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Word length = 135,000+


    Pets injuring and sometimes killing their owners; mentally challenged people becoming normal; a female, professional basketball player being hunted; a private detective agency becomes involved; the DEA becomes involved; a black-ops, secret assassination division of the CIA becomes involved—this description just barely touches the surface of the intertwined plots in The Cellar Door.


    John Michael Williams, nick-named Mikey, would never hurt a living person, and everyone knew it, including Mikey. And he certainly wouldn’t murder anyone—the very thought of it was horrifying. He loved people—most of them. He loved animals—all of them. And he wouldn’t even kill an insect—unless it was in or near the kitchen. His mother had told him it wasn’t good to have bugs in your food.
. . . .

    Mikey raised the gun. No! shouted Mikey in his mind.
    “Oh, what are you going to do with that?” asked Chad with a smirk. “You stupid moron! It’s not even loaded.” Chad walked over to Mikey and pressed his head against the barrel of the gun. “Go on! Pull the trigger, and then I’m going to beat the crap out of you.” A cocked smile crossed Chad’s lips. “You’re not supposed to play with guns, and you know it!”
    Again Mikey shouted “No!” in his mind. Don’t do it. Don’t pull the trigger.
    “What are you waiting for?” yelled Chad. He raised his hand to the gun and put his thumb over Mikey’s finger on the trigger. “Need some help, you moron?”
    But Mikey didn’t need any help. The trigger moved toward the back of the guard as Mikey squeezed it to the handle. An ominous click sounded, and a loud noise along with a bullet erupted from the barrel of the gun. Smoke spiraled, and fragments of bone, along with brains and blood spattered Chad’s computer, and also the rug, the bed, and the walls. The corpse fell to the floor with a thud. Blood immediately began to flow from the skull and pooled under his head. It seeped into the hardwood floor.
    Mikey dropped the gun and yelled out, “Oh my God! What have I done?”


    A psychopath who believes in dental hygiene, was all Paul could think. And then a big grin crossed his face. Danger was about to begin. He loved the adrenalin rush that came with the thrill of the kill. He waited a moment longer than he should have, but he wanted this slime ball to know it was coming. He wanted him to have a moment to think about it.
    The man looked at Paul with only a slight hesitation, as if it had to sink in that a stranger was standing in the hallway holding a weapon. Then his mouth opened. Saliva and toothpaste ran down his chin, and the toothbrush fell to the floor. He started to yell something, probably a warning—but it wasn’t necessary. Paul would send the warning for him.
    With the cigar in his mouth sending white smoke toward the ceiling and both hands on the shotgun, and with great anticipation, he pulled the trigger. A loud explosion erupted from the barrel the close-packed shotgun pellets tore into the man’s chest with such force, it slammed him backwards. And the weight of his body broke down the bathroom door. He and the door fell into the small room, until the top of the door hit the sink. The man bounced a few times against the inclined door, then he lie still with an unnatural glaze in his open eyes. The blood was everywhere. It looked like Picasso had painted a bathroom, then splattered red paint all over the picture. Another rendition of that modern art crap, thought Paul.