Hello fellow DLPers

My Amber Cove Publishing has released another MK Gibson novel - Villains Rule. If anyone would like a review kindle copy PM me with the email address you download to kindle and I will gift it.

It's about a man who fancies himself an Interdimensional Villain Consultant getting caught up in one of his schemes.

Link on Amazon - (https://www.amazon.com/Villains-Rule-Shadow-Master-Book-ebook/dp/B06W2GNNC6)

Prologue and First Two Chapters posted here for your consideration.

Prologue

(Look, I know prologues can be boring. But they are there for a reason. So just read it. And if it helps, imagine it being read in a fancy accent.)

The warrior rode home.
What was left of the Elder River village still smoldered. Almost a year to the day, smoke rose from the magically immolated land the warrior called home.
Home.
The warrior had been gone so long, the word “home” had nearly lost meaning. Through the trials he endured and the dangers he faced, the warrior had stayed focused.
When his village and his family were slaughtered and burned by the half-fire giant General Anders, the war leader for the hordes of the Baron Grimskull, he was lost. He was destroyed inside. But the warrior had been taken in by his mentor, Zachariah Greywalker. It was in the home of the elves of the Whispering Woods where the warrior was taught to fight, taught to use his mind, and taught to live again. It was there where the warrior fell in love with the elf maiden Lady Alianna.
The warrior promised his mentor and his beloved he would find the Baron Grimskull’s weakness and bring peace to the land. And to the horizon, he set off.
Death the warrior courted, and death he delivered upon the enemies who barred his way. The Nameless Sea could not claim him. The Waste of Sand and Tears could not contain him. The bleak rock of the Grey Spire Mountains could not deter him.
And finally, deep beneath the Peak of Inverness, the Bray Beast of D’hoom Dungeon fell to him. It was there in D’hoom Dungeon the warrior found the source of Grimskull’s power: Amulet of the Ember Soul. Armed with the amulet, the warrior could strip the baron of his power. With this, he could bring an end to Grimskull’s tyranny. With this he could usher in a new age of peace.
The remnants of the Elder River village were in view. The sun set on the horizon. Blue and purple wove a tapestry of twilight across the valley sky. The warrior wanted nothing more than to return to the woods and to his lady love. But first, he had a promise to keep. A promise to himself.
The warrior rode through the remnants of the village gates, charred from the attack. He slipped off his horse and closed his eyes and breathed in deeply the scent of his home. He felt right, true, and just.
“Mother, Father, my friends . . . your deaths will be avenged. I wish I had been stronger then. I wish I could have saved you. But with this amulet, I will destroy Grimskull. And I will rebuild here. Your sacrifice will be the foundation of a stronger tomorrow. On this, I swear!”
The warrior had left this place a fearful boy. Now, the boy was a man, and the man would defeat any enemy that stood before him.
“By the gods above and below, I dare any to stand between me and my sacred vow,” the warrior growled.
From the shadows behind the warrior stepped a rather large man dressed in all black tactical gear with night-vision goggles. The man in black cracked the warrior over the head with a rubberized metal baton, dropping him into the dirt.
Nudging the warrior on the ground with the steel toe of his combat boot, the man in black judged the warrior unconscious. The man in black took the pouch holding the Amulet of the Ember Soul from the warrior’s belt. Opening the bag to inspect that the Amulet of the Ember Soul was intact, the man in black nodded with satisfaction.
The man in black leaped up on the warrior’s horse and steered the horse away, leaving the village. With a backwards glance at the fallen warrior, the man in black muttered in dismissive, eye-rolling disgust:
“Heroes are so fucking stupid.”



Prologue pt. 2 - Electric Boogaloo

In a pocket dimension, between the real world and the fantasy realms, and slightly to the right of the world where your left socks go missing, existed the executive office of The Blackwell Corporation, Evil Consulting Agency. The ultra-modern building sat atop a lone barren mountain, seemingly floating in a void.
The waiting area inside the lobby of Blackwell Inc. contrasted the building’s exterior. The retro 1970s décor was lit by harsh flickering fluorescent lighting. The rectangular off-white ceiling tiles were intermittently stained the color of weak tea. The area resembled the airport lounge of days gone by, complete with rows of piss-yellow, hard plastic chairs attached to scratched chrome frames with nary an armrest to be found.
Muzak versions of fantasy realms madrigals droned painfully from the tinny, crackling speakers. The waiting room walls were floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked off into the nothingness of the pocket dimension. The view gave the lobby a perpetual nighttime look and radiated cold.
But mostly, the lobby stank. It stank of many things: stale cigarette butts in full ashtrays, burnt coffee in the antique percolator, and the stale popcorn of a 1980s K-Mart.
The waiting room also stank from the presence of the eternal rotting corpse of the Dread Zombie Lich Lord Morakesh and his nine mummy high priests.
Just ask Sophia.
Sophia Rose DeVrille, Blackwell Corporation’s one and only receptionist, sat in her chair behind a fuck-all awesomely ornate cherry and mahogany desk. She typed away at her keyboard while sitting in her ridiculously expensive chair. Sophia felt that her lower lumbar was not only being supported, it was practically being made love to.
Sophia wasn’t really typing any kind of letter or email. She was just choosing to ignore the increasingly impatient Lord Morakesh, despite the stink. The Dread Lord’s nine high priests sat in the lobby reading out-of-date magazines like Better Homes & Gardens, various parenting magazines, and Highlights. Lord Morakesh stood in front of Sophia’s desk with his arms crossed, tapping his undead foot impatiently. Little necrotic bits of the Dread Lord were falling into piles despite his bandages and ceremonial armor.
It was quite disgusting.
Lord Morakesh continued standing in angry silence while the clock on the wall ticked.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“Excuse me, but I have an appointment!” Lord Morakesh belted out in exasperation.
“No. You don’t,” Sophia mumbled without looking up, continuing her fake typing.
“Well, no. But do you know who I am?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? And?”
“And I do not care, sir.”
“I am the Dread Lord Morakesh!”
“And that,” Sophia gestured absently, “is the Infamous Alpha Werewolf, Grey Fang, of the Dessemark Bloodpack."
Grey Fang inclined his head slightly in a sign of acknowledgment, shifted his Boy's Life magazine, crossed his legs, and began to lick-clean his crotch. Thoroughly.
“Over there,” Sophia continued, “is The Torment. Non-Corporeal Manifestation of Abstract Evil. Master of the Never Realm’s Sphere of Pain and Suffering.”
The Torment floated above his chair in a seething cloud of smoke, fire, and pain. There was the faintest outline of a man within the billowing despair. While not having an apparent face or mouth, The Torment seemed to greatly enjoy the Blackwell complimentary cookies and juice box. Drunk, of course, with a crazy straw.
“And over there is—” Sophia began again in the same bored tone, but The Dread Lord Morakesh cut her off.
“Fine, fine. I get the point. When will he be free to see me then?”
Sophia took a deep breath and sighed, preparing the canned statement: “The Blackwell Corporation, Evil Consulting Agency, greatly appreciates all its current and future clients. We endeavor to expand our evil family. Know that you are a valued client, and your needs are our needs.”
Morakesh stood there baffled, then blinked and shifted in his bandages.
“What does that mean?”
“It means sit the fuck down and Mr. Blackwell will see you when he sees you. This dimension's passage of time does not reflect your own. You will not be missed from your realm. Please enjoy our refreshments.”
It was obvious from her “that's final” tone that the conversation was over. The Dread Lord Morakesh sat down next to his high priests and began idly flipping through an Entertainment Weekly from 2001, featuring Lord of the Rings. The Dread Lord Morakesh found this “Sauron” chap to be quite intriguing.
The room was silent, save for the errant magazine shuffling noises and the constant sloppy crotch-licking coming from Grey Fang.
“Do you mind?” Morakesh croaked, revolted.
Grey Fang paused his public pubic bath for a moment and looked up at Morakesh.
“Jealous?” the great lycanthrope asked and promptly returned to his cock-and-balls.
“A little,” Morakesh sighed with dusty air as he read his magazine. Being an undead Lich with vast power was great and all. But, thanks to being technically dead, he really missed having a working penis.



The Fourth Rule of Villainy
Villains are frequently as dumb, or dumber, than the heroes.

Chapter One
Where I Introduce Myself

Let me begin simply and to the point: My name is Jackson Blackwell.
I am forty-one years old, yet I look thirty. I am well built for my five-foot, ten-inch frame and I like to dress sharply. My background is a mix of Anglo and Middle Eastern. But my description is not what you are here for.
Some call me Shadow Jack, due to my nefarious activities. But there are some circles where I am known by my professional name: The Shadow Master.
I am a villain.
Let me be more clear. I am the villain. You see, I make other villains better and I profit from that. Consider me . . . a villain adviser, if you will. I exploit them—other villains, that is—for my own gain. Please, do not confuse this for a redeemable quality. I do for them, the weaker villains, what they cannot do for themselves. I help them try to defeat the hero. And I have wealth and power beyond measure because of it.
You see, true villainy doesn’t stem from a desire to do wicked things. Deviants who kill, rape, and torture are pure sociopaths.
Garbage.
Beneath me.
Just like those pompous, pretentious fools who cling to the Oxford comma.
I ensure that I destroy them whenever I encounter them.
Please note: I am above those things. Killing, for example, has to happen from time to time. But my kills come with purpose, not from wanton, base desire. I derive no pleasure in them.
True villainy comes from another desire. And I have that desire—to be the top power. To know I am better than everyone else I encounter. To take what I want, when I want, and how I want. Again, I see your juvenile sensibilities confusing this with ruling.
Any idiot can rule. In fact, most who do rule are idiots. I am the power to the side of them. The one guiding them, the one whispering in their ears. Until they no longer serve my cause. When that happens, I simply remove them and allow another pliable idiot to “rule.”
Seems simple, doesn’t it?
Why do I do it? Because I like it. I like being a villain. I am not a nice man. I have never been, nor will I ever be, a “nice man.”
Nor am I a pathetic anti-hero. Gods, I hate anti-heroes.
I have not the rough and gruff exterior of a sometimes killer with a compassionate heart. The kind of dirty you people tolerate. And do you want to know why you tolerate them?
Because you are evil.
Deep down, in the dark place of your heart, you wish you were as free as I. A villain. You wish you could cut loose and do what your dreary, boring, piss-ant lives won’t allow.
So you root for your anti-heroes. Because that is as close to my villainous freedom as you can come. Your beloved smugglers, berserkers, and vigilantes kill bad guys like me. And then you cheer.
Evil is punished. Anti-hero gets the girl and you relish in the villain’s demise.
Do you want to know another secret about you? Hmm?
Good people do not take joy in the fall of others. Good people do not take joy in the death of anyone. Even villains. Those that do? They are villains in waiting. That is you. But you are too cowardly to admit it.
It is OK, simple ones. The world needs villains.
You may disagree, which is understandable. Weaker minds often refuse to accept truth when it is presented to them. So, lie to yourself all you like. Heroes do not use fear and pain to succeed.
That is my domain. A villain’s domain.
It is the villain who sets the stage. It is the villain who causes the drama we love to watch in TV and movies. In the books we read. Without the villain, the hero is nothing. He or she has no motive. No ambition. Nothing.
I am Jackson Blackwell. I am a villain. And villains rule.
“Um, whom are you speaking to?” a voice said out loud, bringing me from my thoughts.
Across my desk sat Baron Martin Viktor Grimskull, the warlock, warlord, and ruler of the Great Eastern Empire. He sat in a garish ensemble of purple-stained leather and black plate armor. Atop his head and across his face, the Baron wore a helmet made from the bleached skull of a demonic animal.
I hated him. But his gold was excellent, pure, and seemingly never-ending.
“My apologies, Baron. Sometimes when my mind wanders, I forget that since I own this dimension, I am technically a god here. Ergo, my thoughts are sometimes broadcasted.”
The intercom on my desk buzzed to life. “Sir. You were doing it again,” Sophia scolded me.
I tapped the comm with growing irritation. “Thank you, Sophia. I am aware.”
“Your waiting room is growing as well, sir.”
“Who now?” I asked.
“Morakesh. A lich from—” Sophia said, but I cut her off.
“I know who he is. Annoying as hell and pushy. Well, he’s undead, so he isn’t going anywhere. Let him wait.”
“The others, sir?”
“They had appointments. I will see to them in turn.”
“Yes sir,” Sophia acknowledged as she clicked off.
“Now, where were we?”
“You summoned me here,” Grimskull stated. “I do not enjoy being summoned. By anyone.”
“Baron, have you ever heard the legend of Darth Vader?”
“What is a ‘Darth Vader’?”
“I’m glad you asked. The story of Darth Vader is an ancient legend from my world. A parable, if you will. You see, Darth Vader was a Dark Lord of the Sith. A master of arcane magics, who wore all black armor with a flowing black cloak and wielded a sword made of pure crimson energy. He was the right hand and enforcer of an emperor. Where he went, people trembled in fear. And all you heard was his fearsome breathing as he approached.”
“He sounds amazingly dreadful,” the baron said, trying to sound bored. But from the way he leaned slightly towards me, his body language betrayed his words.
“Would you like me to continue?” I asked as I lit up a black cigarette with silver tips from a small box on my desk. A gift from an old friend whom I helped hunt the most dangerous game. The cigarette gave off the scent of incense as I smoked it.
“If you must,” the baron said, wafting the smoke from his face. “So, this Vader chap, I assume he becomes the realm’s greatest warlord?”
“You would think so. Alas, it turned out the fearsome Vader was in fact a hero all along.”
“Disgusting!” the baron exclaimed.
“Indeed,” I agreed. “It turned out this villain was nothing more than a whiny, self-absorbed, arrogant child who only turned to a darker path to save the woman he loved.”
“For love? Weakness!” Grimskull decreed, and I nodded along. “And did he save her?” Grimskull asked.
“That’s best part: No!” I laughed and Grimskull laughed with me.
“Get this—he accidentally . . . oh my . . . he accidentally killed her!” I chuckled thinking about it. “During his transformation from being a guy named ‘Ani’ into Darth Vader, his tenuous grasp of his magical abilities reached across the realm and killed her while she was in childbirth.”
“Ha! That is incredible!”
“I know, I know,” I sniffed. “But after he killed her, he screamed ‘Nooo!’ when he found out. And what I always found odd was he never even bothered to ask about his children, who in fact survived. Twins. A boy and a girl.”
Baron Grimskull gave as quizzical a look as possible through his skull mask. “Why are you telling me this?”
I sobered my face and deliberately rested my elbows on my desk so I could lean in and stare into Grimskull’s beady yellow eyes. “Because this story of Darth Vader has a point. You see, not following up on the existence of his children proved to be his downfall. The boy became a follower of the same mystical arts as he did. And eventually, the son confronted Darth Vader before the emperor and destroyed the dark master. Vader turned back to being a hero and died in his son’s arms. Redeemed.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Grimskull asked.
“Because, Baron,” I said as I gestured with my left hand to a shadowy corner of my large and ornate office while snubbing out my cigarette with my right, “you to failed to follow up on your lineage’s actions.”
A very large black man, one of my elite soldiers, stepped from the shadows and presented himself to my left. The soldier was decked in head-to-toe black tactical gear from our world. He wore his balaclava pulled down and his night vision goggles covering his forehead. Grimskull leaned away, obviously intimidated.
The man in black handed me a leather pouch, saluted, and returned to his post in the shadows.
“Thank you, Courtney,” I said to the soldier. Courtney had been a soldier, bodybuilder, bouncer, and mixed martial arts amateur back in our world. Here, he was a highly trained operative in my employ. Plus, with a name like Courtney, he had a lot of aggression to work out.
I reached into the pouch and produced the gaudy and heavy Amulet of the Ember Soul. “Look familiar, Baron?”


Chapter Two
Where I Discuss Fantastical Beasts and How to Feed Them

“How did you come by that?!” Grimskull demanded as he jumped to his feet.
“Sit down, Baron,” I said flatly.
“That is mine and I demand you return it to me this instant or else you will feel my—”
“SHUT UP,” I said, raising my voice and cutting the baron off. My voice echoed from the walls as I used my influence over this realm to amplify my will.
“Sit, Baron,” I ordered. Instead of complying, Baron Grimskull began to manifest a ball of fire in his right hand.
Well, he tried. This was my realm, after all.
When the warlock’s magic refused to answer his call, he looked to me, confused. I in turn produced a Colt 1911 .45. A gift from a yellow-eyed demon for helping to torment a pair of monster-hunting brothers. I calmly aimed the weapon and fired one round into the baron’s breastplate.
Grimskull roared, more in shock than in pain, as the round knocked him over his chair onto the ground. The baron’s breastplate was made of a dragon-skin weave and was very resistant to damage. With this being my realm, I could have willed the bullet to pass through his body. But I decided it was best to get his attention for now.
Bloodshed could always come later.
“Baron, I assume you are willing to listen to me now?” I asked after Grimskull ceased his wailing. The baron rose to his feet and I gestured with the barrel of the 1911 to sit back down.
“In case you have not realized, this place responds to my wishes, not yours. Your magic is useless here, while I, on the other hand, could commit every act of savagery I wished upon you and there would be nothing you could do to stop it.”
“What?” Grimskull asked loudly. Obviously his ears were not reacting well from the tinnitus. The ringing from the weapon’s discharge would pass.
Sighing, I shortened my previous statement to “Sit the fuck down and listen.” That, the good baron comprehended.
“This amulet of yours is the result of our deal with a Never Realm demon. You give up a portion of your soul for power. But if anything happens to this amulet, what happens?”
“The denizens of the Never Realm come and claim the remainder of my soul and my mortal body,” Grimskull recited like a scolded child.
“Exactly. I worked very hard to negotiate that deal with the demon Y’ollgorath for you. So, please explain to me why the fuck this was left unguarded in a hole in the ground.”
“It was not left unguarded in a hole in the ground, as you so basely state it! The Amulet of the Ember Soul was guarded by the Bray Beast deep within D’hoom Dungeon.”
God, that sounded so cliché and badly written. The fantasy realms were positively the worst when it came to their naming conventions.
“Baron, the Bray Beast? Really?”
“Have you ever seen the Beast?” Grimskull asked. “It is a behemoth! With heavy natural plate armor, giant tusks, a deadly barbed tail, and acidic saliva. Oooh . . . the Beast is truly a monster to behold!”
“Mm-hmm,” I muttered. “And . . . what do you feed the Beast?” I asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Feed . . . it,” I said, my intonation suggesting that the good baron was an idiot.
“I don’t understand the question. The Bray Beast feeds off the flesh of those foolish enough to dare venture into the D’hoom Dungeon.”
“Uh huh. And where exactly is the D’hoom Dungeon?”
“High atop the Peak of Inverness lies the ancient path of Kara’Thum. The stone stairwell leads deep within the mountain, and there you will find D’hoom Dungeon.”
“Right,” I said, seeing if Grimskull was picking up what I was laying down.
He was not.
“So, let me get this straight, Baron. You have several tons of flesh-hungry monster in this dungeon.”
“Yeah.”
“And the only way to reach said dungeon is by climbing up one of the tallest peaks in the entire realm?”
“Exactly.”
“So, the only way the Beast eats is when a foolish adventurer climbs said mountain peak, braving the incredibly harsh terrain, descends almost the entire way back down the mountain along a winding stairwell, and stumbles into the Bray Beast? I have the facts correct?”
“Yes! Devilish, if I say so myself.”
“Then how did you expect the Beast to put up a fight against a worthy opponent if the damn thing is starving and emaciated from the lack of freaking food?”
Grimskull looked at me like I’d just spoken gibberish to him. “I don’t think you understand. Let me explain again. High atop the Peak of Inverness lies the ancient path of Kara’Thum—”
“No no no,” I cut him off. “I get the concept. I do. What you and all your ilk fail to realize is that when you place a monster, be it a Bray Beast or a dragon or whatever, to guard the treasure, sooner or later a smart hero is going to get the treasure. He or she is going to pack to survive the elements, have enough food for the trip, have perhaps a magical instrument or two to bypass traps, and face a mostly-starved monster who has survived, barely, off two to three humans a year. Did you honestly think that plan was going to work?”
“ . . . Yes?”
I sighed. I had to remind myself for the thousandth time, I am rich because they are dumb.
“I’m not a fool, Mr. Blackwell. The Amulet of the Ember Soul can only be destroyed by the blood of an innocent, a measure I demanded when the deal was brokered. But you also forget, I placed a spell on the amulet so that only one of my royal bloodline may remove it from its resting place. Since I have no offspring, the amulet should have remained there!” Grimskull exclaimed.
“Ahh, yes. That was the crux of this and my story of Darth Vader. Baron, do you have children?”
“No.”
“Well, I have this amulet here, which was taken by Courtney from an adventuring hero. So . . . thoughts?”
“Impossible. I have no wives, thus no royal children.”
I wanted to hang my head. “No wives. But any mistresses?”
“Concubines? Oh, hundreds. My favorite one was a little thing from Elder River village. Twenty-one years after she left me, I had the whole village burned to the ground.”
“Why did you wait twenty-one years?”
“It took me a while to get around to it?”
Shaking my head, I continued the conversation to the next logical conclusion that Grimskull was missing. “So, what do you think the chances are that she was pregnant when she left?”
“Oh. I see what you are getting at. You truly think I am stupid, don’t you?” Grimskull asked, crossing his arms.
“The thought did cross my mind,” I said, nodding.
“Well, ‘Shadow Master,’” Grimskull said, using my title as an insult, “I’ll repeat myself. I have no royal children. Sure, I have bastards out there. Who doesn’t? But my spell kept anyone but a royal child from taking the amulet. No royal wives, therefore, no royal children.”
“Baron, do you know why they call me The Shadow Master?”
“A nickname you gave yourself?” Baron Grimskull sniffed as he crossed his arms and looked away.
Petulant child.
But he was still a client. “No, Baron. It’s because working in mysterious and dark places is what I do. I find out things that others do not know. And I use that information for my benefit. For example, did you know that the Elder River village is built upon the ruins of an ancient civilization?”
“No?”
“Indeed. And that civilization was once called The Eld. Or, the First Men of the Elder Race. They were the people who crossed over from the Land Beyond into your realm of Caledon. They settled in the rich and fertile basin of the Elder River. They were the ones who dominated the existing population and taught them mathematics, science, and technology. A new age of prosperity rose. Well, until the powers that be turned on them, fearful of their science over magic.”
“You are referring to The Rift. The war of magic and science between man and elf that shaped the land. That was over a thousand of years ago,” Grimskull said.
I nodded. “Exactly. People believe The Eld were all killed off. After all, magic won. But what if several members of the The Eld High Tower were secreted away. What if members of their royal lineage survived? And hundreds and hundreds of years later, some of their descendants returned to their ancestral home to begin again. This time, in a simple life. Keeping their love of science hidden over the generations, lest they ever be discovered and destroyed again.”
“So . . . my concubine Greta?”
“A descended royal princess of The Eld.”
“Oh. Shit.”
“Exactly, Baron. So, here’s the new plan. You keep the Amulet of the Ember Soul in your castle. You keep it on you at all times. If someone comes for it, they will need to infiltrate your keep and confront you directly. If you leave your keep, you will take a regiment of armed guards with you, everywhere. You will now create a new squad of soldiers whose sole purpose is protecting you and that amulet. These soldier will be well paid and given benefits above all others. You will ensure that being one of your elite guard is something all within your domain should seek to become.”
“Well . . . paid?”
“Yes, well paid. As with the rest of your staff.”
“I have indentured servants,” Grimskull sniffed, “not staff.”
“Not anymore,” I said, shaking my head and pointing at the baron. “Now, you have a paid workforce. You will do everything in your power to make your staff love you and never betray you.”
“Is all this . . . necessary?”
“How many times have you had an assassination attempt against you? A direct attack? Someone poisoning your food?”
“Hmm.” The baron considered the question. “It does seem to happen a lot.”
Of course it does. Fantasy worlds are nothing if not predictable. “Yes, Baron, they do. Because your people hate you and wish to see you dead. That is why we are going to change your image.”
“But I am Baron Viktor Grimskull! All serve me! All bend their knee to my will! Those who oppose me die!”
“Which is why everyone is trying to kill you. You will still be Baron Grimskull, ruler of the Eastern Empire. But with a few modifications.”
“Modifications?”
“Yes.”
“Such as?”
“Other than a staff of well paid and fairly treated employed servants? Well, off the top of my head, you will also need an armed and trained standing army made up of loyal soldiers.”
“What about my recruitment drives?”
“Are you referring to the purging of the villages wherein you abscond with formidable fighting men and child soldiers?” I asked.
“Naturally.”
“Gone,” I stated flatly.
“What?!”
“Next come your taxes and tariffs.”
“What are those?”
“What you should be doing to the people of the Eastern Empire. Instead of taking what you want, you will impose a fair tax to generate revenue.”
“Your words confuse and anger me,” Grimskull said, narrowing his eyes.
Ignoring him, I continued. “You will use a portion of the revenue you receive to put back in to the empire’s infrastructure for road maintenance, houses for healing the sick, and schools for educating the masses.”
“OK, that is enough of that!” the baron declared, standing and pointing his finger at me. “You claim to be the master villain? The darkest of us all? Yet you advise benevolence, education, and . . . fair taxation? This audience is ended. I demand to be returned to my realm, immediately!”

 

He might also consider maybe coming to DLP to do more than just shill.

 

Honestly, this story is all kinds of awful.

Ignoring the names of people and places (and I'm assuming the author is trying to go for a Terry Pratchett vibe here but butchered it because they don't seem to understand what makes a good novel) the writing is sub-par. The best thing you can say about it is that it's technically sound. It's a shame because the premise had potential but the execution falls flat. The story reads like a self-published novel, especially the self indulgent part about Star Wars.

 

What Anarchy means to say I'm sure is, "While DLP will never turn away ambitious authors and will generally be happy to help out in whatever way we can, you haven't been here in Yonks and your reappearence is with a thread entitled, 'Need some more reviewers' which is a shitty way to say, "need more reviews."

But hey, those are his words.

 

If you're telling an author that this is publishable-quality material you're doing him a serious disservice.

What I've read of your own writing isn't anything like this terrible, so that makes me feel this is either a vanity publishing scam or deliberately encouraging somebody to believe they're talented instead of helping them actually develop their ability.

Either way I'm pretty fucking disappointed.