BLOODLINES: THE JUICE CHRONICLES
If a single dad can survive financial woes, dual love interests, an annoying mother, and a growing list of gory murders—staying alive long enough to save the world should be easy, right?
Dak, a struggling entrepreneur, stumbles onto an impossible product he dubs 'Juice,' slamming him into a heart-pounding fast-forward effort to protect it and the untold wealth it represents. Juggling that potential is a task of epic proportions and it's not long before a blonde angel and a trail of bodies assault Dak's belief structure and vault him into a chaotic twister of threats and mystery.
The brutal murder of his best friend and his daughter's disappearance vaporizes the lines between myth and reality. To save her and Juice, Dak faces a life-altering ultimatum in a pulse-pounding confrontation that will risk everything. Brace yourself for a thrill ride laced with humor, romance, secrets, and betrayals that unravel truths hidden since time began.
SAMPLE
As dusk enveloped the small town of Murphy, the silhouettes of Caleb Westland and his associate, Silas, could scarcely be discerned atop the gentle rise that overlooked the main street.
From their vantage point, the pair observed the scene with analytical detachment.
"The quality of the cattle continues to decline," Silas remarked, disappointment in his voice. "This place is no different from the others. After centuries, you'd expect improvements, given our massive efforts to manipulate them. But their bloodlines have been tainted by synthetic corruption and crossbreeding, making them almost unpalatable."
As a young couple exited a diner, their arms linked, Caleb's gaze remained fixed on them. "Yes, it makes me long for the old days. Now, though, you can smell the decay from here. It's becoming intolerable," he responded, calm and detached.
They watched an elderly man shuffle past, his steps uncertain and weary, and a group of teenagers assembled around a flickering streetlight, their laughter piercing the twilight calm.
"It's crucial we advance our plans," Silas asserted, eyes scanning the crowd. "The revolution must succeed. We can't survive on contaminated cattle alone. Most of the common varieties are practically inedible now."
SAMPLE
Silence enveloped the room upon Dak's arrival, and he couldn't resist feeling out of place among well-dressed guests and lavish décor. While his parents looked polished in their Sunday best, Dak stood there in faded jeans and flip-flops, like a sore thumb among tuxedos and evening gowns.
Awkwardness loomed in the air until Ann Kent—the epitome of maternal disapproval—approached, Gordon trailing behind her. Standing at just five feet tall, with tight curls framing her face, she had that no-nonsense aura that made it clear who was in charge.
"Meat Lover's, I imagine." She fumbled with Dak's shirt. One hand smoothed down the fabric while the other plucked a dried mozzarella blob near the pronounced alligator logo. Ann deftly concealed it in a crumpled tissue tucked beneath her bra strap. Surveying the greasy residue left behind, she exhaled forcefully. "Your feet are filthy. I didn't raise you to be this sloppy."
Dak couldn't prevent himself from imagining she'd faint if he let one rip now. Helpless against her Mother Hen routine, he stood there, shoulders drooping, gazing past her at the inscrutable Westlands with a resigned smirk.
As Ann concluded her impromptu grooming session, the Westlands drew closer. Gordon and Ann surrounded Dak, their contrasting heights and builds becoming apparent. With a mischievous smile, Dak rested an elbow on Gordon's shoulder, grinning even wider.
"This is our son … Doral. He's had a rough day," Ann announced. The Westlands smiled, though their eyes betrayed curiosity. "We adopted him when he was just a toddler."
Without questioning her explanation, the man stepped forward with an outstretched hand. "Caleb Westland."
"They put fertilizer on my cereal." Dak nodded as they shook hands. "I used to be as short as they are."
SAMPLE
"Look, Mark. I have to get her home. But it won't take long. Meet me at Doyle's in about 30 minutes, and I'll buy you the biggest, bad-ass cold beer they've got."
Dak needed to talk to Caleb. He needed answers. He needs them now.
"Sure thing, Dak," Mark grinned, his eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and something darker lurking beneath. Despite his lack of intelligence, Dak had been close to him for more than 20 years. His gaze shifted towards the mangled porch railing and the wilted shrubs. Then, he turned back to Dak, "What about him? Maybe we oughta call the cops. Lieutenant Joe might wanna poke his nose in this mess … UGH!"
{{Krunchslurp squick! }}
The jarring collision of a fist meeting flesh reverberated through the stillness. This split-second symphony of grotesque impact and penetration hit Dak harder than Delivery Man ever could.
He stared at Mark and recoiled with a gut-wrenching grimace. Mark's body convulsed violently under the savage onslaught, flesh tearing apart with sickening cracks, the air filled with the metallic tang of blood, and the sickening sound of bones snapping like dry twigs.
Mark's mouth contorted in a silent scream, his features drained of color. Once sturdy like tree trunks, his legs now trembled uncontrollably beneath him. Flickering shadows cast by the streetlight danced over his anguished form, accentuating the raw horror of the moment.
Mark's eyes bulged from their sockets, an unspoken plea for help emanating from their panicked depths.
He ripped apart the front of his camo jacket, shredding the black Bob Seger T-shirt beneath. His movements unveiled a grotesque clawed appendage, oozing with crimson sinew and slimy flesh and viscera tendrils emanating from his lower chest. The entire hand and wrist jutted out toward Dak with feral intent as if attempting to reach him.
"Mark! No … shit, no!"
The fist clenched and withdrew with a sickening, wet sound akin to tearing raw meat off a bone. Mark's torso displayed a gaping, jagged opening filled with shredded flesh and coils of intestines. Blood erupted from the wound in rhythmic, pumping spurts, painting the concrete path with crimson splatters and drenching the front of Mark's jeans in a thick, dark cascade.
His legs buckled, driving his knees deep into the soggy grass. Arms hung lifelessly by his sides as the light dimmed in Mark's eyes. Like a felled tree in an ancient forest, the once robust football star crumpled forward with a muted thud on the grass, his face meeting the ground with a sickening crunch.
EXPANDED SYNOPSIS
"Thrombocytes? Coagulation factors like calcium and vitamin K? What about fibrinogen levels for clot formation?" Jillian's questions delved deeper into the realms of hematology and coagulation pathways. Kevin nodded in affirmation of each query, his expertise shining through in his responses.
"And the composition of the suspension medium—plasma should be readily available for emergencies," Jillian stated, her relentless pursuit of knowledge leaving no stone unturned.
Kevin's voice remained steady. "There was a small reserve of plasma. However, I've seamlessly integrated it into the production protocol." The exchange crackled with technical precision, painting a vivid picture of a laboratory setting where every detail mattered, and every component played a crucial role in creating their groundbreaking synthetic blood simulation.
"It's just not possible. Not in this lab," Jillian insisted, shaking her head. "The technology simply isn't available."
Kevin's eyes darted back and forth between them. He wasn't frustrated. It resembled more of an ask-me-anything look. "You can, like … break it down any way you want, Princess Lay Me. But it's all here. You can't deny what you're seeing. Guess I'm one bad-assed motha' fucker … ain't I?"
Jillian crossed her arms and stared at the monitor with her chin out. Perplexed. Maybe baffled.
Chang glanced around, wary of lurking spectators. Then, he pulled up the left sleeve of his jersey to expose four Band-Aids on his forearm. Three had pictures of Donald Duck on them, and one showed Mickey Mouse. "My hands were shaking real bad, dude. I had to try a few times till I, like … hit a vein."
"You injected yourself? Are you out of your stoned, fuckin' mind?" Dak was almost shrieking.
Of course, he is.
SAMPLE
SAMPLE
The unfolding scene seemed like a macabre horror movie to Dak. The Pyths, resembling predatory beasts in their savagery, tore through the Georgia crew brutally. Limbs were ripped apart with feral strength, and blood sprayed like crimson rain in the air.
There was no elegance in this gruesome melee, only raw brutality at its core. Teeth gnashed through flesh, eyes gleamed with malice, and claws shredded skin with ruthless precision. The stench of blood thickened the air, mixing with agonized screams that pierced through the cacophony of violence.
Amid this primal carnage, a hulking bald Pyth charged towards the SUV with palpable malevolence. Dak's bodyguards tensed but hesitated in the face of such unbridled aggression. The advancing Pyth's snarl echoed like a death knell as his eyes burned with an insatiable hatred.
Like a vengeful specter, Julian slashed through the chaos. With cruel intent blazing in his eyes and fangs glistening, he struck with deadly precision. His sweeping arc left a trail of shattered bones and torn flesh in its wake as he decapitated his foe in a brutal display of violence.
The headless figure writhed helplessly on the ground while Julian moved on to his next target with lethal grace. In contrast, Caleb, and Ephraim loomed like grim reapers overseeing a battlefield drenched in gore. Their presence was not passive; they orchestrated destruction with chilling precision within the chaos.
Amidst this horrifying tableau of dismemberments and gore, one Pyth stood out—a towering figure who moved like a savage flying panther unleashed upon its prey. With razor-sharp fangs bared and eyes ablaze, he launched himself through the air with terrifying speed and power.
Ephraim's swift intervention sealed another fate as he deftly redirected the airborne assailant's trajectory. With a swift motion, Ephraim neutralized the attack, leaving the aggressor incapacitated—a crumpled mass of grotesque flesh at his feet.
The gruesome aftermath painted a visceral picture of horror as dark fluids oozed from a few severed limbs and two dozen ruptured bodies littered the grassy battlefield. Grotesque blood splatters covered Caleb's pristine attire—an ominous residue of the savage combat.
As the bile rose in Dak's throat at the sight of such merciless carnage, Caleb's face mirrored Ephraim's satisfied expression. Ephraim held the fallen adversary's face like a ghoulish trophy, a symbol of their descent into brutality.
Throwing open the SUV door and bracing his weight on the armrest, Dak heaved so hard it hurt. He felt his belly twist and shift upward, dragging his kidneys with it. His eyes bulged in their sockets, and his brain no longer fit inside his skull.
His hand slipped, and his balance shifted. He tumbled forward, unable to catch himself. Wet grass rushed up at him, and he tasted ditch water.