle control from the fear. Behind Kael, the chef begins his work.

“While I wait for my dinner, let’s talk about some business. As you both probably know, our dear Mayor Dren Gillman has recently disappeared and is presumed dead,” faux sympathy drips from Max’s lips as he fumbles his way through the Sign of the Cross. “Tragic as it is, life moves on and so must Arkham. Following protocol, City Hall will hold a special election in June for a new Mayor.”

Leaning back in his chair, Max gesticulates his hands through the air as though he were casting some silent spell.

“I’d like the d’Erlette Family to support me in my campaign for Mayor.”

The thought of supporting a Kael knocks Maude out of her stupor, a tittering laugh fluttering into the air. Charles d’Erlette answers like a pig, snorting over his fear with outright disgust at the concept of d'Erlette's bending knee to the Kaels.

“You think you can barge your way into my home and demand we support you? A fucking Kael?” Charles brusquely scoffs, blood rushing back into his cheeks. Maude shoots him a sharp look as he swears though he brushes it off.

“Aw, what’s wrong with my family, Chuck? Just like the d’Erlettes, we’re one of the Five Founding Families of Arkham. We’re the same, you, me, your lovely wife Maude.”

“We’re nothing alike. The Kael Family has been a blight on Arkham since they laid down roots here. Your family had nothing to do with the founding of this city, they just happened to be here, poisoning this place, at the same time as the Founders. You’re a parasite, Max, you and your whole fucking family.”

“Charles, language!” Mrs. d’Erlette squawks, once again shooting her husband a pointed look.

The smile on Max’s face dims into a flat grimace. He snaps his fingers, his upper lip rippling into a sneer. Shifting from his relaxed posture, Kael levels his dark eyed gaze onto Charles. Behind him the Russian chef begins preparing a meal though what exactly is being made can not be seen.

“I suspected that you’d be… hmm. Resistant to the idea of my campaign for Mayor. Which is why I came here, in person, to speak to you directly. To convince you that supporting me is the smartest decision, both for Arkham and for your family.”

“You’ve wasted your time, Max. Once you conclude your business here I’ll raise so much hell, you’ll be lucky to buy postage stamps at the grocery store. I won’t stop until you and your whole filthy breed run out of Arkham, do you understand me?”

The sound of meat sizzling fills the tense vacancy of sound left by d’Erette’s threats. Max sizes Charles up before letting his eyes slide over to his wife, Maude. Slamming his hand on the table, Mr. D’Erette pulls Max’s attention back to him.

“Do you understand?!” Charles barks, further infuriated by Max’s silence.

Max clicks his tongue as he stares at Charles thoughtfully. He then winks, or perhaps just blinks out of order, just as the chef arrives with three plates. He pushes aside the d’Erette’s dinner before placing a freshly cooked steak before each person at the table.

“Where were we? Ah! Yes, I quite understand, Mr. d’Erette. I’ve overstepped and it’s time to own up to my actions. Mea culpa. Please, enjoy this meal as a part of my way of apologizing to both of you. Maybe by the end of the meal, after you’ve thought about it, you’ll decide to support me after all?”

Though both of his hosts intend to resist, the aroma of the meat draws them in. Sweet and yet savory in scent, the meat glistens, tempting the d’Erettes to indulge. Picking up their forks and knives, they share glances with each other. It isn’t until Max himself cuts a chuck of his steak, greedily gobbling it down that they both follow suit.

A wave of pleasure passes over both as the tender, juicy filet fills their gullets. Etiquette is discarded as both rip and tear into their steaks, gorging themselves on the flesh until nothing is left but stained napkins and greasy lips.

“That was surprisingly delicious, I didn’t think beef could be so elevated…” coos Mrs. d’Erettes, dainty as she dabs her napkin at the corners of her mouth, pretending as though she hadn’t just been savaging the plate.

“Indeed, Mr. Kael. I could almost forgive your intrusion as delightful as that steak was. Almost.” burped Charles, picking free some vestiges of meat from his teeth.

“That wasn’t beef.” Max giggles, standing.

“Wasn’t beef?... Then what was it?” Charles grunts, looking up from his plate.

“Heh-heh…” Max slithers toward the Russian chef, opening a large cooler. He hoists something free which causes Maude d’Erettes to let out a blood curdling followed by fainting out of her chair onto the floor.

“You… you, no. No. NO!” Charles exclaims, pushing himself away from the table before collapsing to his knees, vomiting.

Dropping the decapitated head of a horse onto the table with a loud thud, Max takes a deep bow.

“Spécial du jour… Dóxa.”   ☠️☠️☠️☠️   …Arkham, Massachusetts… …A few days before UltraViolence 2025…

“And you’re positive these will work?”

Max peers down at the pair of metal dice displayed on the silver tray set out in front of him.

“Oh yes, they’ll perform exactly as you requisition, Mr. Kael.” Snark Darkly remarks with a sense of prideful joy in his voice, his obsidian eyes swirling with dark, unfathomable knowledge. "Made from the bones of a gambling addict."

“They look like normal dice to me!” observes the Herald, his head poking out from behind Max’s left shoulder.

Max scowls down at the dice with a doubtful expression , he snatches them up to get a better look.

“It’s imperative that this match have a Death Match stipulation, Darkly.” Snarls the mayoral candidate, inspecting the two bone dice with a critical eye.

The Herald swirls around Max attempting to get a better look at the dice, his vacant eyes filled with wonder and desire. Darkly pulls himself to his full height, a proud smirk slathered on his face like gravy on mashed potatoes. “Why don’t you give them a try?”

Quirking his eyebrow up, Max gives Darkly a nod before his attention returns to those yellowish dice. His fingers close around the two cubes before he casts them down onto the silver tray..

Clitter-clattering across the mirrored surface of the plate, they jump and spin wildly. The bone carved dice’s dance comes to an end showing a pair of ones staring up at Max’s gleeful face.

“..snake-eyes..”   ☠️☠️☠️☠️   …The Deep Subconscious… …Does it really matter?...

The sound of Max’s shoes echoes down the endless halls of the decrepit hospital that serves as the home to Doctor Lintilla. He could feel her presence everywhere, thousands of her eyes staring at his flesh. Though he was loathed to be here, he had made promises.

Promises he was already regretting.

He stops suddenly, turning toward the door to his left.

“... just get this fucking over with.” he mutters under his breath as his fingers stretch out to touch the door knob.

POP!

There is a sudden rushing sensation, like a sudden pressure drop before the world around him vanishes shrouding Max in darkness before a bright light pours into his eyes.

And then he’s in an office.

It’s cold, utilitarian. Two chairs and a desk fill most of the space while various certificates and doctorates hang on the wall.

POP!

Max finds he’s no longer alone. Suddenly sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk is his father, Wilhelm Kael. The elder Kael stares at Max for a moment, seething hatred burning in his eyes before he stares forward, jaw tightened.

“I’m surprised you came!” Max exclaims with sarcastic joy.

Wilhelm replies with a low growl.

POP!

A third popping noise precedes the arrival of Doctor Lintilla behind the desk. Most of her more... monstrous traits are absent leaving her as a gaunt, pale woman. It’s in her eyes, however, that the monster still stirs. Vast pits of shifting malice invite both Kael’s to fall into their depths. Her porcelain mask breaks into a frown as she shifts behind the desk.

“You realize, Maximillian, that while I am a doctor.” A thin arm reaches up, the index finger extending toward the awards on the wall behind her. “... I am not that kind of doctor.”

Rolling his eyes, Max slinks toward the chair next to his father.

“Yes, but you are a doctor and that makes you more qualified than anyone else I’ve got locked up in here. It's bad luck for all of us, Doc.”

“A memory of a doctor.” Lintilla is quick to correct him.

“You’re talking to Cecilworth Farthington, you fucking traitor.” Wilhelm snarls, shaking his head in revulsion.

“Yeah, kinda fucked up isn’t it? And that’s just one of the MANY reasons I think most people agree,” Max jabs Wilhelm with a mischievous smirk before he turns to Lintilla with a deep breath.

“We could both use a little therapy.”   ☠️☠️☠️☠️   Normally I’d take time to speak directly to you, Jackson Cooley. Unfortunately you seem scared of words that are longer than four letters, you fucking twit.  So despite you being my opponent I don’t want to waste my verbose vocabulary on you. Sniff glue or whatever it is you did to come up with this dumb fucking match.     The rest of this is not for you.   Now I’m addressing that skanky ass druggie, Dahlia Noir or whatever your name is. Love makes fools of us all, and your man is one big fuckin’ fool. Rolling out some violent gimmicks like I’m supposed to be scared.   I am awakened by violence.  Driven by a hunger for slaughter. Thirsty for the taste of blood. Beyond the fear of Death and the grave.   But Cooley’s in love isn’t he?  He’d do anything for you. He’d kill for you. He’d maim for you. He’d challenge the most dangerous man in PRIME for you.   So love Jackson Cooley deeply before he enters the Rogers Centre.  Have one last good memory with that lust-drunk moron. ‘Cause once he rolls them dice at UltraViolence. He’ll die for you.

☠️☠️                                  ☠️☠️ ☠️                        ☠️ ☠️                 ☠️ ☠️☠️                             ☠️☠️ ☠️☠️                              ☠️☠️ ☠️                                                         ☠️ ☠️☠️                                                 ☠️☠️ ☠️     ☠️                                    ☠️     ☠️ ☠️            ☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️             ☠️ ☠️                                     ☠️ ☠️                         ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ ☠️ …John Sektor Memorial, Cuba… …April 25th, 2025…

It’s a perfect day.

Not too hot.

Not too cold.

She stifles a sniffle while staring down at the photo of her father, John Sektor, at the center of a small memorial made in his honor. It had been almost four months since Sektor had died, his body cremated and his ashes spread into the sea.

No crypt.

No grave stone.

Just a small memorial tucked in front of a local gym Sektor had haunted in his youth.

Since the passing of her father, Chloe had been floating around from social services too family care representatives and finally to a distant relative still living in Cuba. Now, everyday, she travels down to her father’s memorial. It was as close as she could get to him.

For the first few weeks people brought flowers, lit candles and left tributes. As the days went on, fewer and fewer people showed up until eventually it was only Chloe standing over Sektor’s memorial.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

A familiar voice cuts through her own sorrow, raising her eyes from her father’s shrine. A young man approaches with a bittersweet expression on his face.

“Sutler?” she asks, her voice trembling.

Sutler Reynolds-Kael, the adopted son of Max Kael, nods his head, stretching his arms out.

“How you doing, kiddo?” Sutler asks through a crooked smile. .

Chloe Sektor-Kael doesn’t answer with words. Instead she rushes forward, burying her face into Sutler’s chest. Sitting there alone at the memorial, Chloe had managed to keep her emotions in check.

But with Sutler here?

Tears stream from her eyes as she lets her guard down in her older brother’s arms. As she mourns for her father, Sutler gently hugs her. He feels her legs slowly give out and holds her up, supporting her.

“I’ll take care of you now, just like before.” Sutler whispers softly. Chloe looks up at Sutler, cheeks slick with tears. He hates to see her like this. Wiping the tears away before pulling his adopted sister into a tight hug.

“We’re going home.”