Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Suspense

Suspense is defined as a play on anxiety, and when reading a book or watching a show or movie, “suspense” leaves one “on tenterhooks” as if one is holding one’s breath waiting for some event to happen. Mystery novels and horror novels and crime novels are loaded with suspense, and likely all novels have some suspense attached to them.

There is plenty of suspense in The Prodigal Band Trilogy, but in only a few instances is the suspense of truly “being on tenterhooks” level exists in this three-books-in-one trilogy. Below I will “snippet” perhaps the most suspenseful part of the book, which takes place in Chapter Twelve of The Prodigal Band.

The six members of the band Sound Unltd had just been rescued from their burning private 747 jet at a London Airport, and have been picked up at the airport by their manager, Joe Phillips. Phillips is the son of an evil man, Baron Torquay-Lambourgeau, head of a satanic secret society called the Hellyons, head of another evil secret group called the Novordos, as well as head of the Directorate, an amalgam of entertainment industry head honchos; the band members are also on the Directorate as a ploy to keep them ‘in line’ with the Directorate’s nihilistic pop culture agenda. Phillips owns a small hotel, near the royal palace, which is where he is now living, and the band members are staying on the second floor of this hotel. The band is in London to attend a ‘mandatory’ Directorate meeting–or so they think. They meet with Phillips in his living room to discuss this supposed event. The band are already suspicious that Joe’s evil father ordered the burn of their jet. The snippet is narrated by pop culture journalist Lloyd Denholm, who narrates The Prodigal Band. The character Marty Effingchester, a Duke, is another member of these evil groups. The time frame is July 8, 2001, evening.


Later in the evening, in a hotel room near a palace

 

At some point Joe got tired of living in a three-room flat, wanting more space. Then the townhouse, which he also got tired of.  So, he bought a small, family-owned, but up-scale hotel a few blocks from the palace, with three floors, with staff taking the first floor and him occupying the third floor with enough room left over to accommodate his personal guests. When the six went to Directorate meetings, the second floor of this hotel is where they stayed. But Joe usually wasn’t there.

This time, however, he was scared for their lives, and ultimately, his own. He had told me years ago that he would reveal to the six what they needed to know to defend themselves against his father’s evil exactly when they had to have this information. When they got to his suite of rooms on the top floor, they all met in his main room so that he could impart to them exactly how he believed they would be dealt with by his father and the Novordos.

As usual, they arranged the available chairs in a circle, and, as usual, Joe faced Jack, the leader. “Did you bring the Directorate meeting letter, Jack?”

“Yeh.” Then Jack read the letter word for word.

“Did you all get the same letter?”

Agreement.

“I asked that because that is not the same letter that Marty Effingchester got.”

From opened mouths to wide open eyes, six hearts raced.

But Jack’s raced faster, as he nearly bounded out of the chair. “So what the bloody hell was in his letter? And how the hell did you find out?”

Joe then stood up to get attention. “Now pay attention, guys, because I am only going to say this once. I had the place debugged about three hours before your jet exploded, because minions of my father have been doing surveillance on me for months. Yes,” he shouted to the stunned six, “freaking spy agencies are spying on me for my father and the Novordos.”

Calmed. “So I will only say what I have to say once. First of all, Marty’s letter was not for a Directorate meeting, but for a Hellyon Inner Sanctum meeting at Torquay Hall, in that dungeon I told you all about. The same dungeon I used to have to sneak through when I sneaked into my own house the night I found you boys. That same dungeon is where the Hellyons do their blood sacrifices.”

Mick couldn’t help interrupting. “Blood sacrifices?” Then louder so all London could hear. “You mean they actually sacrificed—!”

“Yes, Mick. And your good friends Allyson and Melanie are part of that group.”

Still infuriated. “They’re not my friends, not now, not since Ally lied to get us banned!”

And while Mick couldn’t help himself, the other five just looked on in horror, as if five collective consciousness’s suddenly understood the gravity of their situation.

“So, Joe,” Tom tried to say normally but his voice shook, “is that what they gonna do to us?”

Joe, now squatting down to get into Tom’s face for attention, hissed as a viper, “Yes!” Then he got back up and stood in their midst. “One by one. They will either sacrifice one of you while the others are locked up in cages, then do another and another. Sacrificing one to Corion and another to Satan and another to some other bogus god. Baphomet. Or Horus. Or Osiris. Until all six of you are dead, and my father and the rest will drink your blood.”

More suspense follows this snippet, but I’ll leave it at that.

Only one or two more snippets by genre category remain to be posted. Then I will post snippets by character, and other snippets.

In the meantime, one can buy the e-book or softcover print version from various sellers using this link.

The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.

Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Satire

The Prodigal Band Trilogy, being about the trials, tribulations, and triumphs of a fictitious and big time rock and roll band, is full of celebrities. That makes the trilogy and the books within it ripe for satire among other genres. Though the three-books-in-one trilogy leaves out much of the satire originally published in the original three books, there is still enough to regale the reader here, with two snippets posted. One involves celebrity attention-seeking behavior, and the other involves their hypocrisy, especially when it comes to their so-called ‘environmental activism,’ which, in my opinion, is just more attention-seeking behavior but often strictly for tax-write-off purposes.

Note: while it would be nice to be a best-selling author, one thing I absolutely do not want is to be a celebrity! I value my privacy as much as I could have what with having to market my books, but if I became a celebrity I would have no privacy!

Being a celebrity is a double-edged sword. Yes, they have fortunes and fabulous homes and cars and whatever, but while it takes attention-seeking to maintain celebrity, at some point the celebrity wants privacy and to go about with their lives devoid of constant media-tabloid-hounds chasing after them. And at some point, someone will come up with some nonsense about them that is not true and turns their lives inside out and backwards. Yet, whose fault is that? Theirs! They’re the ones who sought the attention, right?

Fortunately, for me and my characters, I realized these books were not going to be essays on satire. Yet I believe if your characters are celebrities some satire is necessary.

In one of the snippets, I highlight celebrity hypocrisy as to nature reserves and saving wildlife that so many celebs take part in because they have the financial means to do so and mostly do it for tax exemption purposes. Considering at galas and whatnot they wear furs, kid leather, and custom woolen suits, etc., can they actually be considered “friends” of the wildlife that they spent thousands of dollars on to wear? One of the reasons certain fur animals are endangered is because celebrities can’t stand to not be ‘seen’ wearing them! Meanwhile, they berate us “little people” for wearing clothing made from wildlife of the cheaper variety, and for wanting to go camping and hunting and fishing every now and then! Is it any wonder celebrities that fly to environmental conferences about ‘saving the environment’ in their private jets are considered hypocrites?

And then there is that attention-seeking behavior…and celebrities wonder why they have no privacy!

In Chapter Seven of Battle of the Band, New Age cult leader Swami Negran fights his way into a Bay Area night club where Sound Unltd is performing–drunk and on various cocaine-laced drugs–in front of hundreds of fans right after their stadium gig. The night before the gig, during a party given for the band, bassist Keith and his lover, pop star Lisa, arranged to meet again in Phoenix in the midst of the following week. But later at that party, she saw Keith with another groupie, Lolita, which angered her enough to try to ‘get revenge’ on him. Lisa, ever the attention seeker, then plotted a publicity stunt using another rocker, Pete Slade, at that night club. Slade, whom she used on a number of stunt occasions, went along with it.


Swami Negran, two hours late for the start of the circus at Forkyz, had to fight through hundreds of stargazers milling outside the club. Then he had to push and shove his way through a host of silky-tanned bodies raising their fists or jutting their hips to the tom-tom honky-tonk beat of Uh-uh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Until he made it to the northwest corner. He was almost accosted by a bikini-briefed Lisa Brent and a Peter Slade in nothing but spandex shorts and Denny Spradlin’s mojo-sandals as they tried to move Keith’s skuz-wasted, pulsating body which grasped his bass in his left hand and Lolita’s bra in his right.

While the lame bassist howled and laughed through Slade’s and Negran’s attempts to prop him against the wall, Swami shouted, “This is even worse than fighting my way in here. There’s a couple o’ thousand people outside clawing to get in!”

Keith slurred loudly. “Well why the hell don’t we bloody let ‘em in? There’s room for—” Down onto the floor he fell in a heap. “Ah, shit! Get me the hell up, eh Mystic Man?”

Lisa, still acting disgusted from Keith’s perfidy the night before, snickered. “Just leave him there!” She then turned to her back-up lover, Slade. “Sweet Pete, listen to this, babe. I got a plan that’ll get us mucho headlines. Help bolster your career, eh?”

“And yours, Lisa love.”

“My career’s doing nicely, thank you!”

“So’s mine, thank you very much!”

“Oh, shut up, Pete, and listen. Both of us’ll go out there in front of the people out there—” Lisa turned to Swami. “Did you see any paparazzi out there?”

“Dozens of photographers, and some with camcorders.”

“Super! Okay, Pete, we’ll go out there and I’ll do my little act. You know, yell and scream about how Keith has betrayed me? And you escort me in your limo to the airport. I need to go on to Phoenix anyway to see my agent there about next year’s tour. I’ll meet you again when the Party Machine lands in Phoenix. Then, I’ll finish the little bastard off! How’s that sound, Pete?”

Slade answered noncommittally, “Sure, babe.”

Lisa then looked down on Keith. “Is that okay with you, you little shit?”

The bombed bassist mumbled his assent, knowing full well that the night before, he and his prime lover planned to greet each other with lavish affection aboard the jet—in full view of perplexed reporters.

Just as most of the horde of stargazers thought they’d leave the sidewalk in front of Forkyz and go home, just as reporters decided to call it a night, an enraged Lisa Brent blew out the front doors of the night club, escorted by a confused-looking Peter Slade. Seeing the mass of reporters hovering in front of Slade’s limo, she saw her chance. “Now listen to this, press boys!” she yelled for their benefit. “You can forget that goddamned Keith Mullock! We’re finished! You understand that? And you can quote me!” She stomped into the car.

Some scribes held Slade back.

“She’s just upset, eh?” he told them. “I’m just here to help her get over it.”

“What happened, Mr. Slade?”

“Listen, I can’t get into that here.”

The second snippet from Chapter Eight of The Prophesied Band highlights celebrity hypocrisy regarding ‘saving the environment’–only for the sake of tax write-offs. Said celebrities in the novel did not consider that wearing expensive furs and clothing of animal skins would in no way ‘save’ endangered species or help the wildlife they claimed to want to protect. The following scene involving singer Erik, pop culture-narrator Jay, and a group of pop star celebrities at a gala to support funding for new Church of the Circle of Unity cult leader Cole Blessing’s ‘Ashram’ south of the fictitious Bay area city of Richmont. Jay, the narrator, also references band manager Joe Phillips’ ‘watchword’ of hypocrisy of wealthy ‘guardians of the environment’ such as his own bank-oligarch father, not just rich celebrities. If anything deserves being the focus of satire, it is celebrity hypocrisy!


DomGerry, April’s poster boy for the Nature Club, discussed a juicy tax-break idea with his friends Jonny Kirk and Jillian Lowe—stars of the live-action movie version of Tree Huggers—and Jeff ‘Ax’ Axman, a major stockholder of a new cable TV network called The Whole Earth Channel. As I approached them I thought to myself how ironic it was these ‘nature activists’ wore either kid leather, ostrich leather, or leopard skins; DomGerry wore alligator-skin boots; Kirk and Lowe both wore chinchilla furs to the bash.

Joe Phillips had once told me the watchword of his father’s new order was hypocrisy. Protection of nature really meant protection of the right of the rich to plunder nature while denying access to the masses like those hapless people being loaded on that windowless bus.

“This forty-thousand acre ranch I bought in Desert Valley last year?” The singer smiled just thinking about how he’d top Ax’s tale of how he saved hundreds of thousands on his taxes by selling his own ecology foundation wetlands to set up a wildlife preserve. “From some old rancher who needed big money. Said he couldn’t afford to raise his cattle ‘cos the government kept lowering beef price supports.”

“The one in the Paramount Mountains?” Ax asked.

“Yeah. But I did you one better, Ax. Take a lesson, eh?” Laugh. “I sold it to my Desert Valley Wildlife Foundation for one tax break, then my foundation sold it to Sustainability, Inc., my ecological R & D corporation, for a double tax break.”

Though I stood behind Ax’s left shoulder, neither the singer-guitarist, nor the others, noticed me until Erik, who I’d been looking for, showed up next to me.

The newcomer suddenly asked, “So what’s up with the tree-huggers?”

Light laughter, until Dom and the others told Erik about Dom’s nature preserve activity.

“Can’t do that sorta thing back home,” Manning responded. “Can only lease it, eh?” He’d brought a long-stemmed champagne glass with him, and he sipped it.

“I thought you were on the wagon?” Ax asked.

“What, champagne, man? I gave up booze, not bubbly, eh? And besides, Ax, I have a nip o’ whiskey from time to time. But, you see, man, I got it under control.”

Lowe blurted, “Well that is sooo super, Erik. Bet you’re much more in tune with Mother Nature now.”

“Yeh, really,” the singer waxed sarcastic. “You know I’d like to get into something like that here. A nature preserve or a refuge or something. Leave it completely untouched for all the animals—all the animals but you, Ax.” Loud laugh.

“Hey up your British ass!”

They laughed, as the two always did after their jibes.

So, of course, the foursome had to tell Erik how he could do that and claim his preserve on his British taxes. The gist of their advice was provided by the singer. “Tell Cole what you need, and he’ll set it up for you.”

And there are more instances of satire besides satire involving celebrities. Buy the book to find out! And if one has read the trilogy or any of the separate books within the trilogy, any review or rating at any of the online sites such as Amazon or any of the others linked here would be appreciated. Or at Goodreads.

The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.

Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Romance

I have read few Romance novels, and I have seen few Romance movies that I have any affection for (but Romance Adventure movies like High Road to China, Jewel of the Nile, and Romancing the Stone are outstanding, IMHO). But one thing I know about the Romance genre–all Romance-themed novels or movies have this in common: sexual tension. It is not tension during the act of sex, but tension between the sexes involved with the romance relationship.

For instance: in High Road to China–one of my fave movies ever–the Bess Armstrong character and the Tom Selleck character (named O’Malley), in between hugging and kissing and bedding with each other, are constantly arguing, yelling at each other, her screaming, “O’Malley!” every few seconds or so, and O’Malley all pissed off because she demanded to fly her own plane and later crashed his plane named Dorothy in Nepal, as they headed to China to find her father, who was being screwed out of millions by his crooked business partner. In the end, of course, they decide to build a good relationship upon leaving western China where her dad is leading a rebellion against some overlord in the 1920s. All novels, Romance genre or not, that build some sexual tension, always have that tension relieved at the end, when love abounds.

And there is plenty of sexual tension in The Prodigal Band Trilogy. I have already discussed this marriage tension between the bassist Keith and his wife Jarris, in the Drama snippet.. In fact there is sexual tension between each band member and his woman throughout the three-books-in-one trilogy that get resolved at some point.

But the key “romance-sexual tension” partnership within the band and their women is between keyboard-synthist Bryan and his wife, Mo, who marry early and then things begin to go awry as they bring forth children. Prior to having kids, the relationship is as good as it could be; having children become the linchpin for what develops into a rocky relationship, as I will describe below in three snippets.

The first “sexual tension” episode comes from Chapter Four of Battle of the Band. Bry and his band Sound Unld have been temporarily banned from their UK home and are stuck living in the New York metro area. Bry and Mo and their children live in a fancy apartment in lower Manhattan. For various reasons Mo feels she must return to London every few weeks to see her psychiatrist (spoiler alert–lover) named Rimsgate because she feels Bry is not properly supporting her “needs,” spending much more time with his biker buddies (who also make up the band’s road crew) or with his synth-project business partner, Reg. Upon returning to the apartment after spending a day in a recording studio, Bry enters the place as Mo is getting ready to leave for London and her “lover.” The time frame is late 1990.


Contrasted with the austere nanny wearing dark woolen coat, matching hat hiding pinned-up gray hair, and low-heeled support shoes standing with a young child and holding an infant wrapped in somber colors, the young woman of the house herself soaked in bright red—hair, lips, earrings, bracelet and necklace of ruby, and metallic jump suit under a silver gray sable coat—moved excitedly about her Village Square townhouse making sure she had everything for her latest biweekly trip back to London.

“Five suitcases should be enough,” Mo McClellan said with the air of a street tough elevated in station. She inspected her hair in the front hallway mirror, fussing with it. “Take the kids out to the limo, Nanny. I’ll be there in a jiff.”

Just as Nanny opened the door, the limo driver appeared to take the suitcases out to the car. Nanny took Craig by the hand and held baby Sean while going out the doorway down the five steps out to the car.

Then a taxi pulled up in front of the limo. Out stepped the wild, red-haired man of the house. Bry greeted Nanny and his sons. “Going out for a bit of air, eh?”

“Hi, dad,” Craig said. “You come, too?”

“No. Too bloody tired, eh?”

Nanny said nothing.

Mo, dismayed by her husband’s entrance, swiftly turned around as she finished reapplying her winter lip gloss. Damned, Bry, you would show up just as I was about to leave.

As Bryan walked over to the bar in the adjoining living room, he greeted his wife. “Eh, luv, you a bit dressed up for a walk, eh?” He poured himself a drink.

Mo followed him, wanting a showdown. “No, Bry. I’m going back to London for a few days.”

“Is it Rimsgate time again?” He took a belt, then plopped the glass on the bar. “How two weeks fly, eh?”

“Really! Especially when I never get to see you anymore. I mean, somebody has to be there to help me with my problems.” She stood legs spread in confrontation.

Your hormones acting up again? Shit, luv, I’ve been arguing all day with Jack and Mick, and now I have to put up with your crap? “You have a problem, Mo?”

“Yes, I have a problem! Does that surprised you?” She stormed up to him at the bar. “I ran away from home so I could be with you. So what happens? I never get to be with you! Even when you’re around.”

Bry had heard all that before. “Well, I told you not to run away from home. I told you I’d be too busy to spend much time with you. You said you wanted us to be married. Well, you got pregnant, so then we had to get married.”

Mo had heard all that before, too. “Are you saying I got pregnant to hook you into marriage?”

“No! I’m glad we got married. I love you, Mo.”

“You have a funny way of showing it. I never see you.”

He shook his head. “Oh, come on, Mo. You know what the life of a professional entertainer is like.”

“I’m not complaining about that. Why do you have to spend all your free time with Reg or those damned bikers? Sure you’re here now, but you’ve spent the last two weeks with The Bikers out in California. Thank God we didn’t move to L.A. the way you wanted to. I really would never see you then!”

Time for some reefer. Bry took a joint out of his shirt pocket, lit it, and toked. “You know bloody well why I need to spend time with Reg. He can’t build the synthesizer alone. The bikers? They’re just mates I can unwind with. They help me to relax.”

“And I don’t?”

Not when you’re like this, you don’t! He drew her to himself and kissed her. “You relax me—differently. But there’s times I need to, you know, ride. It’s fun, eh? Why don’t you, you know, come riding with us sometime?”

She withdrew from him. “I’m not a biker—a moll! I don’t know how to ride, and your mates go for those one-night-stand types.”

“They like you enough, or do you consider yourself superior to them?”

“No, Bry, it’s just that I resent them taking up so much of your free time. Plus you spend all your time with them on tour as your roadies, too. You probably don’t even spend much time with the rest of the band. They probably consider you a snob.”

“I just don’t go for all that ‘image’ bullshit, or that ‘star’ trip like the others do. It’s the glamor scene I avoid, not them.” Again, he kissed and caressed her. “Look, you say you want to spend time with me, yet you’re gonna take three days to travel and see this five-hundred-pounds-an-hour celebrity shrink you don’t need to see. Doesn’t make sense.”

Pushing him away, Mo snickered. “Don’t lay a guilt trip on me, Bry. I need someone to talk to, to provide answers that you can’t, or won’t. Maybe Rimsgate can.” She turned from him coldly and went out the door into the limo.

Bry said bitterly to himself, “Well, I guess he’ll have to.”

The second snippet, in Chapter Eight, occurs in the summer of 1994 after another North American tour ended. At their southeast estate near a small lake, while entertaining Bry’s biker buddies before he and the bikers head north for a retreat, the married couple get into another argument. Mo had recently had their third son, and that was her excuse for not partaking in the biker ride. But Bry saw the excuse as Mo not wanting anything to do with his “course and unrefined” biker mates.


“How long are you biking, Bry?”

He opened the can. “Oh, three weeks or so.” He laughed and said, “By then, the others’ll be recovered enough to work on the next record.”

His cavalier attitude annoyed her. “Sure, Bry, sure. When are you going to recover?”

“Me?” He laughed again. “I never have to recover.”

“And what if your back goes out?”

“Mo, I can handle meself, eh?” He swilled his brew. “And if you’re so concerned, come with us. I need you on these rides.”

“I can’t leave Logan!”

Another silly excuse! Another one of her persecution guilt trips! “Oh, shit, Mo. We have a nanny and a nurse maid. For god’s sake! For my sake! For your sake!”

“For my sake? And how would it look for a mother of an infant to be in jail?”

“Jail? I’m not getting thrown in jail this time.”

She would bring that up! “Shit, only because Chet and Stu got carried away. We’re headed north this time, and we’re gonna spend a day or so at our lakeside retreat, eh? All the more reason for you to come. You can leave that baby for a week or two.”

That baby? His own son is ‘that baby?’ “No. I can’t leave ‘that baby’.”

Bry stood up and consumed his beer. He frowned and retorted, “Or, you won’t, eh?

The argument continues back and forth over why she refuses to go on the ride. While Mo again complains that Bry spends too much time with the bikers and refuses to see to her “needs,” he complains that the time she spends with the other band member’s women, such as shopping, could have been spent with him. The spat eventually ends with her leaving him working at his motorcycle. And then leaving him for good, so she believed.


“I may not be here when you get back.”

Bry sighed in disgust. Must be her hormones. Must be Rimsgate time.

Sure enough.

Two days later she was home again, having hatched a plot with her analyst-lover.

When Bryan returned, the two of them met with Rimsgate at his office.

Dr. Neville Rimsgate, on behalf of his client-lover, Mo McClellan, asked Bry squarely, “But why can’t you attend to at least some of her needs? At least when you are with her?”

Two against one. No matter what I say, I’ll lose. He blew off some steam. “Her needs? Is that all you’re concerned about, though you told me on the phone before I came here that both our needs must be— Harmonized, that’s how you put it, eh? So, you want me to satisfy her needs when I’m not on the road? What the hell about my needs? Our needs?” He turned to Mo across from him, holding out his hands. “You know, our needs?”

“Our? What our? We don’t see each other often enough for there to be an our! That’s why I’m saying ‘my needs’ or ‘your needs.’ There aren’t any mutual needs when you’re gone most of the year.”

He threw out his arms. “I can’t help that. It’s what I do! It’s what that band o’ mine does! Are you saying I should just bug out of a year’s worth of commitments?”

“That’s not it, Bry. It’s our relationship that’s hurting, and you being with the band is no excuse. None of the other married members of your band have this problem. They’ve resolved their problems because they wanted to. You don’t want to, Bry.”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” What the hell more does she want?

“We’re getting nowhere, though. You’re just too damned busy with Reg or those damned bikers.”

It’s no use! What I do is me, and she knew it when she got pregnant and used that to get me to marry her. Never mind that I told her that wouldn’t be necessary and that I’d support the baby. “Okay, Mo, what do you want us to do?”

“Until we can work this out, Bry, I want a separation. I mean, you’re never really with me, anyway.”

Never?

“Because the children and I are just another frustration you have no time for.”

No time?

“That way, you won’t have to feel guilty about being with Reg and the bikers all the time.”

Guilty? I mean, who’s really guilty here? “Guilty, Mo? You think I’m the guilty one here? You think I’m the one who doesn’t want to resolve this? But that ain’t what’s coming down, eh? I think the two of you— Shit, Mo. That’s all it could be. I’ve exhausted the possibilities why you won’t see reason. It’s because you two’ve been lovers. For a wee bit, eh? Ain’t that right, Mo?”

Upon hearing that Bry had figured out her motivation, she looked ugly at him and stood up angrily, leaving the office with a door slam.

He followed her.

She got into her car and left him standing outside Rimsgate’s office building seeing the look on her face—a conniving sneer mixed with merciless loathing.

Mo finally got what she wanted—Rimsgate, a man of slavish love for her whom she could control completely.

Several years pass before they manage to see each other again, during which time he desperately wants her back while she considers the reunion as a possibility if not a done deal. In the meantime, she dumped Rimsgate for fake healer and cult leader Cole Blessing and became a chief ‘disciple’ of his. But, when she and her estranged husband meet again the afternoon before a concert at a music and trade festival back home at Victoria Park, they begin to resolve their differences. This snippet is from Chapter Ten of The Prophesied Band. Mo had just met with her band-member’s-women friends who had told her about a “mission of God” their men vowed to partake in.


“Look, Mo,” Bry said to her as he moved to touch her hand, “everything the girls told you is true—though even I find it hard to believe. But we are on a mission.” He leaned against the tour bus, facing her.

Smirk. “From God.”

“Yeh, or at least from The Tooters. Crazy, eh?”

Her left shoulder nudged against the bus and she faced him as a friend. “It is.” But I’ve seen much crazier things with Cole. Should I tell you a few?

At the same time he thought. You’re not making this easy, are you? “Yeh, it is.” What else can I say? “Speaking of crazy, where’s Cole? Didn’t you say he was gonna accompany you?”

“He got sick in front of The Tooters. The others think the statue made him sick because he acts like a god. And he does act like a god sometimes. The way he cured Ger.”

“Humph.” Cocked his head. “Hmmm. A security guard came into the bus before and told us a guy who looked like Cole Blessing was standing outside the south gate. The guard told him he could come backstage, seeing as how he was Cole Blessing and he was supposed to be with you. But Cole wouldn’t come inside. Really nasty about it, too. Like he was pissed he couldn’t come in.” Stared into space as two others came out of the bus. “Sounds like he’s more than just a bit sick. Maybe The Tooters—” No, that’s too ridiculous. “But why would a statue—angels or not—be able to force Cole Blessing to stay outside unless—” Too ridiculous! Blessing’s not bloody Corion, eh?

“Unless?”

“Forget it. But if Cole is playing god like you and the others think, maybe you shouldn’t be hanging out with him, eh? Megalomaniacs have a way of being dangerous.” He moved to be with her. “Besides, babe,” he said with a playful whine, “I’ve been wanting you back for a long time now.”

“I know.” A tear fell from her eye. Then a humble smile. “I know, Bry. Maybe—”

Her heart wanted to say it, but her emotions garbled the message.

“Maybe, you will?” Beam of excitement. “Please say yes.” His heart pounded out, “I really don’t want anything else but you. Honest. I’ve never stopped—”

Her love-heart was suddenly a pitter-patter. “Loving me? You’ve never stopped loving me?”

“Never, babe. Not even when I felt you’d never come back. Not even when I found out about Rimsgate. About Blessing. Not even when that receptionist of yours said you changed your name. Now that hurt, eh? But it didn’t mean I didn’t love you.”

Now in his hairy arms, she shivered with cold chills of guilt.

From that point on, aided by the fact that Blessing is taken out of the way by his own evil spirit guide the following morning, Bry and Mo become a truly married couple again.

Want to read more sexual tension between Bry and Mo and the rest of the band members and their women? Buy the book using these links!

The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.

Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Paranormal

The two previous set of snippets dealt with the occult; this one deals with the paranormal. Some might consider occult and paranormal the same thing, but there are differences. Occult implies humans practicing witchcraft or satanic rituals or playing at them–that is, occult is where, to one degree or another, humans are in control or at least are doing the bidding of the spirit that is taking part in or leading the ritual. Paranormal, according to the definition I found, implies lack of control on the part of humans to some extent: denoting events or phenomena such as telekinesis or clairvoyance that are beyond the scope of normal scientific understanding. That is, normal human understanding!

The two snippets in this post, both from the final book of the trilogy, The Prodigal Band, are clearly beyond human understanding, as both events are completely under divine control, for divine purposes. One of the snippets is similar to an actual event that happened to someone I know. Similar events also occurred to some very key figures in the Bible.

The fist snippet occurs in the midst of Chapter Seven as prodigal band singer Erik is finishing the final song note during a local music festival early on a Sunday morning in July, 2000. As God’s angels, The Tooters, are giving the band members divine messages “from God” that will seal their fates, the fate of one inhabited by evil, the cult leader and fake healer named Cole Blessing, is also being “sealed”–vacuum cleaner style! During the final note, the Demons, led by the evil spirit known as Corion, are being “sucked” out of the air by The Tooters–a tripartite granite statue at the north gate of Victoria Park, a statue with three angel-blowing horns. They are using the singer’s exhale to “vacuum” out the Demons to send them back into the Abyss realm God had sent them “in the beginning”. Corion is also “sucked’ out of Cole Blessing, but under Corion’s own power as the evil spirit intends to find a new host, for Blessing had failed in his so-called “mission” from the evil. Corion then impales Blessing on a pointed bed post.


In the spiritual realm

 

As the note reached its end, Cole Blessing, awakened in a hotel room at 5:28 a.m., got out of the bed, not by his own will, and walked over to the pointed bed post at the right foot of the bed, and proceeded to impale himself on it. Not of his own will.

Corion escaped the now dead body. But before his spirit could inhabit another, he had to regain the dark realm he found his way out of with the red crystal and, finally, punish the Demons for failing in their job. He had to do it. Before The Tooters ravaged them first.

 

But Corion was too late.

At the finale of the note, continuous exhale. Demon spirits caught up in the exhale wind. The Tooters’ trumpets catching the wind, consuming the Demon spirits. Like a vacuum cleaner.

Angels are not human, though they can take human form God willing. But also God willing, His angels can devour evil Demons.

Which is what Corion would have done had the fallen angel gotten to them first.

And, while demonic spirits still plagued the Earth, The Tooters had finally cleansed Walltown of them.

The second snippet is from Chapter Thirteen. In the previous snippets here,  the leader of the band Sound Unltd, Jack, was “praying” for success as he and the others were headed on their first national tour of the UK. Only The Demons answered his prayer and made a “Pact” with the band, that they would reach huge success for a “price.” By the year 2001, the so-called pact with price had not been fulfilled and the evil Corion was not going to wait any longer. He had his human minions call a meeting in London that the prodigal band had to attend, only it wasn’t a meeting but a call to force the band to seal the “pact.” If they did not do this, Corion would have his revenge so to speak. Singer Erik, the band’s front man, would be the first to make his decision. Corion, now inhabiting a new host, would force the singer’s decision. Or so he thought. The Creator, God, had other ideas. This snippet takes place in a dungeon, at a sacrificial altar, in the manor of the evil Baron Torquay-Lambourgeau.


“Get ready,” the Creator said to His angels. “They will not forsake their mission! Be with them!”

“Just say the word, Our Father!” The Tooters readied from the white realm.

 

Corion began. “On the morning of the 6th of June, 1986, your band leader pledged your soul to me, Corion, god of darkness born in light, as payment for your success, as well as the souls of your fellows. I have allowed you to achieve that success and all the trappings of it. You and your mates have reveled in those trappings, your debaucheries, your idol status, your desire to do what you wished with no consequences, and you thinking it was you that caused it all, your ego abounding into a godhood you thought you had.”

As Corion spoke, a Spirit within Erik called to him. What this minion of evil says was true, but do not listen to this evil, because you have made a change of heart, and have repented in heart and repented in word. Because you have called on Christ in His Name, His Spirit resides in you. Now, let this Spirit speak out of your mouth to rebuke this evil.

As Corion spoke, the singer, guided by the Holy Spirit within him, mocked the Evil one. “Liar! You didn’t give me this singing voice, and I didn’t either! God did! Christ did! You didn’t give us the means and the talent to achieve success so that we would repent and then do the bidding of the One Who gave us these gifts! God did. Christ did!”

Against the wall and now leaning forward sat the others, anticipating Erik telling Corion and the Evil to stick it where the sun don’t shine, we don’t need your stinkin’ godhood!

“And finally, you minion of Evil that murdered Adam Bloodlove, Swami Negran, Cole Blessing, Neville Banner, thousands of Walltown peasants, millions of innocent people throughout history, indentured, enslaved millions more using your heinous lackeys like Marty Effingchester—”

The Duke now shuddered in fright.

“—and nearly caused me to die but save for The Tooters giving me a song to heal me.”

Corion laughed. “Those puny Tooters can kiss my ass! And that goes double for your so-called God.”

”Thus sayeth the Lord,” the Spirit spoke through Erik, “Do not mock the Lord! That created you, wayward son, and will see you in your place again, the Abyss!”

Corion laughed even harder now. “We will see, when I take the baby son of the troubadour you speak through. Payment will be mine!”

“No you won’t take my son!” Erik spoke on his own. “You will never take my son Jason from me! In your dreams, you lying sack of shit!” Left the altar.

He then turned toward Mark-Corion. “You will never have my Oath! Father God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost have my Yes! And you will never take my Jason from me! Rot in Hell where you belong!”

Mark, that is Corion, got his sword ready to impale Erik’s heart. His right arm pulled back to stick it through.

And then—

 

As three men that suddenly appeared literally out of nowhere released the others of their burlap bags and rope ties and helped them stand up, readying for their escape—

 

Corion swung his sword. But it could not penetrate the singer, still praising the Holy Trinity. “My life and the lives of mine are in your hands, my Savior Jesus Christ!”

Then, like Moses, like Elijah, like the Apostle Paul on the road to Damascus when Christ spoke to him, Erik’s face shined a light of brightness that banished the Evil from the room. The other five witnessed this event, astounded, and one of them said, “Praise God for this!”

If you want to read about the results of this event and others like it within this work of fiction, you might consider buying the book from one of several online book sellers, using these links:

Amazon, softcover and Kindle

Barnes & Noble softcover and Nook

Kobo

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Lulu and iBookstore

More links from Goodreads

The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.

 

Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Occult, Part 1

Along with snippets relating to the fiction genre known as horror within The Prodigal Band Trilogy are snippets of horror’s ‘sidekick,’ the occult. I have only witnessed the ‘milder’ side of occultism–Ouija Boards, Tarot Cards, mock séances with fake ‘mediums,’ and in all instances these tools were not being used by actual ‘witches’ or wiccans. Just ‘playing’ at it during parties or whatever. Yet one evening at a friend’s house more than a mile from my own house two friends and I did get a good look at what true witchcraft would look like without realizing it, and the event scared the crap out of me to the point where the two friends had to walk me home around 11 p.m.! After that, I eschewed any and all of these practices! But I did get to witness actual occult practices, and, while writing the trilogy, was glad I did partake in the occult, a little bit, knowing I would never do such things again. Any other knowledge of occult rituals came from horror movies or fiction novels.

All three novels that make up The Prodigal Band Trilogy have occult aspects. Part 1 of this snippet-occult series shows the mockery side of the occult as well as the witnessing of pure occultist evil that took place inside of a separate room within what is called an ‘Ashram,’ which is a Hindu religious retreat that could also be used in any eastern-type religion (which is what Swami Negran’s ‘Church of the Circle of Unity’ is derived from, using Hindu/Sikh systems for a New Age cult. Negran is a prominent fictional evil character within the trilogy. His successor, fake ‘healer’ Cole Blessing, is featured in the second snippet.)

In the first snippet, drummer Tom Cornsby of the band Sound Unltd surrounds himself with an entourage including a ‘clairvoyant,’ Prissy, who is also a pop star, her handler, Paul, a TV show-hostess, Lady Moira, and a rock singer, Peter Slade among others, lounging around a hookah during a party. His ultimate goal is to find out, using these celebrities with ties to aristocracy and government officials, who indentured his ancestors. Since Prissy and some of the others are into occult rituals, he pretends to ‘channel’ the New Age ‘god’ Corion, the ‘god’ of the Swami church. This snippet comes from Chapter Three of Battle of the Band. At this point, Tom’s agenda is just getting in with these folks so that he could use them later after they learned to trust him. In later parts, he finally meets a fictitious princess who would be more knowledgeable about whom had indentured his ancestors.


Tom, once consigned to the background as clairvoyant pop star Prissy Wyatt’s toy boy, had the street sense to develop his own jet-set following which turned enraptured on his every word. Lying against pillows depicting woven dragons, his little entourage surrounded a hookah. They discussed the future of Prissy’s singing career guided by her producer and promoter, Mushroom Paul, son of an MP. With his advice, Tom might as well have been her manager, agent and songwriter.

Prissy inhaled some hashish. “Whatever happens, I swear I won’t make any decisions without consulting Mushroom Paul and Tom. Tom’s sorta my spirit-guide right now. He knows. He knows.”

Peter Slade, a low-level aristocrat and singer with Hot Vinyl, asked, “What kind of music will you do? Raunchy metal? Orchestral? Mystical?”

“None o’ those,” Tom answered in his nasally baritone voice. “All that shit’s on the way out, eh? Prissy’s gonna do what I call honky-tonk. Really, Pris, you have that show-parlor style. You could do a flapper act, eh girl? Tell you what. I’ll even be your drummer, eh? With EpiGram’s permission and all that crap.” The five-foot-six drummer laughed, then took a hookah hose and inhaled.

Paul snickered. “Right. And her songwriter, and her manager, and her limo driver.”

“Yeh, and you could be her bootlicker.”

Paul responded with a cuss. Tom responded with, “Not in this lifetime.”

“Really, you two.” Lady Moira Sedgewick sighed. “Why do you both always have to argue?”

“Tom’s an arguer, that’s why.” Paul whined.

Prissy came to the drummer’s defense with a giddy smile. “Now that’s not true, is it, Tom?”

“That’s what Mick and Bry say. I love to argue. But I feel I have something to say, so I say it.”

Tom saw Prissy gleam at him. He quickly turned away to roll his eyes. She’s such a little nuisance.

Slade said, “You don’t like ol’ Mick, do you?”

“It goes back to when Mick and Bry joined us. Mick acted like I was going to consume his skinny little bod. Like I was a vampire. Little prevert. And get this. He really grimaced when I smiled and said hello to him.”

“Knowing Mick,” Slade said, “he probably would have loved it if you did consume his skinny bod.” Laughs.

“No. I won’t even have lunch with the bastard.”

Tom laughed to himself as he thought about the others lying with him. No sense telling these silly people why I don’t go for that perv shit. They’d never understand. They’ve never been abused, poor, homeless, indentured. Really such stupid little rich kids. So ripe for my plucking. They’ll never guess I’m only using them to find out who indentured my family.

That Prissy, whose tabloid predictions usually came out true, needed a spirit-guide bothered talk-show celebrity Moira. “What I don’t understand, Pris, is why you—a fortune teller—need Tom or anyone else to make your decisions for you.”

“Because my auras and chakras have been so clouded lately. Too much interference from bad angels. I can’t handle it now, and I’ll prove it.”

Lady Sedgewick slapped the floor. “Prissy? Are you saying you can’t be my medium anymore? Please don’t tell me that. Just who the hell am I supposed to get to replace you?”

“I’ll show you who. The spirits that communicated with me will now do so with Tom. Tom’s a channel. He didn’t even know it when I met him last year. Did you know the god Corion speaks through him?”

Slade, a debonair but insecure star who was new to New Age ideas, asked, “Who the hell is Corion?”

Prissy answered. “A god of light born in darkness. The One we call God threw Corion out of Paradise, but then Corion changed his ways and is now a god of light. There’s a tribe in Africa that claims Corion is married to the deity we call The World. He will now speak through Tom when I call him in séance. Isn’t that super?” She looked at everyone. “Now let’s hold hands.”

The crowd surrounding the hookah sat yoga style holding hands in a circle. Prissy went into a trance and called Corion. “God of light born in darkness, speak to us.”

Very quickly, ‘Corion’ answered her through a deeper voice of the conniving drummer. “I am here. Your question, please.”

“You once said there would be world unity and peace in a few years, and all the world’s tuned-in people would follow your chosen minstrels.”

“Yes.”

“Could you tell the tuned-in friends here who will be your chosen minstrels?”

With a meditative poker-face, Tom-as-Corion answered, “The band called Sound Unltd.”

An uproar of protest ensued. “Oh, come off it!” Slade yelled. “What sorta crap is that, Pris? Of course he’s gonna say that!”

“Hear me, unbeliever!” Tom-as-Corion bellowed back. “There is no doubt! They will be persecuted next year. But they will afterwards rise up and lead the youth of this planet into an era of—novordopax, nuevopax, tricameron.”

Tom then woke up from his pretended enchantment. “Well, did I? Did Corion speak through me?”

“Yeah,” Slade said with a sneer, “and he said your quintet would be the leaders of the world’s youth into an era of—what the hell is ‘novordopax’ and that other gibberish?”

No one could answer that.

Cornsby, with authority, said, “It’s Corion’s word for world peace, or didn’t you know, with your proper public school education, that ‘pax’ is Latin for ‘peace’?”

“It’s just that I find it ridiculous that Corion—through you—would say Sound Unltd will lead the world’s youth as if you’re the reincarnation of—”

“And who are you to doubt Corion? The man’s a god, eh? If he says we will, then we will. So—we will. We got that ambition, eh?”

In the second snippet Tom and this princess, Tina, who are in fact lovers though Tina is married to the one whose ancestors did in fact indenture Tom’s family, meet together at the basement of a palace next to the Ashram mentioned earlier. What they witness while outside looking through a door window is a wicked occult ritual led by the evil fake doctor Cole Blessing within a large room. Blessing uses the original occult amulet known as the Red Crystal of Corion, which brings forth demonic powers, in this ritual. This takes place at the end of Chapter Eight of The Prophesied Band and is narrated by pop culture pundit Jay Elliot, who sees the two witnessing the ritual.


“I just can’t see very much, Tom,” the Princess of Leandro whispered with anxiety as she looked through a tiny square glass window built into a metal door.

“Blessing, my wonderful husband, and one or two others are in there, I know, because I can hear them. But it’s too dark in there!” Tina then turned to Cornsby. “There is a red glow, however. Not a lightbulb glow. More like a candle that glows red, or a candle covered by a red glass.” Turned back. “A votive candle, perhaps. Or a red-glowing crystal.”

The drummer, standing behind her, let his body fall against the door. “A red crystal?” A loud whisper. “Don’t tell me Blessing’s got one o’ those!”

“I hope they didn’t hear you slam against their door, Tom.” Her annoyed voice was low normal. “Anyway,” she looked at him, “It’s too big to be the kind Swami Negran wore. But I feel this crystal and Negran’s are related somehow.”

“Maybe the crystal in there is the mother of all the other crystals Swami had, including the ones he gave the six of us.”

I heard the last thing he and she said to each other. More than just curious, I went toward Tom and Tina. Less than a minute later I heard them go breathless and saw the aura of a giant red glow.

“Tom!” Frightened. “You won’t believe this!” Turned to him. “See this for yourself.”

The curly blond said nothing at first as he feasted his eyes on a room large enough to be a gymnasium, with objects of pure gold wall-to-wall, and the hooded people—including a woman by the look of her face—in supplication to Blessing, who stood hoodless over the red crystal.

Blessing’s hands then engulfed the crystal the size of a baseball—which, having just illuminated the room, now burned a fiery ball of light.

And when Tom heard him speak, Blessing’s voice bellowed with such force several gold statues near the west wall shook.

Corion was also in the room.

“My children,” the dark voice said, “soon I and Mother Nature will come forth to show the only way for the people of this beautiful lush planet—our way, as our enemies cringe and burn before us. Mother Earth will return to her greatness, my followers.”

The crowd chanted, “Your will be done, my lord.”

“Our enemies are being rounded up now, a herd for the slaughter, as our Master cleanses her domain, as I—with you at my right hand—come to the head of your world.”

“We are with you, my lord.”

“Tina!” Tom swiftly got off his tip-toes with breathless fear. “This is it! The people who seek to enslave this world. And Blessing is not Blessing. Or, maybe he’s speaking through a distortion microphone that I can’t see. But he sounds—possessed! Did you hear him? The chanting?”

“Yes. It’s Blessing’s inner circle. Probably the same ones that make up the Novordo Club.” Then she shuddered. “I think we need to leave, my love. I’m really afraid.”

“You got that right!”

In Occult, Part II will be featured rituals that take on a much more sinister tone as the chief minions of the Evil reveal themselves and their agenda in full.

The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.

Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Mystery

There is plenty of mystery within this trilogy, but it is not mystery in terms of crime (as with Sherlock Holmes), suspense, or science fiction, but spiritual mystery. However, the following snippets that follow a specific event highlighted by revelations from the spirit being for Good known as the ‘witch of the Hovels’ do incorporate crime and suspense themes. All of these snippets are found within the second book of the trilogy, The Prophesied Band.

The first snippet from Chapter Six finds the band Sound Unltd meeting with their manager Joe Phillips in spring, 1996, about the Asia leg of a tour that began the previous year and had to be rescheduled due to a crisis event that I will not issue a spoiler alert over. When that issue was settled, the guitarist-producer, Mick, then brought up the following relating to an archeological dig near his Holyhope Castle in the mountain area of eastern Wales. Mick is an occultist obsessed with the ancient High Priest of a pagan and cannibal cult, called Crynnwagg. The cult is called the Crag-Dwellers.


“…I’ve invited some archeologists up to Holyhope to dig for Crynnwagg’s bones.”

The drummer laughed. “You mean to tell us, Skinny, that your hero Crynnwagg’s bones just happen to be on your estate?”

Mick snickered. “No, Shorty, they’re not, eh? The archeologists are Druid scholars, they’re staying at Holyhope, and their digging site is four miles west of there at the foothills of—”

“You funding it, too?” Keith asked.

“Yeh, through the Druidic Foundation. Made contact with them four years ago. Only now are they done with their paperwork.”

The second snippet from Chapter Seven, partially referenced here, involves a phone conversation between Mick and pop culture magazine freelancer Jay Elliot, who is the narrator of The Prophesied Band. Elliot had heard over his car radio that an earthquake, an extreme rarity in Wales, had occurred in the area where the archeological dig was taking place. It is summer, 1998. In the conversation is mentioned that both Crynnwagg and Swami Negran had long tibias. Negran, whom had ensnared the band in his plot to win souls of fans as well as the souls of the sextet band using the red crystal amulets each of the six had worn during concerts, with the amulets being controlled by Swami, had supposedly recently died in a car crash.


“So,” I finally asked, “did the earthquake help you find the bones?”

“That they did. Or at least we’re speculating they’re his bones. Crynnwagg was known through legend to have had tibia bones much longer than they should have been.”

“Long-shanks.” Which reminded me of a long-ago English king.

“Yeh.” Snort. “And like Swami Negran, too. Little murdering bastard!”

By this time the word had gotten out that Negran was the one who did in Adam Bloodlove. Mick made sure of that. But no one could bring the Indian mystic to justice. The man supposedly had been killed by a Christian radical in a so-called car crash.

“And no one can find his red crystal,” I said.

“Joe thinks his father and his elitist cronies hid the crystal somewhere and they’re using it. I mean, all the crap with the weather. Shit, Jay, southern England’s drying up, and they’re literally drowning in Walltown. Jack and Keith have been up there about a month now. They think they’ve found some Code manuscripts in an iron vault, but they can’t open the vault until it stops raining. And who the hell ever heard of earthquakes in Wales? Torquay and them are definitely screwing around with the weather.”

I laughed, especially since he had no proof. “You sound like those militia-types we have here in the States.”

Pordengreau snorted several times. “You know I’ve never believed that shit until now. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff Tom’s gotten out of Tina how Torquay and Effingchester are out to control the planet.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.” Of course, I still wasn’t convinced that anti-new-order stuff wasn’t anything more than sheer paranoia. “So, what’s gonna happen to the bones?”

“They’ll be sent to the Archeological Society for carbon-dating. If the bones are about nineteen-hundred-fifty-years-old, we’ll be fairly sure they’re Crynnwagg’s.”

The rest of the snippets come from Chapter Nine. The mysterious ‘witch of the hovels’ had summoned two of the band members to meet with her in the home town Victoria Park near the angelic statue called The Tooters. The meeting took place early June, 2000.


Tom, Keith, Jack, Billy Prestin—with whom Jack stayed while in town—and new arrival Bryan sat facing each other at a chessboard table under a shade tree several yards at a diagonal to the famed statue.

“Mick’s on his way,” Bry told the others. “Spoke to him on the phone at my folks’ place. And he has what he calls ‘scary’ news about Crynnwagg’s bones.”

“Scary news?” Tom said. “Right. He’ll probably tell us they’re Adam Bloodlove’s.”

“You know Mick. Loves to be occultically dramatic.”

After discussing the reason for the meeting, Mick finally shows up with news regarding Crynnwagg’s bones. The “King” referenced is Edward II, known as “Longshanks” in the movie Braveheart.


The five and Prestin didn’t have to wait much longer for Mick. When he showed up, the sun was heading down over the shadowy horizon of council houses and ship yards. A shadowy pall rose slowly up the south face of The Tooters, heightening the tall one’s mask of gloom.

After greetings, Tom asked, “So, Skinny, what’s up at the bone yard?”

Pordengreau, who once wore gaily colored robes to match is gay-ly lifestyle, now tended toward jeans and t-shirts with cartoon characters. Further, it was rumored he had started shunning other men. The horrifying fate of former lover Adam Bloodlove did a psychological number on the lanky one.

Who now began hyperventilating.

“What’s wrong, Mick?” Jack asked.

The lanky one composed himself. “Um, look, what I have to tell you scares the shit outta me. It’s too unbelievable.”

Tom asked, “Is this the reason you’ve had to wait so long to find out if the bones were Crynnwagg’s?”

Deep sigh. “They’re not Crynnwagg’s.” Another sigh along with a pounding heart. “They’re Swami Negran’s.”

As if ordained by God that this startling news should quiet all sound, the life of the park came to a standstill.

Six eye-popping faces on bodies taken aback, froze.

“The bones are not fourteen-hundred-or-so-years-old. The bones are so recent that carbon fourteen-dating can’t register them.” Mick spoke as if entranced to an audience of zombies. “I found that out several months ago. So then they began to narrow it down to dental records and the fact that both Crynnwagg and Swami had long-shanks.”

That last phrase awakened Jack. “Like that King.”

“Yeh. But having narrowed the candidates to people with long tibias, and me telling the university people that Swami had those kinda bones, they sent for Negran’s dental records, and voila! Match.”

By then everyone else had come out of his comatose state.

“But no one believed it at first. Not me or the team I sponsored. Swami was killed in a car crash, eh? Which would mean at least some of his bones would have been mutilated in the crash. News reports said the whole right side of his body was smashed. But these bones don’t show that. It’s as if he died a natural death with no bone deterioration. Like I said, no one could believe that. Negran was about middle-aged, when most people start losing bone calcium, or something. Not these bones. They’re almost perfect. But that’s not the scary part, eh?” He didn’t wait for anyone to respond to that. “The scary part is his crystal. The university people didn’t find his crystal with his bones, eh? But after all those months and then concluding the bones were Swami’s, that crystal showed up within his jawbones a day or so after I was contacted. Yesterday, in fact. I was busy in production—”

“You know,” Jack interrupted, “it’s funny that crystal showed up the very day the witch contacted me.”

“What witch?” Mick asked.

“The old lady who told us that Swami killed Adam. That witch, remember?”

“Oh yeh, that witch.”

Having dabbled in the occult most of his life, Pordengreau was unfazed by what he heard and would soon hear.

With every band member now at the meeting, ‘that witch of the Hovels’ then shows up to tell them why the red crystal associated with Crynnwagg was not found with the bones, but mysteriously showed up at Crynnwagg’s skull a day or two before the meeting. And the truth about the red crystal, which belonged to the fallen angel, Corion, whom God had cast into ‘the Abyss’ in the ‘beforetime.’ In between her paragraphs, some band members ask her questions which do not need to be referenced here.


“…Listen to what I have learned from The Tooters. Corion is the wayward son of The Creator of All Things, the One you call God. Corion is called Satan by most. Corion is the name given the Evil by a Druidic Age sect of cannibals called the Crag-Dwellers.” She looked at Mick. “You in particular have studied them.” To all she said, “None of you, however, knows the story you must know. In the year 50 AD, before the onslaught of the Romans, the Crag-Dweller High Priest Crynnwagg was killed by a group of Druid Priests called the Legion of the Twisted Oak, his blood drained and consumed by those priests in a cup of blood. You know this and wrote a song about this called ‘Crynnwagg’s Cup of Blood.’ In your other Crag-Dweller song, ‘The Rune of Seven-Crag Mountain,’ it is told how the Crag-Dwellers tied fourteen Druid children to oak trees and burned them in retribution. What you may not know is that Crynnwagg returned from the dead by the black magic of Corion’s Demons.”

 

“So Crynnwagg returned from the dead thanks to Corion’s Demons. But before he left the Abyss in which God exiled Corion, Crynnwagg stole Corion’s red crystal sight by which Corion could see his way in the black abyss. I do not know why Crynnwagg did this. Only God knows. But Crynnwagg did this thing and returned to the world using the crystal for godly power. The greatest of these powers is immortality. Crynnwagg would live forever, so he believed. That is, he would appear to die as anyone else, but then he would arise and take the form of another.

“Eventually, his Crag-Dweller sect was defeated by, first, Roman Legions, then by Christianity, various conquerors and the Normans under William the Conqueror. During this time in the late eleventh century, the bearer of the crystal was killed in battle by a young knight, who, of course, stole the crystal not knowing its powers at first. He learned, however, and used the powers to convince the king to make him a Duke. Thus the First Duke of Effingchester was created. Through succeeding generations, these Dukes became some of the kingdom’s most powerful landowners. Then came a moody madman, the Fourth Duke. He could be quite worthy, as in 1135 when he established throughout his land holdings—which of course included Walltown—new freedoms and less taxes. But he always had a dark side. He would not emancipate his serfs. He just couldn’t do it. I don’t know why. Serfdom was disappearing throughout Britain, and his serfs knew that, too. So these poor peasants, in July, 1136, tried in great vain to win their freedom. I know this because I was there. A few blocks from here in the old Hovels. The serfs were almost victorious because many freemen, called yeomen—themselves former serfs—aided their cause. So seeing himself being defeated in shame, the old Duke used the same crystal stolen by the First Duke to summon the Corion’s Demons. It took only three of them—Gold, Silver, and Bronze Demons—to burn Walltown to the ground.”

 

“To go on. When Effingchester number four summoned those Demons, he also prayed Corion to take back the crystal. The Duke threw the crystal in the air as Corion had told him, but Crynnwagg—as the Duke’s manservant—not Corion, caught the crystal instead. This did not please Corion one bit! So Corion put a curse on the Effingchesters for eternity.”

 

“…Crynnwagg survived the ages as various people of various walks of life. As a lesser duke in 1776, he formed the Society of Luminaries. In 1879, Crynnwagg, as a socialist philosopher, founded the Ring of Our Lord Lucifer, which, like the Luminaries, believed and strove for a one-world-order under Satan-Corion. Both groups used parts of the Corionic Cross. Then in 1964, Crynnwagg, as majordomo for Baron Torquay-Lambourgeau, founded the evil Novordo Club, which rules what some today call the new order.”

Finally, since it turned out the bones found near Holyhope were in fact the bones of Swami Negran, not the bones of Crynnwagg, the band leader asked this question which the ‘witch’ answered.


“But what’s this have to do with Negran?” Jack asked.

“Negran, of course, is Crynnwagg.”

To find out how Crynnwagg morphed into Negran and others throughout history, to find out how Negran really died, and to find more mystery in The Prodigal Band Trilogy, buy the book using links from the Bookstore here.

The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.

Snippets of The Prodigal Band Trilogy: Horror

I grew up immersed in the Horror genre, movies mostly, but also some comic books. When I was a pre-teen and teenager, some local TV station had aSaturday night movie series called “ChillerTheater.” Today that has morphed into the DirecTV and DishTV channel “The Chiller Channel” or whatever it’s called now. It was on this show series I saw “Godzilla,” “The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms,” “The Crawling Eye,” and various Japanese and other monster movies, various zombie/ghoul/vampire/Frankenstein-type monsters and serial murder movies many of which starred my fave actor at the time, Vincent Price. Basically, if Vincent Price was in the movie, I watched it.

In my twenties, I started reading horror genre fiction but I thought horror movies were more exciting. There was one book–I have no idea what the title was but it’s one of the few I actually finished reading–about some vampire-like rock band that recruits roadies or fans or whatever and then turns them into vampires, but one small group of fans turns against the band. Eventually, the vampire band gets “burned” if you know what I mean. But I did not buy the book because it had vampires, but because it had vampires who were rock stars!

And around this time, Ozzie Osbourne was making it huge…And. Oh yeah, AC-DC, “Highway to Hell” and all that…

One of the reasons I began writing the books that make up the trilogy was the notion, which has some merit but which can also be debunked, that rock stars are all “devil worshipers” and rock music is “the devil’s music” which quite a few Christians still believe is true. Many supposedly Christian YouTube channels try to verify this over and over and over while mentioning a few, such as the guitarist for MegaDeath–I forgot his name–are avowed believers in Christ (as is rapper DMX). My point is not to prove rockers are not devil worshipers; some clearly are (such as Marilyn Manson). My point is wanting folks to get over the notion that listening to rock music is going to turn one against Christ or for Satan. As if listening to country music and someone like Miley Cyrus is going to turn one to Christ!

But anyway…

To contrast the band called Sound Unltd’s beginning and rise to fame and fortune with their inability to handle it wisely later, and then the coming trials and tribulations they face, I thought it would be a good idea to bring in the most debauched period of their ‘supremacy’ in rock music. This is where the horror comes in. There are no monsters or vampires or zombies or mass murders, but it still has horror themes including ‘rituals of the craft’ if you know what I mean.

The following snippet which is a bit long comes from Chapter Six of Battle of the Band. The scene is a Hellside Horror House party for the touring band Sound Unltd given by the estate owners Andre’ and Cheetah, owners of a horror TV channel who use snakes and lizards as props on their show. Both are occultists as well. The night of the party is Thursday, July 12, 1993, in the fictitious city of Richmont, California, in the Bay Area. Band guitarists Jack and Mick (the occultist of the group), drummer Tom, singer Erik and bassist Keith are all mentioned, as well as various groupies, some of whom are wiccans, and Adam Bloodlove, Mick’s ‘partner’ and rock superstar of satanic bent.


Ring around the rosy, pocket full o’ posy

Ashes, ashes, all fall down

“A song about the Black Plague? Can’t you play a happier song than that, Jack?” Cheetah asked as she, the guitarist and six others finished the gruesome children’s rhyme.

Another asked, “What about your song, Jack? The Rune of Seven Crag Mountain? About the burning children?”

“Right. All in the name of religion. I can barely tolerate Mick’s cultist crap, let alone Swami Negran.” He readied his guitar to play the song. “But I love playing this piece.”

Jack began the music as a skuz tray was passed around.

They rounded up the young ones

And tied them to the trees,

And lit the grass.

The wood did burn

And then young skins.

You could feel the screaming breeze.

Cheetah broke in at the end of three verses. “I got an idea. Why don’t we play like the song says in the woods by our pond?”

“Let’s do it,” someone said.

 

Mick, Andre’ Cool, and Adam Bloodlove lounged in Cool’s dungeon-like bedroom, listening to the guitarist’s tales of the Crag-Dwellers.

Cool asked, “Where’d you learn these stories?”

“I formed the Druid Family. Mostly, for fun—and sex. But these people weren’t really Druids, eh? My cult’s based on the Order of the Crag-Dwellers, a secret society that lived at the time of the Druid priests. The Crag-Dwellers were cannibals.”

“No shit? Cannibals?”

“Yeh. They turned cannibal when the Druids tried to drive them out of their huts by the crags. The Crag-Dwellers believed that if they ate the flesh of an animal, they acquired the spirit and power of that animal. So, they applied that rule to people’s spirits as well. If they ate Druid priests, they acquire the Druid’s power.”

“But why did the Crag-Dwellers burn the children instead of eating them?”

Mick said cynically, “Because children have no power. So, they fried.”

“What else did the Crag-Dwellers do?” Bloodlove asked.

“Well, they also— Hey, wait a bit, eh? You know, I could show you outside. Andre’, you got a pond here, eh?”

“Yeah, about a half-mile behind the house.”

“Okay, I’ll show you what they did, and, on the way, I’ll tell you about it.”

Mick proceeded to tell the story of how the Crag-Dwellers gouged the eyes of their victims.

 

Tom, Princess Tina, and Lady Moira Sedgewick sat at a patio table on the veranda, deep in discussion.

Her Grace said, “Now, Tom, I read an editorial in CounterCulture that said due to inflation, consumers were being priced out of live entertainment. For instance, the outrageous cost of your concert tickets. And sixty bucks is outrageous.”

“Yeh, but in our case, sixty is worth it. And if what they said was true, we wouldn’t be perennial sell-outs. You know what the gripe is? A lot of acts would love to charge what we do, but they can’t. They don’t have the reputations for excellence and outrage like we do.”

Just then, a rush of singing, partying people from the solarium passed the trio. Cheetah called out, “Hey, Tina, you guys want to play Crag-Dwellers and Druids?”

“Oh, how super! You want to Moira? Tom?”

“Sounds ducky to me.” The two women got up.

“Oh shit,” Tom said. “When is that Skinny gonna get off this Druid crap?” He got up, disgruntled, and followed them.

 

“You mean, they took skewers and jabbed them into the eye sockets and wriggled the skewers around ‘til the eye popped out?” Bloodlove now couldn’t wait to play-act the scene at the south end of the pond.

“Yeh,” said Mick, “and then they ate the eyeballs. Raw. Whole. Like this.” Mick made believe he had an eyeball on his finger and stuck the finger into his mouth. “Delicious!”

“So where we supposed to get the eyes?” Andre’ asked nervously. “We’re supposed to kill something?”

“Shit, man, just a frog or something,” Mick answered. “Don’t worry, we won’t kill one o’ your lizards.”

“Gila monsters, not lizards!” Cool performed surrounded by the poisonous pet reptiles. “And I’m not killing anything!”

“Party pooper!” Bloodlove sneered.

“Come on, Adam,” Cool yelled in annoyance. “You’re just sucking up to that devil worshiper to get a record contract.”

“No. I get high off doing this. I thought you did, too.”

“I just make believe. I’ve never killed anything in my—”

“Shut up!” Mick whispered loudly. “I see a frog and I’m gonna catch him.”

“But not kill it, Mick. This is my pond, and—”

“I won’t do anything.” Andre’s hesitancy wearied Mick. “We’re just playing, Andre’. Who told you I was a devil worshiper?”

“Well, I thought you were, with all those altars at your place.”

“It’s just décor, eh? I collect Druidic artifacts and other witchy things. And you should talk, with all that ghoulish shit in your own house. Anyway, I’m not a devil worshiper.”

“Come on,” Bloodlove said, “let’s get on with it.” He turned to Cool. “We can’t waste any frogs, eh?”

“No.”

“Well then,” Bloodlove winked at Mick, “we’ll just have to kill you.”

He and Mick jumped Cool, sending the victim to the ground. Adam grabbed at Andre’s eyes.

“Get the hell off me!”

Bloodlove and Mick rolled off Cool, laughing with gusto.

Suddenly several bodies flailed at the three, chanting nonsense while grabbing at hair.

One of the new arrivals carried some twine and yelled, “Tie them up!”

The gang picked up the trio and shoved and marched them over to some trees. Mick, Adam, and Andre’, by now having been stripped to their ankles, were tied to an oak tree.

The curly blond among the gang got out his cigarette lighter and torched some tall grass under the trees, shrieking, “The Crag-Dwellers be avenged!” He gathered the others in a laughter-filled war-dance around the growing fire. “Burn the beastly Druids!” Tom’s face glowed orange by the budding blaze as he jabbed at Mick. “Skin them alive!”

Mick and the other two had enough and broke free of the bondage. “Okay, Shorty, put the fire out! Now!” The three stomped on the fire, and others used whatever devices they carried to take water from the pond onto the now smoky blaze.

Once the fire was out, Jack jibed at Mick. “So, you can’t take a joke, eh? What’s the matter? It’s you that believes this shit.”

Mick dusted himself off and snickered, “Did you have fun, Jack?”

The other laughed. “We need to do this again sometime.”

Tom joined in. “Yeh. Tomorrow night. Hey, Jack, you think we can do ‘im up during the show, a new skit?”

“Fuck you, Shorty!”

“Not in this lifetime.”

“Tom, I wouldn’t waste me time with this loony lad. But maybe we can grab our road manager, tie ‘im to our monolith—”

“Aaaaaarrrrrruuuuughhhhh,” came a blood-curdling scream from the pond’s north end.

“Everybody,” Bloodlove called out, “let’s see what that is. Quietly, okay? Let’s sneak up on him.”

Some carried wooden torches as they followed the satanic singer.

Another snippet that follows continues the bizarre party scene.

“God, Erik! You sounded like you enjoyed killing that poor baby frog,” Rona pouted as she squatted down to kiss her man for the evening.

The singer, still grasping the hapless amphibian, cocked his head to face the nineteen-year-old with cascading, shiny black hair. “Haven’t you heard? I eat frogs before I make love. That way, my pecker becomes more slippery and—juicy.” He ran his tongue over his sweaty lips and whispered, “Join me, luv, in my carnal feast.”

Their lashing tongues caressed each other’s mouths.

The frog squirted out of his grasp.

“Oh, no!” Rita shouted. “My frog got away!” She looked down at the writhing couple. “I thought you killed that frog, Erik! Why’d you let him get away?”

“Because,” the singer looked at her and smiled, “some things are more important than frog’s eyes for your witches’ brew, eh? Why don’t you and Lindsay go see if you can find that frog again, and Ro and I will catch you later, eh?”

Rita, disappointed, turned away. “Fine, Erik. Let’s go Lindsay. We’ll get our own frog, and we’ll make a potion and cast a spell on the two of them.” When she looked back, a naked Rona mounted a naked Erik.

Later, a torchlight parade saw the two girls coming toward them. “Witches!” Cheetah called out. “Burn those witches!”

The gang war-whooped and swooped down on the two.

“Wait! Wait!” Rita shouted. “We’re not witches. We’re hunting witches, and we got two of ‘em over there.” She pointed to where they left the lovers.

The growing throng danced down upon the passionate twosome, who got up immediately and ran furiously toward the house, still naked.

When Erik and Rona reached the veranda—the others in hot pursuit—they shut off the outside lights, then walked silently into the pool. The darkness caused three others to fall into the water.

Then— Flash went the lights. Crash! Went the music, to begin the next party round. Splash! Went half the wasted guests into the light-sparkling refreshment.

Untouched by the ‘witch-hunters,’ Erik and Rona walked arm-in-arm out of the water toward the bath house to towel themselves, their clothes still out at the pond. When they entered the small building, they found Keith and Lolita resting limp with exhaustion on the floor.

“Oh, sorry about interrupting,” Rona apologized.

Lolita covered herself with a towel.

“No need for that, girl,” Keith snickered. “They were just leaving.”

“Fancy meeting you here, bro.”

“Oh, fancy that. You still here.”

Rona sensed trouble between the two blood brothers. “Well, that’s okay. We just came in for towels and—”

“No matter, lovely wench,” Keith said. “We’ve been here long enough. Shall we go, my precious?”

He and Lolita strutted outside to a scene of rollicking hedonism exploding to the sound of gnashing metal and ghoulish cries.

Let’s party in Hell. We make it so well!

Move over, Sweet Satan for the party in Hell!

They ran, crying, “Let’s party in Hell!” as their momentum hurled them into the water.

 

There are more horror snippets I could have included but I figure this one is long enough as it encompasses most of the chapter. Want a much more serious horror scene? Buy the book using links here:

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The Prodigal Band Trilogy © 2019 by Deborah Lagarde, Battle of the Band © 1996 by Deborah Lagarde, The Prophesied Band © 1998 by Deborah Lagarde and The Prodigal Band © 2018 by Deborah Lagarde. Permission needed to copy any materials off this page.