Top ten blogs of all time (2020)

Once upon a time, I used to do this every hundred posts or so. But last year, I was busy with the books, and remembering to do a mailing list when I  could, and self-publishing novels. 

These are the most popular blogs of all time. I can't even tell you how most people found them. But people have liked them. A lot. 

And if you're new here, this will give you a sample of what it's like to be here on a regular basis.

Here we go.



10) The Story of Moira Greyland continues

If you don't know who Moira Greyland is, you will soon. All this blog post was about was simply a discussion of Moira's largely biographical work The Last Closet -- I say largely because she bounces from her life to various and sundry issues behind and around her life.

9) Building Catholic Vampire Lore (Honor At Stake)

This was basically how I built my vampire universe for the Love at First Bite series. Elements I've stolen from philosophy, theology, a Star Wars video game called Knights of the Old Republic. There was a lot of miscellaneous theft going on that tied together in a nice neat little deranged bow.

8) Newsflash: Hugo Awards Swamped by Crap

The 2017 Hugo Awards were about as bad as you'd expect. I think that was the last time I paid them even a modicum of attention.

7) A Short Biography of a Catholic Vampire

Another Love at First Bite post. As a historian, I do so enjoy the hidden world genre. It gives me an excuse to get creative with history -- all of the fun of alternate history, without having to write a full butterfly effect of what happens next.

6) Sex, DC Comics, and ... wtf?

2011 is when DC Comics unveiled their New 52 lineup of comic books ... and stopping just short of an R-rating,. with bad character design, bad artwork, and bad choices.

5) Sad Puppies Bite Back

The fever dream that started it all. 

Take a fracas going on in fandom, a rash of SWATting happening in the real world, and throw it in for mental processing when someone can't sleep at two in the morning.

4) Who would Captain America vote for? An election special

I posted a few days before Election 2012. So I can guess why this made it so high.


3) Disasters to Marvel At: A Comic Discussion.

This was the day I got fed up with Marvel comics going to pot. It had less to politics at the time and more to do with really terrible decisions by the writers. This included all of Civil War and One more Day.

2) A Review of Death Note (Anime)
This is exactly what it says in the title. 

This one also came out of no where. Posted in 2017, it only picked up steam last year. Every day between April and July, it maintained hundreds of hits PER DAY. There was no particular place it came from or reasons for it. It just was.

1) Politics Kills Mercedes Grabowski (August Ames)

This is the story of a woman in pornography, bullied to death by leftist douche bags of Twitter. And it pissed me off because she was only 23.

I can guess how this made the #1 spot. I mentioned porn. Apparently, it's popular, even when people are reading about non-sexual content. Who knew?

Anyway. I hope you find them enjoyable. 

You can check out any and all of my latest books here. 

If you like, you can sign up for my mailing list here. 

Deus Vult O'Clock

You know things are bad when I don't even want to write a shootout.

So I'm taking this little lull from writing at the moment to talk with you people about, well, what the Hell I've been doing.

Much of what I've been researching during the Saint Tommy series had been a refresher course on my faith. Some of it is tripping over stuff I haven't seen before. Few people discuss what happens with the Catholic church lately in terms of what the church teaches. Most of the time, they discuss whatever dumbass statement our current moron in white at the Vatican is talking about this week. (Yes, moron. Because if he were evil, I'd think he'd be smarter than this.)

And it drives me crazy.

If you look at doctrine, Catholics aren't half as wishy washy as Pope Francis would have you believe.

Pope Jon Paul II took out the Soviet Union.

Benedict was, of all things, an intellectual badass academic who STILL had people who liked him.

Then we have Pope flipping Frankie, who is such a spineless worm I'm waiting for him to just die already.

I mean, look at this.

"Christians in America and Europe are persecuted. This is not the wild claim of right-wing alarmists but the sober contention of the Bishop of Rome. Standing where St Peter was crucified, preaching on the feast of St Stephen in 2016, Pope Francis described how Christians in the West have come to face a form of “polite persecution” that “takes away from man and woman their freedom, as well as their right to conscientious objection”. “Jesus has named the head of this ‘polite’ persecution: the prince of this world,” Francis said. “And when the powerful want to impose behaviours, laws against the dignity of the son of God, they persecute them and go against God the Creator. It is the great apostasy.”

This is, of course, before Francis literally kowtowed to Imams in Jordan. This is before Francis handed over the underground Church in China to the Christian-beating government, who has proceeded to kick the stuffing out of every since Christian they could get their hands on, and has declared that they are going to destroy Christianity, full stop.

Maybe the "polite persecution" would stop if people thought we had a spine. Francis shows them on every occasion that we will bend over for any thug.

And it drives me crazy.

It's starting to feel like the Pope doesn't understand Christianity. Do you know why we have a crucifix as our symbol? It was a symbol of "Our God overcame this. We aren't afraid of the most horrific, painful torture and execution device you have in your entire arsenal. What else ya got? Bring it, bitch."

The instruction "When struck on the right cheek, offer them your left" wasn't an invitation to masochism because we delight in being pummeled. It was an alternative to swinging back (which would probably get you arrested and killed) or running away in terror. A strike on the right cheek was a backhand. It was what a citizen would do to a servant or a slave. Not only did offering your left cheek meant they'd have to upgrade their assessment of you, it, too, was an early form of "Bring it, bitch."

Please remember, this is a church that has had parish priests stand up to royalty. Not Popes versus Emperors. Everyone likes to harp on that. But Saint Ambrose was a thing, who was a parish priest versus royalty. No one feared death or discomfort. Our God knew His way out of the grave. We stood for Him and fuck you if you want to test our mettle.

But a lot of people seem to have lost sight of that.

In my conversation with the Catholic Reads editor last week, he noted how my hero, Tommy Nolan, was both a good Catholic and manly. Because he was going to go six rounds with a demon, he was going to get his head handed to him, risk his family, his job, and maybe even his soul. Because after all the tolerance and forgiveness he metes out, after all of the BS he puts up with, Detective Nolan will draw the line, hold the line, and wrap the line around your neck if he needs to in order to stop evil in its tracks.

Where the Hell is that church?

The answer is, as always, lies with The Church. The mystical body of Christ. To be specific, the laity who are out here damanding tradition wherever we can, and hunting it down wherever we can find it. That's the nice thing about the Catholic church. Like the military, like with any rigid hierarchical structure, there's always another way to get things done.

Because it's become quite clear that we can't rely on Rome to do the right thing. Just looked at Francis' recent death penalty issuance. That it's wrong at all time? Oh really? Funny, John Paul II said that he couldn't backtrack on married or male-only priests because he felt he couldn't go against tradition -- and there was a married priesthood only a thousand years ago. The death penalty in Christendom goes back 2,000 years, but the dictator in the Vatican is going to be a dick about it because he thinks he can get away with it.

Thankfully, it's not considered infallible. That's a playing card not even Frankie is willing to play just yet. So I'm going to ignore the jerk until he dies, and we get a Cardinal Sarah type to throw him and all of his idiocies under a bus.

And yes, I do expect a Cardinal Sarah type. If you don't know who Cardinal Sarah is, he's basically the only person who's calling the Pope out every time he does something stupid. But Sarah is African. He comes from the part of the world where the church really is under attack on a daily basis, and that's always a recipe for Orthodoxy. If you don't believe me, just ask how life for JPII and Benedict were under the Communists and the Nazis, respectively. (I'm not sure how one joins the seminary at age 14, but apparently that's where he was when the Hitler Youth hijacked him at that age ... honestly, what 14 year old wants to be a priest? A really serious one. Anyway...)

But on Pope Francis, this too shall pass. As I've said before, we've had incompetent men on the throne of Peter. We've had some evil pricks as well. We've had Medicis and Borgias. We've had Warlords. We've had Popes with girlfriends. We've had Popes with children by their girlfriends. We've had Popes run by their girlfriends.

But until then, Catholics are going to have to stand up on our own two feet and fight back. Sri Lanka happened because thugs think they can walk all over us. It's an impression that Pope Francis has made all too common.

Spread the word. It's Deus Vult o'clock.

Catholic reads: Declan Finn Returns

Catholics reads wanted me back.

I went.

Fun was had by all.

Get City of Shadows here.

As you wait for the books to download to your Kindle, please join the discussion about the Dragon Awards. I've got the latest post updated and ready to go, and I seriously want to hear from you and your thoughts on what you enjoyed..

Notra Dame, Paris, is Burning

The French revolution murdered tens of thousands of people. Many of them were priests -- even priests who had supported the revolution fell to The Terror. But they knew enough to not destroy Notre Dame.

In 1944, Adolf Hilter wanted Paris burned as his forces were driven out.

The military, however, knew better, and did nothing. If they had burned Paris to the ground, they feared that their lives would be forfeit. Considering the conclusion of the war, it was a smart play on their part. The Nazis knew not to destroy Notre Dame.

Modern day is not so smart.

2019 has seen a rash of destruction of Catholic churches throughout France. It's countrywide. 

There are only two real culprits.

The first is the same people from 1792. I don't care if you call them Robespierre or "Occupy" or whatever form the commie bastards are choosing this week, they're all the same pricks. They're anti-theist, they're nasty, and they have no qualms about destroying the past to further their agenda. In fact, the destruction of the past and the Church itself is part of their plan for success.

The second group of the usual suspects .... is exactly who you're thinking they are. If you're one of the few people who can't guess, some hints.

• They like destroying other people's iconography (like big Buddhist statues)
• They're responsible for trashing parts of Germany (like Hamburg on New Year's)
• They've gotten a free pass in Europe for years because to arrest them for their crimes would be "racist against migrants."

That's right! The Amish!

No, of course not. I kid. I mean the Jews.

Oh, did I say that out loud? Sorry. I've been listening to Congresswoman Omar lately.

I meant Muslims.

There is a potential third group. There are more than a few dickheads lately who call themselves "Nordic" are anti-Christian dickheads who are your standard Incel, but feel the need to destroy things and pick on Christians so they can feel like a man. Look at Varg Vikernes. Of course, these dicks will usually pick on women. Charming, right?

I wouldn't define them as "Norse" though, since I have friends who worship Loki and Thor et al who are three times the human beings these cocksuckers are.

Either way, there are suspects. Fairly obvious and loud suspects.

Coincidentally, Notre Dame of Paris is on fire.

Now, it must, of course be too soon to declare arson, right? The fire only just happened within hours of my writing this. (Okay, the place is still on fire as I write this.) Anything could cause fire in a building that old. It's even under construction.

Look at that blaze and you tell me that went from zero to sixty before the fire department could reach them, and you tell me with a straight face that it's not arson.  Given how many churches have been trashed this year alone in France, to ask me to consider that it's NOT arson is an insult to my intelligence.

To the people who did this, I ask that you read these books and learn what your fate will be. You want to play by these rules? I war gamed the outcome.

Whoever did this will burn. We know the French are too cowardly to arrest the real perps (with luck, they'll have a quiet accident).

But that's what Hell is for.

Review: Murder in the Vatican, The Church Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes

I recently discovered that this blog post disappeared from the blog.

It needs to come back.

When I was thirteen, I started reading through the collected stories of Sherlock Holmes. I made it about halfway through. I had been stopped dead by "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott"—one of two times that Holmes was the narrator.  I wasn't the only one who had a problem with that story. Another author of the day, G.K. Chesterton, said that the Gloria Scott showed why Watson was relevant: because Holmes was an awful storyteller.

Since then, I have been critical of anything about Sherlock Holmes written after the death of Arthur Conan Doyle. Some stories went wildly off track. Others were riddled with so many anachronisms it was painful. Of the vast quantity of Holmes-related material published, my family of readers owns only a fraction.

When Robert Downey Jr. starred in Sherlock Holmes, I crossed my fingers and hoped it didn't suck … instead, I got a checklist of what they did right.

When Doctor Who scribe and show runner Steven Moffat created a show called Sherlock, I also crossed my fingers. It was surprisingly awesome.

Then I heard about Murder in the Vatican. The Church Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes on the newsletter for the Catholic Writers Organization. It had an interesting premise: author Ann Margaret Lewis takes Watson's offhand references of Holmes working on cases for the Pope, or involving religious figures, and turns them into entire stories.

I experienced the same feeling of dread. How off would the narration be? Would someone try converting Holmes? How lost would a detective from Victorian, Anglican England be in Catholic Rome? How many different ways were there to screw this up?


I stopped worrying when I read the first sentence.  And, oh my God, this book is awesome!  I loved this book....

Lewis caught the voice of Dr. John Watson as though she had taken it, trapped in a bottle, and used it to refill her pen into as she wrote. I liked the voice. I liked Watson, the doctor, trying to diagnose an ailing Leo XIII (85 at the time of the events of the first story). I like the brief sketch of the political situation between the Vatican and Italy. I even enjoy Watson's discomfort at the Pope slipping into “The Royal We” when he speaks of himself as The Pope.  Even the artwork was as though it had been lifted from issues of The Strand magazine.

Someone had fun here, and it shows.

Thankfully, there is no overt attempt to convert Holmes, evangelize or proselytize him. There is only enough theology in the entire novel that explains to the casual reader exactly what the heck the Pope is doing. The closest the book comes to exposing Holmes to theology is a page-long sequence that ends with Leo saying, “Perhaps you should spend some of your inactive time pondering that conundrum [of Jesus] instead of indulging in whatever narcotic it is with which you choose to entertain yourself.”  That is the best zinger I've ever seen a character use on Holmes regarding his drug use.  Even the most secular person I know can appreciate a page of theology for one of the better one-liners I've ever seen.

Also, the little things were entertaining for a nerd like me. For example, the casual mention of John Cardinal Newman, referred to as “a recent convert.” The political situation at the time is given just enough of a sketch to explain what's going on, but nothing obtrusive; history nerds like me can be satisfied, but you don't have to have a degree in it to comprehend what's going on.

There are truly parts where the novel seems to merge all the best qualities of Sherlock Holmes with those of G.K. Chesterton's Fr. Brown short stories ...

At this point, I must make a small confession. I write these reviews as I read the book. There is plenty of backtracking, to fill the blanks, and rewrite it as the book goes. I wrote the above line when I finished the first tale. In fact, the interview questions I sent to Ann Margaret Lewis were written before I even received a review copy of the book.  I then read “The Vatican Cameos,” and discover a Deacon, named Brown …

I swear I didn't see that coming.

The first story in this collection is "The Death of Cardinal Tosca."

In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca -- an inquiry which was carried out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope  . . . .

—Dr. John H. Watson, “The Adventure of Black Peter”

Imagine Sherlock Holmes on vacation … if you see that vacation turning out like an episode of Murder, She Wrote, with a body hitting the floor at some point, you pretty much have the setup. It has a poison pen letter, with real poison, some Masons, references to two different cases in the space of two paragraphs, and a Papal commando raid with a real pontiff. This story is so delightfully odd and over-the-top, but still preserves as much reality as any other Holmes tale. I enjoyed every moment of it. And I can't argue with any story where the pope gets most of the amusing one-liners.

Heck, even the murderer gets in a good line.  When confronted, our first killer sneers.  “Let me guess. You're going to explain, to the amazement of your friends, how I did the deed?”  Holmes replies, “I've already told them that. It would be old news. They already know you blundered badly.”

I think the story concludes on a nice, solid note.  As Holmes tells Watson, “[Leo XIII] is genuinely pious. He is also imperious, but in a most endearing way.”

Watson merely replies, “Yes, well. I'm used to that.”

The second tale, "The Vatican Cameos," is a bit of a flashback episode to when Holmes first met the Pope. Leo XIII has sent a collection of cameos to Queen Victoria. The cameos are secured tightly in the box they're delivered in, but upon their arrival in London, the box is empty. The Queen has a simple solution: send Sherlock Holmes. Watson is busy with a medical emergency, so he wasn't around.

When Watson asks Sherlock about the incident, Holmes says, quite clearly “Watson, I am incapable of spinning a tale in the way you do. The narrative would read like a scientific treatise.”

Madam Lewis certainly read "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott."

So, there is only one person left who can narrate this tale … the Pope himself. This was the story that truly showed that the author did her research, assembling little details of Leo XIII's interests and hobbies and putting them together into a rich, vibrant character. He is shown here as witty, humorous, and bright.

The byplay between Leo XIII and Holmes in this story was marvelously entertaining. The Pope is shown to be about as smart as Watson … maybe a little smarter. When Holmes first meets the Pontiff, and rattles off conclusions in his usual rapid-fire manner, the Pope takes a minute, and deduces how Holmes came to most of them. Not all, but most. This is a wonderful inversion of what is so typical of early Sherlock Holmes films—in the Basil Rathbone movies, whenever Holmes walked onto the screen, the IQ of everyone in the room dropped about ten points. Making Leo this smart only serves to make Holmes as impressive as he should be—yes, everyone else may be smart, but Holmes is smarter.

Also, having Leo XIII using Thomas Aquinas to talk with Holmes of reason and science … it works for me.

And the scene with Holmes, the Pope, and the gunman was fun, too.

"You know that I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs, which should come to a head to-day."

Sherlock Holmes, “The Retired Colourman”

"The Second Coptic Patriarch": The third and final tale is from yet another throwaway line of Arthur Conan Doyle's.

In this case, a former criminal comes to Holmes to solicit his services; the priest who converted him away from his life of crime is in jail for murder. A bookstore owner has been murdered with a book (“The Rule of Oliver Cromwell--weighty subject, no doubt,” Holmes quips), and the priest will only say that the victim was dead when he arrived.  It's almost Sherlock Holmes meets Alfred Hitchcock ... I didn't know someone could do I Confess like this. It's a fun little read, and possibly the most traditional of the Holmes stories -- it's a good tale.  From the perspective of the overall book, it's a perfect cap to the character arc.

Now, after reading Murder in the Vatican, I think I'm going to go back and finish the Sherlock Holmes series -- and keep Murder in the Vatican handy, so I can read them all in chronological order.

Ann Lewis said that the book was "meant to be fun and lift your heart for a short time. I had a blast writing it, and I hope you have a blast reading it."

Mission accomplished.

At the time I read this book, I had been reading another recent work of Sherlock Holmes-related fiction called The Sherlockian.  It was written by a Graham Moore, and it was about a Sherlock Holmes nerd who was sucked into a murder mystery.

Between the two of them, read Murder in the Vatican.


And, now, a surprise .... a sneak peek of the novel.


Enjoy.

An Excerpt

From “The Case of Cardinal Tosca”

“Good Lord.” Harden’s face grew pale. “Rosalinda—!”

Pope Leo blanched as well. Tapping his right fist in his opposite hand, he turned to look out the window behind him. The rain clouds had now blotted the sun, making it seem as dusk in the early afternoon sky.


The pope turned back to us, his dark eyes flashing with decision. “Giocomo!” He commanded suddenly. “Come here.”

Father Dionisio came quickly to his master’s side.

“Remove your cassock.”

“Holiness?”

“Subito!” As Leo spoke, he lifted the pectoral cross over his head and set it on the table. He then unwrapped the sash from around his waist and tossed it on his chair. “Presto! Presto! We have no time to waste.”

Hurriedly, the young man unbuttoned his cassock even as Leo unbuttoned his own. Holmes came around the table and knelt to help Leo with the lower buttons.

“What on earth —?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” said Holmes.

Dionisio removed his cassock and stood in simple black shirt, clerical collar and black trousers. Holmes helped Leo slip out of his white cassock and into the black gown provided by Dionisio. The black was almost the right size, though fuller through the midsection due to Dionisio’s thicker frame.

“You’re not serious, Holiness,” said Harden. “You’re not actually leaving the Vatican. Someone may recognise you—”


“‘If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve his ship,’” Leo replied, quoting what I later learned was Aquinas. “‘He would keep it in port forever.’” He buttoned the top of the cassock while Dionisio crouched to fasten the bottom. “We must go. An innocent child is in danger for my sake.”

“Signore Harden is right, Holiness,” said Dionisio from floor. “This is madness.”

“Basta.” Leo pulled the young man from the ground by the elbow. He gestured emphatically with an open hand to the top of his head. “Portami un cappello. Presto!” Dionisio dashed into the next room. “And black stockings and shoes—ah, never mind I’ll find something.” The pontiff marched with remarkable energy into a side room that I guessed to be his sleeping area and returned promptly with black calf-length boots. His gentleman servant now trailed him protesting in rapid Italian as His Holiness moved. While the pontiff sat on a small bench to kick off his red slippers and pull on the boots, the agitated servant knelt beside him rambling so quickly that neither Harden nor I could decipher any meaning from him.

Apparently the meaning didn’t register to Leo either. “Basta, basta, BASTA!” He barked, stomping his boot-covered foot. He pointed a thumb to his chest. “Ego sum Petros!” He made sweeping gesture to drive the man from in front of him. “Vai!” Struck with terror, the butler dodged from the old man’s path as Leo charged to a baroque style cherry wood cabinet. From it he removed a worn, black leather case that he tucked under his arm. He finished buttoning his cuffs and Dionisio returned with a small, wide-brimmed black hat, which Leo snatched from him. He then plucked off his white zucchetto and slapped it into the bewildered priest’s hands.

“Allora, Signori,” Leo said to us, dropping the black hat on his head. “Andiamo.”

“You’ve forgotten one detail, Padre,” said Holmes, in reference to the pope’s new attire.

“Che?”

“L’anello.” Holmes held up his right hand and pointed to his fourth finger.

“Ah.” Leo pulled the fisherman’s ring from his finger and dropped it into the left pocket of the black cassock. The young priest then handed him a tall black umbrella, and Leo set its end to the floor with authoritative thud.

It is amazing how clothes can change the appearance of a man. Where once stood the proverbial Vicar of Christ on Earth, now stood a simple, venerable Italian priest. Strangely, he resembled the aged Italian cleric persona Holmes once adopted to avoid the notice of Professor Moriarty.

I glanced at Holmes and saw him giving me a knowing grin. “Very well then,” he said. “As the man says—let’s go.”

The Catholic Geek: Adam Lane Smith and The Burrito Avenger

Adam Lane Smith joins host Declan Finn to discuss his latest novel -- Maxwell Cain: Burrito Avenger

Adam Smith is an all-American husband and father. He has lived in the North, South, East, and West of the United States. He spends his days on a farm in Wisconsin, telling bad jokes to his patient wife and kids who have a secret love for bad jokes. He believes that the Oxford comma is worth fistfighting over. In his spare time, he studies psychology and is a student of the human spirit. He wanted to grow up someday to become a productive member of society, but became an author instead.

Infernal Affairs, Chapter 3: SWATed

Infernal Affairs, Chapter 3, fight

Originally, I wanted an entire book much like this.

Then I realized that it would suck even more for Tommy if I just kept upping the stakes of what came after him.

But it's going to end ... fun.

Chapter 3: SWATed

The rest of the day went normally. The schedule was normal: Church, breakfast, parish activity du jour, early dinner, and Jeremy goes to play with his friends, while Mariel and I play with each other…

What? How else did you think Mariel became pregnant?

Ironically, it was Jeremy’s recently found fame that allowed for Mariel’s current condition. After facing down a serial killer and being kidnapped by a deranged death cult, Jeremy had become a source of fascination for his classmates. This led to a lot of busy weekends of fun for Jeremy, and lots of privacy for us.

Remember, when Catholics get married, part of the marriage contract is to contribute to the gene pool as much as possible.

By nine o’clock that evening, we were all ready to sleep.

There is a reason that the first words of every angel in the Bible tend to be “Be not afraid.”

That is because angels of the Lord are totally terrifying.

In my dream, the body was made of fire. The wings looked like butterfly wings, taller and wider than the main body. And it looked like a Kaiju that would make Godzilla crawl back into the sea and ask directions for the Marianas Trench. Its sword was a cross between a big broadsword and a lightsaber, and big enough to cleave the world in half.

When it told me to Be Not Afraid, it sounded musical and lyrical, and at total odds with the creature in front of me.

“Thomas Nolan! Judge and Prophet of the Lord! Awake and smite the agents of Satan!”

I was out of bed, on my feet, with a gun in my hand before I knew I was awake.

I turned and violently shook Mariel awake. Her eyes snapped open and she reached for her side table, then hesitated when she recognized me. At least she hadn’t shanked me with the flip knife at her side.

I told her, simply, “One-A.” It was the plan for her to hunker down and wait in Jeremy’s room—mostly because his room’s door opened almost straight into the staircase. Anyone who came up the stairs would get to the second landing, turn left, and go up four more steps.

She got up and grabbed her rifle, next to her side table. She slung the strap over her head, then grabbed the shotgun, next to the rifle. Then she grabbed her pistol, and held it in her other hand. I did the same, mostly to horde the weapons as they hunkered down.

We were, after a fashion, preppers. Mostly because after the first two home invasions by supernatural and demonic forces, we came prepared.

I led the way as Mariel carried the weapons behind her. I waited until she was in Jeremy’s room, then handed her the shotgun. I left the rifle slung over my shoulder, and carried the pistol in hand. It was a Browning Hi-Powered. It wasn’t exactly department issue, but I had started a collection of larger caliber guns since the death cult came for us.

I took the stairs carefully and quietly. I took one step down from the top landing when the door crashed in. I dropped to a crouch and waited. I didn’t scream out a warning, since I didn’t want to give away my position. And since the front door was made of metal, just kicking the door in wasn’t an option, so they weren’t simple home invaders.

Also, I was told to smite the agents of Satan, so I could only conclude that these dirt bags weren’t here to play.

They swept in like a well-oiled machine, a snake-like line of men carrying body armor and rifles. The first one looked up at me—directly at me, I’m certain—and whispered, “Clear.”

The leader moved the muzzle down and ahead.

I waited until I could clearly see the tail end of this serpent. There were only six of them.

After the third one moved into the living room and broke to their left (heading towards our dining room), the fourth one stepped into the living room and moved for the steps.

That’s when I opened fire. The first bullet slammed into the armored helmet, slamming the man’s head into the wall. The second round punched through the man’s neck. He collapsed without a sound, but I had already moved onto the next man in order. I took a step back, onto the landing, as I fired again. Both bullets found their mark, though not the way I wanted. One bullet merely collided with the Kevlar vest—but the force of the round cracked the collar bone. The next one punched under the arm, into the armpit, and pinballed around through the ribcage, caged inside by Kevlar.

The third one turned his attention to me, and I triple-tapped him. Three rounds from the Hi-Power knocked him back, and he involuntarily opened fire with a string of bullets that cut right above my head. I dove up the stairs, getting out of the line of sight and line of fire.

I scrambled up the stairs. I swung around the wall at the top of the stairs. I dropped back to a crouch. The were well armed, and had good tactics. The first thing I could think of was: We’re screwed. Dear Lord. We’ll need some help here.

There were stomps as one of them charged up the stairs. I was ready to intercept them as soon as they appeared. But after only eight steps, they stopped. I couldn’t figure out why for a second.

Then I heard the distinct metallic scrape of a pin being pulled out of a grenade.

The instant the next attacker leaned over in order to aim, I fired twice. His arm had been up and ready to hurl his device. The helmet’s visor cracked and his head snapped back with the bullet. The second bullet punched into his wrist, shattering it. He fell back with a scream, and so did his grenade. There were a few gasps from down below once they realized what had happened.

I ducked back and covered my ears. Which was a good idea, because the explosion was bright and loud enough to make your eyes and ears bleed if you were too close.

Thankfully for my home, it was a flash bang, not a fragmentation or incendiary.

Since I only had two bullets left, I placed my handgun on the ground, then unslung my rifle. I grabbed the pistol and darted across Mariel’s line of fire for the little room leading up to the attic. We hadn’t decided what else to do with it yet, so it was still filled with boxes of random stuff we still hadn’t unpacked yet.

We all waited for a long moment, listening intently. The next one up came up quietly. Mariel hadn’t waited for the gunman to notice her. His helmet appeared, and she fired three times. His helmet snapped to one side. His head crashed into the window on the second landing.

It was followed by multiple rounds of blind fire in automatic bursts. Mariel rolled out of the way of the gunfire. This fifth gunman fired off a few rounds every step, keeping Mariel back.

I waited as he came up, one step at a time, one burst at a time. I pressed myself against the wall, I almost felt him coming closer.

Then I heard the slide of an empty magazine ejecting from the gun and thumping on the floor.

I wheeled around the doorway before the gunman had even had a chance to grab a fresh magazine. I jammed the muzzle of my Browning underneath the man’s chin and pulled the trigger twice. The brain and bone spattered out of the helmet …

And into the visor of the gunman right behind him.

Oh Nuts.

I dropped the pistol and brought up my rifle. It collided with the rifle of the other gunman, and he smashed into me. He drove me into the room of junk, slamming me into the door. The gunman reared back with his right fist. I jerked my head to one side, and he punched the wall. He cursed.

I twisted with my rifle counter-clockwise as I twisted my body the same way. The butt of my AR-15 cracked against the gunman’s helmet while I slipped out of the way. I shoved off of the gunman and raised my rifle.

The gunman spun. He smacked the muzzle of my rifle off line as he raised his own. I raised my knee as high as I could, then kicked down at the muzzle of his gun, shoving it to the floor. As my foot came down, I reared forward, shoving my left forearm into his throat.

I jammed my rifle down into the boot of the gunman, then fired. He screamed. My left forearm was still in his throat. I drove my elbow into the helmet, forcing him to look to my left. My fingers found the back of his helmet, hooking underneath it. I spun to my left and dragged the gunman down by his helmet, throwing him off the wall. He didn’t go far, so I didn’t raise my rifle level with him. I raised the muzzle just enough to shoot him in the back of the knee. He screamed and fell forward, away from me.

My rifle came up and I fired. I didn’t even count the bullets I fired into him. I only stopped pulling the trigger when he went down.

I took a slow, deep breath.

I swung around. “Mariel, don’t shoot. I’m crossing your field of fire.”

I moved into the hall, then down the stairs. I cleared the house in less than a minute. I lowered my gun about the time that the sirens rang outside. I placed the gun down and started turning on the lights, keeping at least one hand up at all times. I knew the uniforms that arrived, one of them was Sgt. Mary Russell.

Russell stood in the doorway between the enclosed front porch and the living room, stopping before the first body. She looked down at the body, then at me. She considered me, then shrugged. “Nice boxers.”

I rolled my eyes. “Gee. Thanks.”

She laughed as she shook her head and holstered her gun. She looked over the bodies. “Dang, Wyatt. Don’t you have quiet days?”

I narrowed my eyes. “It’s been quiet for months.”

Her eyebrows went up, and smiled. “Twice in one day, though? At least you’re making up for lost time.”

I sighed. “Apparently.”

She looked down at the corpse, and I did as well. The Kevlar was strange, mainly because there was black masking tape on it… and the helmet. I glanced to the other corpses in the room and on the stairs. The masking tape was on all of them.

What the?

I stepped forward and crouched down by the nearest corpse. I reached over to the edge of the masking tape, gently teasing the tape over. I only needed a corner to come off. It revealed the upper corner of a letter: S.

“Crud.”

Russell said, “What’s the matter?”

I rose, and started to work my way up the stairs. “I’m getting dressed. Call the LT. Call the Captain. Then call Statler and Waldorf over at IA.”

“Why?” she called after me.

I stopped on the second landing, around the corpse under the window. “Tell them that the people who tried to kill me are members of a SWAT team.”

Russell gave me a long look. “Congratulations. I guess you’re a cop killer.”

Chapter 4: Picking Up the Pieces.

The SWAT team had invaded my home at two in the morning. By 2:30, the neighbors were awake, and it looked like my station house was having a block party on my street. The SWAT van the team had arrived in was parked around the corner, so the entire intersection would be blocked off until the scene was processed. Ten patrol cars were used just to secure the area. CSU was already there in record time, and they weren’t happy that Mariel, Jeremy, and I had already walked all over the crime scene, since it was mostly on our staircase.

CSU took photos of me and Mariel, then confiscated our sleepwear. They collected rug fibers from the front of Mariel’s night shirt to prove that she had been on the floor. They took my clothing since I had blood spatter on it. We were already informed that parts of the carpet on our staircase would be taken away because of the burns from the flash bang. We were processed before the rest of the crime scene, and we needed to get dressed for the day.

Jeremy hadn’t been involved, except in making the 911 call, and another call to the station. He was already asleep on the couch. After being threatened at knife point by a serial killer, and kidnapped by a cult with it’s own Voodoo man, this was relatively boring. I was half afraid that when puberty hit my son, he was going to turn into a thrill-seeking adrenaline junkie. I could see a lot of ER visits in our future.

My Captain was there not long after CSU finished with us. My Lieutenant barely beat him to it. Both were in full dress uniforms, as though they were showing up to a full-court press conference, or to a funeral. I didn’t relish either prospect. They sat at the opposite end of the table while Mariel sat at the other. She had been making coffee since the coast was clear. They were all disposable cups, purchased after one of the last CSU guys broke a cup the last time the house had been a crime scene.

Then Alex Packard showed up. My partner burst in through the front door barely dressed. He wore loafers with no socks. His gray slacks were buckled, the fly only half up. The buttons on his shirt were misaligned, but he’d given up on the top two buttons, so it didn’t matter. His bright yellow tie was draped over his neck, untied. What was left of his hair stuck up at all sorts of odd angles.

“Tommy! Don’t say a thing!” Alex called. “I’m your PBA rep, and I insist—”

I held up a hand. He stopped raving for a moment as he stopped at the dining room table. He grabbed the edge, and panted heavily. “Sorry. I ran. I lot. Gotta never do that again.”

I restrained myself from rolling my eyes. “Now that you’re here, we can start.”

Alex started to object. “Tommy—”

I lifted a tablet from the seat next to me. It was normally Jeremy’s, which is why the case was black with an Alex Ross rendering of The Shadow on the back. I tapped into the house WiFi, then turned it around to my superiors and my partner.

Mariel left to go the kitchen. She’d been here for the next part.

It was a full audio-video of the entire attack. The cameras on the front porch, the stairs, and the upper hallway caught every last moment. Not once did anyone hear the word “Police!” or “Freeze!” The only verbal communication was between me and Mariel. Everything between the officers was communicated purely in hand gestures.

When the recording was over, both of my superiors looked pissed off. They said nothing, and I didn’t blame them. Officially, Internal Affairs should be the one to talk to me right now, not them.

Right now, they were in an awkward position. On the one hand, among fellow cops, there was nothing more despised by the rank and file than a “traitor”—but then, there is no one in the world more despised than someone who turns on “his own.”

In the world of cops, if there is a corrupt officer, most of my brothers in blue would probably prefer to handle it internally.

If the situation is “I’m going to take this drug money off of you as punishment for you being stupid enough to deal in front of me,” most citizens would find that illegal and corrupt. Many cops would dismiss it as being more harmful to the dealer than the minimal jail time the dealer might eventually be given, eventually. If it grows to be an institution of extortion, that’s when most cops start getting uncomfortable. They start splitting hairs with the question, “Is he extorting a citizen or a career criminal?” If a cop starts abusing his authority to the extent where the law-abiding are abused, other cops would much rather take him into a dark alley and beat the crap out of him before turning him in.

If the extortion and abuse of authority extends to sexual favors, that’s more or less the point where my fellow cops would rather throw him down a flight of stairs before turning in said officer.

But really, the only person below a traitor is a cop killer.

Now imagine the treatment that would be given a police officer who tried to kill a fellow officer.

If you cringed, you have the right idea. It’s one of the many reasons why even the most corrupt cops would rather eat their service weapon than shoot at fellow cops. If a cop killed another cop, the killer might risk having an “accident” akin to falling into a wood chipper, feet first.

So both of my superiors were facing a nightmare scenario, and doing the math on which was worse.

1: Headline, “THOMAS NOLAN MURDERS SIX COPS.” This is the headline that wins a cold shoulder from everyone in the department, and even future backup to “arrive too late” to a full shootout.

2: “SWAT TEAM TRIES TO KILL SAINTLY COP.” This headline gets every cop in the department to buy me beers for getting them before they got me. Meanwhile, this also puts every cop in the city under a magnifying glass, especially the department out of which SWAT operated.

3: “COP ON COP VIOLENCE: EVERYONE WINS.” This makes for a police department that closes ranks and act amazingly cranky to the entire population.

This didn’t even count what “Hizzonor” the Mayor, Ricardo Hoynes, would do.

Hoynes was already against cops in general, and me in particular. Given that his Deputy Mayor for Social Justice Programs was a zombie-raising Voodoo Bokor who had tried to murder me a few months back, I could count on hearing a few tasteful sound bites from the mayor during this entire ordeal.

Whether or not Deputy Mayor Bokor Baracus (yes, this particular demonic presence was that subtle) was just using the Mayor to further a Satanic agenda, or if the Mayor was the greater darkness, was unknown. Even my ability to smell evil was useless around City Hall—there was so much evil in the air, it was impossible to get directionality on its source. Alex dismissed it as being the usual scent of politicians. I wasn’t so certain. The only bright side of a Mayor Hoynes character assassination would be that everyone who hated him (i.e.: every cop in the city) would be buying me drinks until the press died down or until Hoynes found a new target.

So my Captain and LT had a lot to think about.

“Let’s have a conversation about who just tried to assassinate you,” my LT said, taking the lead. “The patrol guys outside already ran the SWAT truck and the IDs inside. The team lying dead on your stairs are out of the Bronx. They’ve had a high casualty count, but then, they’re SWAT, so that’s expected.”

I frowned. “The Bronx? I’m happy I can even find the Bronx. I’m just as happy to forget that the Bronx even exists. If I want to go the mainland, I go through Staten Island.”

Everyone smiled, except for the Captain. “What’s the joke?” he asked.

I maintained strict control over my face. There was always at least one person who never got the joke. “I mean except for the Bronx, the entire city is on an island.”

“…Oh. Right.”

Mariel came back from the kitchen with a mug of coffee so large, I could put my fist in it. She slid it in front of Alex. He muttered, “Bless you,” and took a healthy drag from it.

I held up my hands to refocus us back on the matter that brought everyone into my living room. “Back to the primary topic: Why try to kill me? I don’t even know these people. Better yet, I don’t even know any of their friends, relatives, or passing acquaintances.”

Alex jabbed in my direction with the mug. “But they know you. You’ve been in the news a lot. Curran? The Women’s Health Corps? The death cult? The Mayor?”

Thankfully, Alex had phrased everything in terms that wouldn’t get the three of us thrown into a padded cell. What he really meant was Curran, that serial kill possessed by a demon, and that Moloch-Worshiping cultists who brought home sacrifices from their abortion clinic day jobs and … okay, in the case of Mayor Hoynes, everyone knew that the man hated my guts. Hoynes probably hated me even more since I had leaked some especially damaging insults about his constituents that he boasted about to me and to Alex … and to our body cameras. Seriously, for a politician, he wasn’t that smart. I wish there was a good reason that he had been elected Mayor, but he was merely a supposed libertarian who ran on the Democrat ticket.

But in response to Alex’s questions, I rolled my eyes. “That was months ago. Why didn’t they come after me back then? I wasn’t exactly in hiding. Hell, I had reporters stalking Mariel and Jeremy for months. I’d think a few SWAT guys could come and find me. The shooter at the church this morning? He and his friends could have been random EDPs from the internet who hated my guts. But them and a SWAT team?”

Alex frowned, shrugged, and drank deeply from the coffee mug. “Well, I don’t have any better idea. How about you, L.T.?”

My Lieutenant held his hands up like he was being threatened with an armed weapon. “Don’t look at me.”

I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I’d gotten nearly five hours of sleep, but the adrenaline letdown was getting to me. “We may have to table this for tomorrow. Maybe someone can look into the SWAT team and maybe we can piece together what their problem was? Preferably before one of their friends on the force takes issue with how they tried to kill me, and I got them first? I think—”

My train of thought was derailed by a phone call. I hesitated for a moment. The ring tone was the “Imperial March” by John Williams—Darth Vader’s tune. It was the ringtone for “D,” the self-proclaimed “gangster” Daniel David DiLeo. I knew he was a criminal, but I’d never seen him do anything, so I’d never had to arrest him. And he wasn’t evil, I would have smelled it on him. Crime was his business, not “thug life”—his and his associates’ business uniforms were black leather jackets, black button-down shirts, button-down collars with the top button undone.

As D himself would put it, “You can’t think you’re gangster if you can’t pull up your damn pants.”

There were a few scattered black jeans, and they wore their pants belted around their waists.

The short version was that D was a work acquaintance. Very much like the cartoon with Sam the sheepdog and Ralph the coyote, who punch in and punch out of the sheep meadow at either end of the Warner Brothers cartoon. Only D and I were far more cordial when we were both on the clock.

I had listed D as a confidential informant, so I didn’t hesitate long before answering the phone. I held it up and explained to the others at the table, “This is my CI, Mister DiLeo. I presume he knows something… I can’t think of another reason for him to call.”

Everyone shrugged and nodded.

I picked up. “Hey, D. How are you doing?”

“Don’t you hey me, Detective. Someone just tried to whack me because of you.”

I blinked. I had rarely heard D raise his voice. It was even more rare for D to yell in my general direction. But given what he just said, I understood. “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

“Yeah, I’ll happily elaborate,” D roared. “I nearly got shot by the damn gang squad. The gang squad. I am a white collar criminal, man. The freaking gang unit? Just because I’m black. This is insulting. I should’ve known you’d be a pain in the ass.”

I frowned. “Explain what this has to do with me?”

“Don’t you pay attention to what happens in your own station? There’s a hit out on you on the Dark Web. It’s $10 million for your head. They don’t even want you alive. It’s dead all the way.”

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Infernal Affairs, Chapter 2

After a shoot out happens in the church of a police officer, the only logical thing to happen next is, well, the clean up.

Here, I just wanted to hint at things to come.

Chapter 3 is when the fun really starts....

Yes, I know I just said that after I had a shootout in a church and on the street with three armed gunmen. What's your point?

Anyway, Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Everybody Knows Your Name

When my partner, Alex Packard, arrived, the party was already in full swing. The entire church had been sealed off, as had the surrounding block. This was especially fun when you consider that the road to one side of the church was the southbound service road for the Cross Island Expressway.

Alex strode in the front door of the church, and up the stairs into the vestibule, now called the gathering space for reasons that surpassed all understanding. My family and I were on a bench in the corner and he came right for us. He sat on the bench going at right angles to ours, leaned back, and smiled.

Alex was a slender, older man. He had an odd pot-belly in the middle of all of that skinny. It was probably from years of booze, but I wasn’t going to inquire too closely. I had never seen him take a drink. I only knew about his former drinking problem from a demon, who had been psyching him out at the time. His suit was gray and rumpled, just like he was. He was balding on top, with a graying mustache that Tom Selleck would have approved of. He carried a large paper bag.

“Really?” Alex asked. “Your wife is pregnant. You’re with your kid—hey, Jeremy—and you’re in church. Church, Tommy. Can’t you take even one day off?”

With my arm around Mariel’s shoulders, I gave him a half-shrug. “They find me. They always find me.”

Alex smirked. He shook his head. “No kidding.”

“I’m really not.” I explained the last words from the first gunman.

Alex winced. “No surprise.”

“Yeah!” Jeremy exclaimed excitedly. His voice dropped to a whisper that only mommy, daddy, and Uncle Alex could hear. “Because Daddy’s a superhero! They’re always going to find him.”

Isn’t that an encouraging thought? I pondered.

Alex merely smiled at Jeremy. “Kinda, Jerry.” He looked back to me. “I ran into Sarge on the way in. She handed me a nice little starter package for you.”

Alex raised the paper bag. He reached in and pulled out individual items, explaining each as he went along. Everything was in clear evidence bags, sealed with the red tape of the NYPD Crime Scene Unit.

“They went through the shooter’s pockets. We had these.” The first item was a large evidence bag that could have held the contents of Mariel’s purse. “Anti-psychotics by the truckload. I’m actually surprised he had the ability to walk upright.”

Alex placed it down on the bench next to him, and grabbed the next bag. This one looked like the contents of his wallet. “Membership cards. He was a registered Demoncrat, as though we couldn’t tell from the Che T-shirt and that he was trying to shoot up a church.”

I smiled despite myself. Alex had taken to referring to anyone on the Left as a ‘Demoncrat’ ever since a demon-possessed serial killer who worked for the Women’s Health Corps tried to kill us—and after we discovered that the WHC itself was, in reality, a front for a Moloch-worshipping Death Cult. After a while, it did seem that evil had a particular political affiliation.

I had little problem with him saying it because he had genuine cause for a grudge. As most of New York City either voted Democrat or just didn’t vote, I was a touch more reluctant to brand all of them with the same demonic brush.

Then again, discussing much of the fallout from the WHC incident was another conversation.

“And,” Alex continued, “here’s the fun part.” He pulled out a smaller bag. This one clearly showed a large newspaper clipping. It was one photo—me, from nearly a year ago, during the incident with said demon. I didn’t know which headline it was under. It may have been the one who framed my arrest of the perp as Saint versus psycho or the one that claimed I framed an innocent abortionist because I was a Catholic.

“He really was there for you,” Alex explained. “Just you. We don’t have anything speaking to why.”

Mariel scoffed at that. “Maybe he was employed by LaBitch?” she asked, referring to the former head of the Women’s Health Corps that Mariel had personally pushed into a fire pit. “Or the Mayor? Or maybe he’s a dirty commie and just doesn’t like high-profile Catholics like Tommy?”

I frowned. I opened my mouth to dispute that … and gave up before I started. While I had spent most of my life trying to keep my head down and out of the public eye, the last year had been filled with enough various high-profile incidents that if I had caught the eye of some nut cases online, they would have had little trouble tracking my career.

“Lucky for me,” I said, “I moved after that article was published.” There were two reasons for that. One, the property damage caused the local village committee to drive us out of the private neighborhood. Two, the newspaper article that picture had been taken from had come complete with my home address. The newspaper had issued a non-apology, but the damage had been done, and we moved a little over eight months ago.

Unfortunately, someone already knew my home address and had had sent zombies to my house shortly thereafter.

“‘Lucky’ isn’t the term I’d use,” Alex said. He shrugged. “But that’s not my problem. My problem is they may hit me by accident.” He slid away the evidence back into the bag. “For the record, the first shooter, the one in the church, is connected to very little, unless we think the entire Communist community is out to get Nolan.”

I chuckled. “In that case, time to arrest Columbia University.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Funny.”

I frowned. “No. Not really. Especially considering the number of people they murdered last century.”

Alex laughed. “Columbia or Communists?”

Mariel nudged me with the crown of her head. “Is there a difference?”

I looked to Alex. “When you say Communist …?”

“I mean that he’s a card-carrying commie. He has cards in his wallet for the party, for Anti-Fa.”

I winced. I had never had a personal encounter with them, but I had read enough to know I didn’t like them very much. For a group claiming to be “anti-fascist,” they were amazingly, well, fascist. Their tactics ranged from violence against people they disagreed with (which was anyone to the right of Mao and Stalin) to … even more violence against property. They had operated in Europe, beginning as anarchist Communists … because orderly Communism was bad, surely chaotic Communism would be even better? If you can’t take over a government-- or in the case of Russia keep one – maybe destroying it all would be progress? The European version of the moment hated Catholics … Quel surprise.

“We know that it wasn’t an actual Antifa attack,” I said. “They tend to swarm. We would have had a few dozen raiding the church just to rip me apart. It might have even worked.”

Alex frowned. He was probably considering the various and sundry abilities I possess, running the odds of which would be the best option for going up against a riot. After putting down an entire prison riot by myself the previous year, surely a bunch of local thugs wouldn’t be a problem for me.

I wasn’t going to explain, yet again, that I wasn’t a superhero. While I exhibited some of the miraculous abilities usually discussed about saints, they weren’t something that I could take for granted- or even explain why they were given me. The powers came from God, not from me. I wasn’t a comic book superhero, no matter what Alex or Jeremy insisted. Jeremy had a good excuse. He was ten.

At least Jeremy knew better.

“Dad couldn’t do anything!” he exclaimed. “Too many witnesses. Do you want to bust his secret identity?”

Mariel and I smiled while Alex shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah. Well, it would be hard to fit into a DD5 report. But that’s why I write them up when that happens.”

I said nothing, but said a silent thank you prayer to God that I hadn’t needed any of the fancier abilities that He had graced me with. While I still smelled out evil on a day-to-day basis, there had been no need to be in two places at once, levitate, drink poison, or heal deadly wounds. Considering the circumstances I was in, I would be perfectly happy if I never needed those abilities. Though to be honest, I was a little surprised that it had taken this long for a situation to arise again. I had gotten into so many firefights, I had a reputation. The calm between storms had been so long, I hadn’t been called “Wyatt Earp” in nearly a week.

So much for that going away.

“I’m told that the Bishop’s not too happy with the whole thing.”

I winced. That was something I didn’t want to deal with: Church politics. “Of course he’s not. He’s going to have to reconsecrate the church.” I sighed. “Can we leave now? Didn’t eat breakfast before we came.”

Alex shrugged. “I hear you. At least there’s one good thing: you won’t be investigating what’s left. With any luck, this will be an isolated incident. The first shooter was just another in a long line of Demoncrat shooters.”

My brows arched. The secondary shooters had had M4 automatic weapons, ready to take out cops and a full church to get to me.

Alex sighed. “Yeah. I know. I don’t believe it either.”

Continue to read the story here.