Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S1 Ep29: Episode 29: I Made a Living on the Dark Web

Episode Date: May 13, 2021

Tonight's show is proudly sponsored by Manscaped: get 20% Off and Free Shipping with the code CREEP at https://www.manscaped.com/ Tonight’s feature length series is ‘Stories of a Dark Web Fixer’ is an original work by Soaren Ryiker, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/SoarenRyiker

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We believe OCT scans are so important they're included with every standard eye exam. Book an eye exam at Spexsavers.cavers.ca.ca. Eye exams are provided by independent optometrists. Visit Spexsavers.com to learn more. Welcome to Dr. Creepen's dungeon. Now it is said that only 5% of the internet is accessible by regular search engines. The other 95% contains the world's shadiest crimes and requires special tools to access. Tonight we enter that world with stories of a dark web fixer.

Now as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's tales may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. But that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. My story is a long one hand, mostly uneventful. That's where I like it. Uneventful, quiet, forgettable. However, there are times that stand out, times that I'd prefer to forget,

and times which I wish I could relive forever. It's these moments in my life that I've come to share with you, maybe to clear my conscience, maybe to simply get it off my chest, dirty secrets and all that. Do keep in mind, though, that there will be many details that I must omit for obvious reasons. Chief among them, my own safety. Chances of the people I'll mention here finding this are low, however, precautions must be made. My username is fake, the names in these stories are fake, but the events, on the other hand, are very real. I work on the dark web, running an online business of sorts, through a warehouse I own.

It's a front that makes me all my taxed income and keeps the feds off my back. Helps me clean money as well. The front is simple auto repair, and I do actually have customers and an established clientele, but the real money is made on the clever use of my property. It's a large 15,000 square foot rectangle, with offices in the front and the very rear, and with multiple partitions in between. Bay doors in the rear of one side even allow for large big rigs to back up and load or offload their cargo. It's situated deep in an industrial complex in the central Florida area, in the home

with the big mouse himself. The place was perfect for the operation that I had set up over the last few years. Easy access parking lot. access through four different driveways and two different roads, one of which is a dead end, but it makes for easy freight truck deliveries. Speaking of which, I'm a fixer, obviously of cars, but for the dark web as well. Like I said before, I use my property for most of the work. Sometimes it's simply a dead drop location.

Someone drops off a package and someone else usually comes by sometime later to retrieve that package. Those are the easiest. I don't even see anyone the majority of the time. Just a notification on my cell of funds being placed into my PayPal or Venmo account. No risk to me. I never even knew the package was there. At the time someone hands me a payment directly. I like these the most.

Usually I charge a fee based on shipment size and storage length. And cash payments are the best. cash doesn't get seen by a big brother, well, if you're smart about it. I'm not, unfortunately, so I keep someone on the payroll who is. They manage not only my personal and legal business accounts, but the off-the-books accounts as well. Sometimes I make hot items disappear. Automobiles, electronics. Parts for one thing or another, doesn't really matter.

Sometimes I'll buy the product myself. Other times I worked for a broker. A little more complicated, a little higher risk, a little off the top for the broker, but a bigger cut at the end of the day. And sure, if I get caught with this stuff, it's certainly jail time for me. But that's the beauty of a place that's out of the way. Nobody really comes snooping around unless they're looking for trouble. I'm also the last stop in a lot of delivery chains for the Orlando area. A package will be dropped off without any exchange of words,

simply a slip of paper with a code or phrase on it. A few hours may pass, maybe a day, and someone else will drive in to claim it, simply handing off another slip of paper containing a matching phrase. I really only have one rule to this job. No talking. I don't want to know your name. Where you came from?

How the weather is? No, none of that. Your life and mind. don't get to mix. I don't talk to you, you don't talk to me. Nobody gets in trouble and we all get paid. Of course, that's the way I like to run things. It doesn't always go as planned though. And that brings us to both my least and favourite part of working on the dark web, actually dealing with people from it. Like I said once already, I'm a fixer. Sometimes I'm fixing people, sometimes I'm fixing their problems. Many times that happens to be other people. I'm no stone cold killer,

and I won't be. Pay isn't high enough for that. I'll rough someone up if I'm paid to, and I'll protect what's mine if need be. Now, with the introduction out of the way, I'll choose the name Jack for these little confessions. I like to think I'm a Jack of All Trade when it comes to this stuff, so, well, there you go. Our story starts way back, about ten years ago, on a Floridian winter day. I was about a year into the business before my first major problem happened. I had little things happening in the past, like shipments that never got to me, or deliveries that never made it to their destination from my location.

You know, stuff like that. This time was different, though. Nobody arrived to take receipt of a shipment. I walked the warehouse twice a day. Once when I arrive in the morning, or once before I go home. It wasn't unusual to see cargo not move for a few days, even a week. Many times it would come and go without me knowing when I just get the payment for being a dead drop. Now, by this point, I only had two of what I now call lanes sectioned off.

One for packages that would come and go quickly, a day or two at most. Another section that was designated long-term, though, like I said, said, nothing more than a week really stayed there. These days, the business is bigger, with more product, and I will see things sitting around for weeks in my long-term lane. But this was long before I had my first long-term storage request, and it was actually supposed to be in and out within the same day. It was a single box, about four feet long and about six by six inches tall and deep. I do keep a vague log on a burner computer. At the time it lived in a fire safe, locked inside of a gun safe with three separate locks

that was anchored into the concrete floor in the only furnished office in the back of the building. I say furnished, but it only had a folding desk, a small rolling chair, a safe, an incinerator, and a mini-fridge in which I kept a couple bottles of good whiskey for the rare occasion I discussed business on site. I'd take loose notes on what was in the warehouse in the morning, match it with what I was expecting to be there, and repeat at the end of the day. taking the notes on a single sheet of paper that I would burn after logging into the computer. Now, I can already hear you ask, why transfer it to the computer at all? If you try not to have any evidence, then why bother with the computer?

Or to that, I simply say, if I'm found out, it doesn't matter if I even burn the computer. The whole thing is happening inside of my building, and my fingerprints are everywhere. Nothing to be done about that. If worse comes to worst, there's a fire bomb set to trigger upon my not diffusing it, and reselling the timer at least once every few days. And yes, there is a second one inside the fire safe, with a computer in it as well.

It's risky, sure. But as they say, a life without risk isn't one worth living. So, my daily routine is, arrive about six in the morning. Reset the security measures. Spend a couple hours taking inventory and matching that inventory to my register. Go back to the front and run the shop,

which is basically just manage my regular employees who get taken care of if they get nosy, of course. When the day's done, I look up the front, take infantry a second time, and leave when I'm ready. Sometimes it's as early as four, sometimes as late as ten. Depends on what's going on. Now, usually, a purchase on the dark web can be made in a variety of ways.

Payment in full before shipping, after shipping, split through some percentage before and after delivery, you name it. It just depends on the seller preference most of the time. I'm sure you can imagine that buyer's remorse isn't really a thing that we have to deal with either. You understand. It's like if you buy drugs from someone and you get ripped off, you can't really. go to the cops and tell them you try to buy coke and got powdered sugar instead. Oh, I knew this particular cellar though. Was a payment in full, upfront type of character, so his delivery network was stout. And yet here, this box was, unmarked except for the letters and numbers I

asked to have on them to identify them. And it's still here after its pickup time. Now, I don't mind keeping things around for extra time. Don't get me wrong, but it was taking up space and someone was going to need to pay for that slot. I run a business, not a charity, and space in my warehouse, even in the early days, was limited, and I didn't rent that space for beer money either. So, when I sat down at the end of the day to make my notes and do my paperwork, I sent a message to the shipper. I do have that information, of course, not where they came from or anything, just just who they'd come from. Now, this guy, we'll call him Steve,

was a regular for me. He wasn't a big mover, but he was consistent, and so were the people he used to pick up as well. Usually, exceptions to every rule and whatnot. So, I sent him a message, expecting him to get back to me the next day or so, not really thinking much of it while I set back to work

on the rest of the inventory. About 15 minutes. minutes went by before the burner phone I used as a contact number for this business rang. I didn't answer it. I'd always let it go to voicemail first. If it's important, they'll leave a message and I'll call them back. Sure enough, there was a message less than a minute after the phone stopped ringing. I played it back. Call me back.

The voice on the other side was rugged, a two-pack-a-day smoker type of rugged. It could be steep. So I did as I was asked. It rang once more before being picked up, though there was only silence on the other end. Steve? I asked cautiously. Yeah, the voice responded after a moment. The guy who was supposed to pick up didn't do it. No, new guy? I asked.

I wasn't a fan of business over the phone then. Still don't like it, but I make exceptions from time to time. No, this was supposed to be one of my regulars. Well, I started. I'll keep in an extra day, on the house, but past that... Oh, I trailed off. Yeah, I got it. I'll do what I can.

I'll call you from this number again if I can't get it moved on time. Good, I replied, hanging up. It was important to be firm and to the point. Exude power and authority, but don't owe. overstep it. Steve was a good customer, always paid on time, almost never had packages sitting longer than they were supposed to. So I gave him the extra day. It was good for relations to do a pro bono case once in a while. Word gets around. Well, it's how I've built what I have now, firm but understanding. So I finished my work for the day. Locked up the warehouse,

was getting into my car when a red pickup truck pulled into the parking lot. It was almost nine, and I was ready to go home. The next day was Friday, and I was really looking forward to my weekend, which started on Friday. I think now is a good time to mention. I have high-definition cameras set up on the inside and outside. Hot shit back in the day.

They also had a security door put in place with a keypad that changed its code once a week. This code was sent to a computer I had set up at home as a server. It, in turn, sent the information to people who would need it to make the code. their deliveries or pickup. The whole thing was set up by a tech savvy friend of mine. All I had to do was send the information via a messenger from my laptop at the warehouse,

which I did at the end of every day. Needless to say, I wasn't worried about people coming and going throughout the night. If, and it was a big if, anything were to be suspect, I'd know every detail I'd need to. Normally, with the security being there, I'd leave, and not bother to look back. I had a few clients that looked out for me for one reason or another, and I could call on them if I needed to.

Protection of product is a big deal with some of the more expensive items that may get moved through my hands. But today, something nagged at me to stay behind and wait. Could have been the fact that I had an undelivered shipment sitting in the lane. Could have just been nerves. Whatever it was, it made me wait and watch as this pickup truck. reversed up to the back door. Two guys got out, leaving the truck running. They approached the door, but didn't punch the code into the keypad. Instead, they turned back around and opened the tailgate,

both of them hoisting out a long pry bar, looking right out of the truck bed. It must have been heavy, because it took the both of them to lift it. They jammed it under the door and wrenched it upward, the both of them. The metal door buckled and bent. but didn't come off the hinges, though there was a visible gap, even to me, from across the parking lot. They then stuffed a chain into the space at the top, fished it out from under and through the bottom of the door, wrapping it around the trailer hitch to secure it. One ran around to the driver's side of the truck, hopped in and put it in drive, speeding away from the door. The chain pulled tight and rib the door from the frame. The sound was

louder than I expected as the door bounced and slid across the parking lot. The driver got out, unhooked the chain, then backed the truck up to the now-dalless doorframe. They were in a hurry. He left the door open and the truck running as they rushed inside. They hadn't noticed me sitting in my car, parked diagonally about 50 feet away. There were no streetlights in the back, only one dim light that illuminated the now empty doorway. So not only did they not see that I was there, but they didn't see me retrieve the silence nine millimeter that I kept in the glove box. Like I stated before, I'm no hitman,

but nobody deals within the dark web without protection. One of the early payments I'd received at some point had been the gun and its silencer. It wasn't anything special by any means, but it would get the job done if need be. I approached the truck first, peeking in to see if there was anyone still inside. I'd left the doors open,

so I wasn't really taking any unnecessary risks. I approached the door, stepping through the condensation coming back from the truck's tailpipe. The temperature had dropped into the low 40s as night had fallen, though the cold wind bit at my nose and fingertips. My heart was pounding in my ears. There was sweat around my neck. And I had to force a smirk from my face, remembering that this was business.

Peeking around the doorway, I saw the two guys scanning the lanes, walking slowly away from me. I heard one say, I know it's long, addressed to some guy named Augustine or some pretentious shit. I didn't see any weapons on them. But that didn't mean they didn't have it. I pulled the neck warmer up over my nose and mouth and entered the darkened warehouse. I knew where they were, and I knew the layout of the place like the back of my hand. If I played my cards right, I could get the drop on them. I prefer not to have to kill anyone, but if it came down to it, I was prepared.

I stuffed the pistol in the back of my waistband, and picked up a crowbar from the corner of the room as quietly as I could. I could, creeping in closer. It's got to be around here some fucking place. The guy said he hadn't picked it up yet. At least he was right about the place being empty at night. Will you shut up already? The other said. Breaking into this place is fucking risky.

Who knows whose stuff this is? Want to peek around? The first asked. Stopping for a moment and looking around where the flashlight at all the boxes and crates stacked all around him. Could be some good shit just waiting to be taken. Fuck, no, you moron. Didn't you hear me?

A lot of this stuff probably belongs to people who would kill you like it was fashionable. Let's just get what we came for and get the fuck out of here. When the guy closest to me had his back turned, I stepped from cover and got within striking distance and swung the crowbar like a baseball bat, slamming it into the side of the guy's head. I tried not to swing it with all. my might, and there was definitely a deep thunk when it connected. But the adrenaline was racing

now, and I disappeared into the shadows before the guy had even hit the floor. The flashlight dropped onto the ground first, the bulb inside blowing out. To this day, I think that's what saved me from getting caught, because it rolled right over to face me. It was stealthy, sure, but it was definitely not unnoticed by the second guy who seemed to have found what he wanted and was picking it up when I'd hit the first guy the guy I hit never really made any vocal sounds but his body hitting the floor sure did

and his friend snapped around turning the flashlight in what he thought was his friend's direction I couldn't see him clearly because of the flashlight but he was definitely moving in my direction now searching for me. I made a move around some large crates, trying to get behind the second guy. Oh, fuck man.

I knew this was a bad job. He whispered, mostly to himself, as he approached his friend. Dude, get up. He was looking around with a flashlight now, panicking more every second. Oh, come on, man, get up. I rushed at the second man,

swinging the crowbar around his neck and pulling him back onto me, we fell to the ground. The struggle itself is a little vague. He hit me in there a couple times, trying to get free, but while I held steady, keeping the crowbar where it was, and after what felt like minutes of the guy struggling, he slipped into unconsciousness.

I pushed him off of me with a groan. I walked over and flipped on a couple of overhead lights and set to work, getting the guys tied up with some ratchet-strapped tie-downs. I pulled out my phone and called Steve again. Two rings this time, and he answered. Hey. His voice came through as rough as the first time.

Whatever you've got sitting in my warehouse is hotter than a shit, and I want it gone. My tone was flat. I could hear him sigh heavily, and then... Oh, fuck. I'll be there myself in an hour. Yeah, and you can help deal with this mess which created as well. I don't like to think I'm a demanding guy or anything,

but I was still running on the adrenaline, and the cigarette I'd lit wasn't helping in the least. Oh, yeah. He sounded a little more distraught, but more out of inconvenience than anything. Okay, I got some guys in the area that I can call on. Be there soon. And with that, he hung up.

I pulled the guys I clobbered over into one of the empty offices and locked them inside. The one I'd hit with the crowbar was bleeding pretty bad, but it didn't look like I cracked his skull or anything, so I just wrapped his head up in some cleanest shop rags and duct tape and left him tied up there. I didn't need some guy dying on my property if I could help it. Bad mojo on that. I walked outside and parked the truck out of the way

and dragged the door inside. The wind was picking up And I could smell the smoke of a fire Probably made by some homeless guys to keep warm But it was otherwise quiet I lit a second cigarette and waited Pacing back and forth Down one of the lanes

Listening intently But the only thing I could hear was my own heartbeat Just beneath the sound of my footsteps On the dusty floor The adrenaline was starting to come down when I heard the sound of vehicles pulling up outside. I peaked out again, grabbing the grip of the gun under my coat and approaching the door. I heard one set of footsteps approach, then a familiar voice call out.

Hey, Jack, it's me. I relaxed, exiting the warehouse to meet Steve face to face for the first time in our many-month-long partnership. He extended a hand slowly. I took it in mine. He was a big guy, much larger than myself. Piker look, leathers, bandana, white hair and a beard. Chains and rings. Like he walked straight out of Sons of Anarchy or some shit.

Steve, I said mildly. Jack, he nodded back. Let's get this over with, shall we? I was stressed enough as it is, anxious to get home and have a stiff drink. He nodded, first to me, then over his shoulder, to the seven guys who were filing out of the two new trucks parked in the loading dock. They all wore black cargo pants, workbooks and black hoodies with the hoods up. Classic gangbangers, though I didn't bother looking at any of their faces. I didn't want to know, nor did I care.

Take that truck over there on your way out. I sat, pointing at the truck the guys are driven in with. Okay, no problem. Steve said, one of the guys broke off right away to go over to it. So, what happened? I was just about to leave, I said, walking inside, expecting the others to follow. These two rolled up, yanked my door off and just made themselves at home. I walked over to where I'd set the package off to one side on one of the long countertops

and handed it to Steve. He took it with both hands, carefully. the two guys you've got to take care of are in the first office on the right through that hallway I pointed through an open door and handed the key to the room to Steve who handed it to one of the guys in black

whose only distinguishing feature was he looked like every generic white bouncer in every club in Orlando jacked square jaw and shaved face looked like he was constantly smelling someone's shit the six guys went in and carried the two guys out handing me the key back on their way past.

Steve and I just stood in the warehouse for a minute until they were gone. Drink? I asked, lighting a third cigarette. Yeah, he responded with a heavy sigh. He followed me to my little office that overlooked the floor, and I poured two glasses of a 15-year whiskey handing in one. So what's this going to cost me? He asked expectantly. Though I knew it was coming.

I hadn't really thought of any kind of cost yet. Some cash, obviously. But this kind of trouble is the first we've had. I took a light sip from the glass, feeling the smooth amber whiskey slide down my throat. Tell you what, I sighed. Give me a stack and clean up the mess for me and we'll call it square. The door too?

I nodded. Yeah, man. If you could get that replaced tonight, I'll get it refitted with a new lock tomorrow. Deal, he said, taking a swig from his own glass. He looked into his cup a moment. Damn, good stuff. Normally, I don't really want to know, I said, turning away from the window to face him.

But what's in the box? You sure you want to know? He asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. I thought about it a moment. Yeah, I do. What was worth breaking into an underworld storage facility and risking your life for? Look, these guys knew that there was some shit in this warehouse. They knew it was connected to some seriously shady and powerful people.

What was worth that risk? He set the box down on the table, pulled out a switchblade and cut the tape open. You're sure, he asked once more. I merely gestured with a glass in my hand. He opened the cardboard box and pushed aside the packing peanuts, lifting out a long, thin black case. It was the deepest black I'd ever seen. It didn't shine or even looked like any kind of material that I'd ever seen before. It was like my eyes couldn't quite adjust to looking at it.

I couldn't see a seam or a hinge or anything. When he set it down on my desk, it looked like someone had opened a window into the vacuum of space. You've got to open it for yourself, though. I'm not going to do it for you, he said, looking away. That should have been warning enough. This guy looked like the type of guy who ate nails for breakfast, and had probably seen things that would keep me up for days. Even as I sit here recounting this, I know I'm not going to be sleeping for a few nights.

What I saw inside that box defies all logic or reason Nothing I'd ever seen before or since has come close to giving me the vertigo than what was inside that black void What I saw when I lifted the lid of that box Didn't have a form I could put into words

I only saw it for a second Before I dropped the lid closed again Turning for the trash can I emptied my stomach of its contents and instantly broke out in a cold sweat. What? I stammered. My composure completely broken. What is that?

I don't know. But the guy who brought it told me it wasn't from our dimension, whatever that means. Steve was placing it carefully back inside the packing material and closing the flaps on the box when I turned back around to face him. I'm sorry. this thing caused you the trouble it did. I didn't think anyone would be trying to get their hands on it. Look, I've got some connections that we'll track down. I raised my hand to cut him off.

I don't want to know. I breathed. Just pay me the deuce, and we'll put this behind us. I don't want to hear about it again. And I didn't. Steve and his crew left after putting a new door on the hinges. I went home to drink myself into a stupor for a couple of days. Until a couple of weeks ago, I'd all but forgotten about it.

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If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2,600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Episode 2. The abandoned house. There haven't been any stirrings as of yet, and I still doubt there will be. And so, on to the next, as they say. This one may come back to bite me, though. I never did find out who was involved with it at all.

Bits and pieces here and there over the years, but today's story still has some loose ends. And though it'll make me keep an eye over my shoulder for the first time in a long time, I will divulge it to you anyway. It never sat right with me, all I found. It was about five years ago. By then I had a well-established system going. The warehouse is divided up into four total sections,

not including the office space. The two in the rear I use for dark web business, shipments that come and go. The closer to my legitimate business, the longer the storage times. Fewer people coming and going keeps curious eyes where they belong. However, there's still a section

between my repair shop and the first of the two shipping sections, and it's in here that I store stuff, most of my own belongings, but occasionally I'll have customers from both businesses. Asked to store something for a while. It acts as a buffer between my businesses. But what really gets stored in there, maybe a story for another day.

At this point in time, I was really running a big operation. I'd hired my friend who'd set up all the security gadgets that I'd told you about last time. He knew the score. He was cool, and I trusted him. He helped me keep things running smoothly, so smooth I could even take time off. when I wanted to.

One of the hiccups I encounter from time to time is when a shipment becomes abandoned. It can happen for any number of reasons, and I do my best to get to the bottom of some of these rabbit holes. I try contacting the sellers, the courier networks, and even the buyers. I'll reach out, see if there's any word or movement out of the groups,

and if not, I take possession of whatever the shipment is. In the grand scheme of things, it's a pretty rare occurrence, well, with the hundreds of shipments that get moved through my hands every week. If you spread out the events on a timeline, though, it would appear to be much more frequent, once every few months or so. I reach out within a respectable time frame after the pickup is supposed to be made. If it's something short-term, it's usually the same day that I notice it's still sitting around. Long-term, on the other hand, can be a couple of days to a week. I'll spend anywhere from a few hours to a few days attempting to contact people before I write it off.

What's in these shipments isn't usually very interesting or out of the ordinary, well, to me anyway. Guns, drugs, stolen goods, the occasional human organ, pretty typical black market goods. These items are able to turn around and get rid of pretty quick. There's always a buyer. There'll be some of things that I keep, and occasionally, ought to be. specific things that I'll just pawn off to a broker to see if they can find a buyer. These are usually weird trinkets or artifacts or things I just don't have any knowledge on. I had a shipment that sat in my long-term storage lane for almost three months, and a week after its pickup date came and went, I started reaching out like I usually do.

A shipment was a pair of crates, about four feet on all sides, a large shipment that cost a large sum of money to keep for three months. and when I couldn't get through to buy a or seller I did what I usually did took possession of it for myself I dragged them with a pallet jack into my office space in the rear through one of the double doors one at a time

and set to work opening up the crates and going through them laying things out so I knew exactly what I had when I opened the lid on the first crate I found a letter addressed to a zero a top a pile of unorganized boxes. Shoe boxes, Home Depot boxes, post office boxes. There was no semblance of organization and no labels on anything.

I didn't know where to start. And so I started with a letter. It was handwritten in excellent penmanship, a simple and short message. That which you have requested. Jay. Hmm. Cryptic, right? To this day, I don't know who the recipient or the sender were.

I really did try to find out, though. Mostly because I wanted my storage money at the time. Now, the following is what I was able to gather. It's mostly from memory, so the details are probably imperfect. The sender, Jay, had used a broker to ship the goods to an unnamed recipient. The name, zero, wasn't a name or a moniker. it was an acronym. So it wasn't a who it was getting shipped to, but whom.

I got in touch with a broker the sender had used, who told me simply that a guy had somehow gotten a hold of her personal phone number, called from a payphone, and told her that he had a client wanting to ship a package to Orlando without any eyes watching it. Oh, and that money wasn't an object. So I had Jay, who used a proxy, to get in touch with a broker who was to ship this stuff to some group by the name of Zero in Orlando.

And, well, I'd like to share what I know about Zero, but I don't think it would be very beneficial for my life expectancy. I will say that the group isn't a group anymore, but ex-members are still quite powerful in their own right, even all these years later. None of the ones I could find at the time made the order, nor did they know who did. and so I left it at that. The broker then told me

they'd use four different convoys to make the delivery. Three of those were decoys. Each convoy contained three unmarked big rigs. In the convoy that did carry the goods, only one of the three rigs helped the shipment. Other than the two crates, every other truck on the route was completely empty. Now, I only knew of two companies

that could make that kind of play at the time. Neither of them were cheap on a regular shipping route. Pooling those kind of resources for such a small delivery is a loss of hundreds of thousands of dollars. And so, for it to be worth the effort, they'd need to do more than just break even with the cost of and effective losses from regular deliveries. From what I gathered later on, the final ticket was in the range of seven figures, paid in full before delivery. After it reached my warehouse, a three-month time span was to pass before the buyer would accept delivery through their own courier. So, why hadn't they? Something had to have gone wrong for such an expensive shipment to now be in my hands.

But before I get to that, I'm going to tell you what I found in the crates. The boxes were filled with paperwork, pictures, legal documents, or tickets, clothes, and so on. At first glance, it looked like boxes of stuff you'd take with you when you move. Just a bunch of junk, you're too sentimental to throw out, or whatever. When I started looking closer, though, there were patterns that started to jump out at me. In every picture, every single one, the same man appeared. He wasn't facing the camera in most of them either. It was like someone had been following him, snapping shots of him doing things in his

normal life, from eating lunch, working an office job, even to hiking in the woods. There were others, though, like where he was at a bar with other people, looking right into the camera. There were more than a few of these, a couple of weddings, some that looked like family dinners, even some when he was in relations with others, men and women alike. These disturbed me most As they were taken from within the same room But not in a single one Did it feel like there was just a camera on a stand with a timer

It was too organic Too fluid Too in the moment At every photo And it got weird at the deep I dug In one box I found credit card statements Bank accounts Loan information checks

And student information Another one was open and letters, rolled up magazines and newspaper clippings. Someone was digging up every scrap of information on this guy, and it was all here in these two crates. What had to be years worth of accumulated research on one guy? In the second crate, I found some more nefarious material, stacks of external storage drives and USB sticks, piles of CDs, and even a few VHS tapes, including the second box looked to be the equipment used to take the photos

and do all of this research cameras, toolkits and other kinds of surveillance equipment at this point something in the back of my mind was telling me to collect all of what I had and just burn it just dump it and get rid of it all but I couldn't

I was transfixed my curiosity carrying me forward digging through box after box In one of the final boxes, wrapped in paper, I found an urn, full of ashes. It wasn't remarkable, or ornate, but it was accompanied by a death certificate, the actual death certificate, not a copy. And we'll call him Tim. Sorry, I'm not good at coming up with names.

This Tim died at the age of 37, the cause being a single gunshot. wound. It was also said he was cremated and his ashes were left to his family. Now, I could have been wrong. There was a possibility that the ashes in the urn were not his, but that wouldn't have lined up with everything else I had, would it? Call it a gut feeling, but there was now a dead man on my property. Not that there probably hadn't been before. I'm sure that grave robbers and the bodies they sold had come through my hands from time to time. It really doesn't bother me that much, but this, however, this whole thing unnerved me. And I kept digging, invested now in finding out what was going on.

The last box I came across had inside a series of deeds, you know, deeds for land and buildings. And more than one, there were even a few here in the central Florida area, one about an hour from my own home. Even more interesting was a P-O-box key attached to a note with an address and a date of only a few weeks before I'd receive the shipment. I'd started this process on a Sunday morning, one of my days off. I didn't have anything going on anyway, so I'd spent the day going through everything and sorting it on a set of tables in one of the back rooms that could be locked from the outside. It was starting to get late in the afternoon. When I stood up to stretch and noticed that I'd smoked a pack of cigarettes and not eaten or eaten or, all day. So I broke down the two large crates and walked them out of the dumpster at the back

of the property in pieces. Flagging down one of their local homeless guys, I handed him a roll of one dollar bills and told him to burn the wood from in the dumpster that night. He nodded and shuffled off. I used them on occasion to get rid of stuff I didn't want sitting around, or getting carried off to the landfill where it could be recovered. After going back inside, I sat down at my desk in the office, a couple of the storage drives, the deeds, and PO box information in front of me, deciding what to do about it all. The nagging feeling returned, urging me to put it all behind me and just get rid of everything I had and not look back. But it had been so long since I'd done what I called fieldwork. Fieldwork on the dark web is exactly what

it sounds like it would be. Could be tracking someone, taking photos, breaking and entering, muggings, or killings, you name it. All the dirty actions that people are hired to perform on the dark web, I consider to be called fieldwork. The guy who had accumulated all of the stuff, sitting in the now locked-up office,

had been doing a whole lot of this field work. I decided I'd tip my toes back into the water. See what more I could dig up about this whole thing. It was approaching early evening when I pulled out a spare laptop and plugged in one of the hard drives. On the drive I found about a terabyte of data. All of it was encoded. The other three drives I tried were all encoded. So I called up my partner and asked him if he was free that night, which he was. After having packed up a box worth of deeds, drives and the P.O. Box information, I went home.

I packed a couple of days worth of clothes in a bag, a silenced handgun with spare clips, some nighttime gear, oh, and a wad of cash. I loaded everything into one of my cars and drove to my partner's house. I'm going to go ahead and dispel a pretty common rumor while I'm on the topic. The people you see driving around lifted trucks with big racks and lights, blacked-out paint, windows and wheels, they don't actually do anything shady. I mean, that shit is way too obvious. No, usually when someone is doing field work, they don't want to be noticed.

They buy cars that are a few years old, but in good condition. We keep our registration up to date. We don't have loud exhausts, fancy wheels or really dark winter tint. We blend in and follow the laws. We're the people in the dull, boring coloured Toyotas, Kiers and Volkswagens. Standing out brings unwanted attention. But, like I said, what I was driving this time was a personal car. I wasn't sure what I'd be getting myself into,

so I was bringing along something fast and utilitarian, a station wagon. I'm a big car guy, and I have some fun customising my cars, but there were a few that I kept pretty low-key. In car culture, we call them sleepers. Badass, hopped up monsters. concealed beneath a mask of normality. My station wagon looks like a grocery getter, but it hauls ass like a race car.

Now, my partner, will call him Carter, didn't live alone. He had roommates who were not privy to what he did. Carter lived on the second floor of the house and rented two rooms. One he worked out of, one he lived out of. With the money I supplied him for his work for me, He kept his gear very up to date.

I like computers, and I can do what anyone with access to YouTube can do. But his skill set was that of many years in the field working for big companies doing everything from cyber security to building servers. So if anyone was going to be able to find out what was on these drives, it was him. It was well into the night when I arrived,

and he was expecting me. Smoking on the front porch when I arrived, he put out his cigarette and we went inside. and up to his workroom without speaking. Once the door was closed, the conversation began. So, what have you got, Jack? He asked, easing himself into his large leather desk chair. I handed him one of the hard drives,

and sat down on the couch he kept in the corner of the room. Some kind of encrypted files on a bunch of drives. Those crates were filled with some deep research on some dude named Tim. I want to know what's on the drives that were in one of the boxes. He nodded, turning around to the impressive computer display behind him, and started opening up a couple of different programs. You plug this into anything yet? Nothing important.

One of the burners. It didn't do anything funny that I could tell. But I didn't have it online either, so who knows? He paused. Okay. Then I'll kill my internet feed as well. well, just in case. Do what you got to do.

I swam my feet up onto the couch and lay down to nap. Just let me know what you find. I was asleep about an hour when he woke me. I rubbed the sleep away and sat up to listen to him. So, I got this thing open on a virtual machine, right? And I'm running it through a couple of programs to decode the thing. And now, this. He pointed to one of the screens that was displaying a little.

message box I'd never seen before. I just looked at him, waiting for his explanation. These files need a program I have not seen used in the crypto field in years. So, can you open them? Yeah, but these files are long videos and hours and hours of footage, he said. It'll take me time to do them all. I've got one ready for playback, if you want to see what's on it. load it to a USB and I'll watch from my laptop while you keep working I said pulling the laptop I brought from its carry case

Carter set back to work after giving me the video loaded onto a drive plugging it in and opening it for viewing I was met with a still frame of text and gave a date and timestamp as well as an address that I'd seen before in one of the deeds

I plugged in my headphones and hit play It started as a black screen, and like someone was setting up additional cameras and plugging them into the feed. Newsviews started popping up down the left side of the screen. The first was a green-tinted night vision camera. The second was a military-grade black-and-white thermal imaging camera, and the third was an ultra-violet camera. All of them were centred on a house, surrounded by a heavily wooded area.

The video log in the lower right corner of the screen started, ticking. Zero days, zero hours, zero minutes, one second. I scrolled along the slider to see how long the video was. 24 hours even. I listened to the audio. It was quiet aside from the sound of nature all around, little animals moving about, the wind rustling leaves in the trees, the occasional sound of a small branch falling or being broken underfoot of wildlife. I watched for a few minutes, waiting to see if I could see anything unusual happening. When nothing did, I skipped ahead. I noticed change around what I would assume to be dawned.

A light turned on within the house. And a new camera turned on, this time on the right side of the screen. Regular viewing spectrum, but from inside the house. Angled down, and viewing a whole. hallway with several doors. The one at the end opened, and the guy from all the photos entered the frame. It had to be Tim. Other views started telling on.

A kitchen, living room, bedrooms. I watched as this guy got ready for his day, made breakfast and coffee, took his morning dump, got into his car and left. I closed the laptop. I didn't need to see any more. I packed my stuff back into the. back and stood up, stretching my back out. Carter, I'll leave you to it. Looks like they had this Tim guy on 24-hour video surveillance. I'll leave the rest of these with you. I patted the top of the

box. I sat down on a chair while I'd come into the room. Let me know if you find anything out of the ordinary. Out of the ordinary, Jack. He looked at me. This whole thing is out of the ordinary. surveillance footage in and of itself wasn't uncommon to see on the dark web there were whole sites you could access for a fee and just watch people going about their lives oblivious to the fact they were being recorded I never really delved into it didn't pique my interest all that much I could watch people in Orlando all I wanted for free

but paired with all the other information I had on this guy now it was suspect to say the least I said before I don't like getting involved in things I don't have to but now I was sitting on the deeds to several properties and more than a couple of years worth

of information on one guy maybe I could make some extra money in some way that's what I was telling myself at the time at least but I only shrugged and left my friend behind once back in the car I looked through the box

of deeds to find the address that matched the footage I'd just watched. Turned out the house was in Georgia, and I wasn't going to make the first excursion such a far one. I honestly was more interested in the piero box than what it contained. I cross-checked to see if any of the other deeds were within a reasonable distance. Just so happened that there were two. One was allocated residential, the other was commercial. plugging in the location of the pier box took me about an hour outside of Orlando to the south. I decided I'd visit there first, find out what's inside, and then look into the residential property, followed by the commercial one, all in the same town.

Glancing at the clock on the dashboard as I put the car in drive, I decided I'd race it. GPS said my arrival time was estimated at 1.30 a.m., smiling a little to myself. I turned on the car sport mode and hit the road. A few minutes of tight city roads and then onto the highway I drove. Now in Orlando, the main highway that runs through the center of it is called I-4. It's always under construction and the speed limits are always changing. Traffic sucks and it takes an hour to get anywhere. But it was near midnight on a Saturday night.

People were already mostly where they wanted to be. and the highway was relatively clear. Another note to make is nobody actually follows the speed limits on I-4. 80 miles an hour is normal and the police really don't bother you unless you're in triple digits. Not that I would have stopped anyway.

Once I was through Orlando, past the theme parks and into the open roadway that stretched down to the southwestern side of Florida, I really let the car breathe, hitting 150 miles an hour in some places. I've driven these roads more than I care to admit, and I knew where the highway patrol hid. And they only used the planes for traffic enforcement during the day, so needless to say, I beat the GPS timer by quite a bit.

Arriving a half hour ahead of schedule, or to the town anyway, I slowed down and cruise quietly through the sleepy city. It was an older town. Many of the buildings were dilapidated, and other than the streetlights, almost everything was dark. The P.O. box was in a small post office near the town centre. I pulled into a parking lot a block away and walked the rest of the distance. The gun in my waistband and my hands stuffed into my jacket pockets. I looked up and down the street before entering the post office parking lot. No people, no stray animals, and only a single set of tail lights disappearing off into the night miles away. It was eerie and unsettling.

I breathed deep, the jitters in my stomach cropping up as they always did. I had to stay focused and alert, but the nerves made it difficult. I pulled on a pair of black latex gloves and reached for the door, opening it and stepping into the reception area, looking around at the rows of mailboxes. The area to drop off packages to the right was closed and locked up tight with one of those roll-down cages. But a couple of fluorescent tube lights kept the mailboxes. box room lit. I pulled out the key and the piece of paper with a note on it. I unfolded the note and read it to myself again. Box number 34. Insert paper in the bottom left side of the box before

opening. I walked to the first aisle and started scanning the rows, found the box and did as instructed. Slipping the paper in and opening the lock, the door popped open. Carefully, I opened it further, my heart jumping into my throat when I saw why I'd been instructed to put the paper in the slot. A circuit, the two contacts being kept separate by the note, was connected on one side to a large battery pack, on the other, a clump of plastic explosive. In the door was a plastic wedge that had kept the two wires apart when the door was closed. Oh, jeez, I whispered under my breath.

other than the explosive there was a package wrapped in brown paper the number one written on it in black marker I looked over my shoulder only seeing my own hooded reflection in the window to the outside I made sure the package itself wasn't attached

to any kind of booby trap before picking it up closing the door and locking it afterwards I turned and left the building package under one arm and my head lowered to keep the cameras from seeing my face on the way out. Across the parking lot, the street and walked down the block to my car, keeping my shoulders up and looking around consistently. I'd modify the car's lights not to blink

or turn on when I unlocked the doors. It allowed me to get in and out of it without anyone really noticing, unless they were watching, of course, and even then, if I was careful, I could still get away with it. I had enough practice doing it after all. I was parked in a lot with a couple of other cars, and I hadn't seen anyone following me, but I decided to wait for a bit, just in case. Setting the package in the passenger seat and the gun in the centre console, I waited. Five minutes, ten minutes, nobody. So I started the car, lights off, and drove out into the street,

only turning them on once I'd driven a mile or so. No cars following, so I pulled off again. Parking in the only fast food place that ever stays open for 24 hours a day, McDonald's. I drove through the drive-thru, paying cash, and pulled out into the parking lot. I wasn't particularly hungry, but I needed a reason to be parted in a running car for a little bit without drawing attention. Carefully, I opened the package. Inside was another key and note, but also an old record. recording tape.

Curiously, it was from Tim. The note read, I'm probably dead, but the truth doesn't have to be. At the time, I didn't have a way to play the tape. It was one of those micro-cassette tapes that people used to use back in the 90s. These days, you'd just use an SD card.

So it would have to wait until I returned home. I was pretty sure I had one laying around the house in a box someplace that I hadn't used since my college days. So I ate my fast food and drove off, a little less worried about being followed, but still keeping an eye in the mirror. When I arrived at the house, I knew right away that it had been abandoned some time ago. The windows were dusty, the curtains drawn closed, the paint was peeling, the roof was in disrepair, and the yard was quite overgrown. It sat at the end of a long dirt road with only a few other houses on it. Chances of finding anything here seem slim,

but stranger things have happened. I pulled directly into the driveway, not really concerned with being seen this time. If someone was down here, they'd be looking for trouble, like myself. I walked right up to the front door and knocked. Feeling confident that there wouldn't be anyone home, but just in case, I didn't want to stumble into anything. either. No lights, no sounds, nobody home. I walked around the back, peering in the windows that weren't covered. This place was a wreck inside. It looked like it had been vacated in the hurry. The back door was ajar. The window was broken, which indicated that it hadn't been anyone in my line of work. We don't leave a trace like that if we can help it. I pushed the

door open with a gun barrel, peeking inside the dark depths. Entering slowly, I swept room to room, as I thought, nobody home. It had been picked clean of valuables. Nothing hung on the walls. There were no TVs or computers, no jewelry, or even coins on the floor. Something on the floor in the hallway did catch my eye, though. A small area rug had been pushed aside. A very subtle gap in the floor. was visible. Someone had probably kicked it aside by accident, because the latch underneath was still undisturbed. It was recessed into the floor, and appeared to be held in place by some flimsy trim screws. And I know what I just said about not leaving any trace behind, but this place

had been ransacked more than once already, and some floor latch that was screwed into rotting wood wasn't going to stop me. But before I ripped the floor up, I hesitated a moment. thinking about the key in the box from the post office. And wouldn't you know it, the key fit? The lock clicked open and inside was a shallow little nook, in which sat another small package. This one labelled with a number two. I picked it up, left the building after looking around once more,

and walked out to the car to leave. Inside with another key, a note and tape. The note only gave the address to the commercial property that I planned to visit as it was. Coincidence or otherwise, these packages were making my night worth a trip out here. The short trip to the commercial property was about ten minutes, but I was starting to feel my lack of sleep. I'd been up for about 20 hours, and my warm bed back home was calling me. The industrial part was small, but the warehouses here were all in good shape and well maintained. The one I found myself parked in front of was curiously marked number 34, the same as the post office box.

I was still being cautious, but with it being almost three in the morning, I was ready to get out of this little town. I approached the door leading into the warehouse. The paint on the metal worn away in places people had been grabbing it over the years. I noticed that this place had also been untouched for some time. The door handled to the warehouse space next door, only a few feet away, was shiny, while this one was clouded over. For those of you who don't know, the oils on your hands will actually keep metal clean if you touch it enough. The place next door was definitely used often. Slid the key in, unlocked the door and pushed.

It groaned open. The hinge is rusty. The smell inside was that of uncirculated air, musty. and wet. There wasn't much inside. Some junk and trash gathered about, but otherwise the floor was bare. In the back was a table with an old cream-coloured filing cabinet. I approached it, small pocket flashlight in hand. Rummaging through the top two drawers, I only found a couple of loose pieces of paper, hand-written notes without things coming and going from the place. It seemed an awful lot like the notes I took on a daily basis.

The bottom drawer held another small package, with the number three on it. As I was closing the drawer, I heard the sound of a car pulling through the parking lot. Suddenly, I wasn't tired anymore. This place had felt like a ghost out, right, up until a few minutes ago, but now I could feel eyes on me, even through the walls. I picked up my pace. walking out and pulling the door closed behind me, unlocking it while I looked around.

I noticed three cars in the parking lot that were not there when I'd arrived. Two to the far side, one that was parked only a few dozen feet away. My adrenaline spiked. Heart racing, I stuffed the package in my coat and reach from my car keys, just about to get into my car when I heard a voice from behind me.

I don't think I've seen you around here before. It came from the darkness and damn near made me jump out of my skin. I hate cool, I told myself. You're outnumbered at least three to one. I opened the car door as I turned to face a man with a well-weathered face. His eyes were a piercing blue that I could see even in the darkness. Yeah, my boss asked me to come check on the place. I said quickly, falling into his professional roles I could.

muster. He said he hadn't been by in a while to check on it. It wasn't much of a lie, but it had gotten me out of a tight spot before. It was the only thing I could think of on the spot. This time of night, suspicious, didn't even begin to describe the tone in his voice. Yeah, I'm on my way south, I said, trying to pull an all-night out from up north. Oh yeah? He raised an eyebrow. Look, I gotta get going. I'm behind schedule as it is. I sat down in the car.

The man was silent, watching me carefully. In an attempt to throw him off, I said, you know, sneaking up on someone like that, he's looking for trouble. Without skipping a beat, he responded. You know, wearing gloves like that is looking for trouble. Shit. I totally forgotten about them in the moment. moment. I faltered. So what? I'm a germapho. Sue me. Closed the door and started the car.

I didn't want to seem too rushed, but I was in a hurry now. I backed out and started to drive down the street when the lights in the cars ahead turned on. There were three cars, and only two exits to the complex. I noticed the car that was now behind me was parted across the road in the other exit. So I beeline it for the other one, which was quickly becoming a passive race between myself and the two other cars. They didn't know I was packing heat, though. I rolled down my window and ready my gun in my left hand, smashing the bottle and gunning it for the exit. They tried, but didn't quite make it before me, and I pulled into the service road, where there was another car blocking me off. Oh, fuck.

I stuck my arm out of the wood. window and started popping off shots. They smacked off the front of their cars, taking out a headlight, going through the grill and puncturing tires. I wasn't aiming for them, but I wasn't going to take chances. The car backed up into the ditch on the side of the road, and I flew past, rolling up the window and tossing the gun into the passenger seat. I was completely ignoring all street laws now. There was nobody on the road anyway, and if a cop did see me, I wasn't stopping. I blew through the stop sign at the end of the road, turning on the main strip that ran through the town. A pair of headlights pulled out behind me.

I chuckled to myself. It should have caught me while I was out of the car. No stopping me now. I floored it. The deep exhaust growling to life as the car dropped to gear and the speedometer started climbing. I went through the first red light doing about 50. A few blocks away, I went through a second red light doing 90. There was an empty stretch between the town and the highway, and that row became a drag strip.

Foot to the floor, I was doing 160 with the headlights fading away behind me, before I slowed to turn onto the ramp for I-4. I took it at a blistering speed, the wheel screeching and sliding just enough to make me second guess. But they start to the pavement like glue, and I was accelerating up towards Orlando at well over a hundred and fifty-fifty. miles an hour. I turned off onto one of the less-travel toll roads to keep my speed up, and I didn't slow down until I saw the Orlando skylight. In my haste, I'd forgotten about the package in my pocket. I was pretty sure I didn't have anything to worry about now, but I wasn't stopping until I got home. My exhaustion was at an all-time high as I pulled into my house, and I decided I'd find out what was on those tapes the next day.

So, the tapes. What I found on them, I will not share. Well, not in full. What I will tell you is that Tim, well, Tim ran a business like I did. Dark Web package distribution. The warehouse, why it had almost been jumped, was just one of a few locations around the southeastern United States he'd operated out of. His tapes revealed that he'd come across some stuff from this group, Zero.

He didn't exactly say what. But it sounds like they hunted him down for it. They used to be in deep with human trafficking, but not on the selling end. They were big buyers, and that's all I'll say about that. Needless to say, I should have listened to my gut on the outset. I did eventually. I had car to wipe all the drives clean and dispose of them, while I disposed of everything else. I'll probably lay low for a while

This was a hot topic in the community when it happened And the chances of this stirring the part Well Let's just say that if someone from zero stumbles across it I may be doing more than just looking over my shoulder Episode 3 The Broadcast I should preface an apology for my lack of posting as of late

I had planned a weekly entry But when business calls on the deep web, well, you answer. Many things have happened in a very short period of time, and it's been a chaotic few weeks to say the least. I'm writing this now from my seat aboard a private jet, where a location I can't disclose yet. The job is ongoing, and rumour has it, that someone is eyeing these posts, so I'll be

more careful until I find out if the interest is anything other than mild curiosity. The third post in this little online journal I started was planned to be about how I got into the deep web to begin with. However, recent happenings are, I think, far more interesting to hear about. Besides getting it off my chest, while it's still so recent, will be better for more continuity's sake. A few days after my last post, I was in a speakeasy of sorts for local deep web players. Oh, well, not an anti-social gang, as one may assume. The owner of the place caters almost exclusively to business owners within what we call the network. A pretty close-knit group of major players in the central Florida area.

The name of the place is prohibited from being shared outside of the network forum, for obvious reasons. It's invite only. Anyhow, the bar has many uses From trading word of mouth information Conducting face-to-face transactions and deals And, well, and so on General laws don't really apply here You don't get thrown out for starting a fight

So long as you pay for damages The place is fully sound deadened For the express reason that firearms are permitted as well Fact is that in this place if you start a fight, it has a 50-50 chance of turning into a gunfight. But again, you make a mess, you take care of it. Or the bar takes care of you. I don't usually pick fights, and I like to steer clear of any of the get started,

unless there's a damn good reason for me getting involved. And on the other hand, I will throw hands if I'm paid. Plenty of other things happen on a regular basis at the joint, but those are simply secrets of the network I've got no interest in sharing them and so to the point I was there that night to meet with some new contacts show face to some old ones

and generally get the lowdown on any up-and-coming events at some point I was approached by one of the first people I became personally antiquated with early on in my ventures on the deep web one could even say we're friends in a sense the mutual understanding of looking out for ourselves first our profit second and the network third see well once you're brought into the network

it's like being brought into the mafia you don't talk about it if you know what's good for you me I'm not too concerned or rather I wasn't when I started this things have changed since, but those details will come later. Back to my friend though. He approached me, we started the usual conversation and business talk. We worked out a new deal at some point, and right before he turned to make his exit, he stopped in his tracks as if remembering something important.

He wheeled around on his heel and faced me again. He leaned in close and whispered vodka on his breath. Oh, by the way, I heard you're back into the regular work. He leaned back, eyebrow raised. I waved my hand dismissively, sipping on my own cocktail. All rumors, my friend, I smirked over my drink. I thought you knew better than to believe what you read on the internet. He chuckled softly. Yeah, okay, rumor or not, give me a ring if you're in. He handed me a blank business card with a phone number at night. With a sly smile, he left. I had a few more drinks and talked to a few other people and hot bars from a more normal crowd around 1 a.m.

When the bars closed at two, I ventured to an after-party until four, at which point I headed to my downtown apartment with a girl in tow. I kicked her out around seven and slept until ten. and at which point I awoke to someone pounding on my apartment door. Of course, I wasn't expecting visitors. With a gun in hand, I approached the front door, looking through the peephole as the pounding came again, as insistent as it was when I woke. Two men in black suits stood outside.

They looked like generic government spooks at first, but I noticed a symbol on the back of a hand that was knocking. Chievo de Rogers? I asked. Russian foe, what do you want? Well, kind of. We have a few questions for the man who lives here, came the response. No, English. My Russian isn't perfect, but it does a trick in a pinch.

This time I simply said, no English. We are representatives from the network. The same man responded. That's what that's what that was. Effectively, I asked them what that was. With network correspondence, outside of the bar I mentioned earlier, and the rare prepared meeting, it's standard practice to go through a series of questions and answers, phrases and code words and the like.

There are a few other indicators that they are who they say they are before actual dialogue can begin. line was, I wasn't expecting anyone from the network to be contacting me in person. Regardless, they passed the usual tests, so I unlocked the door and let them in. Closing and locking the door behind them, I made no effort to hide the gun in my hand. It would keep them from thinking twice about making any sudden moves. I ushered them into my living room and offered a drink in a seat, to which they politely declined. I'd read them. I'd read them to my living room, and offered a drink in a seat, to which they politely declined.

I'd wrap myself in just my robe to answer the door and made them wait while I put on some regular clothes. So, I asked, dropping the Russian and pouring a drink for the hangover that I realized I had, What do you want so early on a Sunday? I settled down in one of the armchairs near the window, setting the gun down on a small table next to me. And we have been sent as a proxy. One of them spoke up.

I raised an eyebrow. What could your employer, whoever he may be? One from me. Do they know I'm retired these days? They do. This isn't about a job. The man didn't break eye contact, hardly even blinked. He'd definitely been in some tight spots before.

His companion, a much younger guy, was more on edge. eager even. I waited, sipping on the mimosa I prepared myself. We have information that you have leaked information regarding a sensitive subject matter. Do you have proof of these allegations? Do you understand the gravity of what you imply? I wasn't too disturbed. I was sure that sooner or later someone, somewhere, wouldn't be happy about information getting out.

however I had the feeling that this wasn't about my little online journal the two of us do not we are not privy to what it is about our employer has sent us to request a conference to discuss the subject I rubbed my chin and swallowed all of my drink thinking about it for a moment whom might your employer be then I asked standing and moving for the kitchen, opening a cabinet out of the line of sight from the two men. I palmed a small vial of a powdery white substance, shifted it into my pocket, and proceeded to make myself another drink. I'm not sure I'm at liberty to say, the man responded. Shame, I said, walking back to face the two men with my hand in my pocket, slowly removing the lid of the small container.

I don't think I'm all that interested in the matter then. Unfortunately, you do not have a choice, the man said, reaching inside his coat. In one motion, I pulled the vial from my pocket, held it in front of my mouth and blue, sending the powder flying across the room into the faces of the other two. The effects were instant when they inhaled the stuff. The man dropped the gun. pulling from his jacket and fell to his knees,

unable to control his limbs properly. You're new to the game? I asked, raising an eyebrow. Does the word subtlety hold any meaning to you? I asked, as I set the drink down and leaned over them. They collapsed onto the floor, facing up to the ceiling, mouths open and closing like fish out of water. You come into my house, this time of day.

I let a few seconds pass as the drug, took further effect. I turned to face the window, looking out over the city-scape. Did your employer not tell you exactly who you were coming to talk to? I sighed, turning back from my morning drink and casually walking back towards the kitchen to put the file back where I had gotten it. I don't anger easily, to be honest. I turned back to the men who were moving their limbs around like they were newborn babies.

not these days at least but when someone shows up at my door on a Sunday with such a serious allegation it does a little more than hurt me they sighed peering over them once more I'll find out who sent you I smiled whimsically

knowing that I'll be satisfying my inner demons for the first time in many years so you can choose to tell me willingly I shrugged or otherwise it'll be your choice when the time comes. I sat down in my chair in silence, letting their fall into a deep sleep while they contemplated their life choices.

After the deed was done, I rubbed my eyes and moved to use my laptop. I shot off a message to a couple of people I used to do a lot of work for back in the day. The only way I knew for sure I could get their attention now was by posting on a couple of people. deep web message board requesting a particular service it's a weird way of getting in touch with mercenaries i know but their rules not mine from there they would call me when they found the message which could be minutes or hours by the time i'd showered eden and dressed they'd found the message and called these days Orlando has few pay phones which is weird because they never call from the same one been a while the female voice spoke on the other end i only responded the usual place a brief pause and then

one hour and with that the line went dead locking up the apartment i headed downstairs to my car and started the drive a bookstore on the east side of town i perused for a little while picking up books here and there flipping through the pages and then putting them back on the shelves. Slowly I paced the aisles on the first floor, eventually making my way to the second floor. I approached the rear wall and took the first book that caught my eye off the shelf. Kiss the boys goodbye. I smirked myself at the irony of the choice. Fifteen years, a female voice spoke softly. You don't write. You don't write. You don't call. I flipped through the pages of the book, not looking up right away.

I know we didn't part ways on the best of terms. I leaned backwards against the end of a bookshelf. Could have been worse. I hope that this time won't end the same. No, I don't think it will. I looked up to meet the eyes of a woman I thought I'd never speak to again. She was a rare breed, real purple eyes, dark black hair and tan skin, absolutely gorgeous specimen of a human being, never ceased to take away my breath.

I smiled lightly, brushing off the somewhat awkward conversation. I'll offer the usual for an, well, an extended job. She seemed to consider the offer for a few minutes before nodding. What have you got? Two men at my downtown apartment. I need them move to a new location. Your pick, so long as it's out of the way. Call me at the usual number when it's done.

Should we expect trouble? she asked. I closed the book and tucked it under my arm. No, I gave them a pretty solid dose of pure benzoy powder. She'll give them out for a couple of days. I handed it at the key to the apartment. Help yourself to the liquor, if any suit should taste, or anything else there for that manner. It's no longer a safe house.

I smiled lightly in turn to walk down the steps. I paid for the book and set off for home. I had regular business to attend to. When I got home, I sent my friend a message while I packed a number of very specific tools and sets of gear. We'll call him Vincent. Vincent, I'm interested to know if your little job has anything to do with a new crew trying to muscle in on Orlando. I wasn't really in the mood for pleasantries.

Nothing escapes your information that does it. His response was quick. I chuckled lightly to myself. Well, I got a visit in my downtown apartment this morning by some of their goons, which is vacant now, if you know anyone in the market. He ignored the offer, as I expected. Yeah, so, I don't have a name on them just yet, but I know they're working with some quite distasteful people. I want to know details.

I fired off one last message before signing off. If you're in the mood for a show, keep an eye on this site. There'll be a broadcast within a day. I sent him a link to a site deep in the dark web. I shut down the computer and all the power to the house, aside from my security system and the air circulation. I had a feeling I wouldn't be home for a while. I'd packed only the essentials for myself, some clothes and toiletries, a couple different firearms and a load of electronic hardware. I received a message from the Merck's that they were prepared, along with an address.

smiling to myself giddy with sick excitement I drove quickly to meet with them now what comes next I wouldn't say I'm proud of that some things must be done in the name of maintaining power and balance

I arrived two hours later to some farmland far outside of Orlando several hundred acres with a large barn and small cabin nestled in a wooded area I did not want to be disturbed by anyone or anything, while I conducted my business with the two men who'd come to threaten myself and the men who my head deep-rooted ties with. I met with the woman from earlier and her partner. I've been calling them Merck's, but, well, they are contract killers. We used to work together before I started the shipping business.

I didn't pre-form any kills I've said before the money isn't good enough of that kind of risk and pressure I used to run intel for them I'd gather info from people and stakeouts and so on long story short we'd been partners of a kind

they hired me I hired them the back and forth was a good relationship I hadn't used them in some time due to a job going south years ago that and well my retirement they have names but don't use them

never have and their aliases are so numerous I could literally pick any name and they would have used it I do have their permission to use their core signs though one of them at least the woman will go by ghost the man will go by reaper the why and what for is less important They told me they both had men in separate rooms currently, neither awake.

I had them moved into the barn, bound and gagged in chairs bolted to the ground. We worked in silence. I, setting up my equipment, and them taking care of our guests. I took my time setting up several computers, cameras, antenna, and general broadcast equipment. I'm sure many of you have heard of red rooms. Well, I was about to host one. I needed information from these men, and they were going to tell me one way or another.

I'd done this a time or two, the broadcasting at least. There are some sick and twisted people out there, and they look just like you and me. With everything in place in the barn, we left the soup of the night, retiring back to the cabin, planning on getting some sleep before a long day. The three of us taking turns on watch. In the unlikely event, either of the two men woke.

With morning cresting the horizon, I woke. Swinging my legs from the bed and slipping into dress clothes. Black slacks, a white shirt, leather belts, and nice shoes. I sauntered out of the house, rolling at my cuffs to just below the elbow. I made my way down to the barn. and threw open the double doors. I clicked a single key on the nearest laptop, and the whole set lit up. Cameras turning on and cycling.

What's our count? I asked mentally, preparing myself for the role I hadn't played in many years. Ten thousand, wading and climbing, Gross replied. I nodded. I see the name still attracts interest. No kidding. I nodded. get things rolling.

I hit a key on a separate system and music began to play. With a pep in my step, I pulled a black cloth face mask on and lifted it up around my nose. It covered my neck and the lower half of my face. I did this right before the lights cut off. The door swung closed and I entered the camera frame as the recording light began to blink, swinging my arms out to either side of me, a floodlight kicked on from overhead. Welcome to my carnal house of horrors. I spoke with a smile in my voice, staring directly into the camera.

Well, yes, it has been a very long time since my last appearance, and today will be mildly different from what you may be expecting. I will attempt to the best of my ability to full, fulfill your desires regardless. I pointed to Ghost, who stood out of view of the camera. She turned up the music to an obnoxious

level. She would be operating all of the broadcasting equipment, set on a 30-second delay, as to give her enough time to mute anything that might be said that I wouldn't want people hearing about. I picked up a vial of smelling salts off the tray to the viewer's right, and drifted

under the noses of the men in the chairs. They snapped awake, struggling a moment in the blinding white light from above and in front of us. Ladies and gentlemen, I started speaking again, the music being turned down so that I could be heard. These two men have information I need.

While I'll take suggestions for the gentleman just over there to your left, I will not be doing so for the first. For now, please sit back, relax, and just enjoy the show. There were butterflies in my stomach, and panic on the faces of the men who'd threatened me in my own home. The music played, the swing beat of blues and jazz drowning out their grunts. I circled them, picking up a scalpel from the tray, and ran it lightly, bled up, across the forearms of the man who obviously knew more.

The younger man showed signs of being wet behind the ears, while the one who'd done most of the talking originally seemed far more knowledgeable about the goings-on. I turned back to the camera. There will be bits of audio, you viewers out there can't hear. I twirled the scalpel between my fingers. I'm sure you understand. I slammed the blade down without any warning into the man's hand.

His scream was visceral, the blade slicing cleanly through, missing the bones and embedding itself into the wooden arm of the chair. You will, however, still get to hear what she came for. The man in the chair shook violently, struggling against his restraints. I picked up a strip of surgical rubber and tied it just above his left bicep. It stemmed the bleeding enough, but would do nothing for the pain. So, before we go further, would you care to tell me what you know? I asked, leaning my hip on his right shoulder as I pulled on a pair of black latex gloves. The man only looked up at me with hatred in his eyes.

I shrugged. I thought not. But before you get your hopes up about being rescued, I have something to be. to share with you. I set the book I'd gotten from the bookstore down on the floor in front of him. Let me explain. This book is about how the United States left its men to be tortured and killed at the hands of the V.A. Kong after the war in the 60s. Do you think your organization would even spare a passing thought for you? I asked, squatting next to him. You were not picked up by the cops of the heads, so they won't worry about you talking, just strengthen their defences. This is your one and

only chance to tell me what I want to know. It was obvious the man held hope in his eyes still. I nodded and picked up a stick of dried bamboo and chopped long slivers off of it. You know, the Vier Kang had some pretty interesting methods of torture. I mused, setting five slivers his back on the table. I took his left hand in mind and gripped his pinky first, bending it backwards until it cracked, and then repeated the process for his ring finger, middle finger, and index. I wanted to prevent him moving his fingers too much. After a few minutes, he collected himself enough to talk. Why? Why what? I asked. Why? This? Why go to these lengths?

He asked, looking around trying to see past the floodlights. I smirked. The torture or the production of it. Why not just kill us or beat it out of us in your apartment? He asked. Well, I don't kill people. I don't like to at least. I think it's a waste.

I leaned on the nearby table. Everyone has worth someone. He looked at me. I was unsure if he was shocked at my words, or just in shock still from the pain. You'll do this, but not kill a man, he asked. I shook my head. One's life isn't mine to take.

That's why I pay others to do it when it needs doing. You've got some serious problems guy. His voice was low. insulting. No, I think you have the wrong idea about this situation. You are the one with serious problems right now, and you can easily solve them. I put both hands on his wrists and leaned in close. Just tell me what I want to know, and this can end before it has to go any further. He spat into my face. Fuck you! I simply wiped it from my eyes and then clear my my hand on his shirt. Very well. We'll continue. I picked up one of the bamboo splinters

and gently pressed it under the nail of his pinky. His grunting, painful cries from my handling of the broken fingers gave way to guttural screams of primal agony. I left it there, inspecting it to be sure that it had reached maximum depth. You know, I looked him in the face. Your partner over there already looks ready to talk. The younger man's eyes were wide with horror, fixed on my actions. The man who had my attention, however, had his eyes screwed shut tightly, tears forcing their way out of the corners. His teeth clenched so tight I became worried he might crack them.

Here, I shoved a knife-handle-sized piece of multi-layered leather between his teeth. I'd hate to see those pearly whites got a waste too early He looked up at me confused for a minute But I was already onto my next task Lighting a fire at the tip of the bamboo splinter Oh, this is going to be a very long day I smiled at him though only my eyes showed it And so it went one by one

all five fingers on his left hand and all five fingers on his right hand. He broke when I started on his toes. He spit out the gag onto the floor, landed with a wet flop. Okay, okay, okay. He breathed heavily in a panic through laboured sobs as I was about to begin breaking his toes. I'll tell you what you want to know. I looked him over. His skin was oily with sweat

His shirt soaked through Hair matted to his head He looked worse off than I'd expected him to I hadn't even moved past his hands What a disappointment His body shook as he forked over info On several groups and events that had transpired In the last few months

I can't tell you everything he told me Not yet I'll put it like this though That group I mentioned in my last point Close? Zero? Yeah. I thought their members are disbanded. Turns out there was just a coup. They've still got the power and reach that they once had, just under a new banner. And they're supporting a crew that's looking to out the current network leaders. Yep, there's a few other people looking to carve out a piece of the Orlando pie for themselves.

Look, I know that this may be a little short this time, but my flight isn't very long, I can't see everything just yet. After the job is done, I may be able to let you guys in on what's all going on here. However, with the potential for a lot of ice to be on this post from people I don't want to know that I'm coming from them, this to hope it's not you that I turn up for. Episode 4. The Middle of Nowhere. Well, I've been avoiding posting this because of how things had to go.

There was a lot I had to come to terms with, and a lot that I think I should come clean with. The grim and gritty of it, maybe better left unsaid, I always finish what I start. And since I've already said as much as I have, I might as well tell you guys what happened. But before all that, some loose hands. to tie up from everything up until my third entry. I think you've all guessed or assumed at this point that I don't totally work for myself. I can't say a whole lot due to the volatility of the information and the fact that all of this is still very fresh for a lot of people.

And honestly, I've made enough enemies for a while. After I'd handled my business with the men who came to my apartment in the last one, I had some preparations to make. some people to contact and some leads to follow up on. The guy who'd spilled the beans gave me plenty to go on. He was working for a group that was after control of Central and Southern Florida. They were trying to out the people I work with. I'd allied with this group at the time because of their grip over the area

and the protection they offered. I stayed with them because of the weight they moved through my network. More to the point. There's this group moving into our turf, if you will. and these people are being back by some members of zero. On a whim, I called one of my shippers, Steve, you know, from the first entry, and asked if he knew anything about these guys. You told me they were the ones behind the break in, back when some guys tried to steal that black box.

So we discovered before several of his men had been found scattered across three counties. Oh, and a note on that as well. I may have lied some in the first two posts, mostly about the timeframes. When I started posting, it was to lure out some of these people, so I could continue onward with the recent events. The facts that are absolutely true, however, are the following. I do work on for, with and against people and groups on the deep web. The black box incident did happen in a warehouse that I own and operate.

I did come across a shipment of information about a man in the same line of work as myself, who had been assassinated. And that information did lead me to knowledge that will die with me. Oh, I was assailed in my apartment by two men, and I did torture two men and broadcast it to people for money. However, that series of events may not necessarily be in that order. And the last fact is that what is to follow in this post and the rest will be. will be in proper order. I say everything has a price on the dark web.

What Zero and their allies had coming to them was my price. I made Steve give up the name of his original black box buyer. It was the only thing I could think of at the time that I knew for certain would connect Zero and the guys coming after us. My guests had even mentioned the box being a goal of theirs. Well, all my leads continued coming back to Zero. And while they were not leaving a paper trail, they sure were leaving a trail of bodies. Three of Steve's guys, and oddly enough, several former members of Zero.

The older members that have been outed by the new ones, now running the show. Normally I'd place my business and it's customers' privacy first. But with what's happened over the last few months, I'll tell you guys what I can. Needless to say, things were starting to get out of hand in Orlando when I posted last, so I took a little trip out of town to chase down Steve's buyer. So that should fill anyone reading this in enough to understand a little more of what's to come. Steve's buyer proved to be less than helpful, mostly because he was missing, which was very unfortunate for me at the time.

Nobody in his usual online forums had heard from him in a few weeks, when I finally tracked him down where he'd been living well I got quite the gruesome surprise I don't know about you guys but I've never been a big believer in the occult all the supernatural sure I might believe in ghosts but well that's where it's ended for me these days

one might say I've reformed my thoughts on the matter maybe reading what's to follow will convince you as well Augustus the man who bought the black box had paid a fortune for it hundreds of thousands for some shit he believed to be from another dimension he by all accounts was an eccentric older gentleman who lived deep in the rocky mountains on the other side of the continent from me i've gotten most of this info from steve he'd send the package to me via his usual methods it was to be picked up by a specialist who would ferry it on

to orlando international and onto a flight headed out west or Orlando to L.A., to Washington, from where it would be driven over the border to Canada, to a remote house deep in the middle of Bonfuck nowhere, southeast of a place called Knell, which is where I was headed at the end of my last entry, a flight to nowhere with a pair of assassins. We made a couple of stops along the way, but Knell, for being such a small town, had an airport, and that's pretty much where we started. As a city has a population of about 26,000 people, it wasn't hard to track down the man we were looking for.

We rented a car and left town, heading deep into the mountain pass. Unfortunately for us, we didn't think to check the weather. As the sun set on a bleak horizon, sharp winds and black clowns were sweeping in. The place we found was creepy enough, high walls with a wrought iron gate swinging out, seeming to stretch into the sky.

defiant in the face of the oncoming storm. Beyond that icy metal stood what one might call a home, well, if they lived in Victorian times. Though it sat in a small clearing past the gates, its shadow loom forward, like it was stretching out to ensnare our car. Its three stories of darken windows coldly greeted us as we travelled up the cobbled road.

Once inside the compounds, the assassins vanished, off to keep watch and wait. I alone approached the door, its ice window, returning my vague reflection as I walked up to knock. Knocks had either fell on deaf ears or none at all. Didn't look abandoned, though the ground seemed undisturbed. The winds picked up again, and the ice rain whipped past my face, forcing the trees to sway and dance as I knocked for a second and third time. Lightning flashed across the sky and as the thunder rolled over the land. and I reached out to check the door.

It was locked tight. I looked back over my shoulder, seeing only the car a few feet away, lights on and running. Well, I breathed into my hands, rubbed them together, and fished a lock-pit kit from my jacket pocket. A few minutes of fiddling with the lock, and it clicked,

the bolt rolling to the side. Twist of the handle, and the door swung inward on well-oiled hinges, revealing the dark depths of the unknown, beyond the fading pale light that still managed to seep inside. I was met with a familiar wave of musky wood and dusty halls. The smells of a well-kept old house that hadn't been used in a few weeks. But following those timeless smells came another, far more unpleasant odour, brought out from farther within by the fresh air coming from the open door.

It was foul, unpleasant. and sulfuric. It smelled of death. All was dark except for what little light followed me in. I moved carefully, keeping my eyes to the dark corners. The wind knifed in from outside and passed me, disrupting the dust and bringing the snow flurries along as well. The air was thick, but my mouth felt dry. The further I trespassed into this home, the further from reality I could feel myself slip. I felt as though I were teetering on the edge of existence itself. The walls down the main hall were lined in unlit sconces and portraits of things I can't quite explain. The pictures they twisted and turned within their ornate frames. They moved like churning smoke. I inhaled deeply

again, a frozen air helping me keep my focus. I ventured deeper and my gaze. And my gaze fell upon each room in turn finding all manner of strange trinkets and artifacts on shelves behind glass hung from the walls or perched atop ornate marble pedestals the fireplace stood cold and unclean the last fire left to burn itself out and simply forgotten the kitchen though was spotless aside from a curious set of dishes set to dry beside the sink no doubt dried some time ago but not long enough for dust to lay its claim. Someone was, very recently, living here. Deeper within, the darkness became oppressive. Heavy curtains kept out what little light was left outside. A flash of lightning and the earth's rumble reminded me I still stood on solid grounds. Though the silence

returned, it felt eerie and unwelcome. And that stench was stronger now, making me scrunch my nose, was in response. A journal upon a desk told me I had the right place. The singular word, Augustus, scrawled across its front as if it had been placed there by someone desperately attempting to hold onto it. The book was filled with the ramblings of a madman, only a few coherent tangents in its dozens of pages. The smell grew stronger still, a single mote of light catching my eye, emerging from under a door beyond the hall. The source of the smell, the basement, of course. I opened the door and reeled in disgust. It was rot, heavy and thick in the air. I pulled my neck warmer over my nose and tried not to vomit. The man was probably dead, though I figured I

should at least verify that that was true. The light overhead seemed so dim, as if the darkness was trying to swallow them up. The staircase wound down to the right and out of my sight. The wood was quiet underfoot as I descended the steps, dread and anxiety nodding in my stomach. The walls around me changed as I descended, from brick and mortar to smooth, hand-cut stone. Once around the corner, even the steps had given way to stone, smooth and seemingly well-worn over many centuries. Odd though it may be, it all felt as though it swayed from one side to the other, like a big ship in a calm sea. All I found at the end of the staircase still makes me shudder.

A haunting sight of a cult sacrifice. A chamber carved out of the very rock, the ceiling disappearing high overhead. The room was illuminated by four roaring fires, one in each corner of the room. The walls held intricately carved reliefs. If my attention hadn't been so focused on something else, I might have even taken out my phone to take some photos. But in the centre stood an altar. The stone as black and void-like as the box that was supposed to be delivered here.

It was atop a raised platform and flanked by two pillars that vanished into the murky shadows above. Upon that altar lay Augustus. the man I had come to see. His eyes met mine, wide with shock, horror and pain, lifeless though they were. He had been cut open, neck to navel, and his entrails pulled out like an ancient rite of divination or spellcasting. I'd approached the altar without thinking, but before I'd stepped upon it, the four fires roared brighter, bathing the room in a hot red light. Smoke swirled around the altar and seemed to be sucked upwards.

It rose with increasing speed and soon it felt as though the air itself was being pulled from the room. I stumbled backwards, tripping over my own feet to scramble back up the steps. I look back only once. In that moment I saw several figures standing around the altar, one with arms held up and hands outstretched towards me. In one hand, a dagger. the shape of which twisted and turned in my vision, its shape incomprehensible to my eyes. In the other, still beating hearts.

A milky white mist drifted lazily up from the body on the altar. Nothing I saw then made sense to me, and frankly it still doesn't. I hadn't realized how hot it was as I descended, and the shock of cold air struck me fresh. I held my hands to my sides, rubbing myself to disperse. any sweat, turning to look back once I'd passed through the door. It, swinging closed behind me before I caught another look. Though I noticed something I hadn't before. What I thought had been a small light, had only been some kind of ruin set, carved into the floor, its light now slowly fading to blackness. That sense of dread that I'd felt, it faded as well. The storm continued,

and the sun still set, but I didn't feel as though I were teetering upon the brink any longer. The feeling faded with the runes until it and they became only a memory. The house was normal again, empty, aside from me. I opened the door to the basement once more. It was only a cellar now,

some broken shelves and a noticeably absent corpse. I had one final look about the house, before taking a few of the old man's jewell. journals and computer hard drives. The assassins and I return to Orlando, leaving behind the house in the woods in the hills, behind some town in the

middle of who cares, where, Canada. Oh, fuck that place. I do a lot of things for a lot of money, but you couldn't put enough zeros on the end of a check to make me go back there again. Oh, obviously, I've been a little busy.

Sorry again for the lack of entries over the last few months, but I'll try to make it a semi-regular occurrence again. It feels a little therapeutic to get some of this off my chest. And so I think I'll continue this journal a little longer. Well, till next time. And that was the last that was heard of the dark web fixer. His whereabouts remained?

Or no? If you enjoyed tonight's stories, please consider leaving a nice few words wherever you get your podcasts and a five-star review. Well, that's it for this week, but I'll be back again. Same time, same place, one week from now. And I do so hope you'll all join me again. Until the next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.