The Lost Kingdom

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Callan Dudley was the youngest member of the 27-Club — a seven-strong gang of crazy Irishmen whose sanest known act in eight years was to make a blood pact that, when they all finally came together again in Hell, they would dance a healthy jig on the Devil’s balls.

His brother, Malachi, at thirty five, was the oldest.

Callan Dudley hadn’t seen his crew in about a year. Though they were a gang they didn’t exactly run together. At least, not in several years. The members drifted apart, did their own thing for a while, then came together somewhere down the line, in some merciless, dark rat hole of a public house where even the vermin stayed out of the dark corners for fear of being killed and eaten by the patrons. There they partied loud and cursed violently and drank themselves into a rare, dreamless stupor.

Dudley’s time with the Pythians had been diverting at least, at times even entertaining. The mercs he ran with were assholes to a man, in the game solely for money and motivated only by their own greed. Every last one of them deserved to die and rot in Purgatory, forgotten even by their own whore-bag, soulless mothers. His enemies, however — now they were a different matter.

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