The End of Dreams

By Neo Olin

Upon the abrupt demise of her exalted father, young Stella Eiren, heiress to all things good and golden, is suddenly torn from a life full of promise and thrust into realms bleak and brutal. Clinging desperately to her sanity amidst incomprehensible nightmares; stalked by foul monsters and even fouler men, she strives to survive: for love, for family, for an impossible truth at the heart of all things. Striving—again and again—striving to the very end. The End of Dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neo Olin Publications
• Release date: Feb 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781662933295

Book preview

Prologue

When Paul Eiren last visited, two women died. They were cut, torn and mauled. Then stabbed. With the ends of their own nails were their skins stripped to ribbons, ripped till they were minced as mincemeat. Grinning fervidly at the thought, he pressed and flattened his turtleneck with a few calming breaths in…and out…in…and out…and tittering as his chilled breath danced through the cool night air floating in…and out…in…and out until his heart finally steadied. Before him stood a small, cracked shed pitted with flecks of crumbled concrete and rotten wood, clinging by splinters to a derelict roof. Centered within this flimsy shack stood a certain door—iron-cast, rust-stained, reeking with that briny taint of moistened metal that seemed almost to crinkle in the cold. Yet, it nevertheless stood stiffly in his way, so he breathed once more. In and out. And then he began.

Ridi! Pagliaccio, sul tuo amore infranto!

And the door opened. Warm scents of roses and cigars mingled with notes of mirth and ambient jazz. Entering a svelte, smoky room of plush red seats and dark wood decor, Paul’s gaze lingered on the several Vermeers and El Grecos dotting the paneled walls. Authentics? Doubtful. Not that he cared tremendously—like many things, he thought, sighing at the sight before him, they served little better than as gaudy decoration. Greeted with slight bows by a variety of women, nude, clad barely in black fishnets and the most ridiculously high heels, he sighed again, frowned, then walked past.

Bleh. He shook his head, then continued down to the end of the hall for either the tenth or dozenth time, where a lone barmaid stood waiting behind a glossy, laminated counter, smiling with a raised glass. Care for a mule, Paul?

To which he nodded slightly, though did not pause his stride. Not today, Nina.

At the other end of the bar behind The Girl with a Pearl Earring, there hid a heavy wooden door with no knob; neither did it protrude from the wood paneling on either side nor show the slightest crease from where the door ended and the wall began. Taking a moment to admire the girl’s turban, Paul thumped his chest and breathed…in…and out…in…and out…and then he began.

A slight cough. A crack, crack, crack, as he straightened his back. Then Paul sang as quietly as he could: "O’ we’ll…meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when. But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day…"

And the door slid silently open. Entering to the scent of sawdust and Chanel, Paul beheld a vast room arranged in the manner of one of those ancient Roman amphitheaters—seven rings stacked one behind the other, each boasted dozens of small plastic stools haphazardly strewn amongst the layers. Searching for the most empty spot amidst the swelling assemblage, he finally settled on a most comfortably lonesome nook in the fourth ring opposite the door.

Quietly, he sat. Tapping the floor and twiddling his thumbs, waiting. Though as the rows began to fill he turned to grinning, then snickering, at this budding sea, this veritable zoo of men—all men. And what a menagerie it was! Tall men, short men, old men, fat men, every type of man under the sun, in every shape and size. A blur of middle-age and tailored suits; double-, triple-breasted, breasted and vested, ties hanging crookedly from portly necks. From their boardrooms and their corner offices to their limos, then all the way here to a place of sacred diversion, could none have been bothered to change? Tisk tisk. He sighed, then pressed and flattened his turtleneck one last time.

File by file they settled—now even in his section, in his very row. And as they sat the air began to stale and Paul’s sigh turned into a scowl. He could almost see the miasma flow from slimy mouths, thickening, festering then clinging to the skin of his cheeks. Why? Why did the world have to be so odious? Could not all things be beautiful? Crafted in the image of someone more like…himself? Yes…like himself. Then he smiled at the thought. Beginning to envisage the sheen of his own eyes—deep and blue, paired handsomely with a head of thick, black hair and a smooth, marble face plucked straight from an Italian museum. Noble, sculpted—the face of an emperor. Could not the whole world be like him? But no. The answer was no, Paul resigned as yet another most odious man slid towards him through the row. Sharp black suit, white shirt and dusky tie utterly wasted on a homely oblong face. Smiling awkwardly, he took a seat only one stool away.

Mind if I sit here? the man asked in a low, mellow tone.

Well, I can’t stop you, came the doleful reply.

I’m Gerard, he said. Pleased to meet you Mister…

An inward sigh. Paul peered all up and down this intruder’s cursed face: swarthy, with dull eyes just a little too dark, brown brows just a little too thick, a thin nose just a little too long and a wide smile just a little too wide for comfort from someone who could not possibly have much reason to smile honestly. Eiren, he muttered. Paul Eiren. But I’m rather drained now if you don’t mind.

Another time then, Gerard smiled. Rest well.

My lucky day. Squirming slightly at Gerard’s every audible breath, some minutes passed before the room began to fill and voices began to bound throughout the space, so that Paul could finally switch his focus and confine this foul intruder to oblivion. Not that it was peaceful now—no, far from it, for the voices, loud and nearly as oily as their bearers began to grate within his ears while all around him the air thickened, congealing, growing warmer. Men were helping themselves to his most coveted space, right, left and center until he couldn’t so much as shift his neck without the intrusion of some warbling clod.

Pardon, sir, do you mind moving one over? I would like to sit with my friends.

A man and his cohort were staring expectantly with beady little eyes at this singular obstacle keeping them from all sitting together. Sighing, Paul stood and shifted to the next seat so as to be adjacent to Gerard and his obsequious smile.

Well, hello again, said Gerard.

Hello there.

General Kenobi!

What? Paul coughed.

But Gerard merely continued staring with the thinnest of grins, nose wrinkling manically as his cheeks puffed with air. And Paul could only stifle his breath so long as his mouth swelled like a balloon and his eyes stretched wide and he tried to gulp a breath of swelling air that only kept swelling until—Hah! Hah. Hah. Hahahahaha! And Paul suddenly bent, convulsing and combusting and flailing to the eyes of a growing crowd as he unleashed a raving, fanatical laugh, nearly choking. He didn’t want to laugh, he really didn’t but couldn’t help it.

A man of culture, are you? tittered Gerard with a long, winding exhale, puffed cheeks slowly shrinking as a stream of air beamed through pursed lips.

Pff—Pah—Heh, Paul sputtered, trying to say something without quite knowing what it was he wanted to say.

"Oh, General. Do calm down, Gerard smirked. The show is about to begin."

Down below, a rustic square platform roughly three by three meters dominated the center stage, gleaming with a polished, weathered wood. Snap. A pair of fingers boomed from a far corner none could see. Snap. Then a set of bright, scintillating lights lit seemingly from the air, as none shone from either the ceiling or walls. Snap. And the lights began to shift, striding over the raucous spectators, whom each in their turn began to quiet, staring at the beams as they curved around the room, stifling even the slightest of breaths until at last they swung back to the platform. The square shining, the crowd silent—snap and a stark figure warped as if from the ground itself, manifesting in an instant upon the stage. Adorned in a brilliant, sheer yellow robe stretching from neck to floor, smooth and formless but for a minimalist collar at the throat with a singular yellow button, the bearer shined angelic against the fulgurate lights. Paul could not decide if the robe fit its bearer—wavy, brown hair streaked with gray combed forward, a robustly square face with a pitted chin, and high, defined cheekbones. Smiling brightly, with kind, lively green eyes that danced across the whole room, they seemed even to linger awhile on Paul before shifting along the rows. Paul smiled back.

Bare of all but his natural splendor, the man began without even a microphone, excited tenor easily booming across the entire arena. Gentlemen! A cheer blew from the crowd. Gentlemen! My my! He laughed, gesturing down with his hands. Do I love you all! And I hope you love me too. Do you? He cupped his ear to the booming shouts and cheers. Now, you all know me as— He cupped his ears again.

AS-MO-DE-US! shouted the crowd.

Asmodeus, he smiled. "God of lust and a lusting after life. Now, I see many of you have grown old—old and dear members of our cherished little clan. Well! Don’t feel bad, folks—lust after that life that you all hold so dear."

AS-MO-DE-US!

And now let us celebrate with some fresh young blood, blessed to never-ever have to taste the taint of age. Are you ready, folks?

AS-MO-DE-US!

Alrighty! Then allow me to bring out our finest young ladies, ready this very day to waste their pathetic little lives for your filthy pleasures!

AS-MO-

Snap. Asmodeus snapped his fingers and the crowd steadily began to quiet.

Snap. He snapped again and a distant door opened.

Emerging from an entrance sequestered discreetly below the stands walked four men, each with a black blazer and cheap white dress shirt tucked into polyester black pants. They bore small, intricate sub-machine guns which Paul figured were a bit overkill, but alright. Between them walked two women; one, slight and short, wore nothing more than a sports bra and a pair of micro shorts that barely covered half her buttocks while a bald scalp clung desperately to fleeting tufts of strawberry-blonde hair. The other woman walked in comic comparison—at least six foot two, thin, with a weak chin and short, emaciated strands of brown hair. Paul stifled a laugh at her rangy frame—a fair resemblance to those monsters that live in sunless caves and inside the closets of innocent children.

As the men led her on the platform Asmodeus continued, In our left corner, we have our two challengers—let’s see… my! Don’t we have some hideous cows tonight. You, short one; you look like a sex doll for blind pedos. And you, you gangly cunt! My god. Which bed did they pull you out from under?

Snap. He snapped and the crowd roared back to life.

Louder and louder vibrant, raucous jeers surged from the crowd with every insult as they laughed and pointed, shaking wrinkled fingers at the mismatched pair. Faces reddening, fists clenching tight, the girls stood silently and gazed amongst the audience with stares of death from hard eyes.

Now, my lovely friends, what should we call these foul excuses for the fair sex, hmm? Any ideas? He asked to a violent burst of yells from the crowd.

SHORT-IE and TALL-IE! the crowd shouted loudly, provoking a wince from Paul.

Ah! Very astute! Asmodeus smiled, nodding in the direction of the women. One is short. One is tall. So let’s say it again, folks!

SHORT-IE and TALL-IE! boomed the entire crowd this time.

I love it! And now, shall we bring forth our lovely little dove, our stalwart champion, our bastion of strength and hope? Our favorite little lady that needs absolutely no introduction? A bevy of whoops and joyous cries tore through the crowd. Say her name!

GI-NA! GI-NA! BAL-LER-IN-A! GI-NA GI-NA BAL-LER-IN-A! As the crowd roared, Paul winced again, swearing to bring earplugs on his next visit. But for now even he could not turn away, staring with bated breath as from the opposing corner burst another, far more enthusiastic woman. Adorned in a pink leotard, gripping and clawing with exaggerated growls, she not so much ran on the stage as leapt with a series of spins and twirls, blowing kisses at the crowd.

Gerard turned and leaned into Paul. "Look at that animal. A tigress. The wee black hair. Those cruel, cruel eyes. If it weren’t for all those hideous muscles, I could imagine having a lay."

I see the allure. But indeed, I prefer them petite as well.

Ah, like Shortie, then?

Paul grinned. How rude are you to pit my honesty against my civility. Then he grimaced slightly, remembering that he was not supposed to like this fellow.

Most dastardly indeed! Gerard winked. So. General. Suppose we wager, hmm? Life isn’t quite worth all that much on its own is it?

Certainly, we can wager, chuckled Paul with a glint in his eye. But only if I may back our favorite ballerina.

Very well, Gerard mused. But given that her victory is practically assured, I should demand the most favorable odds.

Bah! She’s fighting two opponents, Paul spat.

Wait a bit—let’s not kid ourselves now. Your math is wrong. See, in war, I reckon women are a quarter-man each. These lasses here are hardly a quarter woman each. See? One quarter-woman times two is one half a woman. When all is said and done she’s only fighting one-eighth of a true opponent and now how is that fair, General Kenobi?

The pair clutched their bellies, all but slipping off their seats, nearly choking in a violent fit of guffaws. In…and out… Paul breathed, forcing himself to calm. Very well, he said. If they win, I’ll wager…a half-million. But when Gina wins?

Gerard briefly paled before resuming his easy swagger. That’s a generous wager. I’m not nearly so affluent as you, General. But let’s see…Tell me, have you ever been to the After-Party? he asked with a smug squint.

Paul had heard rumors of such a thing. While the bar itself was an exclusive locale for discreet, wealthy businessmen, the arena was downright exclusionary, an invitation-only club for the richest and most influential global denizens. He had to pull every string as an Eiren to get in, an unaccustomed task for one who took life in stride. And even he had set aside ambitions for the After-Party, the most clannish of them all, only whispered of and never spoken. Ignorant even of the means to enter, the idea nevertheless intrigued him greatly. No place should be off-limits to an Eiren. "You’re in the After-Party?" He asked Gerard.

Indeed. I’m not sure you will enjoy it. But I am able to invite a friend. What say you? If Gina wins, you visit as my guest.

Very well. Paul nodded with not undue anticipation.

The pair turned back towards the stage as Asmodeus led the warrior trio to the center of the platform. Alright, touch fists, lady… he said, smiling at Gina. Turning to the others, he finished, …and others. The six fists bumped then retreated to their respective corners. 3. 2. 1. FIGHT!

Shortie and Tallie immediately entered a practiced boxing stance, arms up and with the balls of their feet lightly tapping the ground. In the other corner, Gina simply walked towards them, arms down, with a big smile. The two looked at each other with puzzled eyes. Paul imagined they were wondering what this cocky broad was doing. Then in a coordinated rush Shortie charged, diving at Gina’s legs while Tallie leapt forward, launching rapid jabs with her long, thin arms. Gina briefly knelt, jutting out her knee before her, and Shortie’s face rammed full-tilt against the cap, blood gushing from her mouth. Kneeling, Tallie’s jabs missed their mark just barely, so she redirected her fists down at Gina’s head. A pair of knuckles collided with a sharp crack against the top of her head, provoking a groan from Tallie. Gina rose, then gripped Tallie’s pained hand, taking the index finger and bending it back all the way in a violent snap. She then gripped her middle finger and performed the same maneuver.

Tallie collapsed to her knees and tapped the floor three times. "I surrender! Do you hear me?! I’m done! Do you fucking hear me, you cunts?! I’m fucking done!"

Gerard leaned in again. Do you hear her, Paul? I think she’s trying to say something urgent to us, but I’m not sure.

Paul twisted his head to the side and cupped his ear with his hand. Hmm. You know, I’m really not sure. She’s…

So uncivilized, Gerard finished, and they both broke into another fit of laughs.

The roar of the crowd drowned the rest of her clamorous cries, rising and multiplying with each snapped finger. Meanwhile, Shortie had been gasping on the ground, wiping blood from her nose and mouth in a never-ending stream. "Help! Please…" Tallie wailed.

Turning her head, Shortie dropped her hand and let her blood gush free all over her chest and the wooden stage. Crouching, she steadied her legs and then pounced. Gina had broken all but Tallie’s thumb, who now knelt writhing and screaming on the ground. But in her distraction, Gina hardly noticed Shortie’s lunge. She gave a sharp kick to her shoulder, but Shortie surged past to grip Gina’s leg. Gina released Tallie’s shattered hand, sending her scampering to the opposite corner while she focused all her strength into shaking Shortie off, but she wouldn’t let go. At once, Shortie sunk her teeth deep into Gina’s calf, arousing a violent yelp from The Ballerina.

Grunting with gnashing teeth, Gina wailed on her diminutive demoness with lightning fists, each punch landing with shattering thuds against her ribs and back. Still, Shortie did not let go. Instead, she switched her mouth to the back of Gina’s knee where a thick tendon protruded irresistibly. Chomping with all her strength, she prompted a howl from Gina as the woman’s iliotibial band lay crushed and chewed by hard, stubby teeth. Shortie’s mouth shone a crimson red as if dunked in a bucket of paint, smeared with her own and her adversary’s fluid. Even the cheers from the crowd began to subside as each member could only stare in shock at the incredible violence before them.

The battle is not as decided as we perhaps thought, said Gerard.

Just wait, Paul hoped.

Wild-eyed with teeth gritted in an incomparable rage, Gina rammed her gashed knee against the ground but felt nothing. Stretching her fingers in a fierce grip, she found Shortie’s neck and grasped till she felt the long, pulsing jugular protruding from her strained frame. While Gina was digging in her nails, Shortie gasped in a sudden panic and her grip loosened, retreating quickly from her ruthless foe. She did not get far. Despite her now weakened leg, Gina leapt with a spry ferocity onto Shortie, still attempting to scoot away. Pressing her hands down upon Shortie’s arms, pinning her steadfast against the stained platform, Gina gnashed her teeth and dug deep into Shortie’s jugular, which spurted a massive torrent of blood, showering Gina and the entire stage in deep crimson paint. Gina bit and chewed until Shortie abruptly stopped struggling; fists loosening, her corpse laid limply upon the bloodied floor in eternal rest.

Mouth frothing with flesh and blood and bellowing a low, guttural growl, Gina looked up and around. One more target. Tallie was huddled in a corner, trying to exit the stage but for the armed men guarding the points of egress. Please. Please! she pleaded. Just let me go!

Gina crawled towards her, mouth agape, spilling chewed skin in thick chunks across the already-colored floor. The room lay then completely silent except for Gina’s steps and Tallie’s whimpers until—suddenly the crowd turned to a far corner. Asmodeus in his bright