Vignettes From A Dream

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino

(Copyright January 2026)
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A Demoniac Reformation

Brandon Rongedchild II tapped his index finger forcefully and repeatedly on the top of his large ornate mahogany desk, glaring at the two men sitting with bowed heads on the black leather couch in front of him. He was holding back his raging anger with what those who knew him would call admirable restraint, considering his explosive temperment, but his impatience was becoming very obvious. What his frightened hirelings had just told him simply didn't make sense.

"What do you mean, he shot himself?" he spat the words out like a cobra spitting blinding venom on something that had impudently vexed it.

The two men looked at each other, scared expressions clearly evident on their faces. After a moment, one of them worked up the courage to answer the fearsome little man.

"Well... it's like Rico said... he just upped and turned the gun on himself; then he pulled the trigger." The intimidated man made a supreme effort to hold his head up, meeting his tyrannical employer's hard gaze. "I swear to Satan himself, that's all there is to it."

Brandon looked upwards and exhaled hard in exasperation. He continued to stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to maintain his composure; partially succeeding, he looked back down at the sorry pair and resumed his grilling interrogation.

"Why the hell would he just up and blow his own brains out? It just doesn't make sense." The angry little man had regained his calm somewhat, but quickly began to lose it again. "You're not telling me everything... you're leaving something out. You're hiding something!"

The awestruck man named Rico sat silently beside his scared partner Jesse, a very sophisticated looking video camera resting on his lap. "No boss, Jesse is definitely not lying," he said, in courageous support of his fellow lackey. "He was right there watching out for any unwanted people, covering my back; he saw the the whole thing too." Rico was starting to regain his nerve; he didn't like being barked at, not even by a man as powerful as Brandon.

Rongedchild sat back, regarding his two goons with another withering stare. "No, no, don't try to play games with me," he hissed. "Sikes just wouldn't up and do something like that. Talon got the gun away from him and shot him, right? And you're trying to cover up for his stupidity. Well? Am I right?"

The two men looked at each other, not daring to express their own growing frustration. Not knowing what more to say, they just sat there and said nothing at all.

Strangely, Brandon's own exasperated frustration was calming him down somewhat. Tapping his finger on his desk again, he managed to mellow down his angry tone somewhat. "So why do you guys think he would have shot himself in the head, when he was about to collect an easy ten grand? Out of guilt for his past sins, maybe?" Brandon's tone had turned sarcastic; it was less intimidating than it had just been. "Look... I know Sikes. I plucked him out of prison just like I did with you guys, he was doing life for robbing and killing his own brother. There wasn't one trace of goodness in him. Now, why do you suppose he would spare Talon, and blow his own ass away like he did?

Jesse fidgeted on the comfortable leather couch; he was feeling extremely uncomfortable now. "I tell you boss... I just don't know. Rico saw it better, he was filming it," he blurted out, attempting to divert his boss's evil eye back to his partner.

Suddenly Brandon sat straight up in his chair. "Oh yeah, I forgot... that's right, I told you to film it," he mumbled, almost to himself. In his anger he had forgotten that he had ordered Rico to record the murder on camera. "Let me see that video right now!" he demanded.

"Ok, sure boss... but it'll just confirm what we're telling you. Do you wanna' see it on the camera's little viewfinder, or do you want to put it into the big..."

"Never mind, just give it here. Hand it over, now! Then get the hell out, Emile will give you your money on your way out." The irritated little man held his hand out impatiently. "You two are good for nothing," he added in a disgusted tone.

"Ok boss, here it is." Picking up the camera, Rico pressed a button; a small video cassette popped slowly out of a slot, making a whirring sound. Rico stood up and was about to impertinently toss it to Brandon... then came back to his senses fast, wondering what had come over him. Approaching the big desk, he reached out and placed it down as respectfully as he could in front of his mean employer.

"Now get out," Brandon muttered. Picking up the cassette, he held it tightly in his smooth, jewel ornamented hand, regarding it warily as if it were about to bite him. It would soon prove to be more disquieting than that; Brandon had no idea that his twisted life was about to be turned upside down by the short movie he was about to see.

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The afternoon sky was turning to twilight outside, and the last rays of fading sunlight were eminently visible through the large picture windows in Brandon's luxuriant bedroom as he paced about upon the large, multi-colored Persian rug. His thoughts were still in turmoil. The highly regarded private psychiatrist that he had urgently summoned had left a little while ago; but the uselessly fawning "yes man," specially imported from Teutania at enormous cost, hadn't eased his troubled mind in the least.

He had confided freely in the conceited headshrinking doctor only because his aides, through their usual disgusting spying tactics, had dug up enough dirt on the man to put him away in prison for a long time -- and the exorbitantly expensive psychoanalyst knew it. There was no doubt in Brandon's mind that the man would keep what he had seen in the video a complete secret, for as long as he lived. And that wouldn't be long, if he dared to cross Brandon; the doctor knew this very well also.

"It was clearly a case of super advanced, hyper-acute hypnosis," the famous phony had explained in his usual condescending accent, which always irritated the hell out of Brandon. "I've never actually seen such a high degree of expertise myself; this friend of yours, this rock star, most definitely appears to be one of the most dangerous hypnotists the art has ever produced."

The art! What a thing to call it, though Brandon. But his doctor's explanation for George Sikes's bizarre suicidal act had done nothing to ease his now heavily troubled mind. For one thing, he had seen movies of hypnotists doing their weird spell-casting work; they always used flashing or strobing lights to overcome their subjects as they chanted their soft-spoken words over and over. Casey had done nothing of the sort.

He felt the same unnerving chill coming over him that he'd experienced earlier that day, after repeatedly viewing the video on his large, super high-resolution monitor. The camera had also picked up every word the two men exchanged in the alley on its very sensitive microphone, and the last few seconds of what he had seen and heard were still haunting him... almost to the point of madness.

"No!!" George Sikes's last screaming word reverberated through his mind once again, and once again it caused the hair on his skin to involuntarily rise. No matter how hard he tried to equivocate, he quite simply could not conjure up anything that might explain the dead hitman's suicidal action; and he had tried as hard as he could to do just that.

Neither could he escape the dreadful image of Casey Talon standing still as a statue, staring down his gloating murderer with unnerving calmness as the goon turned his own gun on himself. Rico the cameraman had not stayed put to capture what had happened after the gunshot exploded; the panicking fool had dropped the camera in his surprised alarm, and all that could be seen was the typical jerky footage that usually followed that sort of blunder.

He had ordered his assistant to bring both of the surviving lackeys back for a second grilling, in order to find out what had happened immediately after the gunshot, but he'd been informed that the two men had picked up their large cash reward from Emile and disappeared, leaving no forwarding information. This was quite unusual, and infuriating; he had been left completely in the dark. For all Brandon knew, Casey had simply laughed and walked away just as calmly as he'd stood his ground, in the face of what should have been his certain death. If Talon had somehow caused his assassin to shoot himself... what the hell was he? Some kind of devil in human form?

Or perhaps some kind of angel from heaven that walked the earth in human form? But if so, why the lowlife drug dealing? Brandon thought of all the benefit concerts that Talon had given, and the many charitable funds which he'd not only contributed to, but had created himself... the man was one of those damnable do-gooders whose public deeds contrasted drastically with their more questionable private affairs. Indeed, Brandon had wondered more than once why the angelically generous philanthropist had entered into such a sordid business as cocaine dealing; that territory was usually reserved for scoundrels more like himself. He had sometimes viewed Casey as a sort of cherub that had ventured too far down into the savage jungles of earthly life... but that view had not deterred Brandon in the least from attempting to destroy that cherub, after he had ventured on insult.

More than anything else, it was those preternatural thoughts of higher spirituality, and accordingly, divine retribution, that were now putting Brandon into a state of primal fear. Like most criminally insane evildoers, the stupid man had been a typical confirmed atheist all his life, contemptuous of anyone who allowed the idea of an unseen god to guide, restrain, or otherwise dictate their opportunistic plans. But there had actually been times, though very rare, in which Brandon had pondered creation and especially eternity, during spells of insomnia when his usual sedatives had failed him. It was then that he had found himself actually wondering what might happen, what could happen, after he had laid his body down to rest forever; could it possibly be true, all of this talk about going to heaven... or to hell? He was not one to ponder how it had all began, not for very long at least; he had no use whatsoever of such wonderments. But an afterlife? Divine retribution for his ghastly sins? That was something that he might ponder for as long as his insomnia lasted... and he had done so more than once. After all, unlike Casey he had committed evil on a huge scale.

He despised having to endure such sleepless nights for that very reason, and took great pains to avoid them; but now he could clearly envision yet another one of those seditive-defying bastards looming ahead of him... and he was genuinely scared.

Then there were his two hired goons, Rico and Jesse; why would they have suddenly fled, as if in terror, after picking up their pay? They were not answering his summons, and he had ascertained that they were not in their apartments either; why on earth would they have risked incurring his infamous wrath? Neither one had any other means of earning the kind of wages that he paid them, and they both had police records a mile long; without his protection, they could be discovered and re-incarcerated at any time. It didn't seem plausible at all that they would defy him like this; and yet they had done so, as if they were afraid of something else... something that inspired more fear than even Brandon himself.

Outside, the sky was beginning to darken; the prospect of the falling of this coming night was beginning to alarm him as it had never done before. It was not just unnerving; it was beginning to absolutely terrify him. His heart was starting to fibrillate; he broke out into a cold sweat.

He had seen horror movies about evil-doers much like himself that had died and found themselves in nightmarishly hellish life-after-death scenarios, but those movies had never really caused much of a reaction in him, other than the usual thrill a good horror movie provided; now he was starting to recall those movies in chilling detail, and they were making the hair on his skin stand up on end, no matter how hard he tried to dismiss them.

He had already taken double his usual dose of tranquilizers, but the drowsy effects they had brought on were only making his fear of going to sleep and helplessly falling into a bad dream worse than ever. He felt as if he were on the verge of a full-blown panic attack, or maybe worse... an actual heart attack, brought on by his own out of control fear. His heart was now pounding harder and harder in his chest, even as he was growing drowsier... it was unlike any panic attack he had ever felt before.

He looked out the window again; the darkness of the night had now completely manifested itself, like an evilly shrouded sorcerer taunting him, defying him to close his eyes... and dream. He was in abject fear of his own mind, and what terrors it might hold in store for him. He had never felt so desperate in his life.

Brandon turned away from the window and ran as fast as he could to the nearest telephone, the one sitting on his bed table. He had only to push a button and Emile would immediately answer and come to his aid, as he always did. Brandon never phoned anyone directly anymore; he had come to rely entirely on his trusted main assistant.

"Yes?" Emile's answer was prompt, as usual. "What can I do for you, boss?"

"Emile, I want..." Brandon's voice involuntarily stumbled on his next words; he wasn't even sure of what he wanted to ask his aide. He thought of summoning the ever-present flunkey to his bedchamber to comfort and calm him down... then decided against it.

Forcing himself to sit down upon his bed, Brandon struggled to calm himself down. After a few seconds he was able to talk clearly again... just barely. He had made a fateful decision, born out of sheer terror.

"Emile... I want you to look up all of Casey Talon's charitable funds... I want you to find them all, and donate a million dollars... no, two million dollars... to each one. I want you to do that right away... immediately."

He heard Emile gasp in disbelief. "Brandon... there are dozens of them! What the... " His aide was clearly flabbergasted by his employer's sudden altruism. "Boss, are you sure?" Emile managed to sputter the words out.

"Don't argue with me! Just do it. And I want it done anonymously, don't give my name. Can you do that, Emile?"

Emile had recovered from his shock. "Certainly, Boss! Consider it done."

A few more seconds passed. Brandon could tell that his amazed assistant was dying to find out what was prompting such a massive show of generosity -- but the prudently cautious man was loathe to ignite his boss's volatile temper. Before Emile could work up his nerve to ask, Brandon answered his unspoken question.

"Don't worry about it.  I have my reasons."

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Vignettes From A Dream - A Demoniac Reformation - Copyright January 2026 by Charles Adrian Trevino.