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    Pro Se Presents: March 2012
    Pro Se Presents: March 2012
    Pro Se Presents: March 2012
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    Pro Se Presents: March 2012

    By Pro Se Press

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    About this ebook

    Puttin' The Monthly Back into Pulp with Sci-Fi, Mystery, and Good ol' Masked Vigilante Action, PRO SE PRESENT #8 hits the streets, adventure blasting from both barrels! Van Allen Plexico's exclusive epic novella 'Hand Of The Machine', featuring HAWK, his latest creation, concludes ! Kevin Rodgers takes us into the terrifying state of mind...or reality....known as 'Paranoia' and New Pulp's Best New Writer of the Year Chuck Miller shares another tale of his wild and wacky hero, The Black Centipede, starring in 'Funeral for a Fiend!' With mind blowing art work provided by Sean Ali and Rowell Roque, PRO SE PRESENTS #8 is almost too much Pulp to handle!

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPro Se Press
    Release dateApr 2, 2012
    ISBN9781476216812
    Pro Se Presents: March 2012
    Author

    Pro Se Press

    Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

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      Book preview

      Pro Se Presents - Pro Se Press

      PRO SE PRESENTS

      NEW AUTHORS - NEW VISIONS - NEW PULP FICTION FOR A NEW GENERATION

      MARCH 2012

      Copyright © 2012, Pro Se Productions

      Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

      The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

      Edited by- Lee Houston, Jr., Nancy Hansen, and Frank Schildiner

      Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock

      Submissions Editor-Barry Reese

      Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers

      Pro Se Productions, LLC

      133 1/2 Broad Street

      Batesville, AR, 72501

      870-834-4022

      proseproductions@earthlink.net

      www.prosepulp.com

      Hawk: Hand of the Machine copyright © 2012 Van Allen Plexico

      Paranoia copyright © 2012 Kevin Rodgers

      Funeral For a Fiend copyright © 2012 Chuck Miller

      Cover Art by Rowell Roque

      Interior Art, Book Design, Layout, and additional graphics by Sean E. Ali

      E-book design and layout by Russ Anderson

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      HAWK: HAND OF THE MACHINE Part 2

      by Van Allen Plexico

      PARANOIA

      by Kevin Rodgers

      FUNERAL FOR A FIEND

      by Chuck Miller

      HAWK: HAND OF THE MACHINE

      Part 2 of 2

      By Van Allen Plexico

      OUR STORY SO FAR…

      The man known as Hawk has been awakened too soon into a galaxy shattered by apocalyptic war.

      He and his fellow law enforcement agents once patrolled the galaxy in the name of law and order, as the Hands of a great artificial intelligence called the Machine.

      But in this dark and distant future, Hawk has learned that the Machine has fallen silent, and that most—if not all—of his fellow Hands were wiped out in the years prior to his awakening. Indeed, he may be all that now stands between the last remnants of Humanity and the return of the dreaded enemy known only as the Adversary.

      Hawk needs help and he needs it fast. But questions remain unanswered for the moment: Why was he awakened prematurely? Do any other Hands of the Machine still exist? And, if they do, will they help him—or are they now following their own private agendas?

      ***

      The man who called himself Falcon did not look up as the great oaken door to his room creaked slowly open.

      A sliver of white light shone through, penetrating the gloom and crossing the dank stonework. There it fell across his brown robed and hooded form, seated on the floor in the far corner.

      He has been with us for over a week, came the voice of the sister assigned to the housekeeping of this level. And he hasn’t left this room for three days. Her voice was shaky, strained with concern as well as something more—perhaps a tinge of fear.

      Three days, a deep, rumbling, male voice replied. Well. And you know without a doubt that he has not left the building in all that time?

      He has not, my lord, the sister replied in a hushed tone. I am certain of it.

      The man laughed hollowly. I’m sure you are, he said.

      He pushed his way roughly past the sister and moved fully into the room. The glare from the hallway framed him in a white halo, revealing a tall, gaunt man clad in the blood red robes of the Inquisition. The light glinted upon the jewels on his fingers and the golden insignia of office dangling from a chain about his neck. Atop his head rested a broad round hat that obscured his features in shadow, save for a long, beaklike nose that protruded from his face. Crossing the room quickly in four long strides, he loomed over the huddled figure. Staring down at the other man, his hard, weathered face betrayed scorn and disgust.

      Tentatively the sister crept up behind him, her voice cracking as she managed to say, You—you don’t actually believe that he could have had anything to do with the violence, do you, Inquisitor?

      The Inquisitor did not deign to look back at her, or even to reply. All of his intense attention remained focused, laser like, upon the seemingly pitiful figure at his feet.

      Your name, he boomed.

      No reply.

      The Inquisitor’s mouth twisted downward in displeasure.

      Do you know who I am? he loudly demanded. You will give me your name. Now!

      Still nothing.

      The red robed man glanced back at the sister. Does he speak?

      He does, Inquisitor, she replied. I have heard him. Motioning with a trembling hand, she pointed down at the hooded figure. Even now, he speaks.

      Speaks?

      Puzzled, the Inquisitor knelt before the man and became aware that indeed, he was mumbling something in a low voice.

      I cannot make out his words.

      He leaned closer toward the hooded figure. This is what he heard: —answer me, you cursed Machine… Are you afraid? Why won’t you answer?

      The man is a heretic, the Inquisitor declared, standing up suddenly. He blasphemes against the God Machine!

      He brought back his booted foot to deliver a kick.

      No! cried the sister, rushing forward. He’s…confused, she said, perhaps even mad, but—

      He speaks basest heresy, the Inquisitor boomed, and he will answer to the Inquisition!

      The red robed man swung his foot forward—but it never impacted the man on the floor. For a split second the Inquisitor wondered just what had happened, as the shock of his leg being forcibly stopped in mid-kick passed up his spine. He blinked and looked down.

      A hand—a rough, thick, scarred hand—had emerged from the brown robe and caught his lower leg in a viselike grip.

      Rage rushed through his system. He glared down. "You—you dare to—"

      The man on the floor looked up then, his other hand snatching back his hood.

      The Inquisitor gasped. You!

      A sharp twist to the ankle and the Inquisitor was sent tumbling to the hard stone floor. His broad round hat fell off and landed beside him.

      The sister scrambled back toward the doorway, seeking to get out of the way.

      The Inquisitor rolled onto his back and sat up, brushing his lank black hair from his eyes—eyes that widened as he saw the other man already standing, looming over him.

      You, he gasped again, this time in a softer tone—one filled more with wonder than disbelief. Impossible, he added, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

      The other man’s robe fluttered open to reveal that he wore a uniform of some sort, mostly of a deep red but with dark blue trim, its texture visible, complex, and somehow metallic. His sharp, piercing eyes—one human, one mechanical and softly glowing red—stared down from a heavy set, rugged face beneath a bald head. And his face—a face as scarred and ragged as his hand—was partly covered by metal components and electronic circuitry.

      Yes, Falcon replied. Me.

      The sister gawked openly at Falcon, and then looked at the Inquisitor. She’d never seen a member of the Holy Order so taken aback, so discomfited.

      Who—who are you? she asked in a hushed tone, stumbling backward. Then, looking down at the Inquisitor, in a louder voice: "Who is he?"

      The Inquisitor awkwardly struggled to his feet and stared at Falcon, seemingly uncertain of how to react or respond. He took a tentative step forward, his narrow eyes moving to take in the big, muscular figure that stood revealed. Though his cyborg features obscure it, his vestments are those of a sacred Hand.

      The sister gasped. Then she gathered herself.

      "But—but there are no more Hands! Her eyes moved from Falcon to the Inquisitor. That’s right, isn’t it? We have prayed for so many years, but the Machine has never sent us one. It no longer answers us at all."

      Now her eyes stared upward, at the room’s ceiling—though her eyes were focused beyond it, as if they could penetrate the surface and see all the way into the heavens beyond. "We had to conclude they’re

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