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Carole Hercun

Bio

What writer Carole Hercun has in common with her character Amanda Littlefield Jester, we will leave to the reader’s imagination.

Suffice it to say that both are blonde and buxom. I will add both are inordinately fond of Nova Scotia and New Orleans, although I cannot picture places more dissimilar, and Wiley and Kiley Rhodes, although I cannot picture twins more unalike.

Since Carole does not have the Rhodes brothers for back-up, her adventures shall remain on the safer side of the keyboard. Carole has taken up writing late in life, but it feels like a homecoming because it was, as you must have suspected by now, her first love, and like first loves everywhere, fickle and feckless.

Now a more…mature… woman, she plans to go the distance, and hopes, dear reader, that you will come along for the ride.

 

       

  

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A Note From Carole Hercun

Chapter Excerpt-The Palace Pandemonium

 

Lucas Hellmann was in a vile mood, seated on a chair too close to the Inferno for comfort, sweating through his annual performance review.  He hated a summons to the Throne Room, where the temperature, kept at a constant one thousand degrees from the volcanoes that spewed lava and magna and the cinders, pumice, and slag lights heaped on the obsidian floor, always gave him hives. The odor of the ejecta, sulfurous gases and steam that bubbled out of the cones was hell on his asthma.

The Prince of Darkness was raking him over the coals for his mishandling of the whole Jester affair, outraged he had let Amanda’s nubile body and sullied soul escape.  Lucas starred to cough and gag midway through Beelzebub’s litany, which concluded with, “Whatever possessed you to hang Junior Jester in Yarmouth Harbor?  Stop that coughing…or at least cover your mouth!”

            “It’s allergies, sir.”

            The Author of Evil was waiting for an answer, and that wasn’t it.  LC felt queasy.  He thought he might barf as he tried to come up with excuses, the best of which was a muttered, “I thought it might scare Amanda.”

            Mephistopheles bellowed at him, his dragon breath ejecting a stream of fire that ignited LC’s tie.   Leaping out of his seat, he scurried around trying to find a fire extinguisher.  Lucas would have thought there would be more than one in Hell.

             As he snuffed out the embers of what used to be his tie, he heard a snigger and saw the imp Delilah peek out from behind King Satan’s throne, amethyst eyes alive with amusement.  Delilah, released by a naïve human from a sorcerer’s bottle where she had been captured for the last 2,000 years, had cremated her rescuer for his kindness.

            A new acquisition in the court of the Prince of Pandemonium, she was teacher’s pet.  Needless to say, Lucas did not like her. 

            “Why does she have to be here?” he whined.

            “At least she’s not a screw-up. Although…she does like to screw.”  Beelzebub laughed at his wit, and waited for LC to do the same. Lucas forced out a chuckle.  His boss patted his lap, and Delilah curled up on it like a cat, a Cheshire one, considering the way she smirked at Lucas.

            The interview went downhill from there.  Excused from the Tempter’s presence he absconded, hoping to catch one of the elevators going back to Earth.  Lucas breathed a sigh of relief when the doors closed and it started to move. The muzak was the only enjoyable part of this annual journey on elevators that zoomed up and down from Room 666, the Throne Room, so fast they made his ears pop. The muzak, however, composed of the sounds of humans in torment, was music to his ears.

            Lucas had second thoughts. He squeezed through the doors just before they shut. To be passed over again for promotion was unbearable.  It meant another five years trafficking in human souls on Earth, the part of the business he hated most. Whining, lying, cheating, greedy humans, so very eager for the monetary recompense he offered, so very stingy when the time came to turn in their souls.

            He ran all the way back, and threw himself down right in front of the throne, next to his boss’ cloven hooves, catching the boss and Delilah in flagrante delicto.  “Angel of the Bottomless Pit, I know how to deliver Amanda Jester.”

            LC’s boss, not pleased with the interruption, thundered, “How do you intend to do that? This had better be good,” he warned.

            Smoke started to issue from the multiple fissures in Satan’s scaly skin, and LC started to sweat.  He knew the danger signs of a pending satanic meltdown. He struggled to quickly get the words out of his parched throat.  It was his asthma again.  Lucas pulled his inhaler out of his pocket.

            “Answer me!”  bellowed Old Nick. The room shook in response.

            Vertiginous from fear, vision blurred, the room spinning, Lucas could not think straight. The best he could do was, “I have… an ace…up my sleeve,” in a voice that was as wobbly as gelatin.

“How long until I have her?  I am bored!  I need fresh meat!  Bring her to me!” roared Belial, tossing Delilah off his lap, landing her in a heap of smoldering cinders. His final words were, “Failure is not an option!  Failure means furnace Patrol!! Get out.”                                                                                                   

            Lucas looked at all the women in various stages of decay and disarray littering the steps leading to the throne.  He watched the imp with ambition shake the ashes off her butt, and crawl back to the Angel of the Bottomless Pit.  She laid her head in his lap and went eagerly into his arms when he reached for her. LC shuddered, as he backed out of the room, leaving His Satanic Majesty and his groupie alone to do the nasty.

It was bad enough he was burdened with domestic problems and incompetent slackers who could not stoke a furnace properly, let alone snare a soul, an evil imp who wanted his job, countless humans attempting to renege on contracts, an even higher recruitment quota for the approaching fiscal year and all the attendant paperwork.

 

 

Excerpt-The Palace Pandemonium

 

Lucas Hellmann was in a vile mood, seated on a chair too close to the Inferno for comfort, sweating through his annual performance review.  He hated a summons to the Throne Room, where the temperature, kept at a constant one thousand degrees from the volcanoes that spewed lava and magna and the cinders, pumice, and slag lights heaped on the obsidian floor, always gave him hives. The odor of the ejecta, sulfurous gases and steam that bubbled out of the cones was hell on his asthma.

The Prince of Darkness was raking him over the coals for his mishandling of the whole Jester affair, outraged he had let Amanda’s nubile body and sullied soul escape.  Lucas starred to cough and gag midway through Beelzebub’s litany, which concluded with, “Whatever possessed you to hang Junior Jester in Yarmouth Harbor?  Stop that coughing…or at least cover your mouth!”

            “It’s allergies, sir.”

            The Author of Evil was waiting for an answer, and that wasn’t it.  LC felt queasy.  He thought he might barf as he tried to come up with excuses, the best of which was a muttered, “I thought it might scare Amanda.”

            Mephistopheles bellowed at him, his dragon breath ejecting a stream of fire that ignited LC’s tie.   Leaping out of his seat, he scurried around trying to find a fire extinguisher.  Lucas would have thought there would be more than one in Hell.

             As he snuffed out the embers of what used to be his tie, he heard a snigger and saw the imp Delilah peek out from behind King Satan’s throne, amethyst eyes alive with amusement.  Delilah, released by a naïve human from a sorcerer’s bottle where she had been captured for the last 2,000 years, had cremated her rescuer for his kindness.

            A new acquisition in the court of the Prince of Pandemonium, she was teacher’s pet.  Needless to say, Lucas did not like her. 

            “Why does she have to be here?” he whined.

            “At least she’s not a screw-up. Although…she does like to screw.”  Beelzebub laughed at his wit, and waited for LC to do the same. Lucas forced out a chuckle.  His boss patted his lap, and Delilah curled up on it like a cat, a Cheshire one, considering the way she smirked at Lucas.

            The interview went downhill from there.  Excused from the Tempter’s presence he absconded, hoping to catch one of the elevators going back to Earth.  Lucas breathed a sigh of relief when the doors closed and it started to move. The muzak was the only enjoyable part of this annual journey on elevators that zoomed up and down from Room 666, the Throne Room, so fast they made his ears pop. The muzak, however, composed of the sounds of humans in torment, was music to his ears.

            Lucas had second thoughts. He squeezed through the doors just before they shut. To be passed over again for promotion was unbearable.  It meant another five years trafficking in human souls on Earth, the part of the business he hated most. Whining, lying, cheating, greedy humans, so very eager for the monetary recompense he offered, so very stingy when the time came to turn in their souls.

            He ran all the way back, and threw himself down right in front of the throne, next to his boss’ cloven hooves, catching the boss and Delilah in flagrante delicto.  “Angel of the Bottomless Pit, I know how to deliver Amanda Jester.”

            LC’s boss, not pleased with the interruption, thundered, “How do you intend to do that? This had better be good,” he warned.

            Smoke started to issue from the multiple fissures in Satan’s scaly skin, and LC started to sweat.  He knew the danger signs of a pending satanic meltdown. He struggled to quickly get the words out of his parched throat.  It was his asthma again.  Lucas pulled his inhaler out of his pocket.

            “Answer me!”  bellowed Old Nick. The room shook in response.

            Vertiginous from fear, vision blurred, the room spinning, Lucas could not think straight. The best he could do was, “I have… an ace…up my sleeve,” in a voice that was as wobbly as gelatin.

“How long until I have her?  I am bored!  I need fresh meat!  Bring her to me!” roared Belial, tossing Delilah off his lap, landing her in a heap of smoldering cinders. His final words were, “Failure is not an option!  Failure means furnace Patrol!! Get out.”                                                                                                   

            Lucas looked at all the women in various stages of decay and disarray littering the steps leading to the throne.  He watched the imp with ambition shake the ashes off her butt, and crawl back to the Angel of the Bottomless Pit.  She laid her head in his lap and went eagerly into his arms when he reached for her. LC shuddered, as he backed out of the room, leaving His Satanic Majesty and his groupie alone to do the nasty.

It was bad enough he was burdened with domestic problems and incompetent slackers who could not stoke a furnace properly, let alone snare a soul, an evil imp who wanted his job, countless humans attempting to renege on contracts, an even higher recruitment quota for the approaching fiscal year and all the attendant paperwork.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

 

 

                                                                                         

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

  

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

 

 

                                                                                         

                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

  

 

Visit Carole Hercun's website: www.carolehercun.com




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