The 4 Hundred and 20 Assassins: Green Mourning

Warning: Philosophical Content - Explicit Ideas - May offend those easily offended. The legend of the Hassan El Sabbah is not as famous as his garden. Sabbah was an entrepreneur of sorts using the assassin as a tool to gain political influence throughout the Middle East. He would use young men by making them smoke hash then allowing them to enter his Garden of Earthly Delights. The young men were told they had entered paradise and would be expelled if they did not carry out Sabbah's wishes, which were usually to kill someone of relative importance. This tale is not only a fictional look at Sabbah, but also a mind-altering look into America's drug culture and the idea of paradise. Told by a stoner, set over a thousand years ago with an Arabian Nights feel to it, the story centers around Emir Abdullah-Harazins (Sabbah) and his infamous garden. This is the story of how Abdullah found the garden and came to be Emir Abdullah-Harazins.

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The 4 Hundred and 20 AssassinsGreen MourningBy JOE DEMARCOAuthorHouse LLCCopyright © 2014 Joe DeMarcoAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4918-6152-3ContentsGreen Mourning, 1, 2, 32, 3, 36, 4, 39, 4, 42, 5, 45, 6, 49, 7, 52, 8, 57, 9, 69, 10, 72, 11, 75, 12, 82, 13, 87, 14, 90, 15, 93, 16, 97, 17, 101, 17, 104, 18, 107, 19, 110, 20, 114, 21, 117, 21, 126, 22, 128, 23, 130, 24, 132, 25, 135, 26, 141, 27, 145, 28, 149, 29, 155, 30, 159, The Eagle's Peak or Death Mountain, 162, 32, 165, The Porticus, 167, 34, 169, The Graveyard of Forking Paths, 171, 36, 175, The Doorway to Summer, 178, 38, 181, The Forgetful Fisherman, 183, 40, 186, My Blue Heaven, 188, 42, 191, The Dung Beetle, the Vulture and the Jinni, 194, 44, 197, Don't Go Chasing Unicorns, 201, 46, 206, Green with Envy, 210, 48, 213, The Green Mourning Begins, 217, 50, 222, The Storm Rolls On, 225, 52, 237, The Witch is Dead, 240, 54, 243, CHAPTER 1Green Mourning"It's just a plant," Chris said defensively."What if it's an alien life form sent down to take over this planet?" said Teddy."I don't get it," Stephanie said, twirling her hair. "Was that like supposed to be like a pro-weed story, because it like so ISN'T!"It was nearing dawn when Gordy finished the first part of his story. Most of the group was sprawled out on the ground, the campfire smoldering. Ann's eyes were closed; she may have been asleep."Yeah, you been talking for hours, give it a rest," Chris felt it his position to intercede. "I'm not even high anymore.""I stay high for no reason, like gas prices," Teddy smirked. "But seriously, Gordy, I hope that wasn't the whole 420 story, because it actually never explained squat."Chris high-fived him.Gordy sat very Zen-like and said, "It is by perpetual fear that authority drives men into slavery.""Huh?" Teddy squawked."So?" Chris questioned."The Prince, His Highness, is symbolic of exactly how cannabis is treated in our society. He is a metaphor for cannabis or rather how the government wants you to see cannabis, as something that is to be feared. Something dangerous, something that kills. The fantasy of the Garden of Earthly Delights is comparable to the government illusion that marijuana is a destructive addictive drug.""How's that comparable?" Chris said, egging him on."Well, it's not, but they're both illusions perpetuated to control you. The government has tried to regulate cannabis since the 1920's. When this failed, they tried to scare people into not using it. William Jennings Bryan ran a smear campaign against it because he had a vested interest in the timber industry (and an acre of hemp can produce four times as much paper as an acre of trees) and he stood to lose millions of dollars, billions of dollars by today's standards.""That's propaganda," Teddy said sleepily."It's the unmitigated truth," Gordy said with a certainty, "marijuana can be harmful if you sit around and smoke it all day, but even then it's not nearly as destructive as alcohol.""So?" Chris said like a stuttering parrot."So, did you hear about the kid who overdosed on weed?" Gordy asked."No, I didn't," Stephanie said."Neither did I," Gordy said with a sad look on his face."My story is about tyranny, fear and control," Gordy continued."The most dangerous part of smoking marijuana is getting caught with it," Gordy alleged."Well, I'm going to bed," Chris said, but nobody moved."Don't you want me to finish The 4 Hundred and 20 Assassins of Emir Abdullah-Harazins?"Nobody said a word."I'll listen, Gordy," Stephanie said, her eyes already closed."Me, too," Teddy said."You'll never be done," Chris suggested.Gordy smiled. Picking up a roach, he lit it and took a puff, and continued his story ...In the tiny town of El Fida, in the only dark watering hole, a pub called the Canna Sativa, there was a stranger in a dark-hooded robe who had never been there before. He was stranger than a stranger. In fact, some say he just appeared with the morning sunrise. Whatever may be the truth, the whispers had already started about who he was and why he had come to this small town which didn't see many odd visitors. The stranger was old, ancient by the standard of the year 1150 AD, as the average lifespan was something like 27 years young. When the stranger removed his hood for a brief moment, all activity in the Canna Sativa stopped with a screeching halt. The stranger had outlandish wrinkles on his face and a long white beard, but there was something odd about the way he moved. It wasn't like an old man.Plus, there was his cloak which had at first looked black, but upon closer inspection was actually dark, dark green, although the green was barely noticeable and shimmered only when he moved a certain way or the door was opened letting the only light inside. The cloak seemed to eat the light around it. The word wizard or magician might be used to describe this stranger, but not by this narrator.Some of the drunker customers babbled that the stranger was a hasheater, one of the infamous Hashishiyyins assassins but he was in truth far too old. Everyone knew Emir Abdullah-Harazins only used youths. The young were much easier to brainwash.Despite the obvious tension, the stranger refused to order any drinks. The bartender had approached him several times and the stranger claimed, "I fill my cup with nothing and it ne'er runneth over." The stranger shook his head and for a moment his face looked young.The bartender was confused and unsure of what the stranger meant by his statement, but he thought it definitely a Hashishiyyin concept, something like nothing is true. Was this old stranger a hash-eater? He feared the Prince, as did most everybody, especially the owners of establishments where people went to go-sip. And gossip. The stories about Emir Abdullah-Harazins had blown up into myths and legends. Tall tales that included the Emir being a sorcerer who had command of a massive prehistoric python that would do his bidding. The bartender tried to go about his work, but found his mind kept wandering to the stranger at the back. The bartender thought he was clearly waiting for something. Or someone. But the weirdest part was that the bartender couldn't seem to remember if he had been there for just a couple of hours or days. It seemed like days, but the stranger never seemed to physically bother anybody. Or eat or go to the bathroom. He was just there waiting. Waiting for what? The bartender cast a weary eye in his direction. He did not like him hanging out, especially without ordering drinks. Perhaps he would send someone over there to shake him up.Once in a while the stranger would pull out an hour glass and stare at it beseechingly, flicking it with his fingers. There was something odd about the hourglass. The sand in it was black and again the words magic and sorcery seemed to float to the top of the bartender's mind. Some of the black grains seemed to dance around the top of the glass as if they were alive.After four days or four weeks, depending on from whom you hear the story, the tavern was visited by a most prestigious guest. There were no trumpets but he was an important guest. This guest was peculiar looking in that he had a mustache that was not waxed and thin as was the style of the region, but a thick burly thing from a region where deserts were much colder. The mustached man had traveled far and long. He was some important official from some great country to the east or possibly the north; he wore a strange uniform that had a half moon on it. The guest was apparently some ambassador or a magistrate. He called himself the ambassador of change, and he was here on a diplomatic mission. On his head was a fluffy pelt of some animal and beneath that bushy mustache was a vicious smirk. He talked fast and the bartender found it hard to understand him. The bartender's eyes were fixated on the emblem on his chest. It was shiny and looked to be made of gold and other precious stones. The bartender wanted to reach out and grab it, but minded his P's and Q's.When he had taken the position, which was only about four fortnights ago, the bartender was informed he was always to be a gracious host to ambassadors or magistrates that came in here or else he'd end up like the last bartender, taking a dirt nap. The mustached official or ambassador did order a drink, placed a big silver coin on the bar and retired to the back of the bar to talk with the magnificent stranger.As the bartender approached with the official's drink, the mustached man in the uniform with the strange half moon on it told the bartender, "Sit, ze need you to bear witnezz to zometing."The bartender tried to be gracious, struggling to speak, "Sirs, pearhaps," he was at loss for words, "ya like try anotha brudda," he said pointing around the bar at the cast of wickedness that was barely visible in this dark tomb. The official stroked his mustache. It was clear he was not fooling around. His eyes cast that authoritative look that made the bartender drop his head and listen intently. The official motioned for him to sit again and the bartender knew he had no choice. The stranger in the shimmering cloak began, "It is by perpetual fear that authority drives men into slavery. The Prince, His Highness, is no different, but he is not a dishonest, murderous thief. The stories you have heard about him are embellished, perhaps not lies but rather misinterpretations of a fool. A fool who heard the story and did not understand the inherent contradictions and the symbolism. Those who fear him will try to make him seem as if he is evil, that he kills without reason, that he is a gateway into madness. That whole bit about Anazasi killing King Phillip with a piece of flowering hemp is absurd, nothing more than a legend. Come on, think about it, a prehistoric python that talks, whoever heard of such nonsense? Hemp is harmless and quite meditative. The sad part is people will believe what you tell them. Hashish kills. The youth are easily brainwashed. And then the youth eventually become the leaders, believing the lie their leaders told them.""How did ze king die?" the ambassador asked."I presume you mean King Phillip?"The ambassador nodded."Two green adders beneath his throne," the stranger in the cloak replied."Nonzenze," the ambassador replied."I'm afraid it is fact," said the stranger in the dark cloak."And Anazasi put them there?" the ambassador asked."Anazasi, I'm afraid, was just a decoy; he had nothing to do with the death of King Phillip ... he did, however, drive a blade right into his biological father's neck and murder him and thus perpetuate the myth that he was responsible for both murders. A product of His Highness, the quite devious but certainly not sinister, Emir Abdullah-Harazins," the man in the cloak explained. "Everybody's blaming Emir Abdullah- Harazins, out to insist he's a monster. A Magician. A Sorcerer. I myself know the truth about His Highness. He is no monster, just someone who has lost the thing he loved most. I will tell you another story and then you may have a clearer picture of Emir, His Highness, the Prince. It starts with a soldier ...""Wait, wait, hold up," said Chris, his eyes barely open. "So in your story, you've got a guy telling a story?""That's about the gist of it," Gordy explained. "Stephen King did it in The Dark Tower.""Several times," Gordy added."Just let him finish the story," Stephanie mumbled."You mean his story within a story. He just fucking started it ..." Chris whined.Gordy continued ...Well, actually, he was not really a soldier anymore. He had gone AWOL or was MIA, his entire battalion had been destroyed, you choose which way to look at it. In any event, he was not planning on going back. There was nothing to go back to, but there were other battalions; they always needed more soldiers, more expendables. No, sir, he was not going back, he couldn't tell you why. He had been a good soldier, but he was lost, though what he was lost from may be in question. He looked like a sheikh in the desert robes. A turban shaded the soldier's face, leaving his electric chartreuse eyes glowing in the shadows. So help me Mary Jane, he had green eyes, dazzling like two emeralds in the sunlight. They may have been his greatest attribute. The soldier had not been lost for long, but had been in the field for many, many months, marching. He scratched his neck, his beard already coming in full. The soldier had fought in a few battles, then his battalion had been ambushed over a fortnight ago. He didn't know if there were any survivors. He didn't wait around to not be one. The slaughter had been silent and deadly, blowing in with the wind. The soldier had felt craven. There were just too many of them. They hit his camp like a landslide. The soldier would have no doubt been a casualty. The soldier looked around. He did not know where he was. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He was on a mountain border between an endless desert and an insurmountable high place, a border that had been subsequently changed various times because of warring countries.He did know that the desert that lay before him was otherwise known as the vanishing desert. And that wasn't all. The vanishing desert was rumored to be haunted, because, yes, things vanished out there, but mostly people just disappeared. It was really no mystery where they vanished to, at least not to logical people. They were buried by huge sandstorms, covered by a vast ocean of sand. The vanishing was self-explanatory, still it did not stop idiots from spreading tales of gossip and legend about miniature mythical creatures cloaked in green, and dancing blue ghost flames. The desert had a history, and its history was well embellished with tales of supernatural wizardry and hooded midgets that had quick hands and disappearing pockets. But most men agreed it was uninhabitable. The soldier looked out across the desert; it was like a great Sea of Sand. Treacherous. Uninhabited. A Wasteland. He did not dare cross it, not with the little amount of water plus the baggage he was carrying. He thought about going back into the mountains, but that seemed like a bad idea, too."If you choose not to decide you still have made a choice," said the voice in the soldier's head. The voice had been with him for some time, and although he didn't know who the owner of the voice was, he thought the voice sounded slightly Chinese. The other weird thing that seemed to be recurring was that certain words seemed to bubble to the top of his mind. It was as if someone had stated MARK MY WORDS and there they were with an effervescence of shadow and outline. For example, he would be just sitting there and the words One Love would come fizzing up to the top of his mind. Sometimes the words made no sense whatsoever, sometimes they weren't even real words. One that seemed to keep surfacing that he remembered was Kaya. Was that the witch's true name? It couldn't be."Shut up!" he told the voice and the fizzing in his mind. He grabbed hold of his forehead and rubbed it madly. Who was this voice and what was this strange word fizz? He half suspected that witch had cast a spell on him. Still what did the witch have to do with the Chinese voice? Were they working together? Was he part of her coven?He began to reflect on how he had gotten into this position, and when the voice had first started to speak to him. It didn't have to do with the witch. It had to do with that plant. The herb that the fucking witch called the ally. It was a dark herb, except the color of it wasn't dark. The color was green. Light green. It was the plant's effects that were dark, according to the soldier. When that green plant with five-sided leaves went through some type of cocooning/flowering process, it did something to humans. Well, you had to inhale it or digest it, but it did something to their thought process, changed it somehow. The dark herb had some power over humans or, the witch might say, it gave them some power. It only happened when the flowers budded up like little green nuggets and started to envelop the entire plant.Well, wait, wait, wait ... we should backtrack a bit further still, not much is known about the soldier's youth and it is important to note that many of the stories about the soldier are filled with fantasy, folklore and legend, so there's no telling how accurate they are. Barely anything is known about his birth though it is believed that it occurred in the Holy City. It is generally acknowledged that he learned botany from his mother. People say that even at a young age, he liked grinding up roots or leaves and making potions. It is said his mother had taught him some herbal remedies, and after her death, making them brought him closer to her. He was healing in more ways than one. It is also believed that the soldier practiced a voodooesque method in which he carved up the root. Sometimes he made little carvings of men out of the root, and then replanted it along with a clump of his hair or a fingernail. He wasn't sure why he did this; some say he believed that it gave him ties to the Earth and a special power over its inhabitants. His enemies whispered it was witchcraft."How can something be witchcraft if God put it here for all of us?" the soldier argued on more than one occasion, words that would come back to haunt him when he met the witch. Words he would forget many times throughout this story. He loved plants and the woods. Both reminded him of his boyhood, for although it is believed he was conceived and born in the Holy City, it is said he grew up in the countryside. His mother Zana had a garden; she sold herbs and vegetables at the market. Salves and potions. Elixirs and remedies. Anything she could whip up. She could help with anything from whooping cough to the plague. When the soldier was eight or ten or maybe thirteen, they lived on a farm, sharecropping outside of the village of Sezz until it was burned to the ground by an invading army. In an abandoned barn the army cornered his mother. They would not take no for an answer. His mother was raped and her body eventually burned at the stake. The soldier was later informed that she was a witch. Still there had been no accusation or trial, just an execution. And if she was a witch, why did they need to rape her before they killed her? The boy did not cry. For many years he lived in the forest and it was a savage life, during which he learned how to kill for his food and sometimes for his life. For many years he lived in a tree fort above the forest floor. The inhabitants of this fort sometimes referred to it as Oakland, as it was based above many steady oaks. When he turned sixteen, he enlisted in the army. He had grown rugged and strong from years in the woods. He was put on an elite squad called the Killer Kush, during which time he was specially trained in hand-to-hand combat, jujitsu and karate. His weapon of choice was a naginata, which is sort of like a sword/staff with a long, sharp blade on the end. The blade is uber-sharp. He underwent an additional year of training during which he fenced every day of that year, sometimes for hours on end. He learned to think of the naginata as an extension of himself. An elongated third arm.(Continues...)Excerpted from The 4 Hundred and 20 Assassins by JOE DEMARCO. Copyright © 2014 Joe DeMarco. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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