One is cursed with the gift of suicidal vision. The other is a psychotic mutant bent on world destruction. Their clash will be epic, and now you’re a part of it. The smell of fear and taste of death. The world may be ending, but at least now you’ll know why.
The Suicide Society is a horror thriller that offers a frightening glimpse into the near future. Civilization is on the brink of collapse as someone with inexplicable charisma fans the flames of hate, anger and despair. One man is cursed with the gift of suicidal vision. The other is a psychotic mutant bent on world domination. Their clash will be epic as the fate of humanity hangs in the balance.
Targeted Age Group:: 18-45
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I'm always intrigued by situations that have no simple answer. As I look around at modern society, the hate, divisiveness and depression puzzle me. How did we get to this place? What if it wasn't random? What if there was someone or something behind all of it? That's the premise of The Suicide Society.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
For me, character development is the most enjoyable part of writing. My characters define themselves and often surprise me. Sometimes a minor character demands to play a larger role in the story, and there is just no way to suppress the assertiveness of the character.
The room was dark and silent. The only illumination came from a couple bulbs in a flashing sign from a Mandarin restaurant across the street. The woman's face was exposed as a ghastly, emaciated silhouette against the intermittent light.
In her mind, it had been a completely wasted life. Compromised, languid, settling for less when she could have achieved so much more. This would be her epitaph and her legacy.
In her lap lay an old yearbook turned to a page that showed the picture of a beaming teenager holding the class president’s gavel. Underneath the picture was the caption, Most likely to succeed. She glanced at the picture and still felt sorrow even after 30 plus years.
Where and why had everything gone so wrong? The answers still eluded her. At 51, how could she have ended up here in a run down two-flat on Badura Avenue in Las Vegas?
She rose from a creaking rocker and walked over to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on a light. Reaching into the rusting medicine cabinet over a stained basin, she extracted two items: a brownish vile filled with green, round pills, and a blade from a safety razor she used for shaving her legs.
With one item in each hand, she turned and headed back toward the rocker, her slippers shuffling against the tiled flooring. The ragged robe dragged along behind her, silently mopping up the accumulated filth.
The unexpected noise from the kitchen caused her to stop and stiffen. The light and hum from the microwave was unmistakable. Subsequent popping sounds continued, and the smell of fresh popcorn filled the apartment. There was one small problem—she wasn’t cooking any.
She moved a few paces from the living room towards the kitchen while grabbing a vase from a coffee table and raising it above her head. The outline of a person was framed by the light from the microwave. A stranger had entered the house.
As she approached, the intruder kept his face turned toward the expanding bag. Yet, without seeing her, he held out an arm with his palm raised up in the universal sign for stop. “I just love the smell of popping corn,” he said. “Microwave popcorn is ok, but nothing tastes like the kind they make at the theater, don’t you think?”
“Who—who are you? How did you get in here?”
He turned. In the glow of the bulb she saw him smiling. Pasty, pale skin and teeth so white and perfectly straight that she thought they must be ceramic or porcelain. He wore a 70’s-style, white leisure suit and a wide brimmed fedora.
“Get out—get out, or I’ll call the police!”
“Maybel, Maybel, Maybel,” he said while shaking his head. The smile grew even wider. “Ah, the irony. You’re getting ready to off yourself, and you’re concerned about me assaulting you?”
“How did you get in here?”
“That hardly matters does it?” The last few corn kernels finished popping, and the microwave shut off abruptly. The room plunged back into darkness.
The woman moved toward the nearest wall switch and flicked it on, which lit up the kitchen and gave her a clear view of the antagonist.
“Awww, Maybel, now you’ve gone and ruined the mood.” His smile stretched to grotesque proportions as he came forward, opening the bag of popcorn as he approached.
Maybel Downey set the vase down and edged back toward the far wall. Her eyes found the front door, which was still locked securely. She turned back to his penetrating gaze. “How do you know my name?”
He spoke between mouthfuls; his voice muffled by the food. “Go sit down Maybel, and we’ll talk.”
“I’ll do no such thing. If you don’t get out, I’ll call the police.” She sprinted towards the phone, but when she arrived he was inexplicably blocking her path.
“I told you to sit down.” For a moment his smile faded and was replaced by an expression of sadistic ugliness. His eyes widened and burned coal black, and she reflexively recoiled. Walking slowly, she made her way to a sagging couch in the far corner of the living room. He sauntered over to a wooden chair adjacent to the sofa and took his place directly across from her. “You have any Merlot?”
She looked surprised at the question but only shook her head.
“Too bad. I love Merlot. It’s smoother than Cabernet, don’t you agree?”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners?” He picked at his teeth for a stuck kernel. “Call me—Mr. Cox.” He looked back over into the kitchen. “I’ll drink ginger ale if you have any.”
“Tell me who you are and what you want.”
“You know, I love popcorn, but it makes me so dry. Do you know what I mean?”
She slowly lowered her head and began to sob.
“Crying, very nice. Sorrow feels so good… All right, all right. I told you my name is Mr. Cox.”
“What is it you want with me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I want to watch.”
“What? Watch what?”
“What do you think, Maybel? I’m here to watch you kill yourself. I have a front row seat.” He gestured with a sweeping motion. “So get on with it. What are you going to use, the pills or the razor blade?” He swung around and looked back to the kitchen spotting a distinctively shaped bottle. “Ah, I see you do have some red wine.” He got up, walked over to a group of cabinets, and rifled through the drawers for an opener. “Cheap stuff, but I guess it will do.”
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