Résultats de "Bill Ciccotti" dans Toutes les catégories

The desert can kill you in many ways. And all of them, are permeant. The Sahara Desert, desolate, inhospitable, and deadly. In Morocco, the Sultan holds nominal power. The real power resided in the arms of the French army. The Foreign Legion. But not everyone was happy. A bandit warlord wanted the French out and massacred in whole. There were many evil brigands who sought chaos for their own depraved reasons. Yet, in that turbulent area, the magnificent French Foreign Legion shone brightly.

Death is the inevitable end to all of us. Or is it? Perhaps, not everyone dies. Some come back from the dead. Over. And over. And over again. Just ask Juan Baltasar de Cristóbal la Roja. For he, like Gaius Longinus, the Roman Centurion, walks the Earth eternal. But Juan dances at the Reapers fickle demand. He has been cursed into becoming a plaything for El Muerto. These are the stories of a tortured man who the Reaper has decided to pay with before feasting on him. A came of eternal chess if you will. Ebb and flow of conflict and chaos. No rules, no goals, no victory.

A casual trip to Puerto Rico. Fun, sun, and hot senoritas. What could possibly go wrong? Everything. A Spanish Don gets whacked. We get blamed for it. The cops, the mob, and even the cigar lady over on Esmeralda Avenue are out to kill us. We barely escape from the El Conquistador hotel with the cloths on our back. Wet bathing suits, no less. We’re not alter boys. I mean, we’ve left a few bloodstains on the wall. But we had no part in this tropical execution. But come hell or high water, we were going to even the score.

Scattered and trapped across an exploding chessboard, individual groups of desperate men wandered. Men who were simply attempting to survive in a world of carnage that had gone totally insane. Men like us. Small units that were severely depleted of men and equipment. Manhood stranded in the wasteland who retreated to the defenses of anything they could find to buy themselves another hour. Even an insignificant farmhouse could be the difference between life and death.

East coast mobster on the run for over twenty years. He settled in Big Sky Montana and turned a new leaf. But you can't hide forever. Cowboys and Indians and Mobsters, oh my. East meats west at high noon. You can run from everything, except a bullet.

Old age comes to all of us. We lose a step, or two along the winding trail of life. Reflexes tend to betray us at times. But that doesn't mean you can't go down swinging with your boots still on. Muddy and kind of worn I'll agree. But ours are still high-quality boots indeed. Four old men ride up into the magnificent Montana mountains to relive old times and tell ta few all tales. Adventure under the wild western skis. Cowboys and Indians? Old men yes indeed.

WWII. The spring of 1944. War is hell, but Hitler's wolfpack of psychotic madmen are creating monsters. Searching for the invincible soldier, the Nazis are playing God with humanity. And hell, itself is about to crawl itself out of the bloody gates of perdition. Vampire soldiers, wolfmen commandos and the undead are walking through the dark and foreboding forests of Castle Ungeheuer. Death stalks the night searching for warm blood. Human blood.