1. The Devil's Pact Chapter 42: Dreams


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    The Devil's Pact by mypenname3000 edited by Master Ken Copyright 2013, 2014 Chapter Forty-Two: Dreams Visit my blog at www.mypenname3000.com. General Olmos's assassination of Governor Holt, and the subsequent massacre of the Governor's supporters, was the first of many atrocities committed by the Tyrants. The fact that they had General Olmos hung does not exculpate the Tyrants for the heinous act the General had committed in their names. For all we know, the Tyrants ordered the massacre, and placed the blame solely on General Olmos to maintain their benevolent appearance to the masses. Either way, the outcome benefited the tyrants: the Governors of New Hampshire, Florida, North Dakota, Maryland, and Alaska capitulated to the Tyrants the next day, ending the last governmental resistance in the United States. –excerpt from 'The History of the Tyrants' Theocracy', by Tina Allard Thursday, November 7th, 2013 – Mark Glassner – Children's Hospital, Omaha, NE Every Thursday, Mary and I traveled to a random children's hospital in America and spent the day healing all the children stricken with terminal diseases we could. It was the most rewarding thing in the world; all the credit goes to Mary for the idea. I entered the next sick child's room; the little boy looked so pale as he lay on his tiny hospital bed, festooned with wires monitoring his vitals. He was young, maybe only four, and dying of a rare form of leukemia known as JMML. It was an acronym for a bunch of words I couldn't ...
    pronounce. A beautiful woman in her early forties sat beside his bed, clutching his tiny hand. Her eyes lit up for joy when she saw me enter the room with my bodyguards. “My Lord,” she gasped, falling to her knees in worship. “Thank you for your generosity!” Her face shone with hope and, even without make-up, her dusky features were beautiful. She was middle-eastern, a desert rose, and my cock stirred at the sight of her on her knees. You could always count on a grateful mother to relieve some tension. “What is his name?” I asked, walking to her son. “Abbas,” she answered. “After his father, he...” She teared up with grief and I nodded; reaching out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. “A beautiful woman like you shouldn't be crying,” I told her and she flushed. “What's your name.” “Shabnab. But everyone calls me Shay.” She wiped at her tears and tried to smile. With one hand I held hers and with the other her son's. I concentrated on the boy being well and said in a commanding voice, “Tsariy!” Scarlet light engulfed her son and she tensed with anxiety. Power drained out of me, but I had huge reserves to tap. I could draw on the life-force of every person bound to me by the Zimmah spell. The light faded, and the little boy opened his eyes. “Maman!” the boy exclaimed, sitting up and smiling and bouncing on his bed. I couldn't help smiling at his enthusiasm. Shay hugged her son, speaking to him in a rapid, musical language—Arabic or Farsi I guessed. She kissed him over ...
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