Hate Inc. — Part I

[Some more serialized fiction, starting at the beginning with no end in sight. Look, ma. No hands! This one, at least, has an actual title. Enjoy.]

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Hate pays.

Hate pays handsomely if you hate right, hate deep enough.

Do you hate deep enough?

Do you hate deep enough to earn enough?

Mr. Lucian, surnames on a need-to-know basis, founder and creative head of The Cleft, a.k.a. Hate Inc., a multi-tentacled ‘conglomerate of uncomfortable and unnerving ideas’, digital media purveyors, information disrupters, event planners, teaching academy, The Cleft School, back to the classics, ‘where the antiquities never go out of style’, that Mr. Lucian, leading a seminar for carefully vetted initiates. How to Stuff A Pocketful With Hate: Embracing Your Inner Antipathy. Continue reading

Part VIII — The Denouement

[Here we are, the final post in a story we’ll call ‘Devine Justice’. Not the type who likes to start at the end and work their way backwards? Go all the way to the beginning with Part i and work your way forward. Enjoy!]

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We drove in more silence. What was there to say? Dad seemed to have orchestrated the imbroglio at the Keg—

“Imbroglio?” Lianne inquires.

“More bloodbath, I’d call it,” Avrum says.

A little over the top. But that’s our Avrum.

“Aren’t you tired of the same ol’ same ol’, boys?” dad asks eventually, in a tone difficult to tell if rhetorical or not. “We absolutely sure that we’ve got things so figured out?”

Is he really looking for an answer from us? Continue reading

Part VII — Finger Pointing & Fault-Finding

[What now feels like the penultimate chapter. Desperate to get up to speed from the very beginning? Part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi]

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Quiet reigned at the outset of our ride home. The designated driver for the evening, I’d wanted to keep my wits about me for what I imagined might be something of an awkward dinner, my estimation being magnitudes off. Avrum sat in the passenger seat, sneaking constant glances over his shoulder at dad in the backseat, humming tunelessly and looking out the window at the passing scenery, serenely, I’d label it, with a slight, tight smile. Beverli Lee had in fact left her car in the lot. We’d checked to see if it was still there, dad musing about a possible ‘ambush’. It was impossible to know if he was joking. Continue reading