Barak Obama, Democratic Senator from Illinois and current Democratic Presidential candidate, has decided, by gum, that he can do without the support of A J Drew. He just recently made a statement to the effect that pre-school and kindergarten children should be taught sex education.
While a good many of Obama’s supporters are doubtless in the process of trying to figure out how exactly to extract the figurative foot sized bullet from his brain, self-inflicted by the candidate himself by way of his mouth, let me explain exactly why he made this incredibly stupid pronouncement. By the time someone has come up with a conceivable plan to resurrect his campaign from the all but dead, I might even be able to explain it in a way that makes it understandable.
Not excusable, mind you-just understandable.
I offer you two words by way of explanation-
Ophra Winfrey.
This is a perfect example of why Hollywood people and other celebrities should be told upfront, “Look, I appreciate your help and support, and I especially appreciate your financial contributions and fund raising and your promotion of me to all your friends and fans. But if you expect me to get out there and promote some stupid fucking idea like that, your money and support are worthless to me, because you are going to make me look like a fucking brain dead maniac.”
Not that I know for a fact, of course, that this absurd and ill-advised idea came from Opra Winfrey. Yet, she is Obamas most well known and most fervent open supporter. She has helped him overcome and surpass the best fund-raising efforts of the Clinton machine with her contributions, encouragement, and open support. It is a known fact that she has stated that she herself was a past victim of child sexual abuse. She is also an advocate of all kinds of children’s issues. I would not be surprised or for that matter upset were she in fact a supporter of reasonable high school (or even middle school) sex education. Knowing this,however, why should it be a shock if she also supported this insanity?
Moreover, without a doubt, she is a major factor in Obama’s fund-raising success in general, and for his overall popularity, especially in California.
So, come on, do the math. No, once again, I don’t know it for a fact.
But I bet’cha.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Political Poverty Pretenders
Democratic Presidential candidate and 2004 Democratic Vice-Presidential nominee John Edwards recently made a campaign swing through Eastern Kentucky, where he made a number of stops in his efforts to publicize his “Two Americas” campaign. He describes it this way-the Two Americas is not about the rich and the poor. No, the Two Americas, according to him, is about the very rich and “everybody else”.
His campaign swing through Appalachia is supposed to echo the similar trip four decades ago by Democratic Presidential candidate and former Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy.
There is a big difference, however. Kennedy, had he not been assassinated about a year later, would have without a doubt been the Democratic nominee, and there is a pretty good chance he would have went on to be elected President in 1968.
Edwards has an outside chance at best of winning the nomination. He has to do really, really good in the early primaries. He also has to hope for an implosion from the Clinton and Obama campaigns. Where one such occurrence would be conceivable, two of them are highly unlikely.
Edwards main base of support-in fact his only significant support-is from trial lawyers whose fantasies revolve around unlimited access and influence from an Edwards Presidency, and the potential of all the multiple billions of dollars in class action lawsuits that might bring. He has an uphill climb to say the least. His is an example of his best friends being his worse enemies. Nobody as a rule likes trial lawyers as a group, and anybody with an ounce of intelligence knows what an Edwards Presidency would amount to.
A Palestinian refugee assassinated Robert Kennedy. Despite the controversy surrounding Muslims and Islamic terrorists in the present decade, this would be the least of Edwards worries. If, however, somehow Edwards fortunes improves to the point that he actually has a good chance of winning the Democratic nomination, and the polls were to show him to be the likely winner in a general election, he might well find himself in danger. His security detail might well look with a wary eye, not toward anyone with a vaguely Middle Eastern appearance, but instead toward anybody in a clown suit-especially one that looks suspiciously like Ronald MacDonald.
In the meantime, all of this waxing nostalgic about Kennedy’s past trip to Kentucky kind of overlooks one vital point. It was good of course, that he made the trip, as it pointed out the real problems of poverty in the area that existed then, and exists yet today. On the other hand, Kennedy was helping himself by the trip as much as calling attention to the very real problem.
Remember, Kennedy was at the time considering running for the nomination to the Presidency of the Democratic Party against Lyndon Baines Johnson, the incumbent President of his party. The major issue of the day was the Vietnam War, the thing that decimated Johnson’s legacy. In fact, if certain facts had become known during that time, Johnson might well have been in danger of impeachment. Nevertheless, it was bad enough as it was. Bad enough that Johnson might well have had to endure a bloody primary battle, which would have left him weakened in the coming general election against the Republican Nixon.
Kennedy of course did not know that Johnson would eventually wuss out of the primaries, after barely fending off a stiff challenge from Senator Eugene MacCarthy in the New Hampshire primary. He did not realize that Johnson would then declare that he would not seek the Democratic nomination in 1968. Kennedy assumed Johnson would fight the good fight, on through the end. He had to know that if Johnson did this, he as President would have the power of incumbency on his side. Though it would have been difficult, more than likely Johnson would have persevered and been re-nominated, though it would have split the Democratic Party straight down the middle.
Kennedy understood, to defeat Johnson in such a way as to insure Party solidity, he had to have more than just the Vietnam War to go on. Therefore, Kennedy involved himself in other issues. Race became a big factor in his up-and-coming Presidential bid. The streets were aflame during this, the height of the Civil Rights era, despite the fact Johnson was the most proactive supporter of civil rights of any President up until that time.
He had signed into law the Voting Rights Act of 1964, and the Civil Right Act of 1965, two landmark pieces of legislation originally proposed by President John F Kennedy, but which that President-Roberts brother-had been unable to push through Congress. Johnson did it, though it split the Party, and along with other reasons-some good, some bad- caused a massive exodus from the party that continued unabated on through the eighties and even into the early nineties, like a dull earache that just gets worse and worse.
In the meantime, those who were to be the chief beneficiaries of the two pieces of legislation in question-African Americans-seemed to constantly be taking to the streets in perpetual outrage over first one thing and another. Therefore, in his success, Johnson faced not one massive failure, but two. One from the people who felt betrayed by his efforts, the other from those he tried most to help.
Kennedy saw an opening here which he might exploit, and immediately set about doing so, by positioning himself as the heir apparent to his brothers so-called “Camelot” legacy, and therefore as the chief proponent and supporter of civil rights. The assassination of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King provided the perfect opportunity for him. I sincerely believe the speech that Kennedy gave had been written beforehand, and well rehearsed. His intention was to give it at some point under another context, in support of some nebulous perceived future gathering of civil rights leaders in a march on Washington, or perhaps one he intended to give during the Democratic convention in accepting the nomination to the Presidency-or to the Vice-Presidency. Whatever the case, he ended up giving it in the context of the assassination of the nation’s then most controversial civil rights leader. King was by no means the universally loved and admired figure that he is today. Nevertheless, Kennedy made it clear exactly where he stood (which was by the way commendable).
Still, Kennedy knew he could not content himself even with this. Other aspects of the Johnson presidency presented opportunities for Kennedy to chip away at his record. The most obvious accomplishment Johnson might point to was his work in promoting “The Great Society”. This was a labyrinthine government group of programs supposedly designed to alleviate the problems of poverty. Many such programs, known as “welfare”, included financial assistance to poor families and the unemployed, Medicare, Medicaid, Head Start, and food stamps. There were other such programs deigned to provide educational opportunities in poor and dispossessed areas, as well as infrastructure projects such as roads, bridges, and dams. It was designed as a kind of continuation of FDR’s New Deal, and was pretty much inspired by that program.
Unfortunately, to a great extent it was run shabbily. It was a bureaucracy that created dependency on government, and was self-perpetuating. Not enough controls were instituted on it, and so it became a nightmarish farce, despite the good it undoubtedly did in many individual cases. To a significant degree, it was utilized largely as a vote-buying scheme, and it worked all too well in that respect. Unfortunately, what it did not do was eliminate poverty, nor did it even reduce it to any significant degree.
This was the reason for Kennedy’s trip then to Appalachia, and to other poor and dispossessed regions, which you will note included many sections of the Deep South, where Johnson made a good many enemies toward himself and the Democratic Party.
Kennedy’s purpose was then of multiple intent. One, he wished to portray himself as an anti-poverty crusader. Two, he wished to present a caring face toward the rural poor, including especially poor rural whites. Finally, and just as importantly, his purpose was to illustrate the ultimate failure of Johnson’s Great Society.
Unfortunately, for John Edwards, his hopes are predicated on many faulty assumptions. For one thing, Hillary Clinton may not be well loved outside of the Democratic base, or even by that base, but she does nevertheless bear more of a similarity to Kennedy than does Edwards, in one respect. Robert Kennedy ran as the brother and heir apparent of a well beloved Democratic President. Hillary Clinton is running as the wife of an equally well beloved Democratic President.
John Edwards is the candidate whom most people would see as most like Johnson. To most, he is just another hack politician who tries to buy votes by promising to eliminate poverty, and who would use intrusive government bureaucracies and higher taxes as a means to control as much of their lives as possible.
His campaign swing through Appalachia is supposed to echo the similar trip four decades ago by Democratic Presidential candidate and former Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy.
There is a big difference, however. Kennedy, had he not been assassinated about a year later, would have without a doubt been the Democratic nominee, and there is a pretty good chance he would have went on to be elected President in 1968.
Edwards has an outside chance at best of winning the nomination. He has to do really, really good in the early primaries. He also has to hope for an implosion from the Clinton and Obama campaigns. Where one such occurrence would be conceivable, two of them are highly unlikely.
Edwards main base of support-in fact his only significant support-is from trial lawyers whose fantasies revolve around unlimited access and influence from an Edwards Presidency, and the potential of all the multiple billions of dollars in class action lawsuits that might bring. He has an uphill climb to say the least. His is an example of his best friends being his worse enemies. Nobody as a rule likes trial lawyers as a group, and anybody with an ounce of intelligence knows what an Edwards Presidency would amount to.
A Palestinian refugee assassinated Robert Kennedy. Despite the controversy surrounding Muslims and Islamic terrorists in the present decade, this would be the least of Edwards worries. If, however, somehow Edwards fortunes improves to the point that he actually has a good chance of winning the Democratic nomination, and the polls were to show him to be the likely winner in a general election, he might well find himself in danger. His security detail might well look with a wary eye, not toward anyone with a vaguely Middle Eastern appearance, but instead toward anybody in a clown suit-especially one that looks suspiciously like Ronald MacDonald.
In the meantime, all of this waxing nostalgic about Kennedy’s past trip to Kentucky kind of overlooks one vital point. It was good of course, that he made the trip, as it pointed out the real problems of poverty in the area that existed then, and exists yet today. On the other hand, Kennedy was helping himself by the trip as much as calling attention to the very real problem.
Remember, Kennedy was at the time considering running for the nomination to the Presidency of the Democratic Party against Lyndon Baines Johnson, the incumbent President of his party. The major issue of the day was the Vietnam War, the thing that decimated Johnson’s legacy. In fact, if certain facts had become known during that time, Johnson might well have been in danger of impeachment. Nevertheless, it was bad enough as it was. Bad enough that Johnson might well have had to endure a bloody primary battle, which would have left him weakened in the coming general election against the Republican Nixon.
Kennedy of course did not know that Johnson would eventually wuss out of the primaries, after barely fending off a stiff challenge from Senator Eugene MacCarthy in the New Hampshire primary. He did not realize that Johnson would then declare that he would not seek the Democratic nomination in 1968. Kennedy assumed Johnson would fight the good fight, on through the end. He had to know that if Johnson did this, he as President would have the power of incumbency on his side. Though it would have been difficult, more than likely Johnson would have persevered and been re-nominated, though it would have split the Democratic Party straight down the middle.
Kennedy understood, to defeat Johnson in such a way as to insure Party solidity, he had to have more than just the Vietnam War to go on. Therefore, Kennedy involved himself in other issues. Race became a big factor in his up-and-coming Presidential bid. The streets were aflame during this, the height of the Civil Rights era, despite the fact Johnson was the most proactive supporter of civil rights of any President up until that time.
He had signed into law the Voting Rights Act of 1964, and the Civil Right Act of 1965, two landmark pieces of legislation originally proposed by President John F Kennedy, but which that President-Roberts brother-had been unable to push through Congress. Johnson did it, though it split the Party, and along with other reasons-some good, some bad- caused a massive exodus from the party that continued unabated on through the eighties and even into the early nineties, like a dull earache that just gets worse and worse.
In the meantime, those who were to be the chief beneficiaries of the two pieces of legislation in question-African Americans-seemed to constantly be taking to the streets in perpetual outrage over first one thing and another. Therefore, in his success, Johnson faced not one massive failure, but two. One from the people who felt betrayed by his efforts, the other from those he tried most to help.
Kennedy saw an opening here which he might exploit, and immediately set about doing so, by positioning himself as the heir apparent to his brothers so-called “Camelot” legacy, and therefore as the chief proponent and supporter of civil rights. The assassination of the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King provided the perfect opportunity for him. I sincerely believe the speech that Kennedy gave had been written beforehand, and well rehearsed. His intention was to give it at some point under another context, in support of some nebulous perceived future gathering of civil rights leaders in a march on Washington, or perhaps one he intended to give during the Democratic convention in accepting the nomination to the Presidency-or to the Vice-Presidency. Whatever the case, he ended up giving it in the context of the assassination of the nation’s then most controversial civil rights leader. King was by no means the universally loved and admired figure that he is today. Nevertheless, Kennedy made it clear exactly where he stood (which was by the way commendable).
Still, Kennedy knew he could not content himself even with this. Other aspects of the Johnson presidency presented opportunities for Kennedy to chip away at his record. The most obvious accomplishment Johnson might point to was his work in promoting “The Great Society”. This was a labyrinthine government group of programs supposedly designed to alleviate the problems of poverty. Many such programs, known as “welfare”, included financial assistance to poor families and the unemployed, Medicare, Medicaid, Head Start, and food stamps. There were other such programs deigned to provide educational opportunities in poor and dispossessed areas, as well as infrastructure projects such as roads, bridges, and dams. It was designed as a kind of continuation of FDR’s New Deal, and was pretty much inspired by that program.
Unfortunately, to a great extent it was run shabbily. It was a bureaucracy that created dependency on government, and was self-perpetuating. Not enough controls were instituted on it, and so it became a nightmarish farce, despite the good it undoubtedly did in many individual cases. To a significant degree, it was utilized largely as a vote-buying scheme, and it worked all too well in that respect. Unfortunately, what it did not do was eliminate poverty, nor did it even reduce it to any significant degree.
This was the reason for Kennedy’s trip then to Appalachia, and to other poor and dispossessed regions, which you will note included many sections of the Deep South, where Johnson made a good many enemies toward himself and the Democratic Party.
Kennedy’s purpose was then of multiple intent. One, he wished to portray himself as an anti-poverty crusader. Two, he wished to present a caring face toward the rural poor, including especially poor rural whites. Finally, and just as importantly, his purpose was to illustrate the ultimate failure of Johnson’s Great Society.
Unfortunately, for John Edwards, his hopes are predicated on many faulty assumptions. For one thing, Hillary Clinton may not be well loved outside of the Democratic base, or even by that base, but she does nevertheless bear more of a similarity to Kennedy than does Edwards, in one respect. Robert Kennedy ran as the brother and heir apparent of a well beloved Democratic President. Hillary Clinton is running as the wife of an equally well beloved Democratic President.
John Edwards is the candidate whom most people would see as most like Johnson. To most, he is just another hack politician who tries to buy votes by promising to eliminate poverty, and who would use intrusive government bureaucracies and higher taxes as a means to control as much of their lives as possible.
Promises, Promises
I try to not allow my blog to be hijacked by electoral politics. After all, this is not a national election year, and we can all use a break from the constant deceptions, manipulations, and outright lies. Still, it is advisable to keep abreast of the more noteworthy political shenanigans. On the other hand, there are some important developments in politics this week, so I will allow myself the luxury of playing the political pundit. I like to do that, of course, because I am always right.
Harry Reed’s Senate slumber party did not turn out so well, as he did not get enough Republican crossover votes to accomplish his purported task of demanding a deadline for troop withdrawal, ostensibly slated for completion by April of next year. He got four Republicans to vote for him, but even if he had gotten the four others he targeted-John Warner of Virginia, George Voinovich of Ohio, Dick Lugar of Indiana, and Pete Domenici of Arizona-he still would have ended up four votes shy.
That is because there were three Democrats and one independent (Joe Liebermann) who voted with the Republicans. Of course, it does not really matter as, of course, any such bill would face a sure veto, which would hold up if challenged. This would just make it that much harder on Republicans, who are hoping against any seemingly realistic hope for a drastic improvement on the ground in Iraq by the middle of this September.
Which brings me to Fred Thompson, Hollywood actor and star of the series Law And Order, and former Tennessee Senator. Many conservatives see Thompson as their great white hope. He leads in a great many polls, including Zogby, and by all indications, he is planning on running.
So what is he waiting for? Christmas? Labor Day? Yeah, Labor Day. That would pretty much coincide with the time allotted for the “Surge”. By then, we will know for sure what already seems to be the standard wisdom as of now-it’s not working. If that turns out to be the case, it is even more trouble for the Republicans.
That is what Fred is waiting for, then, in my opinion. He plans to tailor his message accordingly. After all, if he declared shortly after the Fourth of July, as originally believed, he would have to take a stand on what most consider to be the most important and pressing issue of the day.
If he came out wholly in support of the Presidents policy, and of the Surge, then he risks his message blowing up in his face in the ever increasingly likely event the Surge proves to be the failure it looks to be.
On the other hand, were he to come out that early in opposition to the President and his policy regarding the Surge, then he risks not only disappointing but also irretrievably alienating a large segment of the Republican base. That is something no GOP candidate can afford to do if he or she hopes to win a national election, and especially a primary contest.
In other words, Thompson is playing it smart. A bit craven, but smart, nevertheless. He understands he will not attract a sizeable portion of Democratic breakaway voters, so he has to concentrate on holding the Republican voters. Unfortunately, that requires walking a tightrope, as a large segment of the GOP voters are becoming increasingly disappointed in the Iraq War, and want it ended one way or another.
By the end of September, Thompson will be able to craft his message in such a way as to coincide with the realities on the ground in Iraq. Though he will still have to walk that tightrope, he can walk it more comfortably and for less time, and in such a way that he might be able to hold the GOP coalition together. This might also enable him to draw support from a substantial number of independent voters as well, which will definitely be a necessity in order for him to win the general election.
That is something he could never do if he declares early and comes out as a hawk in support of the President and the Surge, especially if that policy indeed turns out to be the failed policy it seems destined to be.
Of course, you might not believe as I do that this is such a divisive issue within the rank-and-file of GOP voters. In that case, I point out this fact. One of the staunchest groups of Republican voters and supporters are military personnel and their families, who tend to vote Republican by as much as 2-to-1.
So, what candidate does this important Republican demographic currently support? No, it is not a Democrat. In fact, one Republican in particular has gotten more support from this group, in the way of campaign contributions, than any other single candidate has so far-from either party. The point being-
That Republican candidate is Ron Paul, the former Libertarian and now Republican Texas Congressman and current Presidential candidate who is, as of now, the only such candidate among the GOP who has openly called for ending the Iraq War and bringing the troops home.
You can damn well bet the Wall Street set is sitting up and taking notice of that. It is an equally safe bet the RNC is as well. After all, by the time September rolls around, this could well be a public relations nightmare. With just a year to go from that point on before the elections, they are going to have some hard choices to make, some that Mr. Bush is not going to like.
They had better realize that Mr. Bush is going to be too, errrr, “busy” with the “duties” of his office, to do much campaigning for them anyway. Otherwise, by the time the 2008 general election gets here, the best campaign pitch the GOP might be able to come up with might well be-
“Please vote for us. We promise not to fuck up this time.”
Harry Reed’s Senate slumber party did not turn out so well, as he did not get enough Republican crossover votes to accomplish his purported task of demanding a deadline for troop withdrawal, ostensibly slated for completion by April of next year. He got four Republicans to vote for him, but even if he had gotten the four others he targeted-John Warner of Virginia, George Voinovich of Ohio, Dick Lugar of Indiana, and Pete Domenici of Arizona-he still would have ended up four votes shy.
That is because there were three Democrats and one independent (Joe Liebermann) who voted with the Republicans. Of course, it does not really matter as, of course, any such bill would face a sure veto, which would hold up if challenged. This would just make it that much harder on Republicans, who are hoping against any seemingly realistic hope for a drastic improvement on the ground in Iraq by the middle of this September.
Which brings me to Fred Thompson, Hollywood actor and star of the series Law And Order, and former Tennessee Senator. Many conservatives see Thompson as their great white hope. He leads in a great many polls, including Zogby, and by all indications, he is planning on running.
So what is he waiting for? Christmas? Labor Day? Yeah, Labor Day. That would pretty much coincide with the time allotted for the “Surge”. By then, we will know for sure what already seems to be the standard wisdom as of now-it’s not working. If that turns out to be the case, it is even more trouble for the Republicans.
That is what Fred is waiting for, then, in my opinion. He plans to tailor his message accordingly. After all, if he declared shortly after the Fourth of July, as originally believed, he would have to take a stand on what most consider to be the most important and pressing issue of the day.
If he came out wholly in support of the Presidents policy, and of the Surge, then he risks his message blowing up in his face in the ever increasingly likely event the Surge proves to be the failure it looks to be.
On the other hand, were he to come out that early in opposition to the President and his policy regarding the Surge, then he risks not only disappointing but also irretrievably alienating a large segment of the Republican base. That is something no GOP candidate can afford to do if he or she hopes to win a national election, and especially a primary contest.
In other words, Thompson is playing it smart. A bit craven, but smart, nevertheless. He understands he will not attract a sizeable portion of Democratic breakaway voters, so he has to concentrate on holding the Republican voters. Unfortunately, that requires walking a tightrope, as a large segment of the GOP voters are becoming increasingly disappointed in the Iraq War, and want it ended one way or another.
By the end of September, Thompson will be able to craft his message in such a way as to coincide with the realities on the ground in Iraq. Though he will still have to walk that tightrope, he can walk it more comfortably and for less time, and in such a way that he might be able to hold the GOP coalition together. This might also enable him to draw support from a substantial number of independent voters as well, which will definitely be a necessity in order for him to win the general election.
That is something he could never do if he declares early and comes out as a hawk in support of the President and the Surge, especially if that policy indeed turns out to be the failed policy it seems destined to be.
Of course, you might not believe as I do that this is such a divisive issue within the rank-and-file of GOP voters. In that case, I point out this fact. One of the staunchest groups of Republican voters and supporters are military personnel and their families, who tend to vote Republican by as much as 2-to-1.
So, what candidate does this important Republican demographic currently support? No, it is not a Democrat. In fact, one Republican in particular has gotten more support from this group, in the way of campaign contributions, than any other single candidate has so far-from either party. The point being-
That Republican candidate is Ron Paul, the former Libertarian and now Republican Texas Congressman and current Presidential candidate who is, as of now, the only such candidate among the GOP who has openly called for ending the Iraq War and bringing the troops home.
You can damn well bet the Wall Street set is sitting up and taking notice of that. It is an equally safe bet the RNC is as well. After all, by the time September rolls around, this could well be a public relations nightmare. With just a year to go from that point on before the elections, they are going to have some hard choices to make, some that Mr. Bush is not going to like.
They had better realize that Mr. Bush is going to be too, errrr, “busy” with the “duties” of his office, to do much campaigning for them anyway. Otherwise, by the time the 2008 general election gets here, the best campaign pitch the GOP might be able to come up with might well be-
“Please vote for us. We promise not to fuck up this time.”
More Reasons I Wish I Was An Editorial Cartoonist
George Bush went to the hospital yesterday, for a colonoscopy. While there, he handed the reigns of power over to Vice President Dick Cheney.
Let’s see now. Bush was getting his ass probed. Cheney was in charge.
I think I’ll just stop while I’m ahead.
UPDATE-Well, it’s already over and done with, and Bush is back in charge. I guess that was what you call a “quickie”.
Let’s see now. Bush was getting his ass probed. Cheney was in charge.
I think I’ll just stop while I’m ahead.
UPDATE-Well, it’s already over and done with, and Bush is back in charge. I guess that was what you call a “quickie”.
Chick Cartoons
The world lost a great potential editorial cartoonist, when Jack Chick married a woman from a fundamentalist Christian family from Canada in the sixties. Since that time he has never looked back. Instead of editorial cartoons, this creative cartoon genius has made a name for himself as a Christian pamphleteer. Of course, to my knowledge he was never an editorial cartoonist. Though that is too bad, perhaps it's just as well.
It might seem odd that I enjoy the work of Jack Chick, but I do. I enjoy his art, and even the stories. I don’t agree with them, but oh well, it is what it is.
I recently discovered his website and hunted down this old gem that someone once left in my mailbox, warning about the false teachings of reincarnation. The title of it is The Tycoon. It is rip-roaring hilarious.
Of course, it is supposed to be scary, and in fact, I can see why Chick’s pamphlets are so effective. They scare the hell out of you by simply pointing out the exact words of the Bible. I’m not talking about obscure little passages that are open to interpretation either. No, I am referring to exact passages that are absolutely meant to be taken literally.
Of course, belief in their veracity requires a very big leap of faith that I can’t take. Like, for example, you have to believe the Bible is the literal word of God, you have to believe in that particular God, you have to believe he has always existed (no beginning or no end) and that he created the universe,even though there is absolutely no demonstrable, explainable, or conceivable way any of this could be possible.
Then, you have to take the biggest leap of faith of all, in believing that all human beings are “sinners” and “fallen from grace”. If you can accept that doctrine, then everything else in the Bible becomes logical. If you can’t accept it, well, then Houston, we have a problem.
Nevertheless I still enjoy reading Jack Chick cartoons. Maybe I’m just a masochist.
I doubt the Islamic community would share my amusement at Jack Chick cartoons. At least, not those which are very critical of the Islamic faith and Mohammed.
Out of all the thousands upon thousands of angry, screaming faces shouting “Death To Europe” due to the publication of a cartoon in one newspaper in Denmark (which was then reprinted, however, in several other papers across Europe), finally four have been charged in the controversy.
I strongly urge the distribution of this cartoon by Jack Chick. It’s hilarious, as are many Chick cartoons, in this case mainly due to how easily the Muslim character is converted, after being convinced that Allah is a false idol-a former pagan “moon god”.
The offending European cartoon merely featured a likeness of Allah with the lit fuse of a bomb protruding from the turban on his head.
If this cartoon were ever read, it might well result in the death of western civilization as we know it.
Then again, cartoonist Robert Smigel and Saturday Night Live got away with portraying Mohammed as a member of a superhero team-one lead by Jesus Christ-so maybe not.
Unfortunately, the cartoon in question, from the Saturday TV Fun House series-a semi-regular segment on Saturday Night Live for about ten years now-has vanished from the list on Wikipedia, nor is it to be found on any other list of which I am aware. Almost like it never existed. Very strange.
It might seem odd that I enjoy the work of Jack Chick, but I do. I enjoy his art, and even the stories. I don’t agree with them, but oh well, it is what it is.
I recently discovered his website and hunted down this old gem that someone once left in my mailbox, warning about the false teachings of reincarnation. The title of it is The Tycoon. It is rip-roaring hilarious.
Of course, it is supposed to be scary, and in fact, I can see why Chick’s pamphlets are so effective. They scare the hell out of you by simply pointing out the exact words of the Bible. I’m not talking about obscure little passages that are open to interpretation either. No, I am referring to exact passages that are absolutely meant to be taken literally.
Of course, belief in their veracity requires a very big leap of faith that I can’t take. Like, for example, you have to believe the Bible is the literal word of God, you have to believe in that particular God, you have to believe he has always existed (no beginning or no end) and that he created the universe,even though there is absolutely no demonstrable, explainable, or conceivable way any of this could be possible.
Then, you have to take the biggest leap of faith of all, in believing that all human beings are “sinners” and “fallen from grace”. If you can accept that doctrine, then everything else in the Bible becomes logical. If you can’t accept it, well, then Houston, we have a problem.
Nevertheless I still enjoy reading Jack Chick cartoons. Maybe I’m just a masochist.
I doubt the Islamic community would share my amusement at Jack Chick cartoons. At least, not those which are very critical of the Islamic faith and Mohammed.
Out of all the thousands upon thousands of angry, screaming faces shouting “Death To Europe” due to the publication of a cartoon in one newspaper in Denmark (which was then reprinted, however, in several other papers across Europe), finally four have been charged in the controversy.
I strongly urge the distribution of this cartoon by Jack Chick. It’s hilarious, as are many Chick cartoons, in this case mainly due to how easily the Muslim character is converted, after being convinced that Allah is a false idol-a former pagan “moon god”.
The offending European cartoon merely featured a likeness of Allah with the lit fuse of a bomb protruding from the turban on his head.
If this cartoon were ever read, it might well result in the death of western civilization as we know it.
Then again, cartoonist Robert Smigel and Saturday Night Live got away with portraying Mohammed as a member of a superhero team-one lead by Jesus Christ-so maybe not.
Unfortunately, the cartoon in question, from the Saturday TV Fun House series-a semi-regular segment on Saturday Night Live for about ten years now-has vanished from the list on Wikipedia, nor is it to be found on any other list of which I am aware. Almost like it never existed. Very strange.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Radu-Chapter XIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS:
Prologue with Chapters I-X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Radu-Chapter XIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
Fourteen Pages Approximate
Debbie Leighton knew how to turn on the tears when it was appropriate, or when it was expected. When she was informed that her mother and father had died in the course of a fire at the family farm, along with an unknown and yet unidentified guest, she knew just what to do. She thought back to the day of her First Degree initiation into Joseph’s Vampire Coven of Blood.
She remembered how they attacked her, told her she was a fat, ugly, stupid little whore. As if all that were not bad enough, her pussy stank so bad no one could stand to get close to it, let alone fuck it.
They laughed at her mercilessly, and they beat her. During all of this seven-hour ordeal, during which she had been tied, and whipped, and not permitted to even go to the bathroom, she urinated all over herself, and shit as well, but the one thing she never did was cry-not even when they called her a little girl, a stupid juvenile, and a spoiled, worthless little brat.
Then, after they cleaned her with a hose and detergent, they raped her, all of them. Joseph, Sierra, Milo, Larceny, and Rhino all took their turns with her. Then came, by far, the most horrifying part of the ordeal-they told her she was a useless failure, and she had to die.
They laughed at her as they each drank her blood. They then dug a deep hole, after which they produced a coffin. By now, she was weak from the abuse and the loss of blood, and too terrified to move, or even make a sound. They buried her, and they left her there alone, buried. She felt like she was already dead, and now resigned herself to the realization they intended this all along.
She remained there from the midnight of that night and all through the next day. Her father would probably laugh at her if he knew, or if he ever found out. Her mother would cry, but would say nothing in her defense. She would just agree with her father-she brought it on herself.
When they brought her back up, it was the following midnight. They looked at her and smiled, and then laughed, as each one welcomed her back to “everlasting life”. They all hugged and kissed and, after she partook of their blood, all mixed inside a silver cup, she made love with all of them.
Joseph assigned her to Milo, who was to teach her the different rituals and articles of faith, and with whom she quickly fell in love. In time, however, she tired of him, and aspired to be with Joseph, the groups’ leader. They were all nothing without him, this simple cab driver and son of a Baptist minister, who proclaimed himself the reincarnation of Vlad The Impaler. They worshiped Joseph as an incarnation of Vlad-and God.
Debbie thought it was a lot of crap, but who cared? It was fun to her, and fun was all that mattered. After all, Milo didn’t take it seriously either, nor did Rhino. No one did except Larceny and Sierra, and of course Joseph. Spiral seemed more devoted to Joseph than all the rest, for all the good it had done her. They all stood in a circle as Joseph strangled her for her betrayal of him with another man.
When she and Milo then dumped her body at the Krovell mortuary, they all thought eventually they would hear something about it, yet not only did it seem as though the finding of the body was never reported, but Marlowe never initiated contact with Joseph, as their leader claimed he most definitely would.
This had Joseph in a sour mood for days.
“The motherfucker must be playing a game with us”, he said. “Well he’s playing with the wrong person.”
He knew of Marlowe’s membership in an on-line site known as Sanguinarius, and so he told her to join. After she did so, she initiated private contact with Marlowe, but nothing ever came of it. She eventually told him about her friendship with Joseph, whereupon he replied that she was a little idiot and to stop bothering him, as she had nothing he needed. He made no mention of Spiral Lamont.
Joseph was enraged, and sent him a threatening e-mail, to which the man named Marlowe responded, but still no mention was made of the dead former member. It was almost as if he was not even aware of what happened. It took Milo some time to convince Joseph they had dropped the body off at the right place.
In time, it was seemingly forgotten, and they settled back into their usual routines. Larceny maintained a private loft apartment where she conducted her business under an assumed name. Rhino was constantly working out and training for the day he would finally land a pro-football career, though he now settled for the opportunity to play for the Arena Football team the Blackbirds, having all but given up on the prospect of playing for his beloved Ravens. Sierra continued to sell drugs, tend bar, paint, and constantly talked of a hoped for career as a death metal singer while she fucked her way to the top of her pharmaceutical class.
Milo, ostensibly her boyfriend and tutor, counted the days until he could go off probation and back into the crack and meth trade, but until such time he had to content himself with his ho-hum job at Kentucky Fried Chicken. At least he got free food at the end of his night shift job, which helped not only the group, but also her Aunt Barbara. She honestly seemed to believe that Milo was Debbie’s friend and mentor, and therefore was happy to allow Debbie to spend as much time with him as she wanted-as long as he kept the booze and pot coming her way, of course.
However, Joseph kept the group together. He made good money as a cab driver, but more importantly, he was always finding someone who was in desperate need of a fare, usually a druggie or alcoholic who Joseph manipulated into getting so high, the person always passed out by the time Joseph delivered him to his true and final destination. This was usually a small park area some two miles from the large lake to the north of the city. By the time the person came to, it was time for the fun to begin.
There was something about ripping into a person’s raw flesh, with nails and teeth, and eating them, gorging on their flesh and blood while they were yet alive, that was a more exhilarating experience than any she had previously experienced or for that matter even imagined. There was a sense of power that she herself experienced the first time she engaged in the activity against her own parents on the night of her Second Degree Initiation-her Sweet Sixteen Party. It was even better than sex, and she truly could not get enough of it.
When she said in her Sanguinarius Profile that she wanted to experience the blood of the innocent, she was not joking. Marlowe himself had told her, in response to reading her profile, the blood of the innocent made all others pale by comparison.
Great, she thought, she might have found somebody cooler even than Joseph, but of course that turned out not to be the case.
She and Joseph, and all the others, shared a bond that few people could hope to understand, let alone share. They had all been together now for over a year and, despite the unfortunate incident with Spiral, she had a deep and abiding love for them all. They were a family, and their times together were all good.
However, it was not the good times of which she thought now, but that horrific night of her initial acceptance into the clan. She found their words and taunts repeatedly sounded in her head, and for the first time, she cried. She was so distraught she almost collapsed. One of the police, in fact, had to hold her up.
When she returned to the home of her mother’s sister Barbara, with whom she had been staying for nearly all the last year, it was all she could do to refrain from laughing in good old Aunt Barb’s face. Barb was of course distraught. Just because she and her sister had fallen out years ago did not mean she was not upset at the grisly fate her and her husband had suffered. In fact, she was terribly upset.
Debbie knew just what Aunt Barb needed. Debbie called Milo.
When Milo arrived he was not in the best mood, but of course, it was hard to tell with him when he was in a bad mood, or merely affecting a petulant persona that demanded appreciation for going out of his way.
Milo brought some beer and pot, but now Barb was insistent that Milo stay and share with her. After all, since he and her niece spent so much time together, surely it was time they got to know each other better. Fortunately, Milo had an excuse-he had to work tonight. Nevertheless, Barb was all but begging him to call in sick. Worse, she demanded that Debbie stay home tonight. In the aftermath of her parents’ death, it was unseemly that she go out to her earlier arranged party.
“Damn, Milo, you have to do something”, Debbie insisted as she took him off to the side in the kitchen.
“You can’t expect me to call in sick on account of that cow”, he said, as he prepared himself a cup of instant coffee. He actually despised the stuff, but that was after all the pretext for entering the kitchen alone with Spanky. In the meantime, Barb was in the process of calling neighbors and friends in search of commiseration over the death of her “favorite” sister.
“Bullshit”, Spanky said. “I’ve got some important shit to do tonight. Just stay with her for an hour or two. I need her to pass out so I can get out of here and do it. Once you start fucking her she’ll forget all about me.”
“You have got to be joking, right?” Milo despised the old drunk who was Debbie’s aunt, though she was for the time being indispensable. All the same, the idea of fucking somebody like her, a woman that fat and repugnant, and obviously stupid, went above and beyond anything he considered to be in the line of duty, even for a fellow coven member.
“Milo, I know it’s asking a lot, but damn, it’s only two years”, Debbie reminded him. “It’s not like you have to do this all the time.”
“Yeah, but what if she starts wanting it all the time”, Milo asked her.
Barb was still on the phone, now with yet another person, repeating the same news almost verbatim, with what even seemed to be the same moans and cries timed to fall in the exact same sequence.
“Just this once, Milo, please”, she begged. “I have to do something about Barnett, or it’s over.”
“And you’re sure this kid will do it”, he asked.
“He’s told me a million times he’ll do anything for me, he loves me and all that good bullshit, and he even said he’d kill anyone that ever tried to hurt me”, she assured him.
“Anybody can talk shit”, Milo warned her.
“Yeah, but you don’t know this kid”, Debbie told him. “He’s even threatened to whip your ass because he thinks you’re taking advantage of me”
Oh, fucking great”, Milo said as he rolled his eyes.
“Kids are always picking on him, and he’s always threatening suicide. I actually saved him once. He cut his wrist and I bandaged him up, then I promised I wouldn’t tell, as long as he promised never to do it again.”
“Yeah, I know all that, Spanky, but still-“
“What the fuck are you two doing in there?” Barb suddenly roared. “Bring me a fucking beer.”
Debbie quickly went to the refrigerator and extracted a 2-liter bottle of Millers, and walked into the living room, Milo right behind her.
They sat and listened as Barb repeated the same bullshit stories that Milo had heard at least a hundred times before. As always, he sat and listened like he had heard it for the first time, as Debbie, pretending an urge to go to the bathroom, after doing so sneaked into her aunts room, then extracted the pistol she kept by the side of her bed in the drawer of a small end-table. It was a Lugar, and more than adequate for the job Debbie had in mind. She tucked it into her panties, and then pulled her jogging shirt down far enough over the matching pants to hide the bulge.
She then made her way to her bedroom and found the ounce baggie of marijuana. She put it inside her purse. Tonight would be the night she would settle many accounts. Her aunt would not stand in her way. She made another stop in the bathroom and checked her make-up. She still had a few pounds to lose, but she was on her way. After tonight, and tomorrow, many people would be sorry that they ever messed with Debbie Leighton.
By the time she returned to the living room, Barb was crying on Milo’s shoulders, obviously on her way to being stoned on the pot Milo had just rolled into the biggest fatty Debbie had ever seen.
Barb was moaning and whining with her hand suspiciously close to Milo’s crotch, as her friend shot her a look as if to say, you fucking owe me big time. Debbie walked out the door quietly. Before long, her aunt would probably forget all about her. When she made it out to the street, there was Joseph, luckily still waiting for Milo.
“He’d better have a damned good excuse for missing work”, Joseph said. “Especially after what’s happened, you really should lay low.”
“So what about Barnett?” she asked. “I’m sunk if the motherfucker turns me in, it will ruin everything.”
“You should have thought about that before you offered to suck his dick after he overheard you making a drug deal”, Joseph reminded her. “Your story that somebody set you up sure ain’t going to carry a lot of weight, especially not with your past record in Virginia. If they start checking around-well, all I can say is you will probably be headed right back to Virginia, and you know what that means. It’s probably going to be a piss test for you when you go to school Monday, so I hope you’ve been staying straight.”
Debbie assured him she had been. Joseph then told her she had better hope she is a better judge of character with the kid than she had been with Barnett, to say nothing of the high school basketball jock she should have known better than to trust to begin with. She explained to him for the fourth time that she had dealt with Grant before with no problem, and as for Barnett, her offer to him was born of desperation. She was sure about Josh.
“I sure as fuck hope you are because none of us can take the chance”, he replied. “We all have to lay low. The reporter bitch that Larceny shot had a partner who identified her, and so she and Rhino are both in hiding. And it wouldn’t take much digging to lead to me, and Sierra, and Milo-and to you, by the way.”
With that, he took her to her intended destination, The Paradox, known more commonly as “The Dox”. Josh would be expecting her there, and was probably distraught by now that she was more than an hour late. Joseph advised her to explain to him the news about the discovery of her parents’ death.
“That will really impress him to think that you still wanted to keep your so-called date with him”, he explained. “It will also give you a good excuse to call it off early.”
Debbie got out not far from the front entrance of The Dox, a popular Baltimore nightspot that, since they had no liquor license, catered to all ages. Although technically you were supposed to be at least eighteen to enter, it was relatively easy to get in with a fake ID, and the one she had purchased proved more than sufficient. She made her way to the half basketball court, where Mark Grant was now engaged in a game of round ball with his friends at their high school. Most of them would be senior squad members of the school basketball team when the season started in the winter, after the regular school year resumed. For now, she and Grant were trudging through required summer make-up classes.
Though she had dealt with him on an irregular basis, she hated him and all his friends, though tonight she would pretend to love them. In fact, she had a very special surprise for them. She waited for him to see her, and when he did, sure enough he made his way over to her.
“Wow, you actually made it”, he said. Debbie smiled at him. She knew exactly what he wanted. She planned to give it to him.
“What, you think I’m going to pass up the chance to fuck the whole basketball team?” she said. “Like I told you before, if I can handle eight drunken sailors on leave, I can sure as hell deal with thirteen high school basketball jocks. I’m looking forward to it.”
“It looks like I had you pegged all wrong, Spanky”, the suddenly excited jock said with a gathering glaze on his eyes. “You really are more than just a nerdy little Goth chick after all.”
“I’m just me, baby, a girl trying to find her way to womanhood in the world”, she said as she reached down and started caressing his swollen cock. “And you are obviously all man. If the other guys are like you this might not be so easy after all.”
She shot him a smile as she turned and walked off toward yet another area of the Dox.
By the time she made it to where her friends waited, Josh was staring at the murals, seemingly in a world of his own. She knew him well enough to know that he was probably aware of everything that was going on around him. She walked up to where the group sat and, smiling, she produced a fifth of vodka from her purse.
“Spanky comes through in a pinch”, Angela said as Josh turned to see her pouring a hefty shot into his large cup of Coca-Cola. She made the rounds, Angela telling her to “make hers a double”.
“Don’t be greedy, Angela”, she said teasingly, and then sat close to Josh, who looked petulant.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“I found out my parents died a few nights ago, the whole house burned down”, she said with a smile. They all looked at her and then all around at each other, as though they were not sure she was serious. Josh just stared at her, and then suddenly, he laughed.
“Did I miss something somewhere between your parents dying and the house burning down”, asked Marty, the oldest of the crowd at twenty.
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot”, Debbie said. “Boo Hoo”.
She lit a cigarette as the others were asking her for more details, but she did not know anything other than what the cops told her, she said.
“Well, so much for Barnett, huh?” Josh asked. “He can’t mess with you now.”
“Not as far as that part goes he can’t”, Debbie said, but Angela was more concerned with Debbie’s parents and their fate.
“Sometimes I think I hate my parents too, especially, well, both of them, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to them. Nothing like that anyway.”
“Hey, it’s not like Debbie did it to them, or even wanted it to happen”, Josh now said in her defense. “But sometimes, what happens is for the best, and may even be fates way of settling scores that you can’t take care of yourself. I wish fate would step in and lend me a hand sometimes.”
“Well, I know what it’s like to lose somebody”, Marty said. “It’s never good. I used to fight with my sister all the time. I thought she was a little bitch. Now that she’s gone I look at things a lot different.”
Marty still struggled to cope with the loss of his sister, Mary, who had drowned just five months ago. He knew that she and Debbie fought constantly, were in fact rivals, but when Mary died, Debbie was the first to call him and express not only condolences, but her regrets over the past enmity the two girls had shared with each other. Something about Debbie Leighton’s actions tonight were more than just a little strange. She called and urged him to meet the group this night. He began to think she only wanted him to ensure the rest of the group had no difficulties gaining admittance to The Dox. Now, she looked at him quizzically.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Marty”, Debbie said. “This is going to really freak you out.”
“Yeah, it’s about Mary, you told me that”, he said, growing ever more concerned. “So, what is it? If you have any idea of how she died, or who is responsible-“
“It’s not so much what happened before she died as it is what happened after she died”, Debbie told her. “I’m telling you, I have no way of proving this, and I really should tell you this in private.”
As they left together, music started to play and the dance floor was suddenly alive, as Josh strained to see where Debbie and Marty had gone off. Without her and Marty in the group, there were now two couples and one other guy, Edgar, an overweight slob who now complained that he and Josh looked gay.
“You look gay anyway, fuckhead”, one of the other guys said. “Hell, you are gay, so why worry?”
“Hey, no I’m not so fuck you”, Edgar said defensively as the two girls shot him mock sympathetic moans. Josh barely heard them as his attention was riveted on Debbie, and now on Marty, who suddenly seemed distraught, and angry. He was shouting at her, with a look of wide-eyed incredulity on his face, but try as he might Josh could not hear a word of what he was saying. As for Debbie, she just stood there unconcerned, yet adamant in her seeming insistence as to the veracity of what she told him.
Soon, they returned, but Marty did not stay. Instead, he collected his pack of cigarettes and left without a word of goodbye. He was obviously in as bad a mood as Josh had ever seen him.
“You sure as hell have a bad effect on people, Spanky”, Angela said. “What the hell did you say to him?”
“I can’t say right now, but you’ll probably hear about it later”, Debbie assured her. “Me and Josh need to have a little talk, if you all don’t mind”.
“I guess now Josh is going to be in a bummed out mood”, the lone boy named Edgar said. “If you have anything to tell me in private just forget about it, huh?”
“Nothing to say about you nobody doesn’t already know, Edgar”, Debbie said sarcastically. “Except maybe for you”
Josh followed along behind her, curious as to what was said between her and Marty, but more concerned as to what she might now have to say to him. When they reached the approximate spot where Debbie had earlier stood with Marty Evans, he peered into her partially opened purse.
“I hope you brought some pot with you”, he said. “I’m dying to get high.”
“No”! Debbie said this so emphatically, Josh was somewhat shaken, but Debbie then held her hand with her palm upward, looked down, and breathed deeply.
“You know you’re my man”, she said. “And that I love you, right?”
“Wow, that’s the first time you’ve ever said that”, he observed, obviously elated and almost overwhelmed at the surprising pronouncement. “To hear most of these people around here talk I’m about the only guy in Balmer you haven’t screwed.”
“Well, sex ain’t everything, and that’s a lie anyway”, she said. “Besides, it’s just as well, because we might not be seeing each other before long. I might be going away.”
Josh looked stunned to be hearing this from her, and he looked her straight in the eye, and saw the first sign of regret, even sadness, he had ever seen from her. She was usually so strong, so sure of herself. She had always been there for him, when he would come to school after a night or a weekend of his fathers’ drunken rants. Sometimes the usual regular beating of somewhat more or less painful severity followed these. He would then come to school, only to have to face the usual taunts from some of the kids at school. They looked at him as the typical freak, the type that you just knew was dying to come to school one day and blow everybody away because he didn’t have the guts to stand up to any of them mano a mano.
When he tried to slash his wrist, it was more of a cry for help than anything. At the same time, he truly wanted to die, but Debbie saved him, and then swore she would keep what happened between the two of them. He almost died that day, had left his body, floating above it for some time, until Debbie pulled him back into his body, smiling at him with the kind of reassurance that made him know that his life was worthwhile. She actually seemed like an angel to him that day, and over the passing days, weeks, and months, she became his rock. If he lost her, his life was worthless after all.
“Is it Barnett?” He knew of course that teacher had it in for her for some reason he never understood. It was almost as if he knew something about her, something only the two of them knew. Whatever it was, it must have been bad, but that did not matter to Josh.
He’s going to have me kicked out of the school, I’m sure”, she said. “If he does that, he will probably call Social Services on my Aunt, and I will end up in some fucking group home, maybe here in Baltimore, but more than likely somewhere else, maybe not even in Maryland. See, my Aunt is not really my legal guardian. It is all so fucked up. She has a drug record too, and is on probation. It just gets worse and worse. Then I had to fuck up and offer him a blowjob.”
“I can’t believe you offered him a blowjob”, he said. “When the hell do I get one, since you say you love me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake Josh, is that all you can think about? Is that what you really think of me? Do you think I did that because I want to suck the bastards’ dick? No, I want to try to stay here, for you. I want to stay here for us.”
Suddenly, she heard a flurry of movement behind her as Josh’s eyes widened, and he stiffened with anxiety.
She turned to see Mark Grant and four of his fellow basketball squad teammates, all of whom would be the senior starting squad for the school team next year.
“We’re ready if you are”, he said, as Josh could not avoid noting the leering look of expectation on their faces, especially that on the face of the lone white boy, Joey, who said “hell yeah”.
“Whach’ou lookin’ at punk?” the short and seemingly fat yet muscular Mahmoud demanded. “You got sumptin’ to say?”
“He’s a friend of mine”, Debbie said. “He’s going to be helping me with some classes for next week. I will see you later on tonight, Josh, where I told you, all right?”
“Yeah, okay”, Josh said, though he was obviously not liking this development in the least. Debbie walked off alongside Grant, who had his arms around her, as though not even acknowledging Josh’s presence there this night. He watched in a mixture of rage and humiliation as Mahmoud suddenly started pawing Debbie’s ass. He continued watching as he suddenly saw Debbie laughing, her arm now around Grant.
They left The Dox and continued on some four and a half blocks down Russell Street, then doubled back to behind the complex, toward the railroad tracks. They walked on past there for about seven blocks, all of them talking the usual trash talk all the jocks usually talked about when they were around any girls besides their steady girlfriends. One of those girlfriends had been Mary Evans, and she had been the girlfriend of Joey. However, when Debbie fucked Joey, and Mary found out about it, there was a fight in which Debbie ended up on the losing end. She hated to lose fights, and never got over it. Worse, Joey took Mary back, and told her he only fucked Debbie to get back at her over some stupid argument they had about some other guy. He just wanted to show Mary that if she could get another guy, he could fuck any bitch he wanted. Nevertheless, Debbie meant nothing to him, and he spent the remainder of the school year proving it. Because of him, Debbie became known as the little bitch with the stinking pussy who would fuck anything that moved.
When Mary broke up with Joey around last Thanksgiving, Debbie apologized to her, and then commiserated with her. The two became friends. They got high together, and Debbie watched as Mary started putting on the pounds, and her skin became splotchy due to some dermatological condition that she had trouble with since the onset of puberty. She started staying high. Her relationship with Joey was on again, off again. Debbie played the concerned friend, and waited for the right opportunity. She caught her alone one day, and made her move.
She destroyed the little bitch who had humiliated her. Mary was lucky enough to be in a family that was wealthy enough to have an indoor, heated swimming pool, but on this one day, when the two of them were all alone in the house, Mary’s luck ran out along with her consciousness. The two girls got high, and Mary, as usual, passed out.
Debbie never imagined it would be so much fun dumping somebody’s fat ass in a swimming pool. The only downer was that this particular fat bitch never woke up. Debbie left the house that day, before Marty or the rest of the family came home, and washed her hands of the whole matter.
Now, it was time for the next phase.
There were indeed thirteen guys on the basketball team present there that night, almost but not quite the whole team. The entire first-string squad was there, along with some of the next year’s juniors and sophomores. Her only regret was at none of last years seniors being present-or so she thought. By the time they made it to their destination, however, she saw that all seven of them were indeed there. Twenty guys altogether.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Since we’re having a party tonight, I thought I’d invite the whole team”, Grant announced. “You remember Wilkie, don’t you?”
Wilkie was the star of the school team last year, a vastly overrated player who nevertheless somehow managed to finagle a scholarship to play for the University of Maryland the next year. Wilkie spoke as if introducing himself, although he was the one who had fixed Debbie up with Joey to begin with, and then encouraged him behind her back to “just fuck her and forget her.”
“Why, Wilkie, I thought you’d forgot all about me by now”, she said in mock surprise.
“Forget you?” Wilkie responded. “Oh, hell no.”
He then produced a clothespin and pinched it on his nose. The rest of the gathered team howled with laughter. Debbie just looked at him, straight in the eye, and smiled. She knew she was in for a rough night, but if it worked out as she planned, it would be worth it.
She was right. Only one of them lasted more than ten minutes, by her calculations, and only three of them lasted more than five. The rest of them were finished so quickly it almost was not worth calculating. Wilkie, the supposed team star and stud, lasted all of three minutes, then got off and howled in mock agony, as the others took their turns. One guy came inside her practically as soon as he entered.
Mark was the one she wanted to get more even than Joey. Mark was the one who, she was sure, had informed on her at the school, and had turned her in for selling drugs. If not for him, Barnett would never have caught her. Now, here she was lying on the ground as Mark took his turn at fucking her, going out of his way to be as hard and rough as he could. It was a painful experience, and he was the only one who came back for seconds. He was even rougher the second time, though luckily he did not last as long.
Sure enough, one of the other past year seniors mentioned getting their dicks sucked, but Debbie said she had enough for the night, and she had to get home. She stooped to retrieve her purse, but somebody pushed her down face first onto the pavement, while another person grabbed the purse. She had luckily pulled her jogging pants back up along with her panties, and managed to hide the Lugar. Otherwise, she might have lost the gun, which would have ruined everything. As it was, she was not going to get away that easily. They lined up one at a time. Each one demanded she suck their dicks, and she had no choice now but to acquiesce.
“Okay, can I please have my purse back now?” she asked.
“Sure”, Grant said. “Get your skank ass on out of here now. You won’t be needing that fifty, the boys and me are gonna get us some beer. I left you a five spot though. Go get you some feminine deodorant.”
“Damn I don’t think we have to worry about getting that ho pregnant”, somebody else said. “No sperm could survive up inside that septic tank.”
“Let’s see you skip on out of here”, Joey then said as he hoisted a brick toward her feet, barely missing her by inches.
“Alright, I’m going, I’m going”, she said. She walked off slowly and painfully as she heard them laughing. Wilkie let out an Indian style war-whoop.
“Hey, thanks for the pot, skank”, Grant shouted as he waved the ounce. Debbie briefly looked back, and then hurried off as quickly as possible.
It was a long painful walk back toward The Dox, and she looked around for any sign of Joseph, but his cab was nowhere. Here she was in the worse pain she had experienced in months, and the person she trusted most of all was late. She could not afford to wait for him, and so she agonizingly made her way back. Once she made it almost half the way there, she had to stop and throw up. Right as she was spitting the remnants of the puke, and semen, out of her mouth, she heard the familiar voice of Josh, obviously in a state of distress.
“Debbie, what the hell is wrong? What happened?”
“Those bastards, they raped me”, she said. “They raped me and they stole my money, probably my ID as well, just to be even bigger dicks.”
“They did what?” Josh was obviously outraged, yet also still hurt over her seeming betrayal of him. “Spanky, what the fuck did you go off with those guys for anyway?”
“Fuck, when my aunt finds out she’s going to fucking kill me” Debbie roared this out in a rage, but then suddenly almost collapsed from the painful effects of the exertion.
“Damn, I think those fuckers tore some muscles somewhere”, she said. “I’d better go to the hospital.”
Josh was looking at her, both hurt and concerned. Debbie could not help but laugh, but luckily, this caused her some pain as well, so Josh never caught on. So far, so good, she thought.
“I’m sorry, Josh, I just-did what I thought I had to do”, she said, the pain she was in at least obviously not fake, though exaggerated. “I’m sorry if you’re hurt, I just didn’t want to get you involved.”
“Involved in what?” he said. “What made you go with those guys? I told you I’d do anything for you.”
“Yeah, Josh, that’s what I’m afraid of”, she said. “You’re just not a killer. I guess Grant ain’t either. Guess it’s a damn good thing I never told him who it was I wanted him to kill. Now I’m going to have to do it myself.”
“Barnett? You were trying to get those guys to kill Barnett?”
“Only Grant”, she said. “He said if I’d party with the team he’d kill anybody I wanted. God did he ever feed me a line of shit, and boy did I ever fall for it, just like I did last year.”
“So you’re still in love with him, huh?”
She looked at him and saw that he was at nearly the breaking point. She laughed again, and then howled in agony. Yeah, she thought, without a doubt she had tore a muscle, and might have a broken rib as well.
“No, I don’t love him, dammit”, she replied. “I don’t love anybody. All anyone cares about is their damn self. Any feeling anybody ever had for me is just for what they can fucking get from me. Fuck it, I’ve had it. Barnett will probably have me kicked out of school, and then I am out of here. Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass any more.”
She was now crying, but made the pretense of trying to suck it up. She had to make him think she was just trying to be brave, that she did not really care. Of course, he was not supposed to believe that-nor did he.
“I’ll do it”, he said. “I’ll get the motherfucker for you, but you have to promise me from here on out, Spanky, no more bullshit. No more screwing other guys. As soon as you can, I want you to get away from that aunt of yours, and I will leave home and we’ll get a place together. We’ll leave fucking Balmer if you want. I hate this cock-sucking place anyway. We’ll go someplace where nobody knows us.”
He had given the same speech before. In fact, she heard this about an average of twice a week, for the last three months. Only now it came with the promise of a preliminary action from which, if he carried through, there would be no turning back. Suddenly, she heard a car approaching, and turned as the headlights of Josephs cab illuminated her.
“Is everything all right, miss”, he asked. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“Wait here, Josh”, she said. “I’m going to see if I can talk him into giving us a ride. I think I know this guy.”
“Is he going to do it?” Joseph asked her this quietly as a distraught Josh stood at a distance, not sure of what to do.
“I think so”, she replied. “In fact I know he is.”
“You’ll have to get another cab to take the two of you to the lake”, he said. “If I show up again it will look suspicious. I don’t know though, he must be pretty fucking stupid.”
“Are we going to do the usual?”
“Hell yes”, Joseph said. “We can’t take the chance of him breaking down and confessing, he’ll take you down with him if he does.”
“I can’t wait to see the look on the little fucks face when we get him to the ‘hideout’”, she said with a smile.
“That’s why I wanted you in the group”, Joseph said. “I love your sense of irony.”
Joseph then put the act into high gear, coming out of the cab as he strode toward Josh.
“Did you see who did this to her?” He demanded.
“Yeah, some of them, but I didn’t actually see it happen. I warned her about those guys.”
“Well, I should call the cops, but she’s begging me not to”, Joseph said. “So I’m going to just take her to the hospital, maybe somebody there will talk some sense into her. You might want to come with us. I won’t charge anything for something like this.”
Debbie then asked Joseph for just a few minutes to talk to Josh in private.
“I don’t know what the hell to do”, she said. “If I don’t go along he’s liable to file a report, but if I don’t get to Barnett, he probably is going to Social Services the first thing Monday morning. He already filed a preliminary report with the school, so it’s a matter of time before I’m done.”
“Damn it, I told you I’ll take care of Barnett’, he said. “I know where the fucker lives. I’ll just cut his phone line and break in through his bedroom window. He’s separated from his wife, so he should be alone. Since he comes in to work tomorrow, he should be home by now. I swear it will be easy. Please, Spanky, trust me. Let me prove it to you. I’m not just some nerdy little kid that talks shit. I mean what I say, and I do what I say.”
“What if he has a gun”, she said.
“He’ll be sound asleep. I’ll just break in fast and kill him probably before he’s even half awake.”
“You’re going to have to make up your mind”, Joseph warned. “I ain’t got all night. What’s it going to be, the hospital or the police?”
“Please, Spanky!” Josh begged her.
“Just one more minute, please”, Spanky said as Joseph glared at his watch.
“All right”, she said as she reached into her jogging pants and extracted the Lugar. “Do you know how to use these?”
“Uh, hello”, he said. “I used to go target shooting with my cousins in Virginia all the time. Of course, I know how. It’s been awhile, but you never forget shit like that.”
“I love you baby”, she said. “Make me proud. After you’ve done it, I have the perfect place we can go, a house up near the lake. We’ll stay there for a couple of weeks, then we’ll head to Virginia, and on from there to Florida. Does that sound good?”
“Yeah, that sounds great”, Josh said, but as he said this his eyes were suddenly glazed, and he looked down at the gun in his hands. He now looked toward Joseph. “How many bullets are in this gun?”
“It’s fully loaded, babe, don’t worry”, she answered. “I’m going to go on to the hospital before that guy gets pissed and calls the cops”.
“He’s not going to call anybody”, he said, and then, to Debbie’s horror, pointed the gun at Joseph, who stared open mouthed, his cigarette dropping to the ground as he froze in uncertainty.
“You little fuckhead, what the hell are you doing,” Joseph demanded. Josh had the gun cocked, and aimed straight between his eyes.
“Don’t try anything, I’m warning you”, he shouted. “I know how to shoot this, so turn your ass around-now!”
“Josh, for the love of God, what the fuck are you doing”, Debbie said as the sudden adrenaline rush due to this unexpected turn caused her pain to flare up worse than ever. So sudden and intense was it , this came out as little more than a whisper, as she frantically wondered what she would do, or if she could do anything. Josh was obviously crazed at this point, and seemingly desperate.
“Kid, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m telling you now, you’d better point that thing somewhere else”, Joseph said as he tried desperately to maintain his composure and to exert a sense of calm command.
“Josh, please”-, Debbie begged. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“No, I think I have to kill him now for sure”, he said as tears started streaming down from his eyes. “If he makes you go to the hospital, they’ll make you say what happened. Or they'll get their DNA and might find them that way. Then those guys will tell about you wanting them to kill somebody. Even if you never told them who you were wanting to kill, it’s going to be obvious when Barnett ends up dead. Besides, I’ve robbed cabs before, this ain’t that much different. And we do need some money.”
He then addressed Joseph as Debbie suddenly realized everything she and Joseph had planned was spiraling completely out of control.
“Hand me your money, motherfucker”, Josh now demanded. “Every fucking dollar of it!”
“What?” Joseph was now incensed, but still at a loss as to what he could do. The kid was stupid, desperate, and armed-which was a bad combination from twenty feet away.
Debbie was begging him to put the gun down, but Josh was shaking so badly she started to fear the gun would go off by accident. He seemed to be getting crazier by the second.
“We can take his money and his cab too”, he was saying. “We can get away from here real fast”
“We can do that anyway, Josh, without this”, Debbie said. “Please, baby, I don’t want the death of an innocent man on my conscience. Mr., you won’t make me go to the hospital, will you? You’ll just take me home, right? That’s probably all I need, to just lay down and rest and take some of my Aunt Barb’s pills. She’s got some wicked pain pills, and some antibiotics too, left over from where she had her appendix removed seven months ago. If that don’t clear it up I’ll go to the hospital and tell them I don’t know who attacked me.”
“Yeah, that would work”, Josh said.”The DNA would be gone by then. But what about him? Do you think he’s going to forget about this? Hell no, he won’t. I’m sorry, but I have to do this. Sorry, Mr., but I ain’t got no choice.”
By now Josh began crying outwardly, but at the same time drew back with the posture of someone who, Joseph realized, knew how to fire a pistol. Spanky, in desperation, was looking for something on the ground to knock him over the head with, which would be just as well. Unfortunately, that would leave nothing of their plans to salvage. Joseph tried one last, desperate ploy.
“Look, kid, I don’t know what you’re problem is, but I’ll tell you what mine is”, he said. “I want to live. Because I want to live, I’ll make a deal with you. You put that gun away, and I’ll get in my cab and leave, and we’ll forget this whole thing. I’ll take your girlfriend home if that’s what she wants, and neither of you will ever see me again.”
“How do I know I can trust you”, Josh demanded.
“Look at me, kid”, Joseph replied. “I’m one of you. Just a few years ago, in fact, I was you. A few years from now, you could be me. Hopefully, you’ll have a better future than driving some beat up cab around Baltimore to make ends meet. If you do what you’re planning now, though, you have no future. You’ll throw everything away.”
Josh looked at the tall, thin man with the black hair, with the shoulder length sides dyed a crimson red. He had seen him before, he thought, but wasn’t sure. He seemed cool, though understandably nervous now.
“Baby, please, listen to him”, Debbie said. “Like I told you before, I know this guy, and I can reason with him.”
“Is he another guy you’ve fucked?”
Debbie was unsure as to how to answer this, so decided the truth was as good a chance as anything was.
“Yes, because I needed a ride.”
“Great, just what I need”, Joseph said. “Now I got to worry about some kid knowing I fucked an underage girl. It just gets worse and worse.”
“You know I love her, right”, Josh now asked. “I can’t let anything come between us. I know you don’t understand this, but if she goes to the hospital tonight-“
“I understand, kid”, Joseph said. “Josh, right? Look, I know how it is. She explained this all to me before. She’s worried about a teacher that might have her taken by Social Services. I get it. Hey, believe it or not, I know what that is like. My parents had me put in a group home when I was fourteen, because they couldn’t deal with me. My parents, the good Christians, couldn’t handle their one child. On top of that, my dad was a preacher. He used to pass around the plate every Sunday, and preach hell fire and damnation. He used to lecture his church members on parental responsibility. Ain’t that a laugh?”
Joseph waited for a response, as he noted Spanky had a rock in her hand and was creeping up on the kid, who had his attention riveted on him. He shot Spanky a glance, then tugged at his right ear, then propped up his upper lip with his index finger. He then shook his head vigorously once from side to side, and then laughed a bitter, sarcastic laugh in an attempt to disguise his signals, but just as much at his memories of his time at the group home, where he had in fact met Milo, and started his long journey into the heart of darkness.
“It was dog eat dog in that place”, he said. “I fought my way to the top of the pound. You had to if you were going to survive. Do you really think I’m going to be responsible for someone I care about being sent to a place like that? No, Josh-I don’t know what you’re planning, but whatever it is, you go and do what you got to do. I am not your enemy. Save those bullets for whoever is.”
So entranced by Joseph’s story was Debbie, even though she had heard it once before, she almost forgot to drop the large rock with which she fully intended to knock her stupid so-called boyfriend over the head. He was now crying, sobbing, and put down the gun, as he apologized profusely in the hopes the cab driver would be further encouraged to keep his word, even if he had no intention of doing so from the start. Joseph walked up to the young man, who stood there frozen. Joseph embraced him.
“I’ll take her home now”, he said. “I’ll leave you alone with her for a minute.”
Debbie hugged Josh, and told him if he didn’t want to kill Barnett, she would understand, but Josh was adamant.
“Did you hear what that guy said about how life is in those places? Hell yes, I want to do it. I won’t wuss out. I let him off because I knew he was just trying to help. Don’t worry, Barnett won’t have time to beg, and even if he did it won’t do him any good. Trust me, babe, I can do this.”
As he said this, he put the Luger down in his pants, as Spanky thought it was a wonder the stupid little bastard didn’t shoot his dick off.
“Come to the house after you do it, and we’ll get the hell out of here for good”, she promised him. “We’ll go somewhere else, just like you always wanted, and start a brand new life, where we don’t know anybody and where nobody knows us.”
Josh was suddenly alive with a fresh hope, and smiled through the tears that still flowed. He hugged her and kissed her, until she finally pushed him gently away.
“I’m going on home now”, she said as she turned toward the cab on which Joseph now leaned, deeply dragging off another cigarette. “I have some pills I need to take.”
“I love you”, he yelled after her as she headed from force of habit toward the front passengers door.
“I love you too”, she said as Joseph open the back door where he indicated she should get in.
He watched them leave, and after they pulled out of sight, Josh made his way toward the Dox. He could take a cab from there straight to Barnett’s house. He would have to stiff the cabbie, but what the hell. All he would have to do is show him the Lugar, get out and run to behind Barnett’s house, cut the phone line and go in through his bedroom window. He would then shoot that bastard, Barnett, and then call a cab to take him to Spanky’s aunt’s apartment. He just had to hope the same damn cab driver did not come to pick him up, but what would be the likelihood of that? Hey, come to think of it, he could just take Barnett’s car. Hell yeah, why depend on a cab, they could have their own set of wheels to take them to Florida. Barnett had two cars, a Chrysler and a Ford. Since he usually drove the Ford to work, he would steal the Chrysler. Nobody would ever suspect a thing.
He started walking. He did not want to go back to The Dox. He might run into Angela, Edgar, and his other friends, and he was not in the mood to have to try to come up with an explanation as to where he had been and where he was now suddenly going. He kept walking, in the opposite direction. He would find somewhere else from which to call a cab. He kept walking.
After about twenty minutes, he heard a moan. He had no reason to be afraid. After all, he had the Luger.
“Who’s there?” He shouted this with a firm voice of command, but suddenly he saw the figure of Mark Grant, as he suddenly rounded the corner of the vacant building, holding himself up, his eyes glaring.
“You!” Grant said.
“Yeah, motherfucker, it’s me”, he said. He checked and saw the Luger had more than one bullet. In fact, it was fully loaded.
“Please, help us”, he then heard Grant say.
“After what you done you want help?”
Suddenly Grant fell flat on his face with a thud, and was moaning in agony.
He looked around the corner, and there they were, all of them. The senior from last year, the star and captain, the one named Wilkie, was heaving, throwing up blood, his mouth foaming like some rabid animal. Then, he started twitching in a violent onset of convulsions. Some of the others seemed to be in worse shape, while others made no move at all.
He went back to where he saw Mark Grant, and demanded to know what happened.
“Bitch paid me-ounce of pot-to kill somebody-and party-with us”, he said, as he seemed to struggle painfully from the effort. “Shit poisoned. I think-probably rat poison. Oh God, please help us. Phone-in pocket.”
Suddenly Grant started convulsing as he rose, his eyes widened in terror, as his body seemed to rebel against the foreign substance he had ingested. Suddenly, his eyes went back in his head as he exhaled one last, deep breath, and Josh knew that Mark Grant, and most of the others here, were dead. Horrified at what he was seeing, Josh controlled his sickness and, gasping and crying, extracted Grant’s cell phone from his hip pocket.
He sat and cried, waiting for the cops to arrive for what seemed like at least thirty minutes. As he sat there, he remembered something. Why would Spanky agree to leave Baltimore with him? The whole purpose of killing Barnett to begin with was to enable her to remain in Baltimore. If they were going to leave anyway, what would be the point? Suddenly, nothing made any sense.
The guy, Joseph. Why did he let him off the hook so easy, and change his mind so quickly?
When the cops arrived, Josh simply told them he was walking from The Dox and found them like this. All but two of them were dead.
“I know that fucking smell anywhere”, one of the cops said. “Embalming fluid, probably soaked into whatever pot they smoked.”
“Yeah, that’s what it is”, another one said. “Holy shit, I’ve never seen it this bad.”
The only two who survived so far, provided they lived, would probably be brain damaged for the rest of their lives, one of them was saying. They would likely be unable to walk as long as they lived. In all probability, they would never have control of their bowels or their urine flow.
Suddenly, more sirens sounded, and soon what looked to be half the city’s ambulance service arrived. Josh wanted to throw up. He was visibly upset when one of the cops asked him if he knew any of the young men.
“I know all of them”, he said, and proceeded to give their names. The cops then offered to give him a ride home, but they would need to take a statement from him downtown. He looked at them as he then produced the Luger from his pants. He held it out to them with the barrel pointed toward the ground.
“What the hell”, one of the cops exclaimed.
“There’s something else I think I’d better tell you”, Josh said.
Prologue with Chapters I-X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Radu-Chapter XIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
Fourteen Pages Approximate
Debbie Leighton knew how to turn on the tears when it was appropriate, or when it was expected. When she was informed that her mother and father had died in the course of a fire at the family farm, along with an unknown and yet unidentified guest, she knew just what to do. She thought back to the day of her First Degree initiation into Joseph’s Vampire Coven of Blood.
She remembered how they attacked her, told her she was a fat, ugly, stupid little whore. As if all that were not bad enough, her pussy stank so bad no one could stand to get close to it, let alone fuck it.
They laughed at her mercilessly, and they beat her. During all of this seven-hour ordeal, during which she had been tied, and whipped, and not permitted to even go to the bathroom, she urinated all over herself, and shit as well, but the one thing she never did was cry-not even when they called her a little girl, a stupid juvenile, and a spoiled, worthless little brat.
Then, after they cleaned her with a hose and detergent, they raped her, all of them. Joseph, Sierra, Milo, Larceny, and Rhino all took their turns with her. Then came, by far, the most horrifying part of the ordeal-they told her she was a useless failure, and she had to die.
They laughed at her as they each drank her blood. They then dug a deep hole, after which they produced a coffin. By now, she was weak from the abuse and the loss of blood, and too terrified to move, or even make a sound. They buried her, and they left her there alone, buried. She felt like she was already dead, and now resigned herself to the realization they intended this all along.
She remained there from the midnight of that night and all through the next day. Her father would probably laugh at her if he knew, or if he ever found out. Her mother would cry, but would say nothing in her defense. She would just agree with her father-she brought it on herself.
When they brought her back up, it was the following midnight. They looked at her and smiled, and then laughed, as each one welcomed her back to “everlasting life”. They all hugged and kissed and, after she partook of their blood, all mixed inside a silver cup, she made love with all of them.
Joseph assigned her to Milo, who was to teach her the different rituals and articles of faith, and with whom she quickly fell in love. In time, however, she tired of him, and aspired to be with Joseph, the groups’ leader. They were all nothing without him, this simple cab driver and son of a Baptist minister, who proclaimed himself the reincarnation of Vlad The Impaler. They worshiped Joseph as an incarnation of Vlad-and God.
Debbie thought it was a lot of crap, but who cared? It was fun to her, and fun was all that mattered. After all, Milo didn’t take it seriously either, nor did Rhino. No one did except Larceny and Sierra, and of course Joseph. Spiral seemed more devoted to Joseph than all the rest, for all the good it had done her. They all stood in a circle as Joseph strangled her for her betrayal of him with another man.
When she and Milo then dumped her body at the Krovell mortuary, they all thought eventually they would hear something about it, yet not only did it seem as though the finding of the body was never reported, but Marlowe never initiated contact with Joseph, as their leader claimed he most definitely would.
This had Joseph in a sour mood for days.
“The motherfucker must be playing a game with us”, he said. “Well he’s playing with the wrong person.”
He knew of Marlowe’s membership in an on-line site known as Sanguinarius, and so he told her to join. After she did so, she initiated private contact with Marlowe, but nothing ever came of it. She eventually told him about her friendship with Joseph, whereupon he replied that she was a little idiot and to stop bothering him, as she had nothing he needed. He made no mention of Spiral Lamont.
Joseph was enraged, and sent him a threatening e-mail, to which the man named Marlowe responded, but still no mention was made of the dead former member. It was almost as if he was not even aware of what happened. It took Milo some time to convince Joseph they had dropped the body off at the right place.
In time, it was seemingly forgotten, and they settled back into their usual routines. Larceny maintained a private loft apartment where she conducted her business under an assumed name. Rhino was constantly working out and training for the day he would finally land a pro-football career, though he now settled for the opportunity to play for the Arena Football team the Blackbirds, having all but given up on the prospect of playing for his beloved Ravens. Sierra continued to sell drugs, tend bar, paint, and constantly talked of a hoped for career as a death metal singer while she fucked her way to the top of her pharmaceutical class.
Milo, ostensibly her boyfriend and tutor, counted the days until he could go off probation and back into the crack and meth trade, but until such time he had to content himself with his ho-hum job at Kentucky Fried Chicken. At least he got free food at the end of his night shift job, which helped not only the group, but also her Aunt Barbara. She honestly seemed to believe that Milo was Debbie’s friend and mentor, and therefore was happy to allow Debbie to spend as much time with him as she wanted-as long as he kept the booze and pot coming her way, of course.
However, Joseph kept the group together. He made good money as a cab driver, but more importantly, he was always finding someone who was in desperate need of a fare, usually a druggie or alcoholic who Joseph manipulated into getting so high, the person always passed out by the time Joseph delivered him to his true and final destination. This was usually a small park area some two miles from the large lake to the north of the city. By the time the person came to, it was time for the fun to begin.
There was something about ripping into a person’s raw flesh, with nails and teeth, and eating them, gorging on their flesh and blood while they were yet alive, that was a more exhilarating experience than any she had previously experienced or for that matter even imagined. There was a sense of power that she herself experienced the first time she engaged in the activity against her own parents on the night of her Second Degree Initiation-her Sweet Sixteen Party. It was even better than sex, and she truly could not get enough of it.
When she said in her Sanguinarius Profile that she wanted to experience the blood of the innocent, she was not joking. Marlowe himself had told her, in response to reading her profile, the blood of the innocent made all others pale by comparison.
Great, she thought, she might have found somebody cooler even than Joseph, but of course that turned out not to be the case.
She and Joseph, and all the others, shared a bond that few people could hope to understand, let alone share. They had all been together now for over a year and, despite the unfortunate incident with Spiral, she had a deep and abiding love for them all. They were a family, and their times together were all good.
However, it was not the good times of which she thought now, but that horrific night of her initial acceptance into the clan. She found their words and taunts repeatedly sounded in her head, and for the first time, she cried. She was so distraught she almost collapsed. One of the police, in fact, had to hold her up.
When she returned to the home of her mother’s sister Barbara, with whom she had been staying for nearly all the last year, it was all she could do to refrain from laughing in good old Aunt Barb’s face. Barb was of course distraught. Just because she and her sister had fallen out years ago did not mean she was not upset at the grisly fate her and her husband had suffered. In fact, she was terribly upset.
Debbie knew just what Aunt Barb needed. Debbie called Milo.
When Milo arrived he was not in the best mood, but of course, it was hard to tell with him when he was in a bad mood, or merely affecting a petulant persona that demanded appreciation for going out of his way.
Milo brought some beer and pot, but now Barb was insistent that Milo stay and share with her. After all, since he and her niece spent so much time together, surely it was time they got to know each other better. Fortunately, Milo had an excuse-he had to work tonight. Nevertheless, Barb was all but begging him to call in sick. Worse, she demanded that Debbie stay home tonight. In the aftermath of her parents’ death, it was unseemly that she go out to her earlier arranged party.
“Damn, Milo, you have to do something”, Debbie insisted as she took him off to the side in the kitchen.
“You can’t expect me to call in sick on account of that cow”, he said, as he prepared himself a cup of instant coffee. He actually despised the stuff, but that was after all the pretext for entering the kitchen alone with Spanky. In the meantime, Barb was in the process of calling neighbors and friends in search of commiseration over the death of her “favorite” sister.
“Bullshit”, Spanky said. “I’ve got some important shit to do tonight. Just stay with her for an hour or two. I need her to pass out so I can get out of here and do it. Once you start fucking her she’ll forget all about me.”
“You have got to be joking, right?” Milo despised the old drunk who was Debbie’s aunt, though she was for the time being indispensable. All the same, the idea of fucking somebody like her, a woman that fat and repugnant, and obviously stupid, went above and beyond anything he considered to be in the line of duty, even for a fellow coven member.
“Milo, I know it’s asking a lot, but damn, it’s only two years”, Debbie reminded him. “It’s not like you have to do this all the time.”
“Yeah, but what if she starts wanting it all the time”, Milo asked her.
Barb was still on the phone, now with yet another person, repeating the same news almost verbatim, with what even seemed to be the same moans and cries timed to fall in the exact same sequence.
“Just this once, Milo, please”, she begged. “I have to do something about Barnett, or it’s over.”
“And you’re sure this kid will do it”, he asked.
“He’s told me a million times he’ll do anything for me, he loves me and all that good bullshit, and he even said he’d kill anyone that ever tried to hurt me”, she assured him.
“Anybody can talk shit”, Milo warned her.
“Yeah, but you don’t know this kid”, Debbie told him. “He’s even threatened to whip your ass because he thinks you’re taking advantage of me”
Oh, fucking great”, Milo said as he rolled his eyes.
“Kids are always picking on him, and he’s always threatening suicide. I actually saved him once. He cut his wrist and I bandaged him up, then I promised I wouldn’t tell, as long as he promised never to do it again.”
“Yeah, I know all that, Spanky, but still-“
“What the fuck are you two doing in there?” Barb suddenly roared. “Bring me a fucking beer.”
Debbie quickly went to the refrigerator and extracted a 2-liter bottle of Millers, and walked into the living room, Milo right behind her.
They sat and listened as Barb repeated the same bullshit stories that Milo had heard at least a hundred times before. As always, he sat and listened like he had heard it for the first time, as Debbie, pretending an urge to go to the bathroom, after doing so sneaked into her aunts room, then extracted the pistol she kept by the side of her bed in the drawer of a small end-table. It was a Lugar, and more than adequate for the job Debbie had in mind. She tucked it into her panties, and then pulled her jogging shirt down far enough over the matching pants to hide the bulge.
She then made her way to her bedroom and found the ounce baggie of marijuana. She put it inside her purse. Tonight would be the night she would settle many accounts. Her aunt would not stand in her way. She made another stop in the bathroom and checked her make-up. She still had a few pounds to lose, but she was on her way. After tonight, and tomorrow, many people would be sorry that they ever messed with Debbie Leighton.
By the time she returned to the living room, Barb was crying on Milo’s shoulders, obviously on her way to being stoned on the pot Milo had just rolled into the biggest fatty Debbie had ever seen.
Barb was moaning and whining with her hand suspiciously close to Milo’s crotch, as her friend shot her a look as if to say, you fucking owe me big time. Debbie walked out the door quietly. Before long, her aunt would probably forget all about her. When she made it out to the street, there was Joseph, luckily still waiting for Milo.
“He’d better have a damned good excuse for missing work”, Joseph said. “Especially after what’s happened, you really should lay low.”
“So what about Barnett?” she asked. “I’m sunk if the motherfucker turns me in, it will ruin everything.”
“You should have thought about that before you offered to suck his dick after he overheard you making a drug deal”, Joseph reminded her. “Your story that somebody set you up sure ain’t going to carry a lot of weight, especially not with your past record in Virginia. If they start checking around-well, all I can say is you will probably be headed right back to Virginia, and you know what that means. It’s probably going to be a piss test for you when you go to school Monday, so I hope you’ve been staying straight.”
Debbie assured him she had been. Joseph then told her she had better hope she is a better judge of character with the kid than she had been with Barnett, to say nothing of the high school basketball jock she should have known better than to trust to begin with. She explained to him for the fourth time that she had dealt with Grant before with no problem, and as for Barnett, her offer to him was born of desperation. She was sure about Josh.
“I sure as fuck hope you are because none of us can take the chance”, he replied. “We all have to lay low. The reporter bitch that Larceny shot had a partner who identified her, and so she and Rhino are both in hiding. And it wouldn’t take much digging to lead to me, and Sierra, and Milo-and to you, by the way.”
With that, he took her to her intended destination, The Paradox, known more commonly as “The Dox”. Josh would be expecting her there, and was probably distraught by now that she was more than an hour late. Joseph advised her to explain to him the news about the discovery of her parents’ death.
“That will really impress him to think that you still wanted to keep your so-called date with him”, he explained. “It will also give you a good excuse to call it off early.”
Debbie got out not far from the front entrance of The Dox, a popular Baltimore nightspot that, since they had no liquor license, catered to all ages. Although technically you were supposed to be at least eighteen to enter, it was relatively easy to get in with a fake ID, and the one she had purchased proved more than sufficient. She made her way to the half basketball court, where Mark Grant was now engaged in a game of round ball with his friends at their high school. Most of them would be senior squad members of the school basketball team when the season started in the winter, after the regular school year resumed. For now, she and Grant were trudging through required summer make-up classes.
Though she had dealt with him on an irregular basis, she hated him and all his friends, though tonight she would pretend to love them. In fact, she had a very special surprise for them. She waited for him to see her, and when he did, sure enough he made his way over to her.
“Wow, you actually made it”, he said. Debbie smiled at him. She knew exactly what he wanted. She planned to give it to him.
“What, you think I’m going to pass up the chance to fuck the whole basketball team?” she said. “Like I told you before, if I can handle eight drunken sailors on leave, I can sure as hell deal with thirteen high school basketball jocks. I’m looking forward to it.”
“It looks like I had you pegged all wrong, Spanky”, the suddenly excited jock said with a gathering glaze on his eyes. “You really are more than just a nerdy little Goth chick after all.”
“I’m just me, baby, a girl trying to find her way to womanhood in the world”, she said as she reached down and started caressing his swollen cock. “And you are obviously all man. If the other guys are like you this might not be so easy after all.”
She shot him a smile as she turned and walked off toward yet another area of the Dox.
By the time she made it to where her friends waited, Josh was staring at the murals, seemingly in a world of his own. She knew him well enough to know that he was probably aware of everything that was going on around him. She walked up to where the group sat and, smiling, she produced a fifth of vodka from her purse.
“Spanky comes through in a pinch”, Angela said as Josh turned to see her pouring a hefty shot into his large cup of Coca-Cola. She made the rounds, Angela telling her to “make hers a double”.
“Don’t be greedy, Angela”, she said teasingly, and then sat close to Josh, who looked petulant.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“I found out my parents died a few nights ago, the whole house burned down”, she said with a smile. They all looked at her and then all around at each other, as though they were not sure she was serious. Josh just stared at her, and then suddenly, he laughed.
“Did I miss something somewhere between your parents dying and the house burning down”, asked Marty, the oldest of the crowd at twenty.
“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot”, Debbie said. “Boo Hoo”.
She lit a cigarette as the others were asking her for more details, but she did not know anything other than what the cops told her, she said.
“Well, so much for Barnett, huh?” Josh asked. “He can’t mess with you now.”
“Not as far as that part goes he can’t”, Debbie said, but Angela was more concerned with Debbie’s parents and their fate.
“Sometimes I think I hate my parents too, especially, well, both of them, but I sure as hell wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to them. Nothing like that anyway.”
“Hey, it’s not like Debbie did it to them, or even wanted it to happen”, Josh now said in her defense. “But sometimes, what happens is for the best, and may even be fates way of settling scores that you can’t take care of yourself. I wish fate would step in and lend me a hand sometimes.”
“Well, I know what it’s like to lose somebody”, Marty said. “It’s never good. I used to fight with my sister all the time. I thought she was a little bitch. Now that she’s gone I look at things a lot different.”
Marty still struggled to cope with the loss of his sister, Mary, who had drowned just five months ago. He knew that she and Debbie fought constantly, were in fact rivals, but when Mary died, Debbie was the first to call him and express not only condolences, but her regrets over the past enmity the two girls had shared with each other. Something about Debbie Leighton’s actions tonight were more than just a little strange. She called and urged him to meet the group this night. He began to think she only wanted him to ensure the rest of the group had no difficulties gaining admittance to The Dox. Now, she looked at him quizzically.
“I’ve got something to tell you, Marty”, Debbie said. “This is going to really freak you out.”
“Yeah, it’s about Mary, you told me that”, he said, growing ever more concerned. “So, what is it? If you have any idea of how she died, or who is responsible-“
“It’s not so much what happened before she died as it is what happened after she died”, Debbie told her. “I’m telling you, I have no way of proving this, and I really should tell you this in private.”
As they left together, music started to play and the dance floor was suddenly alive, as Josh strained to see where Debbie and Marty had gone off. Without her and Marty in the group, there were now two couples and one other guy, Edgar, an overweight slob who now complained that he and Josh looked gay.
“You look gay anyway, fuckhead”, one of the other guys said. “Hell, you are gay, so why worry?”
“Hey, no I’m not so fuck you”, Edgar said defensively as the two girls shot him mock sympathetic moans. Josh barely heard them as his attention was riveted on Debbie, and now on Marty, who suddenly seemed distraught, and angry. He was shouting at her, with a look of wide-eyed incredulity on his face, but try as he might Josh could not hear a word of what he was saying. As for Debbie, she just stood there unconcerned, yet adamant in her seeming insistence as to the veracity of what she told him.
Soon, they returned, but Marty did not stay. Instead, he collected his pack of cigarettes and left without a word of goodbye. He was obviously in as bad a mood as Josh had ever seen him.
“You sure as hell have a bad effect on people, Spanky”, Angela said. “What the hell did you say to him?”
“I can’t say right now, but you’ll probably hear about it later”, Debbie assured her. “Me and Josh need to have a little talk, if you all don’t mind”.
“I guess now Josh is going to be in a bummed out mood”, the lone boy named Edgar said. “If you have anything to tell me in private just forget about it, huh?”
“Nothing to say about you nobody doesn’t already know, Edgar”, Debbie said sarcastically. “Except maybe for you”
Josh followed along behind her, curious as to what was said between her and Marty, but more concerned as to what she might now have to say to him. When they reached the approximate spot where Debbie had earlier stood with Marty Evans, he peered into her partially opened purse.
“I hope you brought some pot with you”, he said. “I’m dying to get high.”
“No”! Debbie said this so emphatically, Josh was somewhat shaken, but Debbie then held her hand with her palm upward, looked down, and breathed deeply.
“You know you’re my man”, she said. “And that I love you, right?”
“Wow, that’s the first time you’ve ever said that”, he observed, obviously elated and almost overwhelmed at the surprising pronouncement. “To hear most of these people around here talk I’m about the only guy in Balmer you haven’t screwed.”
“Well, sex ain’t everything, and that’s a lie anyway”, she said. “Besides, it’s just as well, because we might not be seeing each other before long. I might be going away.”
Josh looked stunned to be hearing this from her, and he looked her straight in the eye, and saw the first sign of regret, even sadness, he had ever seen from her. She was usually so strong, so sure of herself. She had always been there for him, when he would come to school after a night or a weekend of his fathers’ drunken rants. Sometimes the usual regular beating of somewhat more or less painful severity followed these. He would then come to school, only to have to face the usual taunts from some of the kids at school. They looked at him as the typical freak, the type that you just knew was dying to come to school one day and blow everybody away because he didn’t have the guts to stand up to any of them mano a mano.
When he tried to slash his wrist, it was more of a cry for help than anything. At the same time, he truly wanted to die, but Debbie saved him, and then swore she would keep what happened between the two of them. He almost died that day, had left his body, floating above it for some time, until Debbie pulled him back into his body, smiling at him with the kind of reassurance that made him know that his life was worthwhile. She actually seemed like an angel to him that day, and over the passing days, weeks, and months, she became his rock. If he lost her, his life was worthless after all.
“Is it Barnett?” He knew of course that teacher had it in for her for some reason he never understood. It was almost as if he knew something about her, something only the two of them knew. Whatever it was, it must have been bad, but that did not matter to Josh.
He’s going to have me kicked out of the school, I’m sure”, she said. “If he does that, he will probably call Social Services on my Aunt, and I will end up in some fucking group home, maybe here in Baltimore, but more than likely somewhere else, maybe not even in Maryland. See, my Aunt is not really my legal guardian. It is all so fucked up. She has a drug record too, and is on probation. It just gets worse and worse. Then I had to fuck up and offer him a blowjob.”
“I can’t believe you offered him a blowjob”, he said. “When the hell do I get one, since you say you love me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake Josh, is that all you can think about? Is that what you really think of me? Do you think I did that because I want to suck the bastards’ dick? No, I want to try to stay here, for you. I want to stay here for us.”
Suddenly, she heard a flurry of movement behind her as Josh’s eyes widened, and he stiffened with anxiety.
She turned to see Mark Grant and four of his fellow basketball squad teammates, all of whom would be the senior starting squad for the school team next year.
“We’re ready if you are”, he said, as Josh could not avoid noting the leering look of expectation on their faces, especially that on the face of the lone white boy, Joey, who said “hell yeah”.
“Whach’ou lookin’ at punk?” the short and seemingly fat yet muscular Mahmoud demanded. “You got sumptin’ to say?”
“He’s a friend of mine”, Debbie said. “He’s going to be helping me with some classes for next week. I will see you later on tonight, Josh, where I told you, all right?”
“Yeah, okay”, Josh said, though he was obviously not liking this development in the least. Debbie walked off alongside Grant, who had his arms around her, as though not even acknowledging Josh’s presence there this night. He watched in a mixture of rage and humiliation as Mahmoud suddenly started pawing Debbie’s ass. He continued watching as he suddenly saw Debbie laughing, her arm now around Grant.
They left The Dox and continued on some four and a half blocks down Russell Street, then doubled back to behind the complex, toward the railroad tracks. They walked on past there for about seven blocks, all of them talking the usual trash talk all the jocks usually talked about when they were around any girls besides their steady girlfriends. One of those girlfriends had been Mary Evans, and she had been the girlfriend of Joey. However, when Debbie fucked Joey, and Mary found out about it, there was a fight in which Debbie ended up on the losing end. She hated to lose fights, and never got over it. Worse, Joey took Mary back, and told her he only fucked Debbie to get back at her over some stupid argument they had about some other guy. He just wanted to show Mary that if she could get another guy, he could fuck any bitch he wanted. Nevertheless, Debbie meant nothing to him, and he spent the remainder of the school year proving it. Because of him, Debbie became known as the little bitch with the stinking pussy who would fuck anything that moved.
When Mary broke up with Joey around last Thanksgiving, Debbie apologized to her, and then commiserated with her. The two became friends. They got high together, and Debbie watched as Mary started putting on the pounds, and her skin became splotchy due to some dermatological condition that she had trouble with since the onset of puberty. She started staying high. Her relationship with Joey was on again, off again. Debbie played the concerned friend, and waited for the right opportunity. She caught her alone one day, and made her move.
She destroyed the little bitch who had humiliated her. Mary was lucky enough to be in a family that was wealthy enough to have an indoor, heated swimming pool, but on this one day, when the two of them were all alone in the house, Mary’s luck ran out along with her consciousness. The two girls got high, and Mary, as usual, passed out.
Debbie never imagined it would be so much fun dumping somebody’s fat ass in a swimming pool. The only downer was that this particular fat bitch never woke up. Debbie left the house that day, before Marty or the rest of the family came home, and washed her hands of the whole matter.
Now, it was time for the next phase.
There were indeed thirteen guys on the basketball team present there that night, almost but not quite the whole team. The entire first-string squad was there, along with some of the next year’s juniors and sophomores. Her only regret was at none of last years seniors being present-or so she thought. By the time they made it to their destination, however, she saw that all seven of them were indeed there. Twenty guys altogether.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Since we’re having a party tonight, I thought I’d invite the whole team”, Grant announced. “You remember Wilkie, don’t you?”
Wilkie was the star of the school team last year, a vastly overrated player who nevertheless somehow managed to finagle a scholarship to play for the University of Maryland the next year. Wilkie spoke as if introducing himself, although he was the one who had fixed Debbie up with Joey to begin with, and then encouraged him behind her back to “just fuck her and forget her.”
“Why, Wilkie, I thought you’d forgot all about me by now”, she said in mock surprise.
“Forget you?” Wilkie responded. “Oh, hell no.”
He then produced a clothespin and pinched it on his nose. The rest of the gathered team howled with laughter. Debbie just looked at him, straight in the eye, and smiled. She knew she was in for a rough night, but if it worked out as she planned, it would be worth it.
She was right. Only one of them lasted more than ten minutes, by her calculations, and only three of them lasted more than five. The rest of them were finished so quickly it almost was not worth calculating. Wilkie, the supposed team star and stud, lasted all of three minutes, then got off and howled in mock agony, as the others took their turns. One guy came inside her practically as soon as he entered.
Mark was the one she wanted to get more even than Joey. Mark was the one who, she was sure, had informed on her at the school, and had turned her in for selling drugs. If not for him, Barnett would never have caught her. Now, here she was lying on the ground as Mark took his turn at fucking her, going out of his way to be as hard and rough as he could. It was a painful experience, and he was the only one who came back for seconds. He was even rougher the second time, though luckily he did not last as long.
Sure enough, one of the other past year seniors mentioned getting their dicks sucked, but Debbie said she had enough for the night, and she had to get home. She stooped to retrieve her purse, but somebody pushed her down face first onto the pavement, while another person grabbed the purse. She had luckily pulled her jogging pants back up along with her panties, and managed to hide the Lugar. Otherwise, she might have lost the gun, which would have ruined everything. As it was, she was not going to get away that easily. They lined up one at a time. Each one demanded she suck their dicks, and she had no choice now but to acquiesce.
“Okay, can I please have my purse back now?” she asked.
“Sure”, Grant said. “Get your skank ass on out of here now. You won’t be needing that fifty, the boys and me are gonna get us some beer. I left you a five spot though. Go get you some feminine deodorant.”
“Damn I don’t think we have to worry about getting that ho pregnant”, somebody else said. “No sperm could survive up inside that septic tank.”
“Let’s see you skip on out of here”, Joey then said as he hoisted a brick toward her feet, barely missing her by inches.
“Alright, I’m going, I’m going”, she said. She walked off slowly and painfully as she heard them laughing. Wilkie let out an Indian style war-whoop.
“Hey, thanks for the pot, skank”, Grant shouted as he waved the ounce. Debbie briefly looked back, and then hurried off as quickly as possible.
It was a long painful walk back toward The Dox, and she looked around for any sign of Joseph, but his cab was nowhere. Here she was in the worse pain she had experienced in months, and the person she trusted most of all was late. She could not afford to wait for him, and so she agonizingly made her way back. Once she made it almost half the way there, she had to stop and throw up. Right as she was spitting the remnants of the puke, and semen, out of her mouth, she heard the familiar voice of Josh, obviously in a state of distress.
“Debbie, what the hell is wrong? What happened?”
“Those bastards, they raped me”, she said. “They raped me and they stole my money, probably my ID as well, just to be even bigger dicks.”
“They did what?” Josh was obviously outraged, yet also still hurt over her seeming betrayal of him. “Spanky, what the fuck did you go off with those guys for anyway?”
“Fuck, when my aunt finds out she’s going to fucking kill me” Debbie roared this out in a rage, but then suddenly almost collapsed from the painful effects of the exertion.
“Damn, I think those fuckers tore some muscles somewhere”, she said. “I’d better go to the hospital.”
Josh was looking at her, both hurt and concerned. Debbie could not help but laugh, but luckily, this caused her some pain as well, so Josh never caught on. So far, so good, she thought.
“I’m sorry, Josh, I just-did what I thought I had to do”, she said, the pain she was in at least obviously not fake, though exaggerated. “I’m sorry if you’re hurt, I just didn’t want to get you involved.”
“Involved in what?” he said. “What made you go with those guys? I told you I’d do anything for you.”
“Yeah, Josh, that’s what I’m afraid of”, she said. “You’re just not a killer. I guess Grant ain’t either. Guess it’s a damn good thing I never told him who it was I wanted him to kill. Now I’m going to have to do it myself.”
“Barnett? You were trying to get those guys to kill Barnett?”
“Only Grant”, she said. “He said if I’d party with the team he’d kill anybody I wanted. God did he ever feed me a line of shit, and boy did I ever fall for it, just like I did last year.”
“So you’re still in love with him, huh?”
She looked at him and saw that he was at nearly the breaking point. She laughed again, and then howled in agony. Yeah, she thought, without a doubt she had tore a muscle, and might have a broken rib as well.
“No, I don’t love him, dammit”, she replied. “I don’t love anybody. All anyone cares about is their damn self. Any feeling anybody ever had for me is just for what they can fucking get from me. Fuck it, I’ve had it. Barnett will probably have me kicked out of school, and then I am out of here. Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s ass any more.”
She was now crying, but made the pretense of trying to suck it up. She had to make him think she was just trying to be brave, that she did not really care. Of course, he was not supposed to believe that-nor did he.
“I’ll do it”, he said. “I’ll get the motherfucker for you, but you have to promise me from here on out, Spanky, no more bullshit. No more screwing other guys. As soon as you can, I want you to get away from that aunt of yours, and I will leave home and we’ll get a place together. We’ll leave fucking Balmer if you want. I hate this cock-sucking place anyway. We’ll go someplace where nobody knows us.”
He had given the same speech before. In fact, she heard this about an average of twice a week, for the last three months. Only now it came with the promise of a preliminary action from which, if he carried through, there would be no turning back. Suddenly, she heard a car approaching, and turned as the headlights of Josephs cab illuminated her.
“Is everything all right, miss”, he asked. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“Wait here, Josh”, she said. “I’m going to see if I can talk him into giving us a ride. I think I know this guy.”
“Is he going to do it?” Joseph asked her this quietly as a distraught Josh stood at a distance, not sure of what to do.
“I think so”, she replied. “In fact I know he is.”
“You’ll have to get another cab to take the two of you to the lake”, he said. “If I show up again it will look suspicious. I don’t know though, he must be pretty fucking stupid.”
“Are we going to do the usual?”
“Hell yes”, Joseph said. “We can’t take the chance of him breaking down and confessing, he’ll take you down with him if he does.”
“I can’t wait to see the look on the little fucks face when we get him to the ‘hideout’”, she said with a smile.
“That’s why I wanted you in the group”, Joseph said. “I love your sense of irony.”
Joseph then put the act into high gear, coming out of the cab as he strode toward Josh.
“Did you see who did this to her?” He demanded.
“Yeah, some of them, but I didn’t actually see it happen. I warned her about those guys.”
“Well, I should call the cops, but she’s begging me not to”, Joseph said. “So I’m going to just take her to the hospital, maybe somebody there will talk some sense into her. You might want to come with us. I won’t charge anything for something like this.”
Debbie then asked Joseph for just a few minutes to talk to Josh in private.
“I don’t know what the hell to do”, she said. “If I don’t go along he’s liable to file a report, but if I don’t get to Barnett, he probably is going to Social Services the first thing Monday morning. He already filed a preliminary report with the school, so it’s a matter of time before I’m done.”
“Damn it, I told you I’ll take care of Barnett’, he said. “I know where the fucker lives. I’ll just cut his phone line and break in through his bedroom window. He’s separated from his wife, so he should be alone. Since he comes in to work tomorrow, he should be home by now. I swear it will be easy. Please, Spanky, trust me. Let me prove it to you. I’m not just some nerdy little kid that talks shit. I mean what I say, and I do what I say.”
“What if he has a gun”, she said.
“He’ll be sound asleep. I’ll just break in fast and kill him probably before he’s even half awake.”
“You’re going to have to make up your mind”, Joseph warned. “I ain’t got all night. What’s it going to be, the hospital or the police?”
“Please, Spanky!” Josh begged her.
“Just one more minute, please”, Spanky said as Joseph glared at his watch.
“All right”, she said as she reached into her jogging pants and extracted the Lugar. “Do you know how to use these?”
“Uh, hello”, he said. “I used to go target shooting with my cousins in Virginia all the time. Of course, I know how. It’s been awhile, but you never forget shit like that.”
“I love you baby”, she said. “Make me proud. After you’ve done it, I have the perfect place we can go, a house up near the lake. We’ll stay there for a couple of weeks, then we’ll head to Virginia, and on from there to Florida. Does that sound good?”
“Yeah, that sounds great”, Josh said, but as he said this his eyes were suddenly glazed, and he looked down at the gun in his hands. He now looked toward Joseph. “How many bullets are in this gun?”
“It’s fully loaded, babe, don’t worry”, she answered. “I’m going to go on to the hospital before that guy gets pissed and calls the cops”.
“He’s not going to call anybody”, he said, and then, to Debbie’s horror, pointed the gun at Joseph, who stared open mouthed, his cigarette dropping to the ground as he froze in uncertainty.
“You little fuckhead, what the hell are you doing,” Joseph demanded. Josh had the gun cocked, and aimed straight between his eyes.
“Don’t try anything, I’m warning you”, he shouted. “I know how to shoot this, so turn your ass around-now!”
“Josh, for the love of God, what the fuck are you doing”, Debbie said as the sudden adrenaline rush due to this unexpected turn caused her pain to flare up worse than ever. So sudden and intense was it , this came out as little more than a whisper, as she frantically wondered what she would do, or if she could do anything. Josh was obviously crazed at this point, and seemingly desperate.
“Kid, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m telling you now, you’d better point that thing somewhere else”, Joseph said as he tried desperately to maintain his composure and to exert a sense of calm command.
“Josh, please”-, Debbie begged. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“No, I think I have to kill him now for sure”, he said as tears started streaming down from his eyes. “If he makes you go to the hospital, they’ll make you say what happened. Or they'll get their DNA and might find them that way. Then those guys will tell about you wanting them to kill somebody. Even if you never told them who you were wanting to kill, it’s going to be obvious when Barnett ends up dead. Besides, I’ve robbed cabs before, this ain’t that much different. And we do need some money.”
He then addressed Joseph as Debbie suddenly realized everything she and Joseph had planned was spiraling completely out of control.
“Hand me your money, motherfucker”, Josh now demanded. “Every fucking dollar of it!”
“What?” Joseph was now incensed, but still at a loss as to what he could do. The kid was stupid, desperate, and armed-which was a bad combination from twenty feet away.
Debbie was begging him to put the gun down, but Josh was shaking so badly she started to fear the gun would go off by accident. He seemed to be getting crazier by the second.
“We can take his money and his cab too”, he was saying. “We can get away from here real fast”
“We can do that anyway, Josh, without this”, Debbie said. “Please, baby, I don’t want the death of an innocent man on my conscience. Mr., you won’t make me go to the hospital, will you? You’ll just take me home, right? That’s probably all I need, to just lay down and rest and take some of my Aunt Barb’s pills. She’s got some wicked pain pills, and some antibiotics too, left over from where she had her appendix removed seven months ago. If that don’t clear it up I’ll go to the hospital and tell them I don’t know who attacked me.”
“Yeah, that would work”, Josh said.”The DNA would be gone by then. But what about him? Do you think he’s going to forget about this? Hell no, he won’t. I’m sorry, but I have to do this. Sorry, Mr., but I ain’t got no choice.”
By now Josh began crying outwardly, but at the same time drew back with the posture of someone who, Joseph realized, knew how to fire a pistol. Spanky, in desperation, was looking for something on the ground to knock him over the head with, which would be just as well. Unfortunately, that would leave nothing of their plans to salvage. Joseph tried one last, desperate ploy.
“Look, kid, I don’t know what you’re problem is, but I’ll tell you what mine is”, he said. “I want to live. Because I want to live, I’ll make a deal with you. You put that gun away, and I’ll get in my cab and leave, and we’ll forget this whole thing. I’ll take your girlfriend home if that’s what she wants, and neither of you will ever see me again.”
“How do I know I can trust you”, Josh demanded.
“Look at me, kid”, Joseph replied. “I’m one of you. Just a few years ago, in fact, I was you. A few years from now, you could be me. Hopefully, you’ll have a better future than driving some beat up cab around Baltimore to make ends meet. If you do what you’re planning now, though, you have no future. You’ll throw everything away.”
Josh looked at the tall, thin man with the black hair, with the shoulder length sides dyed a crimson red. He had seen him before, he thought, but wasn’t sure. He seemed cool, though understandably nervous now.
“Baby, please, listen to him”, Debbie said. “Like I told you before, I know this guy, and I can reason with him.”
“Is he another guy you’ve fucked?”
Debbie was unsure as to how to answer this, so decided the truth was as good a chance as anything was.
“Yes, because I needed a ride.”
“Great, just what I need”, Joseph said. “Now I got to worry about some kid knowing I fucked an underage girl. It just gets worse and worse.”
“You know I love her, right”, Josh now asked. “I can’t let anything come between us. I know you don’t understand this, but if she goes to the hospital tonight-“
“I understand, kid”, Joseph said. “Josh, right? Look, I know how it is. She explained this all to me before. She’s worried about a teacher that might have her taken by Social Services. I get it. Hey, believe it or not, I know what that is like. My parents had me put in a group home when I was fourteen, because they couldn’t deal with me. My parents, the good Christians, couldn’t handle their one child. On top of that, my dad was a preacher. He used to pass around the plate every Sunday, and preach hell fire and damnation. He used to lecture his church members on parental responsibility. Ain’t that a laugh?”
Joseph waited for a response, as he noted Spanky had a rock in her hand and was creeping up on the kid, who had his attention riveted on him. He shot Spanky a glance, then tugged at his right ear, then propped up his upper lip with his index finger. He then shook his head vigorously once from side to side, and then laughed a bitter, sarcastic laugh in an attempt to disguise his signals, but just as much at his memories of his time at the group home, where he had in fact met Milo, and started his long journey into the heart of darkness.
“It was dog eat dog in that place”, he said. “I fought my way to the top of the pound. You had to if you were going to survive. Do you really think I’m going to be responsible for someone I care about being sent to a place like that? No, Josh-I don’t know what you’re planning, but whatever it is, you go and do what you got to do. I am not your enemy. Save those bullets for whoever is.”
So entranced by Joseph’s story was Debbie, even though she had heard it once before, she almost forgot to drop the large rock with which she fully intended to knock her stupid so-called boyfriend over the head. He was now crying, sobbing, and put down the gun, as he apologized profusely in the hopes the cab driver would be further encouraged to keep his word, even if he had no intention of doing so from the start. Joseph walked up to the young man, who stood there frozen. Joseph embraced him.
“I’ll take her home now”, he said. “I’ll leave you alone with her for a minute.”
Debbie hugged Josh, and told him if he didn’t want to kill Barnett, she would understand, but Josh was adamant.
“Did you hear what that guy said about how life is in those places? Hell yes, I want to do it. I won’t wuss out. I let him off because I knew he was just trying to help. Don’t worry, Barnett won’t have time to beg, and even if he did it won’t do him any good. Trust me, babe, I can do this.”
As he said this, he put the Luger down in his pants, as Spanky thought it was a wonder the stupid little bastard didn’t shoot his dick off.
“Come to the house after you do it, and we’ll get the hell out of here for good”, she promised him. “We’ll go somewhere else, just like you always wanted, and start a brand new life, where we don’t know anybody and where nobody knows us.”
Josh was suddenly alive with a fresh hope, and smiled through the tears that still flowed. He hugged her and kissed her, until she finally pushed him gently away.
“I’m going on home now”, she said as she turned toward the cab on which Joseph now leaned, deeply dragging off another cigarette. “I have some pills I need to take.”
“I love you”, he yelled after her as she headed from force of habit toward the front passengers door.
“I love you too”, she said as Joseph open the back door where he indicated she should get in.
He watched them leave, and after they pulled out of sight, Josh made his way toward the Dox. He could take a cab from there straight to Barnett’s house. He would have to stiff the cabbie, but what the hell. All he would have to do is show him the Lugar, get out and run to behind Barnett’s house, cut the phone line and go in through his bedroom window. He would then shoot that bastard, Barnett, and then call a cab to take him to Spanky’s aunt’s apartment. He just had to hope the same damn cab driver did not come to pick him up, but what would be the likelihood of that? Hey, come to think of it, he could just take Barnett’s car. Hell yeah, why depend on a cab, they could have their own set of wheels to take them to Florida. Barnett had two cars, a Chrysler and a Ford. Since he usually drove the Ford to work, he would steal the Chrysler. Nobody would ever suspect a thing.
He started walking. He did not want to go back to The Dox. He might run into Angela, Edgar, and his other friends, and he was not in the mood to have to try to come up with an explanation as to where he had been and where he was now suddenly going. He kept walking, in the opposite direction. He would find somewhere else from which to call a cab. He kept walking.
After about twenty minutes, he heard a moan. He had no reason to be afraid. After all, he had the Luger.
“Who’s there?” He shouted this with a firm voice of command, but suddenly he saw the figure of Mark Grant, as he suddenly rounded the corner of the vacant building, holding himself up, his eyes glaring.
“You!” Grant said.
“Yeah, motherfucker, it’s me”, he said. He checked and saw the Luger had more than one bullet. In fact, it was fully loaded.
“Please, help us”, he then heard Grant say.
“After what you done you want help?”
Suddenly Grant fell flat on his face with a thud, and was moaning in agony.
He looked around the corner, and there they were, all of them. The senior from last year, the star and captain, the one named Wilkie, was heaving, throwing up blood, his mouth foaming like some rabid animal. Then, he started twitching in a violent onset of convulsions. Some of the others seemed to be in worse shape, while others made no move at all.
He went back to where he saw Mark Grant, and demanded to know what happened.
“Bitch paid me-ounce of pot-to kill somebody-and party-with us”, he said, as he seemed to struggle painfully from the effort. “Shit poisoned. I think-probably rat poison. Oh God, please help us. Phone-in pocket.”
Suddenly Grant started convulsing as he rose, his eyes widened in terror, as his body seemed to rebel against the foreign substance he had ingested. Suddenly, his eyes went back in his head as he exhaled one last, deep breath, and Josh knew that Mark Grant, and most of the others here, were dead. Horrified at what he was seeing, Josh controlled his sickness and, gasping and crying, extracted Grant’s cell phone from his hip pocket.
He sat and cried, waiting for the cops to arrive for what seemed like at least thirty minutes. As he sat there, he remembered something. Why would Spanky agree to leave Baltimore with him? The whole purpose of killing Barnett to begin with was to enable her to remain in Baltimore. If they were going to leave anyway, what would be the point? Suddenly, nothing made any sense.
The guy, Joseph. Why did he let him off the hook so easy, and change his mind so quickly?
When the cops arrived, Josh simply told them he was walking from The Dox and found them like this. All but two of them were dead.
“I know that fucking smell anywhere”, one of the cops said. “Embalming fluid, probably soaked into whatever pot they smoked.”
“Yeah, that’s what it is”, another one said. “Holy shit, I’ve never seen it this bad.”
The only two who survived so far, provided they lived, would probably be brain damaged for the rest of their lives, one of them was saying. They would likely be unable to walk as long as they lived. In all probability, they would never have control of their bowels or their urine flow.
Suddenly, more sirens sounded, and soon what looked to be half the city’s ambulance service arrived. Josh wanted to throw up. He was visibly upset when one of the cops asked him if he knew any of the young men.
“I know all of them”, he said, and proceeded to give their names. The cops then offered to give him a ride home, but they would need to take a statement from him downtown. He looked at them as he then produced the Luger from his pants. He held it out to them with the barrel pointed toward the ground.
“What the hell”, one of the cops exclaimed.
“There’s something else I think I’d better tell you”, Josh said.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Gavin And Yvonne Frost
SPECIAL NOTE-I was going to publish Chapter Fourteen of Radu tomorrow, but I consider this post important to the Wiccan/Pagan community, so I am going to leave it at top of the blog for at least one whole day. The next Chapter of Radu is only of transitional importance, and can wait a day or two.
This is going to be a very dated post, in two ways. I recently noted an old post from last month on Jason’s WildHundBlog pertaining to the long time Wiccan American pioneers, Gavin and Yvonne Frost, in which Jason reports how they were taken to task by pagan author A J Drew for a chapter in an earlier book by the Frosts.
In one Chapter of the book, entitled "Good Witch's Bible", the Frosts encouraged the “ritual deflowering” of a child initiate, one who has gone through puberty. This caused quite a heated discussion on Jason’s blog, particularly in the Haloscan page of comments. Some people defend the Frosts, such as Isaac Bonewits, who relates that he has known the Frosts for decades, that they are kind, warm, generous people who do not advocate child rape or molestation.
Others would like to have the Frosts’s heads on a platter. One poster suggested the Wiccan community should buy their books, and, in individual acts of renunciation, burn them in a quiet, private ceremony (and thus avoid the possible result of the general public shining the spotlight on pagans as “book burners”).
Others would like to see the Frosts brought to task in a more public manner, even intimating at the possibility of a court trial, on the grounds of promotion and encouragement of pedophilia. A. J. Drew himself encourages this. Others insist the Wiccan/Pagan community should collectively denounce the Frosts.
Uhhhh-no thanks, you can count me out of that. I do not agree with Gavin’s recommendations in his book, but it should be taken in context. He was, I think, incorrectly noting the supposed manner in which earlier tribal people’s observed the passage of children, through puberty, from childhood into adulthood, and simply suggested this as an appropriate ritual for modern pagans.
I disagree with this, of course. For one thing, I tend to think this was, in most ancient cultures, all but unheard of, though there were possibly a few obscure tribes that did engage in such practices. Nevertheless, it would be a fallacious undertaking in any event. This is one of the things I have pointed out previously in regards to Pagan Reconstructionism. It is not always appropriate for modern times, and this would be a glaring example of such.
The only time a parent should be involved in a child’s sexuality is in teaching self-discipline and restraint, while not embedding within the child’s’ psyche the equally horrendous philosophy that sexual longings are evil and “dirty”. Yet, such longings should not be engaged in wantonly, not merely for moral reasons, but for obvious reasons of psychological and physical health, and the dangers of long-term consequences. When the child does enter into sexual activity, it should be at a time and place of it’s choosing, hopefully having considered all the repercussions and taking appropriate measures to safeguard against the unintended consequences of unwanted pregnancy or STD’s.
By this time, the “child” should by now hopefully be a responsible adult, and should have made this decision from an adult standpoint. This should be with an appropriate partner, chosen and agreed upon by mutual consent of the two of them-not by a High Priest and coven made up of family members and family friends overseeing the proceedings of the “deflowering”, conducted by the “most appropriate” coven member.
I hope I am clear on all this. At the same time, we should remember that this book of the Frosts was written during the period of the late sixties and early seventies, when the world was in flames, a period of social and sexual upheaval and “liberation”. A lot of half-baked theories circulated about child raising, as with other ideas.
As far as I’m concerned, the child “raising” theories of Doctor Benjamin Spock are far more destructive, in some respects, than this one obscure passage in one little known book by the Frosts. Yet, you rarely hear suggestions that Benjamin Spock be burned in effigy, as Drew has suggested for the Frosts. A good many people might well like to do that, but you will be unlikely to read any heated discussions concerning the possibility. Yet, the equally fallacious philosophies of Benjamin Spock are still held by many to be the standard on how a civilized society rears its children. As a result, way too many children in western societies are anything but civilized.
However, I will avoid turning this post into a renunciation of the abhorrent Spock. I just use him to illustrate the point that there are far more things that children are faced with on a daily basis than this issue alone. In the sixties and seventies, child sex abuse was not nearly the issue that it is today, and though it was known to have occurred (and many were appropriately prosecuted and imprisoned for it, well before even this time), the long term effects on child victims were nowhere nearly so well known and documented as they are now.
The Frosts-especially Yvonne (a former Mensa member) are intellectuals and idealists, and like many such people tend to have their heads in the clouds. I do not defend them, but at the same time, it seems to me that they actually believed that, were this the norm in child-raising, it would be much better than what they currently saw going on at the time. It always helps to look at things within the context of the times in which they occur.
When the Frosts wrote this, they doubtless saw the huge so-called “generation gap” that caused an emotional disconnect between families, and saw that it was widening every day. They saw the various manifestations of this, in the form of unmoderated and growing illicit drug abuse, astronomical school dropout rates, juvenile crime statistics rising to an alarming level, and-of course-wanton increase in illicit sexual activity amongst the young, resulting in an increase in STD’s and unwanted pregnancies.
Gavin and Yvonne Frost did not formulate this theory or suggest it because they were perverts, any more than Benjamin Spock actually intended to harm children. In both cases, they both probably thought their ideas had merit and would be beneficial. That it might help alleviate the myriad of social problems that were manifesting on an explosive level at this time-and which still go on today. It was, remember, during the sixties and early seventies that all of this manifested on a large scale for the first time. Yet, Spock was wrong about so many things. So were the Frosts.
It is right that their theory is widely denounced. At the same time, while the message might have been repugnant, that does not detract from the overall beneficence of the Frosts, who did much to familiarize Americans with Wicca through their
Church and School of Wicca, which still exists, and was one of the first such organizations to qualify for recognition by the IRS as a legitimate religious organization. In this one instance, they made a mistake, though with the best of intentions-one that involved nothing more than theoretical musings about a controversial, in fact an emotionally charged issue.
For others now to come to the forefront to denounce them and insist that all others join in the denunciation-or else-is self-serving and insulting. The entire Wiccan/Pagan community should feel insulted by such obvious self-promotion and aggrandizement. It smacks of Savonarola. I for one refuse to go along with it or tolerate it.
Remember that old saying-patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel. In some cases, such as this one, you might easily substitute the word religion for patriotism. A. J. Drew might well consider that when he looks out upon the sea of twisted, angry faces that answer to his drumbeat. Hopefully, it won’t be a sea, but a small pond, a body of water with no inlets, and no outlets, and thus, stagnant.
This is going to be a very dated post, in two ways. I recently noted an old post from last month on Jason’s WildHundBlog pertaining to the long time Wiccan American pioneers, Gavin and Yvonne Frost, in which Jason reports how they were taken to task by pagan author A J Drew for a chapter in an earlier book by the Frosts.
In one Chapter of the book, entitled "Good Witch's Bible", the Frosts encouraged the “ritual deflowering” of a child initiate, one who has gone through puberty. This caused quite a heated discussion on Jason’s blog, particularly in the Haloscan page of comments. Some people defend the Frosts, such as Isaac Bonewits, who relates that he has known the Frosts for decades, that they are kind, warm, generous people who do not advocate child rape or molestation.
Others would like to have the Frosts’s heads on a platter. One poster suggested the Wiccan community should buy their books, and, in individual acts of renunciation, burn them in a quiet, private ceremony (and thus avoid the possible result of the general public shining the spotlight on pagans as “book burners”).
Others would like to see the Frosts brought to task in a more public manner, even intimating at the possibility of a court trial, on the grounds of promotion and encouragement of pedophilia. A. J. Drew himself encourages this. Others insist the Wiccan/Pagan community should collectively denounce the Frosts.
Uhhhh-no thanks, you can count me out of that. I do not agree with Gavin’s recommendations in his book, but it should be taken in context. He was, I think, incorrectly noting the supposed manner in which earlier tribal people’s observed the passage of children, through puberty, from childhood into adulthood, and simply suggested this as an appropriate ritual for modern pagans.
I disagree with this, of course. For one thing, I tend to think this was, in most ancient cultures, all but unheard of, though there were possibly a few obscure tribes that did engage in such practices. Nevertheless, it would be a fallacious undertaking in any event. This is one of the things I have pointed out previously in regards to Pagan Reconstructionism. It is not always appropriate for modern times, and this would be a glaring example of such.
The only time a parent should be involved in a child’s sexuality is in teaching self-discipline and restraint, while not embedding within the child’s’ psyche the equally horrendous philosophy that sexual longings are evil and “dirty”. Yet, such longings should not be engaged in wantonly, not merely for moral reasons, but for obvious reasons of psychological and physical health, and the dangers of long-term consequences. When the child does enter into sexual activity, it should be at a time and place of it’s choosing, hopefully having considered all the repercussions and taking appropriate measures to safeguard against the unintended consequences of unwanted pregnancy or STD’s.
By this time, the “child” should by now hopefully be a responsible adult, and should have made this decision from an adult standpoint. This should be with an appropriate partner, chosen and agreed upon by mutual consent of the two of them-not by a High Priest and coven made up of family members and family friends overseeing the proceedings of the “deflowering”, conducted by the “most appropriate” coven member.
I hope I am clear on all this. At the same time, we should remember that this book of the Frosts was written during the period of the late sixties and early seventies, when the world was in flames, a period of social and sexual upheaval and “liberation”. A lot of half-baked theories circulated about child raising, as with other ideas.
As far as I’m concerned, the child “raising” theories of Doctor Benjamin Spock are far more destructive, in some respects, than this one obscure passage in one little known book by the Frosts. Yet, you rarely hear suggestions that Benjamin Spock be burned in effigy, as Drew has suggested for the Frosts. A good many people might well like to do that, but you will be unlikely to read any heated discussions concerning the possibility. Yet, the equally fallacious philosophies of Benjamin Spock are still held by many to be the standard on how a civilized society rears its children. As a result, way too many children in western societies are anything but civilized.
However, I will avoid turning this post into a renunciation of the abhorrent Spock. I just use him to illustrate the point that there are far more things that children are faced with on a daily basis than this issue alone. In the sixties and seventies, child sex abuse was not nearly the issue that it is today, and though it was known to have occurred (and many were appropriately prosecuted and imprisoned for it, well before even this time), the long term effects on child victims were nowhere nearly so well known and documented as they are now.
The Frosts-especially Yvonne (a former Mensa member) are intellectuals and idealists, and like many such people tend to have their heads in the clouds. I do not defend them, but at the same time, it seems to me that they actually believed that, were this the norm in child-raising, it would be much better than what they currently saw going on at the time. It always helps to look at things within the context of the times in which they occur.
When the Frosts wrote this, they doubtless saw the huge so-called “generation gap” that caused an emotional disconnect between families, and saw that it was widening every day. They saw the various manifestations of this, in the form of unmoderated and growing illicit drug abuse, astronomical school dropout rates, juvenile crime statistics rising to an alarming level, and-of course-wanton increase in illicit sexual activity amongst the young, resulting in an increase in STD’s and unwanted pregnancies.
Gavin and Yvonne Frost did not formulate this theory or suggest it because they were perverts, any more than Benjamin Spock actually intended to harm children. In both cases, they both probably thought their ideas had merit and would be beneficial. That it might help alleviate the myriad of social problems that were manifesting on an explosive level at this time-and which still go on today. It was, remember, during the sixties and early seventies that all of this manifested on a large scale for the first time. Yet, Spock was wrong about so many things. So were the Frosts.
It is right that their theory is widely denounced. At the same time, while the message might have been repugnant, that does not detract from the overall beneficence of the Frosts, who did much to familiarize Americans with Wicca through their
Church and School of Wicca, which still exists, and was one of the first such organizations to qualify for recognition by the IRS as a legitimate religious organization. In this one instance, they made a mistake, though with the best of intentions-one that involved nothing more than theoretical musings about a controversial, in fact an emotionally charged issue.
For others now to come to the forefront to denounce them and insist that all others join in the denunciation-or else-is self-serving and insulting. The entire Wiccan/Pagan community should feel insulted by such obvious self-promotion and aggrandizement. It smacks of Savonarola. I for one refuse to go along with it or tolerate it.
Remember that old saying-patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel. In some cases, such as this one, you might easily substitute the word religion for patriotism. A. J. Drew might well consider that when he looks out upon the sea of twisted, angry faces that answer to his drumbeat. Hopefully, it won’t be a sea, but a small pond, a body of water with no inlets, and no outlets, and thus, stagnant.
Unitarian Universalists Take A Hard Core Stand
Hat Tip to Jason at the Wild Hunt Blog, whose original post can be seen here.
The marriage between the Unitarian Universalist Church and its affiliated UU Pagan branch has just entered that most difficult of all stages-the post honeymoon stage. When this stage hits, its effects can be unsettling. No longer is every spoken word or action the epitome of wisdom or cuteness. Things that were previously hidden, or ignored, start to raise their ugly heads. Reality starts to take precedence over illusion. Suddenly, each partner notices the other actually shits and pisses just like other humans and animals-and it does not smell like roses, either.
When this occurs, there are different possible consequences. The two partners either settle into an uncomfortable period of adjustment and acceptance, or they eventually end the relationship-or in a great many cases, one partner exerts authority and says, “enough is enough.” There might be room for compromise in some instances, but some things are simply intolerable.
This would seem to be the case with the UUA Church regarding the tendency of some pagan faiths to engage in the practice of polyamory. Although the Unitarian Universalist Association is known as a tolerant and progressive religious organization, it seems that this aspect of pagan philosophy might be too much even for them. Luckily-and by the way-polyamory is not a widespread practice among pagans in general. In fact, it is more a fringe element-much like a good many hairy legged female Dianics that secretly would probably love to bring back the practice of castrating males in honor of Cybele.
Like in most marriages, this is nothing more, probably, than the most obvious manifestation of what is most likely a more profound, underlying reality-the two are not really the match made in heaven they thought they were. Moreover, the mainstream UUA adherents might be protesting too much.
The UUA is, in a spiritual sense, itself a polyamory organization aiming to become an umbrella for all the worlds’ religions-at least the more liberal and tolerant ones, those that feel themselves progressive enough to participate in such an exclusively inclusive clan.
To the UUA, there is no difference in religions, other than in the outer trappings. Therefore, you have UUA Pagans, UUA Christians, UUA Buddhists, and UUA Hindus. Somewhere along the way, while these groups were affiliating, they simultaneously began segregating, much like you might see black and white students willingly and happily segregated in the lunchroom in the middle of an “integrated” school.
The recent UUA declaration to reign in some of these independent affiliates is, in my opinion, geared more toward addressing this issue, and the potential for schisms and divisions that it portends. Otherwise, there might be the danger of a real split, and the organization imploding through the force of its more mainstream members rushing on their collective ways out the door. It was meant originally, after all, to be one body, one organization, with members that worshipped as one, in tolerance and acceptance of their individual differences. The independent affiliate program was something meant, in addition to drawing new members, to foster tolerance, understanding, and unity between all the members and affiliate branches. Somewhere along the way, I guess they discovered that a good many of these independent affiliates would just as soon remain-well, independent. As well as, perhaps, a bit too unique, as in the case of the polyamory pagans. Tolerance, I guess, only goes so far after all.
Many if not most religious organizations advise their followers that, when they attend their services, they should leave their individual political beliefs outside the door. That doesn't seem to be the problem here, as Unitarians are officially and outwardly liberal, and pretty activist at that. So that is not their problem.
Instead, it would seem in their case that they might well be the only religion in the world whose adherents might well be advised to leave their religious beliefs outside the door.
The marriage between the Unitarian Universalist Church and its affiliated UU Pagan branch has just entered that most difficult of all stages-the post honeymoon stage. When this stage hits, its effects can be unsettling. No longer is every spoken word or action the epitome of wisdom or cuteness. Things that were previously hidden, or ignored, start to raise their ugly heads. Reality starts to take precedence over illusion. Suddenly, each partner notices the other actually shits and pisses just like other humans and animals-and it does not smell like roses, either.
When this occurs, there are different possible consequences. The two partners either settle into an uncomfortable period of adjustment and acceptance, or they eventually end the relationship-or in a great many cases, one partner exerts authority and says, “enough is enough.” There might be room for compromise in some instances, but some things are simply intolerable.
This would seem to be the case with the UUA Church regarding the tendency of some pagan faiths to engage in the practice of polyamory. Although the Unitarian Universalist Association is known as a tolerant and progressive religious organization, it seems that this aspect of pagan philosophy might be too much even for them. Luckily-and by the way-polyamory is not a widespread practice among pagans in general. In fact, it is more a fringe element-much like a good many hairy legged female Dianics that secretly would probably love to bring back the practice of castrating males in honor of Cybele.
Like in most marriages, this is nothing more, probably, than the most obvious manifestation of what is most likely a more profound, underlying reality-the two are not really the match made in heaven they thought they were. Moreover, the mainstream UUA adherents might be protesting too much.
The UUA is, in a spiritual sense, itself a polyamory organization aiming to become an umbrella for all the worlds’ religions-at least the more liberal and tolerant ones, those that feel themselves progressive enough to participate in such an exclusively inclusive clan.
To the UUA, there is no difference in religions, other than in the outer trappings. Therefore, you have UUA Pagans, UUA Christians, UUA Buddhists, and UUA Hindus. Somewhere along the way, while these groups were affiliating, they simultaneously began segregating, much like you might see black and white students willingly and happily segregated in the lunchroom in the middle of an “integrated” school.
The recent UUA declaration to reign in some of these independent affiliates is, in my opinion, geared more toward addressing this issue, and the potential for schisms and divisions that it portends. Otherwise, there might be the danger of a real split, and the organization imploding through the force of its more mainstream members rushing on their collective ways out the door. It was meant originally, after all, to be one body, one organization, with members that worshipped as one, in tolerance and acceptance of their individual differences. The independent affiliate program was something meant, in addition to drawing new members, to foster tolerance, understanding, and unity between all the members and affiliate branches. Somewhere along the way, I guess they discovered that a good many of these independent affiliates would just as soon remain-well, independent. As well as, perhaps, a bit too unique, as in the case of the polyamory pagans. Tolerance, I guess, only goes so far after all.
Many if not most religious organizations advise their followers that, when they attend their services, they should leave their individual political beliefs outside the door. That doesn't seem to be the problem here, as Unitarians are officially and outwardly liberal, and pretty activist at that. So that is not their problem.
Instead, it would seem in their case that they might well be the only religion in the world whose adherents might well be advised to leave their religious beliefs outside the door.
A Road Through Ancient Times
One of the most ancient archaeological treasures of the Western world-The Hill Of Tara-is slated for destruction now, very soon-why? For a fucking highway. A country that is a member of the EU-you know, that group of fuckups that insist the US cut it’s carbon emissions for the good of the planet-insists on creating another fucking road big enough to meet the demands of it’s increased traffic needs.
Does anybody doubt for one minute that if the US were to build an interstate through sacred Indian burial grounds, the EU would be raising holy hell and encouraging the UN step in and demand the site be protected? I don’t. In fact, for once I would be joining in with them.
On top of that, the road might not even be necessary. Somebody has suggested a commuter train track be built to answer the needs of the travelers between Dublin and Navan, as opposed to the four lane highway currently approved. Why not? I would be all for that here. In fact, light rail would answer a lot of the problems of ever growing traffic congestion and it’s resultant smog, while at the same time requiring much less in the way of land confiscation.
Ah, but then, you see, a lot less money stands to change hands between government(s) and private contractors. More time, equals more money, equals more palms greased.
Therefore, the Irish politicians and contractors will probably get their road, and the ancient Irish heritage-my heritage-can go to hell.
Does anybody doubt for one minute that if the US were to build an interstate through sacred Indian burial grounds, the EU would be raising holy hell and encouraging the UN step in and demand the site be protected? I don’t. In fact, for once I would be joining in with them.
On top of that, the road might not even be necessary. Somebody has suggested a commuter train track be built to answer the needs of the travelers between Dublin and Navan, as opposed to the four lane highway currently approved. Why not? I would be all for that here. In fact, light rail would answer a lot of the problems of ever growing traffic congestion and it’s resultant smog, while at the same time requiring much less in the way of land confiscation.
Ah, but then, you see, a lot less money stands to change hands between government(s) and private contractors. More time, equals more money, equals more palms greased.
Therefore, the Irish politicians and contractors will probably get their road, and the ancient Irish heritage-my heritage-can go to hell.
Pagan Quill
There has recently come to my attention the creation of a new website for the Pagan/Wiccan community, named Pagan Quill, which aspires to publish the best blog posts of the Pagan blogosphere. They recently published my recent post about the goddess Aradia. Any pagan who wishes to be included on the site should simply submit a recent blog post from his or her own blog. If accepted, it will be linked from the main page to a secondary page of its own, copied from the original blog.
However, it should be clear, they aren’t necessarily looking merely for pagan oriented posts, but for posts from pagan authors that touch on all subjects. At the same time, they do suggest (though it doesn’t seem to be a hard and fast rule) that the first post submitted should be pagan oriented.
It’s a new endeavor, and I will be interested to see how it goes over time. It is currently approaching its sixth week. Hopefully, by the time of it’s first year anniversary, it will be a site to be reckoned with.
However, it should be clear, they aren’t necessarily looking merely for pagan oriented posts, but for posts from pagan authors that touch on all subjects. At the same time, they do suggest (though it doesn’t seem to be a hard and fast rule) that the first post submitted should be pagan oriented.
It’s a new endeavor, and I will be interested to see how it goes over time. It is currently approaching its sixth week. Hopefully, by the time of it’s first year anniversary, it will be a site to be reckoned with.
Vacation Aruba-Reviewed And Revisited
To the people that are not interested in the Natalie Holloway case-do not read this post.
I recently discovered that a well-meaning lady who advised her fellow forum members that the information contained within my post here was “not of God” had linked me on BlogsForNatalie. She advised them to read accordingly, as she thought it might be interesting to read the point of view from one of “like minds”. She seemed to be putting me on the same level as the Kalpoe Brothers and Joran Van der Sloot who, according to all available evidence, kidnapped young Natalie Holloway, raped her, and either purposely or accidentally killed her on the island of Aruba, where Ms. Holloway was in the course of a school trip. As of yet, her body has never been found.
I did a series of posts with the heading “Vacation Aruba”, in which I offered a great deal of criticism toward the media who seemed to me to be playing this tragedy as a ratings bonanza more than a very real and personal family tragedy. At the same time, they did keep the story at the forefront, and uncovered a lot of evidence that might have never seen the light of day otherwise, so it is a two edged sword after all.
I joined the forum to explain my point of view, whereupon me and “AlabamaMom” came to an understanding. She was mainly concerned about the Medusa head on my sidebar, which she saw as Satanic, and which I in fact use to illustrate the very real “hell” of dealing with Technorati, Site-Meter, Statcounter, and other such services. I am glad though that I have these services, as this is how I discovered this site. Me and AlabamaMom are now friendly acquaintances.
I still think Natalie, after she was killed, was transported a great distance in the trunk of a car to a remote, uninhabited portion of the island, where she was just thrown in the overgrowth of bushes, perhaps down a steep slope, and left to rot, and be eaten by animals, in the hot Aruba sun. That in connection with the tropical rainfall-in fact a hurricane went through the island not long after her disappearance-would have left very little of her to find after a short amount of time, and what might have been left would have been scattered. She will probably never be found.
In he meantime, the three young men obviously responsible, who by now would rightfully be serving life sentences in this country, will likely never serve a day in prison. Such are the standards of proof demanded on this island, ruled by Dutch law. So much for enlightened, European style justice.
I recently discovered that a well-meaning lady who advised her fellow forum members that the information contained within my post here was “not of God” had linked me on BlogsForNatalie. She advised them to read accordingly, as she thought it might be interesting to read the point of view from one of “like minds”. She seemed to be putting me on the same level as the Kalpoe Brothers and Joran Van der Sloot who, according to all available evidence, kidnapped young Natalie Holloway, raped her, and either purposely or accidentally killed her on the island of Aruba, where Ms. Holloway was in the course of a school trip. As of yet, her body has never been found.
I did a series of posts with the heading “Vacation Aruba”, in which I offered a great deal of criticism toward the media who seemed to me to be playing this tragedy as a ratings bonanza more than a very real and personal family tragedy. At the same time, they did keep the story at the forefront, and uncovered a lot of evidence that might have never seen the light of day otherwise, so it is a two edged sword after all.
I joined the forum to explain my point of view, whereupon me and “AlabamaMom” came to an understanding. She was mainly concerned about the Medusa head on my sidebar, which she saw as Satanic, and which I in fact use to illustrate the very real “hell” of dealing with Technorati, Site-Meter, Statcounter, and other such services. I am glad though that I have these services, as this is how I discovered this site. Me and AlabamaMom are now friendly acquaintances.
I still think Natalie, after she was killed, was transported a great distance in the trunk of a car to a remote, uninhabited portion of the island, where she was just thrown in the overgrowth of bushes, perhaps down a steep slope, and left to rot, and be eaten by animals, in the hot Aruba sun. That in connection with the tropical rainfall-in fact a hurricane went through the island not long after her disappearance-would have left very little of her to find after a short amount of time, and what might have been left would have been scattered. She will probably never be found.
In he meantime, the three young men obviously responsible, who by now would rightfully be serving life sentences in this country, will likely never serve a day in prison. Such are the standards of proof demanded on this island, ruled by Dutch law. So much for enlightened, European style justice.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Acesta este Ţiglă înăuntru Român
I a întemeia this răcoros web site that a traduce Român into Englez. Ce is într-adevăr răcoros despre acesta este pare la spre nu unic a traduce art.hot. cuvînt it seară puts pe ei în propriu ordine cînd tu a traduce un propoziţie I think. Român de course is unul de la cinci România limbaj ( art.hot. alt being Italian , Francez , Spaniol , şi Portuguese ).
As such , acesta este probably , asemănător art.hot. alt , un foarte frumos limbaj a da la spre poetry şi la spre literatură. That putere a fi un tad difficult though I voinţă a voi chiar have la spre aşteaptă şi vezi cum simplu acesta este la spre a traduce , şi apoi atunci copie şi trecut this post.
Unul propoziţie la un timp probably.
I intend la spre a face nişte folos de it în course de la scriere de meu roman Radu. It voinţă a voi nu a fi foarte lung de la acum fiecare probably înăuntru Chapter Şaisprezece.
Iad I putere seară a traduce întreg roman into Român.
Pînă la such timp :
Sonia Clopot - A pune nişte fucking haine on , acesta este nu lung sexy după un while. De asemenea Hugo Chavez putere a fi bun pentru Venezuela.
Hillbilly Alb Gunoi- I sînt mergi la nuia a întrerupe meu registration la spre Republican. Apoi atunci , în primaries I’m mergi la vot pentru art.hot. mare mayor art.hot. lume has fiecare known. Energie Rudy!
Renegade Ochi - Comunist does neactiv. Niciodată has , niciodată voinţă a voi.
Rufus - Oprire insisting al tău student actually student , şi learn. I thought tu făcut nu believe înăuntru torture.
Alb Gunoi Republican - A face pe plac la , a lua that fucking tablou de Cutie Laden off al tău blog. Cel puţin oprire folosire pe el as al tău avatar.
Widow’s Fiu-Admit it , tu eşti part de la mare Masonic conspiracy , eşti tu nu?
Zanthera I know tu ai un bărbat , numai într-adevăr - noi trebuie la spre talk Chiar say cuvînt şi I’m “Northern Bound”.
Nicole - Hermes is chiar asemănător tot art.hot. alt gods. Ei sînt chiar mare masaj de nebulous energy.
Meowkaat - Eşti tu un real blonde? A veni on , manifestare it la spre eu.
A vedea , acum I a putea seară piss oameni off înăuntru Român.
Monday, July 09, 2007
RADU-CHAPTER XIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
AUTHOR'S NOTE-This is my favorite Chapter so far (along with Seven, Eight, Ten, and Eleven)so I just decided to go ahead and post it now. I think from here on out I'm going to post one chapter a week, at the beginning of the week, and do other blog posts over the weekend. Feel free to comment-remember, this is basically a first draft. Once it's completed, I'll put the whole thing together from beginning to end as a final draft.
PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS:
PROLOGUE AND CHAPTERS I-X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
RADU-CHAPTER XIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
(21 pages approximate)
Just when Grace needed an automobile almost more than she ever had, Grady came through for her. Sure, it was seven years old, but it ran good, was reasonably quiet, and got respectable mileage. She made certain the transmission was in good shape, as well as the brakes and tires, because where she was going, she knew she could not depend on Phelps’ old Chevy van. The 2000 Impala would not exactly have been her car of choice for a trip out into the Virginia countryside, but at least she knew it could get her there and hopefully back again, without being stuck in the mud, or forced off one of the long, narrow, winding roads in the hilly wooded area to where they were going.
Phelps offered to drive. In fact, he almost insisted, but Grace would have none of that. For one thing, her insurance only covered herself, and for another, she missed driving, more than she ever thought she would.
“This is bullshit, Grace”, he said. “I’ve had that van all over the place. I bet there ain’t a square mile of any part of West Virginia or Kentucky I haven’t taken it, with no problems. Can you think of any?”
“Well, it’s noisier than a locomotive, so it sure would be handy in case we wanted to be sure people heard us coming around the curves, I’ll give you that”, she replied. “That’s just it. I don’t want people to hear us coming-or going.”
“Why the hell not?” he demanded. “I thought you said this place we’re going is out in the middle of nowhere, at least ten miles from the nearest neighbor, and it was supposed to be deserted.”
“Not a living soul”, Grace replied.
“Then why all the worry about noise?” he persisted.
“We don’t want to disturb the cattle”, she replied. “It might curdle the milk”. She was starting to tire of his questions.
“Fine, if you don’t want to tell me, don’t then”, he said, feeling somewhat peevish now himself. “As long as I get paid, it doesn’t matter to me. I just don’t see what you think the Explorer would find so interesting about an old abandoned farm in Virginia.”
“If I tell you, will you shut up?’ she asked. When he agreed, she bit her lip, as she finally made the turn off the highway onto what was to be the first of many roads of increasingly narrowing widths. If she had her directions written down correctly, the fourth turnoff would be onto a gravel road. This would turn off onto yet one more paved road, which would be the last such one before turning off onto yet another gravel road, and finally, one that was mostly dirt, probably muddy in a good many places.
“I’m waiting”, he said.
“It’s a UFO landing strip”, she said.
“Fuck you, Grace”, he said. “If you get me out here in the middle of some kind of bullshit-“
“You bring your gun?” she asked.
“Yeah”, he said, but now his eyes expressed real worry in response to this question. It was getting dark, and by the time they made it to the first of the gravel roads, night had fallen completely. In all this time, they saw little traffic, but now, at the worse possible time, they found themselves behind an old dilapidated looking truck hauling a load of lumber. It would be next to impossible to pass him, and he was barely going thirty-five, if that.
“I’m tempted to use the motherfucker now”, Phelps said, his temper starting to manifest.
“Yeah, that would be brilliant”, Grace replied. “Cause him to skid off the road and maybe send all those fucking logs careening down around us and on top of us. Be sure you save a bullet for the next gas tanker that gets in our way, all right?”
Grace knew of course that Phelps was half joking, but it was the other half she was worried about. She remembered the time Phelps had been assigned to follow a politician who was engaged in a dalliance with a Baltimore socialite, and when the man approached Phelps’ van to confront him, the photographer actually pulled his gun on him. Had the politician typically not wanted publicity and the resultant scandal of his affair with a married woman that would have surely followed, both he and The Explorer would have gotten into an expensive legal battle. The Explorer would have survived, but Phelps might not have turned out so well.
Still, he was a hothead, and given to emotional displays of aggression, which was why it was next to impossible for him to secure employment in a more mainstream press position. All the same, he was good, and she could not have imagined making the trip with any other photographer or, for that matter, anybody else. She would have almost as soon made the trip by herself, in fact. No other reporter would even think about making a trip such as this with no idea what they were going for. That was in fact the whole problem. She could not afford to tell anybody.
Finally, the truck turned off onto a road, and out of their way.
“Whew, that’s a relief”, she said. “I was scared to death that fucker was going to end up in front of us the whole trip.”
“Fuck that, I was worried about those fucking logs”, he said. “The way they were stacked it wouldn’t have taken a lot to cause the entire load to come down around us. I’m not in that big a hurry to get there anyway.”
“Well, you might have changed your mind if he made the same turn-off we were heading for.”
“You mean we have another turn-off?’ he asked.
“Four more, to be exact”, she said.
“So how in the hell did it ever turn out with that one story you were investigating, the one about the old Priest?” Phelps asked after a number of minutes of silence.
“The old priest”, Grace repeated, as though trying to remember, though she knew full well what he was talking about.
“Yeah, you know, he was supposed to be a communist spy or something”, Phelps said.
“Turned out to be just a rumor”, she replied.
“You’re kidding”, he said. “You seemed pretty sure at the time. Didn’t some man accuse him of causing his father to be killed by Securitate agents from the Romanian embassy? Right outside their own house?”
“He was throwing a block party to celebrate the Romanian dictators’ death”, Grace replied, tiring of the questions and becoming slightly uncomfortable at Phelps’ persistence.
“Yeah, I remember that, right at Christmas a bunch of years ago”, the photographer continued.
“Not that one, this was years before that”, she replied. “You weren’t even born then. Neither was I. There was nothing to it. The Priest had nothing to do with it.”
They finally made the next turn-off, and Phelps noted with relief they were now back on a paved road.
“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have taken the van”, he said.
“Well, at the rate we’re going now, I’m guessing you will see why in about ten minutes.”
“So anyway, didn’t you say this Priest was responsible for a lot of people in Romania being arrested, that a lot of them just vanished?”
“A lot of people vanished in Romania, Phelps, they probably still do”, Grace said, starting to become ever more irritated at his persistence. “I should know, I’m one of them. Nothing is ever as cut-and-dried as it seems. Let’s just concentrate on the subject at hand, all right?”
“Hell, I would be glad to if I knew what the fucking subject at hand was”, he snapped. “Can we at least listen to some fucking music?”
“Sure”, Grace replied, “but none of that fucking fag shit you listen to”.
“Hey, I’m not gay, I don’t know what the fuck you’re implying”, Phelps said defensively.
“Well, I’ll put it this way”, Grace explained. “If you listen to an entire CD of Celine Dionne more than once and you’re a man, you’ve probably had more dick in your mouth or ass in a month than I’ll have in my whole life.”
“Ha ha, very funny”, he replied. “At least the music I listen to can’t be classified as psychotic.”
Grace now reached into the pocket of her jacket and extracted a CD, then instructed Phelps to put it in the player. He did so, warily noting the name on the cover.
“The Mocktones?” he said. “Who the hell are they? I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re a death metal band, sort of”, she said. “There is one song in particular I want you to hear. It’s the fourth song on the disc. But I want you to listen to the first three as well, so just wait for it.”
The first song was just finishing up as they made the next turn, onto the narrowest road yet, one unpaved, though covered with gravel.
“That shit was awful”, Phelps said. “Who are those people? You are not going to review them, are you? If that’s the opening song on the CD you know the rest can’t be worth a fuck.”
“Well, unfortunately, like the roads ahead of us, the rest just get only worse, more or less”, she assured him.
“Then what’s so special about the fourth one?” he said. “I know it couldn’t be good, but is it at least just not quite so bad?”
“I want you to note the distinction between it and the rest”, Grace explained. “It’s quite interesting. By the way, reach into my pocket and find a piece of paper.”
Phelps did so as the discordant noise of the band became ever more unbearable. The song now playing was “You Slay Me, Dandelion”. It was by now about halfway through, having followed the earlier atrocity “Cromwell Heights”. He looked with a wary eye at the title of the third one, which would be the next one-“Hung Up Wet And Crucified Dry”. He would be ecstatically happy when they got to the fourth one. He noticed that it was listed as fourth on the handwritten page, and was both circled and, as if to make sure the person for whom it was intended got the point, double underlined as well.
“Are you sure this is the right one?” Phelps asked sarcastically. “He forgot to put exclamation marks after the title.”
“She forgot”, Grace replied. “Her name is Sierra Lawson. She’s the groups lead singer. She wrote some of the songs too, and co-wrote some of them.”
Phelps looked at the picture of the somewhat cute, twenty-ish something girl with the pink hairdo, easily the youngest of the group, all of whom seemed to be in their late twenties, though one bald guy with a nose ring seemed to easily be in his mid-thirties. At the same time, they were so freakish it was hard to tell with any degree of certainty. They were all pretty much a bunch of stoners or otherwise losers on a quick road to nowhere. They probably didn’t really take themselves seriously.
“Good, it finally stopped, thank God”, Phelps now observed as the second song stopped-and then started right back up again at an even more maddening tempo. By the time the third one finally started, he felt the title was quite appropriate.
“Well, at least the drummer ain’t too bad”, he said.
“That’s the older bald guy, he’s the brother of the guitarist, who’s the leader of the group”, Grace explained.
“Yeah, we’ll he’s fucking terrible, nothing but fucking power chords, the same three over and over, and out of tune and off tempo at that. Not one legitimate riff so far. God, why don’t somebody just shoot these guys and save the world from more misery? Do these guys really think they’re good?”
“I think it’s a hobby more than anything”, Grace explained.
“Then why bother to”-but before Phelps could finish his thought he was reminded of the presence of the groups bass player, who suddenly came in overly loud and, true to the groups signature sound, vaguely out of tune and tempo. “Holy shit, what the fuck was that?”
Prior to this, the bass player was so far into the background his notes barely registered, but now he blared out in all his glory.
“That does it”, he said. “That drummer is pretty fucking bad after all. I just realize he sounds good in comparison to the others. That fucking girl sounds sick, does she have a flu or laryngitis? I see now why we are coming out here in the middle of nowhere. You want to bury this shit somewhere where nobody will ever find it, right?”
“Just be patient, Phelps, the good part is coming here in just a couple of minutes”, she said. It was now also time for the next to the last turnoff, onto the last of the paved roads, yet still a road even more narrow, more curvy, and surrounded by more forested overgrowth than the previous ones.
As they continued, Phelps looked once more at the circled and double underlined title of the upcoming song in question-“Sweet Sixteen (Leaving Home)”. He noticed then that the song was listed as having been written by “Sierra Lawson and Debbie Leighton”. So, there was another chick involved with this atrocity. It was only then that he turned the paper over and saw the song lyrics copied out by hand, in a flowing style artistic script. Sierra Lawson had signed it, but even more interesting than that was an address, which was written down. In fact, it seemed to have been hurriedly scribbled.
P.O. Box 478 Route 7
Bedford Virginia
Ominously, there was a map, which Phelps noted seemed to coincide up until now with the route taken by Grace.
Then, the song started.
“Rest in pieces, mommy dearest
Burn in hell, daddy, fuck you
Let me carve my initials
On the hands with which you hit me
Let me drain your blood and
Drink
Slice my knife across your throat
Watch me laugh, your pride and joy
As she sends you to your death
“Holy shit, that’s’-oh, fucking God, that is actually. Hell, that’s actually quite fucking good”, Phelps said, more than a little surprised.
“Yes, it is, ain’t it?’ Grace agreed. “Too bad everything else on the CD is more like the shit that came before it.”
Phelps actually found himself struggling to refrain from singing the chorus.
“I’m coming home-sweet sixteen
Coming home-for the last time
Oh but it’s time to say
Goodbye forever
To sweet sixteen-she’s leaving home”
“Shit that guitar player is actually good in this song. Listen to that. What did he do, record this on two tracks?”
“Sierra is playing the lead on that”, Grace explained. “The rest of the band is actually inspired by her, it seems. You’re right, they’re quite good here. Listen to the words of the song. It’s about a teenage girl who murders her parents, evidently in a very brutal way and with the help of some friends. Then, they just leave them there alone-unburied, and unmourned.”
Suddenly, Phelps eyes widened with the dawn of realization.
“Ohhh, shit!” he said. “Grace what the fuck are you doing? If you know something, spill it.”
“Nothing to spill” Grace replied as she made the final turnoff onto what would be the final road. “I met Sierra Lawson at The Crypt and she handed me that CD, and that note. She did not ask me to review it, just listen to it. She gave me the note at the same time. If I’m right, it explains something else she told me.”
“And that would be?” Phelps asked warily.
“She asked me not to tell anyone that she talked to me”, she explained.
“So this is a true story”, Phelps observed, as the final song ended with a merging of discordant noises that some might even consider stylistically creative. There seemed to be voices talking and laughing, and as the song ended, a man’s voice mooed like a cow.
“That is exactly what I’m wondering”, Grace said. “I did a little research into the area where we’re headed. According to the last census, one of the families in this remote area is the Leightons. At the time of the census, they had a nine year old daughter by the name Debbie.”
“The song’s co-writer”, Phelps observed. “Grace this is some scary shit. Is this band involved somehow in-“
“No”, she replied. “I don’t think so, anyway. Like I said, this band is just a hobby to them, they are really quite ordinary people, though Goths, contradictory though that might sound. I think their connection with Sierra is more sexual than work or music. The band is just an excuse for a bunch of married guys to get high and fuck with a teenager. In that sense, she is more an object of pity, being used by older, more mature men. At least, that is what I thought when I first met her. Now, though, I’m not so sure.”
The song now finished, Phelps removed the CD from the player and replaced it in the cover. He carefully returned it to Grace’s jacket pocket. He was glad to put it away. He was almost wary of touching it, as though it were now a polluted object.
Soon, they passed the last house in silence as they continued on the increasingly narrow and muddy road for up to forty minutes. Suddenly, and inexplicably, Grace pulled off the road and into a field, past some bushes, until she angled the car between two large and overgrown blackberry bushes.
“What the hell are you pulling off in here for”? Phelps demanded.
“This is the Leighton’s property”, Grace explained. “The car will be alright here. No one will see it, or should. We can walk the rest of the way. It’s about twenty minutes, by my calculations. Be sure and bring the camera.”
Phelps extracted his equipment from the trunk of the car, as Grace surveyed the surrounding landscape, which seemed totally surrounded by trees and bushes.
“Holy shit, when you said we were out in the middle of nowhere you weren’t fucking kidding, were you?” Phelps asked.
“To tell you the truth, even I didn’t realize how remote this place was”, Grace replied as they started walking a path that lead at first into a small clearing completely surrounded by thickets.
“Perfect place to hide a dead body or two”, she continued as they surveyed the thorn covered bushes.
“Shit, why bother?” he asked. “You could put them on a rooftop and nobody would ever find them here. Not that I want to find out.”
“You want this trip to be worthwhile don’t you”? Grace asked. She finally settled on a tentative path out of their surroundings.
“I didn’t ask you to come out here with your camera to have pictures for your scrapbook”, she continued. “Let’s try this way.”
After about seven feet, they finally cleared the bushes, but Grace cursed when she realized her windbreaker had been slightly torn on a particularly stubborn set of bushes.
“I’m glad I didn’t drop anything in that shit”, Phelps remarked. “It would probably be lost forever.”
“I’m sure that’s the worse of it”, Grace said, but Phelps was more focused on the many unnerving sounds of the surrounding forest.
“I think there’s something following us”, he said. “What kind of varmints are out here anyway? Wolves? Coyotes? Bears?”
Grace now thought she heard the sound of footfalls, slight ones, as though whatever it might be stalked them cautiously.
“Let’s hope its coyotes”, she said. “They’re not quite as dangerous to two adults. Just make sure you keep your gun at the ready.”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to lug all this shit and still be able to draw, aim, and accurately fire a gun in the space of two or three seconds”, he observed as they hastened their pace toward a larger clearing. “Who the hell do you think I am, Billy The Kid?”
“Who is that?” Grace asked.
“Never mind, Grace, let’s just hurry, alright? On top of everything else it’s cold out here”.
As they continued on, they came across a barbed wire fence that was down and, judging by the height of the weeds grown up around where the top lay almost to the ground, it had been down for some time. Grace pointed a flashlight over toward the area on the other side of the downed fence, and noted the horrific site of a long dead cow that looked as though fed upon by wild animals. At the sound of tromping through the grass, she pointed the light to see two other cows, both of them looking to be underfed and badly malnourished. One of them mooed pitifully, while the other seemed to barely be able to stand. A recently dead calf lay at its feet.
“I think curdled milk is the least of the worries here”, Phelps observed. He found himself profoundly moved at the saddening site.
“I think this settles the question of whether the people here are alive or dead”, Grace observed. “No responsible farmer would allow their farm and livestock to degenerate to such deplorable conditions as these.”
At that moment, they both reacted to the sound of growling, which sounded as though it came from no more than twenty feet from where they stood. Almost as though in response, Grace noted the sound of an automobile up in the distance. She then saw that Phelps had taken out his gun.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You can’t fire that gun. You will give us away for sure.”
“I can’t stand to see them suffer like that”, he said. “Those wolves, or coyotes, or whatever they are-”
“Phelps, those cattle are beyond help”, she explained. “Letting them be torn by wolves would be more merciful than letting them continue starving while being gnawed by vermin. What do you think you are going to do anyway, kill every wolf that lunges at them? Or us? The longer we stand here the longer we risk the wolves seeing us as competitors. Besides, a car just pulled up somewhere.”
She started to move on, and soon came to the edge of the forest, and the clearing that lead the way to the old dilapidated looking farmhouse. Grace noted immediately that the house looked to be in need of a new paint job, to say nothing of a new roof. More importantly, she noted the presence of the Saturn that had just pulled into the driveway of the house, beside what appeared to be a 96 New Yorker.
A man climbed out of the Saturn, and looked at the New Yorker curiously. He seemed to be carrying some object which he pointed in different directions, as he slowly turned in a circle. Grace retrieved a set of binoculars and trained them on the figure of the average height though heavyset man, and saw then that he also seemed to be carrying a gun.
She looked back, but Phelps had lagged behind. She was growing agitated at him, for she could not address him loudly, she feared, without the man hearing her. Therefore, she picked up a rock and lugged it at him. He jumped in reaction, and almost dropped his camera. When he saw it was her, she waved him over. He had been pissing, in fact, so he hurriedly zipped up his fly and proceeded to join her.
“Keep your mind on business, Phelps”, she hissed in a whisper. “See that man there? He has a gun. Get his picture.”
Phelps trained his lens on the man, about one hundred yards in the distance, as the individual in question proceeded somewhat cautiously up the front porch steps of the house, from which a lone light shined from the back. Suddenly, Phelps turned.
“Hey, I’ve seen that fucker before”, he said. “I’ve seen him twice, in fact. Once yesterday in The Explorer building, and earlier today at the fucking gas station, right before we crossed into Virginia. What the fuck is this, Grace?”
“You sure it’s him?” Grace said.
“Hell yes”, Phelps replied. “I remember the fucking Saturn from the gas station. The reason I remembered him was that I caught him eyeing us as we was leaving The Explorer building yesterday. I didn’t think that much of it, until now.”
“You don’t know who he is”, she asked? Right about that time the man was loudly addressing the occupants of the house, but Grace could not make out what he was saying. Neither, unfortunately, could Phelps. Nevertheless, he did note that, as the front door swung open, the man had his gun hidden behind his back. He feverishly resumed taking pictures as the man seemed to be ushered into the house.
“Did you see who let him in”, she asked.
“No, but shouldn’t we do something”, he replied?
She looked at him incredulously.
“Yes”, she finally replied. “We sit here, and we wait.”
After just a little more than two minutes, the silence of their vigil was shattered by the distant sound of a gunshot. In just under five minutes, a figure appeared at the door, and Phelps resumed his work. He seemed suddenly to become animated.
“Oh shit, it just doesn’t get any better than this”, he said with a gleam in his eyes.
“What do you mean”, Grace asked.
“I know that fucking crazy bitch”, he said. “Larceny Adams. Whoever that motherfucker was, he had better hope he’s dead.
“Who is she”, Grace asked as the seemingly bald woman dressed in black leather looked over the Saturn.
“She’s an S&M hooker, and a Satanist, and on top of that, just one cold hearted bitch in general. She loves to torture people. It’s how she makes her living. There’s a rumor that if she thinks a client has a whole lot of money, she kidnaps them and tortures all their banking account information out of them, then makes them sign everything over to her. She will keep them alive just long enough to verify the transactions, and then keep them going for several months just in case somebody really gets suspicious. After awhile, she disposes of them piece by piece.”
“Sounds like a lot of exaggeration to me”, Grace said.
“Could be”, Phelps agreed. “On the other hand, I’ve heard she likes to see just how long she can keep them alive after she starts chopping them up. Her goal is to eventually keep a mans head and heart alive and connected to each other, while disposing of every damned thing else.”
“Sounds to me like somebody is trying to scare business away from her,” Grace said. “After all, anybody that can afford a S&M prostitute has a lot of money to begin with. On the other hand, I have to admit-“
She suddenly stopped, and looked curiously at Phelps.
“Those people could be alive”, she said.
“What do you mean?” Phelps replied.
“The Leightons”, Grace explained as Larceny Adams finally went back inside. “They might still be in there, being tortured.”
“That kind of contradicts the song, doesn’t it?’ Phelps reminded her. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Yeah, you’re right”, Grace said. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard of this person, what with the connections I have at The Crypt. By the way, how is it you know so much about her?”
“The Explorer was doing a story about the American Neo-Nazi movement and its connections to the occult. It was mostly a shit piece, but she came up somewhere in the course of researching the story. She ended up edited out, though, because Jennings did not want to risk a lawsuit over something-
Just then, a blood-curdling scream emanated from the direction of the house, one so horrific it made Phelps’s hair feel like it was standing on end. He shivered uncontrollably.
“Over something that couldn’t be proven”, he continued.
“Look, we need to try to get closer to the house”, she said.
“How closer?” he asked suspiciously.
“Like close enough to look in the window and take pictures of whoever that is in there”, she replied. “We still haven’t found out what we came here to find out. Let’s try to go toward one of the side windows. Just be careful-and quiet”.
Grace led the way as they stayed close to the edge of the woods, but suddenly they heard a door opening, and then going shut as if left to do so on it’s own. They ducked back into the brush, and waited. Suddenly, a male figure appeared, a short, stocky, muscular looking man, wearing nothing but shorts and a dark t-shirt with some kind of writing on it. He seemed young, with his hair done in a buzz cut. They followed him quietly, as he appeared headed towards what looked to be an old barn.
By the time he made it about halfway there, they heard the front door shut, and a woman appeared from around the corner.
“Rhino, you watch things here. I’ll be back,” she said.
“You taking the Saturn?” he asked.
“No, but what difference does it make?” she asked.
“It don’t but I want to take it for a spin when you get back.”
“We aren’t going to be here that much longer,” she said.
“So? I’ll drive it home. Fuck it, he ain’t going to be needing it.”
The woman was now walking seemingly right toward where she and Phelps hid in the bushes, and Grace was suddenly wary. The woman carried a gun, and she saw for the first time that not only was she shaved completely bald, but strangely enough seemed to have a thin moustache and a goatee. It was not until she got within about twenty feet of them that Grace could see by the illumination of the floodlights from the barn, that these appeared to be tattoos.
As Larceny Adams drew closer, Grace fought off the absurd urge to shut her eyes, as though this might prevent her from seeing her. Suddenly, Larceny veered off to her left and continued toward Rhino.
“We can’t take that car, sweetie, its dangerous”, the woman said, as though talking to a young child. “What if they find him here, then find out you have his car.?”
“Well, we could bury the motherfucker”, Rhino said. “Just because he’s not dead yet ain’t no reason to not go ahead and get rid of him. He sure ain’t making it out of here, whoever he is. We ought to bury those other people too. It’s stupid to just leave them out like that.”
“You better not ever let Joseph here you talk like that”, the woman warned her partner. “He says the more they are left out the easier they will be to get rid of.”
“Yeah, he also said as long as we pay the bills and make sure the mail is collected nobody will ever find them”, the short stocky man said somewhat petulantly. “So who the fuck is that guy-and who is that fucking woman reporter he’s looking for, that he was supposed to have tracked here? Grace somebody.”
Grace and Phelps shot each other a look, yet the photographer noted that Grace did not seem very surprise. Moreover, she actually did not seem the least bit perturbed. In fact, she actually looked somewhat pleased. They cautiously drew closer to the two people, enough so that Grace and Phelps could hear their conversation, which seemed to suggest that Rhino thought that whoever Grace was, the man had unknowingly passed her up in the process of tracking her.
“She’s probably at one of the neighbors houses”, he said.
“No, the nearest one is ten miles from here”, Larceny reminded him. “Nobody with a tracking system like he has would overshoot the mark by that much. She is here somewhere, here on this property. She’s just got the damn car hidden. She could be anywhere the fuck around here.”
“You stay here and stand lookout and stop worrying about these fucking cattle, you’ve already fed them anyway. Keep an eye on the house. If she really is a reporter, she might be on to something. Spanky, or that stupid fucking crack head Milo, has probably said the wrong thing to the wrong person, or people. If so, we have to do something about it. We might have to dispose of these bodies after all. First, we have to take care of whoever this Grace bitch is.”
Then, Larceny Adams proceeded back toward the house, but then suddenly veered off to her left, onto a path where Grace and Phelps had just been no more than ten minutes previously.
“She’ll find the car, and when she does we’re in trouble”, Grace whispered.
“Then let’s get back there before she finds it and get the hell out of here”, Phelps insisted.
However, Grace was adamant as she shook her head in denial of Phelps’s seemingly reasonable suggestion.
“We can’t leave yet”, she said. “I have to find out who that guy is. He’s still alive, and-”
Suddenly, Grace heard the sound of a car starting, and wondered if the unfortunate man had somehow managed to free himself, or was not quite badly as injured as the his two captors thought.
“That woman is a professional at doling out pain”, Phelps assured her. “If that’s him he’s probably spent the last ten minutes crawling to the car, and I doubt he makes it out of the driveway.”
However, it turned out that Larceny Adams had merely doubled back and started up the New Yorker.
“Shit, she probably knows about where the car is and she’ll just drive right to it”, she said. “Come on, while that fucker is mulling around by the barn lets head to the house while we have the chance.”
Warily, Phelps followed along behind her, careful to stay to the shadows as much as possible while keeping his eyes peeled toward the man. They made it just around the corner of the house to the blind side from Rhino, and watched him cautiously as they checked the back door. Suddenly, they froze at the sound of what seemed to be at first a loud moaning sound. Rhino was mooing at the cattle.
They proceeded into the house by way of the back door into the kitchen, and were automatically greeted by the most horrific sight Phelps the tabloid photographer had ever seen in his life. There, sitting at the kitchen table, covered with dining bibs that draped down from their necks and covered their chests, and seemed to extend to their laps, were Mildred and John Leighton.
They were obviously mummified, and Phelps gasped loudly.
“Oh-my fucking God”, he declared.
The two were not merely dead, they had obviously been butchered and mutilated, the horrific expression on their mummified faces a mute testament to the horror they had undergone. Old man Leighton had an apple sticking from his wide-open mouth, as did Mildred, and both of them had what appeared to be forks dangling from their now skeletal hands. The plates set in front of them held what looked to be parts of their intestines. Phelps stifled a sickening feeling, and despite being unable to refrain from gagging, took some pictures of the sickening tableau.
Phelps fought back tears, and shook uncontrollably. He had to turn away from the ghastly sight. Grace tried to comfort and reassure him, then tried to force him to pull himself together.
“This is the worse possible time to lose your nerve”, she informed him. “Those two won’t be away from the house for long. Come with me now.”
However, Phelps, rather than following her, started taking yet more photos of the two individuals whom he calculated to have been dead for at least the last three months, maybe longer than that, as Grace proceeded to the living room. There was the man, the newcomer, so badly beaten and cut up, so bloodied, that they did not even consider it worth the time to tie him up. He was almost dead. Still, amazingly enough, he was yet conscious. Grace approached him cautiously. When she bent down over him, she could see the terror in his eyes.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said. “I’m here to help. What happened?”
“Girl-tied up”, he said, then struggled to breathe. “Man swore he-not do it. She tricked me-stabbed me when I went to help her. They-“
Then he started crying, and started begging Grace to help him.
“Who sent you to follow me out here”, she asked. “And why? If you want me to help you then you must tell me the truth, the whole story.”
The man then looked and seemed to have realized for the first time that it was Grace to whom he was talking.
“Morrison”, he said. “Congressman Morrison. Grady Desmond-he works for him and bugged your car. Please-help me I beg you.”
Grace soaked this bit of news in with no emotion, and regarded the man coldly.
“Morrison is dead, he was killed in a plane crash in India”, she said.
“That was-Congressman’s father. Luke is his son”, the man said, now struggling to pronounce every syllable, obviously in ever more pain with the passing of each second. He was obviously going to die shortly. He would have no reason to lie.
“Should I call somebody?” Phelps asked, now having rejoined Grace.
“No-not for the time being”, she replied.
Please-help”, the man said, but then suddenly he drew in one last, deep breath, then exhaled, as his eyes then went back in his head.
Suddenly, the two reacted to the sound of the back door opening, then closing, as they quickly yet quietly backed up toward one of the bedrooms. They heard the sound of the refrigerator opening, as someone was obviously perusing the contents. Taking advantage of the opportunity, they made their way to one of the back rooms, and found themselves in a small bedroom that had obviously at one time been that used by the Leighton’s only child, Debbie.
While Phelps listened at the door for any sign from whichever one of the pair it was that had returned to the house, Grace shined her flashlight around the room, now piled up with boxes and bags. Most of them had what looked to be nametags written on masking tape in black marker ink. She gave them only passing, cursory looks, until she noted one in particular that captured her immediate interest. One large box, near the corner by the closet door had written on it the name “Marlowe Krovell”.
As Phelps listened at the door, Grace opened the box, noting it appeared to contain jars of embalming fluid. She then saw a large backpack likewise marked with Marlowe’s name. She quickly looked inside to see nothing but some clothing, but in the side compartment, she noticed papers, along with what seemed to be discs. Most of them were metal bands, but one caught her immediate attention. It was a DVD marked by handwriting “Family Photos And Movies-Private”.
As she stuffed it into her windbreaker’s pocket, she heard a voice. A man was speaking, but seemingly not to anyone in the house. He was asking to speak to someone named Billy.
“He’s called someone on the Leighton’s telephone”, Grace said, amazed at such brazen stupidity.
Suddenly, Rhino sounded ecstatic.
“Damn, thanks Billy, I really appreciate that”, he said. “And I promise you, I won’t let you down.”
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here, Grace”, Phelps said now.
“We can’t leave until they do”, Grace insisted. “She’s probably found our car by now. If not, she will. She probably took our unfortunate followers hand-held tracking device wherever she went, so it should not take her long. I do not think she is quite as stupid as this guy.”
“Great”, he said. “So what the hell are we going to do?”
“Just hope I can remember how to hotwire a car, and hope they leave us one”, she replied. “Otherwise-well, it’s a long walk.”
When Larceny finally returned, Rhino quickly gave her the good news.
“I get to try out for The Blackbirds day after tomorrow”, he said, obviously well pleased.
“You didn’t just call somebody from here”, she said.
“Hell, just Billy”, he replied, “and he won’t say nothing.”
“Rhino, you fucking idiot, I thought I explained this shit to you, three times in fact.”
Rhino was non-responsive. Larceny was obviously very pissed off, and her partner realized that, on some level, he had just badly fucked up.
“Have you been keeping an eye on the house like I fucking told you, at least?” she demanded.
“Yeah, I come back here as soon as you left. There’s nobody around here. That guy just got it wrong. He’s dead now. You really did a number on the guy.”
“He didn’t get it wrong, either,” Larceny replied. “I found the fucking car he told us about, so she’s around this property somewhere.”
“Great”, Rhino moaned. “So now what the fuck are we going to do?”
“Only thing we can do”, she said. “Make sure there’s nothing here for her to find. So come on, let’s get busy.”
Grace and Phelps then heard the pair walking into a distant room.
“They are going to bury the bodies, probably take them off somewhere”, Phelps observed. “Shit, who knows how long we’re going to be here.”
“Maybe not long”, she said. “But we’d better try to find a place to hide, in case they come for something in here”.
They decided their best bet was to hide on the far side of the bed against the wall. There were clothes and pictures piled up under the bed, which Grace hoped would hide them sufficiently were someone to look under the box springs. It was a tight fit, and quite uncomfortable, but Grace figured that made it that much better as a hiding spot.
Sure enough, soon Rhino came into the room, and proceeded toward the closet, where Larceny told him to pick up the box marked “Marlowe Krovell”.
“Just the box with the embalming fluid though, leave the other shit”, Larceny instructed him.
“I still want to kill that motherfucker, because he fucked Raven”, Rhino complained. “The fucking bitch. Some fucking girlfriend she was. I want to kill the fucking bitch that’s snooping around here too. So much for getting this farm. That’s been fucked all to hell.”
“No, it hasn’t”, Larceny assured him. “As soon as Debbie turns eighteen we have the Leighton’s sign it over to her, and then she’ll sign it over to us, just like Joseph promised. Sierra isn’t quite as good a forger yet as Spiral was, but she’s good enough that by the time another two years go by, she should do the job well enough for people to believe the Leighton’s have retired and decided to see the country.”
“Hell, anything can happen in two years”, Rhino said, as Grace could not help but observe that this was probably the most profound thought this young man had ever entertained. “Okay, I found it here.”
“Yeah, it took your slow ass long enough,”:Larceny complained. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry the fuck out of here.”
“So when do I get my new punching bag?” Rhino asked. “If I’m going to be a Raven I have to make sure I stay in shape.”
“I told you I’d find you somebody, you just have to not be so rough on the next one”, Larceny replied. “I think you ruptured Julio’s spleen the last session.”
“Fuck him, he’s wore out anyway, I want one with some muscle the next time around.”
Soon, Grace noted the sound of a car’s engine starting, and after a couple of minutes, it could be heard pulling out.
“What the fuck kind of people are these”, Phelps asked. “Are these even human beings?”
“Did you get any pictures?” Grace asked.
“I got a few of that moron, and the dead guy in there, and Larceny, and the Leighton’s, yeah why? Did I fucking miss something?”
Suddenly, Grace was filled with a sense of dawning realization.
“They didn’t move them”, she said.
“What are you talking about?” Phelps demanded.
“They left too quickly”, she explained. “They left that guy dead in the living room, and the Leighton’s as well. And I’ll tell you something else”.
“What?”
“I smell smoke”.
Within a couple of minutes, smoke started streaming throughout the house, and into the small bedroom where they remained behind the bed.
“We have to get out of here”, Grace said. “With all this shit in here, it will go up fast. But we have to be careful.”
She pulled herself up and made it to the window just in time to see two automobiles going up the road and away from the house.
“Great, they took both the New Yorker and the Saturn”, she said. She continued watching as the two cars stopped up in the distance, probably looking back to survey their handiwork.
“Grace, this window here, this is the quickest way out of this”, Phelps shouted, obviously growing increasingly concerned.
She followed him out, thankfully noting that they were on the blind side of the house from where the two automobiles waited. They started making their way up toward the barn. Once they made it there, they headed for the blind side.
“We have to let the cattle out”, Phelps said. “The way that fire is blazing, the heat is liable to ignite the hay in there.”
“Phelps, we don’t have time for that”, she said. However, Phelps ignored her and headed for the back of the barn, where he opened the back door. The cattle, sensing the heat, began hurriedly piling out. Phelps came close to being trampled in the process, as Grace warily looked up toward the road, just in time to see both automobiles pulling away. She then realized they were headed in the opposite direction from where her car was hidden.
Phelps was obviously distraught. In fact, he seemed to be at the end of his rope, and when Grace advised him they should return to the car, he was dumbstruck.
“They’ve probably flattened the tires, or stolen the carburetor or the battery”, he said.
“I don’t think so”, she said. “Remember, she is thinking we never came to the house, which is why she set the house on fire. She is hoping it will look like the Leightons died alongside an unknown guest in the course of an accidental house fire. She would not bother with that if she thought we saw the bodies. Plus, since she thinks we never made it there, she might be hoping that after we see the house burning, we will just leave and forget about it. She couldn’t expect us to leave if she sabotaged the car, right?”
“Are you sure those two are that damned smart?” Phelps asked skeptically.
“She is, I think”, Grace assured him. “Maybe not as smart as she thinks she is, but hopefully enough to not want us to have to call for outside help to get away from here.”
Phelps mumbled something unintelligible as Grace silently assured herself that she might be right. It made a degree of sense, but as they made their way to the clearing, Phelps suddenly started coughing, and went down on his knees. He was vomiting. He had never spent such a horrific night.
“It’s back to church for me next Sunday,” he said. “I promised God I would and I intend to keep that promise.”
“Good for you”, Grace responded. “So why are you throwing up?”
“Just shut up Grace”, he replied. “Aren’t you just a bit affected by the fact that two people were savagely murdered and left to rot in their own kitchen, and another man was beaten and stabbed so badly he died in horrible agony right in front of our eyes? That kind of thing tends to make us common people just a little on the queasy side.”
“Yeah, I know”, she said simply. “So, what do you say you pull yourself together and let’s get the fuck out of here, before they come back to make sure they did the job right.”
Phelps looked back through the clearing, and saw the frame of the house was barely visible through the blinding flames that engulfed it.
“If they had caught us there, that’s where we might be right now”, he reminded her. “Who knows if I could have drawn my gun in time? But to hell with that, who needs to carry their gun when they have pictures to take, right?”
“Well, if you can’t make a living, why bother to stay alive?” she retorted. “Stop complaining, and let’s get out of here.”
They finally made their way up the same path from whence they came to the house, Grace leading the way, as she heard Phelps mumbling, breathing erratically, and at one point, she thought, crying. They eventually made it back to where they had earlier noted the emaciated cattle, along with the dead one. Grace saw yet another one, a calf, had joined the ranks of the bovine dead, as a large black vulture, having noted the development, now feasted upon the carcass. The calf’s mother stood helplessly by, almost too weak to move. What happened, she wondered, to cause these strays to get so far beyond the others, only to become so weak they could seemingly not make it back?
Perhaps, she decided, there had been a considerable period of time when the outlaw gang had not fed the herd, resulting in a scarcity of available feed and grass, which was scarce at any rate throughout the passing winter.
She had to piss at this point, and so she lowered her jeans and squatted down. Phelps was the shy sort who ordinarily would have automatically turned upon seeing this, but he was now too distraught to give it any thought. She noticed that he had put down his camera and retrieved his pistol. She warned him seriously not to shoot, assuming he meant to kill the vulture whose gaze now met her own as she squatted down there at just about it’s eye level.
It looked at her in an attitude of suspicion, and called out an ungodly sound.
“I’m not worried about the vulture”, he said. “There’s something behind you.”
She turned on her haunches and was met by the gaze of what seemed to be a wolf, some twenty feet from her. It looked at her with a questioning, wary gaze from which she did not flinch. The piss continued to flow from her system, and she felt relieved, finally, to rid herself of the burden, which previously she had not noticed due to necessity of staying focused upon the more pressing issues of the night.
Finally, she finished, and she rose carefully, pulling up her pants after wiping herself with a Kleenex. She looked once more upon the big black bird that had by now seemingly forgot her presence, as he continued his feast upon the carrion that he himself may probably have hastened unto death.
By this time, Phelps had moved some distance from her, but seemed undecided as to the direction they should go. She joined him at his side, as she could yet hear the curious footfalls that seemed to follow behind her. She pointed the way to Phelps, and then proceeded to lead the way. After another ten minutes, they found the car, seemingly unmolested. She checked the tires, the battery, the carburetor, and the plugs. Everything seemed to be in place.
“What if those fuckers are hiding around here waiting for us to come to this car”, Phelps asked.
“No, I doubt that the woman would take the chance that we might have called for help by now”, she said. “I’m sure they’re gone. Lucky thing for you, as I don’t think you would last long as a human punching bag.”
Phelps ignored the taunt and walked to the road. Looking all around, he saw no sign of anybody, as Grace started the ignition. It started without a hitch. She realized she would have to ditch the automobile. At least she had accomplished one thing this night. She had discovered proof of her suspicions as to Grady’s complicity with the Russian mafia and its Romanian branch, and in particular with its fellow American travelers. Moreover, as an extra bonus, she knew now that Luke Morrison was involved. It just kept getting better and better. She had special plans for that son-of-a-bitch.
The trip back home was a long one, but it was still early in the morning, well before dawn, when they arrived at Grace’s house.
“Oh, so now on top of everything else, I don’t even get a ride home”, Phelps said as they pulled up to her apartment.
“You don’t want a piece of pussy, fine with me”, she said. I was going to let you fuck me before we left the farm, but I knew you were too afraid to stay around there any more. I thought you’d have yourself together by now.”
“Well, I’m broke”, Phelps said.
“No charge”, she said. “You’ve been a big help. I want something from you though. I want you to hold off on this story for a few days, until I can do a little fact checking on these two people. I also want to dig a little into our late lamented follower. Just for a few days, I promise, and then you can do the story. We, actually, can do the story. My by-line, your pictures. Is it a deal?”
Phelps laughed. He was astounded at Grace, in her obvious opinion of her desirability. Of course, she was a great fuck, going by just the one time he had her before.
“Okay, agreed”, he said. “No more than a week, though-two at the most”.
Grace agreed, whereupon they went up to her apartment. She took a quick shower, whereupon Phelps decided he most definitely needed one as well. While he was cleaning himself thoroughly of the mental garbage, as much as the physical dirt that had this past night assaulted every fiber of his senses, Grace started her computer and, lighting up a cigarette, she extracted the disc of family photos and home movies that had been the possession of the Krovell family.
She had almost forgotten the strange, balding, overweight man she had met at the John Hopkins University Hospital Emergency Room, but now there he was, in a series of photos, some with other members of the family. There was a young man who was obviously Marlowe. There were two more-a man and woman she thought were his parents. Yes, that was who they were, she decided, as she remembered seeing their photos from the story of their deaths that the Sun had covered months earlier. In these photos, they were considerably younger.
Then, something strange happened. There was a series of photos of what appeared to be cadavers. All of them were either grown women, or young girls. She actually recognized the last one, a girl by the name of Mary Evans, who had died just recently, had drowned in her family’s heated pool because of a drug overdose. This had occurred a few weeks after the deaths of the Krovells, and shortly before Grace had met Brad Marlowe at the hospital emergency room.
She sat back and watched in unsurprised curiosity, and almost some whimsy, as Brad began engaging in sex with her and, as the show unfolded, with many more corpses as well. Someone was obviously photographing him doing so. This took up a great deal of the DVD, and after a while Grace found it monotonous, and so started speeding through it.
Then she saw something altogether unexpected. There was young Marlowe, at about the age of twelve it seemed, hovering over the body of a dead girl of about his age. Brad was there as well, as was Richard Krovell. For the first time, there was more than just background noise, as Richard insisted that Marlowe had to learn to put his feelings away, and do his job. Brad seemed somewhat perturbed, even sympathetic, but offered no objection, even though Marlowe looked more than just a little distraught at the prospect of engaging in work on the body of this girl.
He proceeded to his work, and actually conducted the majority of it. From time to time, his father would appear and take over briefly, after which Marlowe would then resume. At one point he was actually left alone to work on the body of the dead girl. Grace noted now how the camera had remained fixed in place and not followed any of the people around, a circumstance that often caused their removal from the range of the camera. Still, at one point she thought she could hear sobbing.
After a couple of minutes, the sobbing stopped, and young Marlowe walked back into camera range. He suddenly seemed to be addressing the corpse.
“What?” he asked. “Linda, I’m sorry”
Then, he started once again, crying loudly. In a couple of minutes, he pulled himself together. Grace found herself so engrossed in what she was seeing, she watched him continue with his work for more than twenty minutes. Incredibly, when his father once more returned and offered to take over for him, Marlowe actually refused. The entire procedure went on for some time, while Grace started to wonder what was keeping Phelps so long. She checked on him, only to find that he was on the commode.
“I’m feeling pretty sick”, he explained. “Do you have anything for nerves, an upset stomach, and for a headache?”
“All of that?’ she said. “I have Tylenol and Pepto-Bismol. That is about it. Maybe you should just lie down and rest for a while.”
As she said this she returned to the DVD, and the long ago drama still playing out on her computer screen. Marlowe was now standing once more alone beside Linda, the dead girl, and told her he loved her. Interesting, she thought. What must that be like, to perform an in-depth embalming and preparation process on the body of a young girl, and you yourself a young man who felt, as this young man obviously did, a great deal of emotional attachment toward the object of your work? Had his parents been aware of this? Obviously, if not at the time, they would quickly have learned of it. At least somebody would have.
Phelps was now throwing up, and seemed to be very sick. He would not likely be engaging in sex tonight. Therefore, Grace would have to come up with some other enticement to insure he kept the nights information between the two of them for a week or two. He was not only sick, but he was still very upset. In fact, Grace was certain he was crying, though evidently trying to contain himself. She continued watching as Brad returned to Marlowe’s side.
“Beat it, kid”, he said. “I’ll finish up here.”
Marlowe left, and Brad turned at the sound of the upstairs door shutting, looking as though to make sure Marlowe had actually left. He then, as Grace expected, began having sex with the body of the young girl, beginning as he most often did by the performance of cunnilingus, augmented by a series of groping various body parts, and finally ending in fornication. He seemed far more turned on, Grace noted, with his ordinary sexual proclivities, than by his one profoundly distasteful and quickly concluded incident with her at the motel.
She wanted to kick herself when she realized that she should have offered him a blowjob, something she doubted Mr. Brad Marlowe had ever experienced. That would be something few corpses could hope to compete with, she mused, as the DVD went blank, only to resume with yet another of Brads many “conquests”.
Quickly tiring of this, she fast-forwarded the DVD closer toward the end. There was Brad Marlowe again, even younger this time, and there was the likewise younger Krovell couple, as Grace realized that the further the DVD went toward the end, the further back in time it went. Brad almost looked handsome, though still overweight and even at this relatively young age showing signs of balding. He also looked somewhat morose, and almost even fragile. Ah, and there was Marlowe, who at this point could not have been any older than somewhere between eight and ten. She magnified the time stamp on the lower right hand corner of her screen. July 1993. Yes, Marlowe would have been eight years old.
Phelps now came back out of the bathroom.
“Finally”, she said. “I was starting to think I was going to have to piss in a pot.”
“You could have said something, you know”, he said, as she put the home movie on pause, and made her way toward the toilet.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“The Krovell family”, she said. “Remember that mortician that was killed by his wife in some kind of murder suicide incident a few months ago? Them.”
“What were those people doing with it?” he asked. “They have something to do with it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out”, she said, as she sat there pissing with the door open, looking at him with a smile. He turned away. Yep, he’s starting to be his old self again, she thought. She finally finished, and then returned to the living room where Phelps awaited. Hopefully, he would not want to watch any of the video. He had obviously seen all he could stand to process for one night.
“I piss once tonight while a black vulture and a wolf is staring at me, only to piss a second time to see two-in-one wanting to leer at me but ashamed to do so”, she teased. “So, are you ready for me, scavenger?”
“There’ll never be another like you, Grace,” he said, with a bemused smile and a swing of the head. “I think I need to call it off for tonight. I just am not in the mood for anything. Don’t’ worry, I’ll keep your secret. For one week, that’s it. Maybe two, if you come through later. Right now, I just want to sleep, and I want to stay here tonight. I just am not in the mood to make the nine-mile drive home. Who knows, maybe tomorrow I’ll be more in the mood.”
“That’s fine, Phelps”, she said. “So, why not take your jacket off and stay awhile?”
“I need to walk around a little, get some fresh air”, he said. “Besides, I need to get a pack of smokes. I have seen what the shit you smoke, and I need something with a kick to it, now more than ever. Like a non-filtered kick. Can I get you anything?”
“Come to think of it I can use a pack of Winston”, she said. “Light, please”.
“Got’cha covered”, Phelps said. “The fresh air will do me some good anyway. It’s a seven block walk, but this is a pretty safe neighborhood, ain’t it?”
“I hope for somebody carrying a gun it is”, she answered.
“After what I’ve been through tonight, I think nothing around here could ever scare me”, he replied. “Be back in a few,”
“Wait, I’ll tell you what”, Grace said. “I’ll make out a check, and you pick us up a twelve-pack of beer too. I could use some beer right now anyway, and I’m sure you can. That’s the least I can do for you. If there is anything else you want, go ahead and get it-within reason, of course.”
Grace hurriedly made out the check, and then handed it to him.
“Don’t be gone too long now”, she said, though she actually hoped he would take his time.
Grace smiled a polite smile of acknowledgement as he blew her a kiss. What a cornball, she thought, as she resumed the playing of the DVD.
Brad and Marlowe were taking their lunch into the living room, as someone mentioned something about an Orioles game. The tape then cut off temporarily, only to resume at the same day, probably just a few minutes later. Marlowe and his mother were down in the basement. He was asking her why she wanted him to go down there with here. Grace noted they were wearing the same clothes, but Mabel Krovell was acting much differently than she had been upstairs. She was acting suspiciously, as though not wanting to be overheard.
“Do you remember what we did in the bathroom last week?” she asked.
Marlowe looked away, as though frightened. No, more than just frightened. Ashamed. In fact, he looked as though he was humiliated.
“Answer me, Marlowe”, she said. “Do you remember what we did in the bathtub last week? How I came in, took my clothes off, got in it with you, and-“
“Yes”, Marlowe moaned. “And I told you I don’t ever want to do that again, I-“
“You threatened to tell your father on me, I know”, she said. “So, I already told him. He knows.”
“You did what?” Marlowe demanded in shock.
“Only I told it my way. I told him you forced me. You got in the tub with me and forced yourself on me. He is mad at you, Marlowe. He has even been thinking of having you put in a home for bad kids. Do you know what that would be like? What if word got out why you were there? As I said, Marlowe, your father is very mad at you. Can’t you tell? As for me, I am very hurt as well as disappointed in you and your attitude.”
“It’s wrong”, Marlowe said. “And you lied, I’m going-“
“You’re going to what, Marlowe, tell him the truth? Tell him that I wanted to have sex with you, and made you do it? Whom do you think he would believe, Marlowe-his wife, whom he loves and has loved for years, or you, who disappoints him on a weekly basis? A boy who has been caught in lies several times?”
As Grace watched this recorded drama unfold, she lit a cigarette, and wished she had some popcorn, and that Phelps would get his black ass back with the beer. On the other hand, it was just as well. This was something Phelps would not be in the frame of mind to deal with tonight, of all nights.
Mabel Krovell now demanded that Marlowe, her eight-year-old son, play along with her. If he did so, she would tell his father that Marlowe had been overwhelmed by the flu medication he had been on at the time. He had just not been himself when he entered his mother’s bathtub and forced himself on her. However, he had to do everything she told him from here on out.
“Including now, Marlowe”, she said as she started unclothing. As she did so, she lay upon the large metal table ordinarily used for the embalming of dead bodies. She was now demanding that Marlowe eat her pussy, and Marlowe, though offering one weak, pleading objection, yet tearfully and ashamedly did as she demanded. After a few minutes, his mother then pulled him with her legs towards him as he unzipped his pants, the erect penis barely visible from the vantage point of the lens of the silent, hidden camera that recorded everything, including even the glaze that now seemed to come over Marlowe’s eyes as he breathed deeply, and moaned loudly.
The phone then rang, and Grace answered. It was Phelps, calling from the neighborhood Speedway Station, just seven blocks away. The manager wanted voice verification of her check, she explained. The manager then got on the phone, whereupon Grace Rodescu repeated the information printed on the check. Then she got Phelps back on the phone.
“You got the beer and the smokes, right?” she asked.
“All that and a bag of chips”, Phelps replied. “And dip. That all right?”
You say you like chips and dip more than pussy, fine with me”, she teased.
“Hardeharhar”, he said. “You say I can go ahead and hand that story and pictures into the Explorer tomorrow?”
“I got your camera”, she replied.
“You wouldn’t”, Phelps said anxiously.
“Calm down, I’m just kidding”, she said. “I could use some anyway, I’m starving and there ain’t shit here but baloney and bread with mustard, and some pop. Chips and dip sound good. Just hurry back.”
He assured her he would, whereupon he hung up. She lit up what turned out to be her last cigarette as she returned her attention to the DVD. Marlowe had finished performing his mother’s demands, and he was crying. He was crying, and she was laughing.
What a fucking bitch, Grace thought, as The DVD suddenly went blank. After just a few seconds, however, it resumed, and they were back upstairs. There was Mabel and Marlowe, along with Brad, and two other people.
They were two older people, and they joined Brad and the Krovells in singing “Happy Birthday” to the just turned eight-year-old Marlowe, who looked aloof, sullen. He briefly met his father’s gaze, and he his, and in that one moment, Grace could tell-he knew everything. It was a game, some kind of sick head fuck that went on for no telling how many years.
Grace once again magnified the imprint of the original time-stamp of the old film, and saw the date-June 1st 1993. The newer time-stamp showed more clearly the date of transference to disc as being May 10th of this year. Marlowe’s parents had been dead for about half a year. So who had done the transference? For that matter, who was the unseen person who recorded the original film, those parts of it done by hand, such as this part here?
Grace could hear the man being addressed in the party film, which featured presents from each member of the family. Yet, though Grace could hear his voice, he never stepped into the picture, not even when young Marlowe Krovell suddenly broke down and started sobbing uncontrollably. His Uncle Brad looked unnerved at this, even distraught, and seemed genuinely concerned, asking him what was wrong.
However, the older man, whom she had heard Richard Krovell address as “dad”, the man Brad called Martin, waved him off. Martin Krovell, Marlowe’s grandfather, now derided Marlowe as a weakling. A man never cries, he informed him, and young boys who cry never become men. He then looked at the parents and winked, while Richard Krovell smiled a sadistic smile. Then, the woman who was evidently Marlowe’s grandmother declared that she would be happy she and her husband would finally be moving to Florida and away from Baltimore. She then told the unseen cameraman to stop filming, as such a record would be an embarrassment to the family history.
Grace looked over all of them at the same time. She got a good look at the Krovells and at Brad Marlowe, who seemed more uncomfortable than angry. Finally, she focused on the two older people, the two people that called themselves Martin and Nancy Krovell.
Suddenly, Grace felt overwhelmed by an inexplicable feeling of sadness, followed by a mounting rage. She looked upon the family, at the ostensible occasion of a young child’s eighth birthday party, and her stomach started churning. She was becoming hot, and dizzy, and started to feel weak, and then sick. She made it to the bathroom just in time to eject the majority of the vomit into the toilet, though she halfway heaved some up by the time she got to her bathroom door. She could feel the puke burning her nostrils as she tried with all her strength to restrain it until she finally reached the commode. When she did so, she found to her dismay that she felt no better. The room was starting to spin. Weakly, she pulled herself away from the commode, and made her way back to the desk chair and the computer. She removed the disc, and turned off the computer.
After replacing the DVD in its case, she found she could not get the faces of the people out of her mind. They spun around seemingly in the opposite direction as she did. They alternated from Marlowe, to Bradley, to Richard, and Mabel, and finally to Martin and Nancy Krovell. Then, they finally seemed to merge into one face, a mask of sheer horror, a head without a face, a demonic entity shrouded in darkness. She then went into dry heaves, but for just a brief period of time, when she suddenly noticed there were insect bites marks all over her arms and legs. Chigger and mosquito bites, she realized. They had made large welts on her arms, her hands, and even on her cheeks. They itched, and for a few seconds she scratched uncontrollably.
The last words on the DVD, those spoken by Martin and Nancy Krovell, suddenly resounded in her mind. She could hear them, repeatedly, intermingled with the laughter of Mabel, amidst the anguished and silent though obvious despair of Marlowe, the perplexed uncertainty of Brad, and the incisive, leering gaze of Richard. She became ever dizzier as she continued to hear the words spoken during those final seconds of the DVD.
“Now that we’ve decided to retire, it’s time to live the good life”, Nancy said. “I hope you don’t feel like we are abandoning you, but it so happens that is just what we are doing.”
“But you will always be in our thoughts”, her husband Martin now said with a wry smile.
Grace felt sick still, but knew she had nothing left inside her to puke. She was hurting. She needed a fix. Therefore, she fished around inside the inner pocket of her jacket until she found the hidden, secret compartment that contained the heroin she had swore she would never again take. Despite this vow, she kept it with her. The overwhelming urge had crept up on her suddenly, as it had so often done in the past. It had always been a nagging pain, but she had controlled it over these last few months.
She started to cry as she entered the kitchen, and started to heat the water she would need to mix the powder from the packet, the powder that she would have to cool enough then to inject into her oft-abused veins. She could not wait until it boiled, to say nothing of the extra minutes it would then take to cool to a safe level of warmth, and so she merely allowed the water to get hot enough to ensure she achieved the adequate solution. Her body was suddenly wracked with pain, as she suctioned the formula up into the syringe. She quickly found a rag, and tied it expertly around her arm. Aware that her mental state was not conducive to insuring accuracy, she tested the contents numerous times to insure a lack of air bubbles.
She then pulled at the makeshift tourniquet with her teeth, and tied it as tightly as she could. She tapped a vein in her lower left arm. It seemed to be adequate. Just one more time, she promised herself. After what she had seen this night, she was certainly justified. All she wanted was to rest, to sleep. If Phelps returned, and fucked her while she was wasted, so much the better, she reasoned. He could have what he wanted and she did not have to know about it. All she cared about now was getting through the rest of this night.
She injected the heroin, as she noted that it was now raining, and there was even some lightning. Good, she thought. This will hold Phelps up for a while, and give her a chance to hide the evidence of her failure to control her lifelong addiction. Possibly, he would merely surmise that she was exhausted, that the events of the evening had all caught up with her.
She felt now the rush from her bloodstream, into her body and mind, of the dream-like state she so secretly longed for, yearned for, and the desire for which she could never completely free herself from. She replaced the syringe and the now empty vial of heroin in the secret compartment of her jacket. Then, she moved herself slowly over to the sofa, and collapsed down upon it. The room was still spinning around, but now in a good way, in a welcome way. She finally felt serene, at peace with herself for the first time in months. She was a fool to think she would ever be any different. Why should she be?
“I am that I am”, Grace now said, repeatedly, as she started to fade into a semi-wakeful dream state that seemed to go on forever. She could still see the people on the DVD, but now they seemed clownish and ridiculous. As they gradually started to fade, she could hear what seemed to be the barely contained cackling of an insane man, but this faded as well. She was now feeling so much better. It was all nothing but a dream, her life.
A series of loud and assertive knocks at the door, however, interrupted this welcomed trance state. For a long time Grace ignored the knocks. Despite this, they seemed to grow successively louder. Then, she remembered something.
“Phelps”, she whispered, barely able to hear herself speak. She knew then she had locked the door. She pulled herself up, and she tried to shout at him to wait, but it only came out as a whisper. Still, Phelps must have heard the whisper. He stopped knocking. She made it to the door and unlocked it. Now he would know she had shot up again. She did not care. She opened the door and smiled a dazed, dreamy smile. Phelps wanted pussy too much to bother with a lecture, she realized.
It was not Phelps, however, and the young woman with the goatee and moustache tattoo did not carry beer and a bag of groceries, but a hand-held tracking device and a pistol.
“You fucked up big time, bitch”, the woman said, as she fired a shot from the gun. As Grace collapsed to the floor, she could feel the blood pouring from a wound from which she strangely felt no pain.
That was good, Grace thought to herself. That was all right. She just wanted to rest. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
PREVIOUS INSTALLMENTS:
PROLOGUE AND CHAPTERS I-X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
RADU-CHAPTER XIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
(21 pages approximate)
Just when Grace needed an automobile almost more than she ever had, Grady came through for her. Sure, it was seven years old, but it ran good, was reasonably quiet, and got respectable mileage. She made certain the transmission was in good shape, as well as the brakes and tires, because where she was going, she knew she could not depend on Phelps’ old Chevy van. The 2000 Impala would not exactly have been her car of choice for a trip out into the Virginia countryside, but at least she knew it could get her there and hopefully back again, without being stuck in the mud, or forced off one of the long, narrow, winding roads in the hilly wooded area to where they were going.
Phelps offered to drive. In fact, he almost insisted, but Grace would have none of that. For one thing, her insurance only covered herself, and for another, she missed driving, more than she ever thought she would.
“This is bullshit, Grace”, he said. “I’ve had that van all over the place. I bet there ain’t a square mile of any part of West Virginia or Kentucky I haven’t taken it, with no problems. Can you think of any?”
“Well, it’s noisier than a locomotive, so it sure would be handy in case we wanted to be sure people heard us coming around the curves, I’ll give you that”, she replied. “That’s just it. I don’t want people to hear us coming-or going.”
“Why the hell not?” he demanded. “I thought you said this place we’re going is out in the middle of nowhere, at least ten miles from the nearest neighbor, and it was supposed to be deserted.”
“Not a living soul”, Grace replied.
“Then why all the worry about noise?” he persisted.
“We don’t want to disturb the cattle”, she replied. “It might curdle the milk”. She was starting to tire of his questions.
“Fine, if you don’t want to tell me, don’t then”, he said, feeling somewhat peevish now himself. “As long as I get paid, it doesn’t matter to me. I just don’t see what you think the Explorer would find so interesting about an old abandoned farm in Virginia.”
“If I tell you, will you shut up?’ she asked. When he agreed, she bit her lip, as she finally made the turn off the highway onto what was to be the first of many roads of increasingly narrowing widths. If she had her directions written down correctly, the fourth turnoff would be onto a gravel road. This would turn off onto yet one more paved road, which would be the last such one before turning off onto yet another gravel road, and finally, one that was mostly dirt, probably muddy in a good many places.
“I’m waiting”, he said.
“It’s a UFO landing strip”, she said.
“Fuck you, Grace”, he said. “If you get me out here in the middle of some kind of bullshit-“
“You bring your gun?” she asked.
“Yeah”, he said, but now his eyes expressed real worry in response to this question. It was getting dark, and by the time they made it to the first of the gravel roads, night had fallen completely. In all this time, they saw little traffic, but now, at the worse possible time, they found themselves behind an old dilapidated looking truck hauling a load of lumber. It would be next to impossible to pass him, and he was barely going thirty-five, if that.
“I’m tempted to use the motherfucker now”, Phelps said, his temper starting to manifest.
“Yeah, that would be brilliant”, Grace replied. “Cause him to skid off the road and maybe send all those fucking logs careening down around us and on top of us. Be sure you save a bullet for the next gas tanker that gets in our way, all right?”
Grace knew of course that Phelps was half joking, but it was the other half she was worried about. She remembered the time Phelps had been assigned to follow a politician who was engaged in a dalliance with a Baltimore socialite, and when the man approached Phelps’ van to confront him, the photographer actually pulled his gun on him. Had the politician typically not wanted publicity and the resultant scandal of his affair with a married woman that would have surely followed, both he and The Explorer would have gotten into an expensive legal battle. The Explorer would have survived, but Phelps might not have turned out so well.
Still, he was a hothead, and given to emotional displays of aggression, which was why it was next to impossible for him to secure employment in a more mainstream press position. All the same, he was good, and she could not have imagined making the trip with any other photographer or, for that matter, anybody else. She would have almost as soon made the trip by herself, in fact. No other reporter would even think about making a trip such as this with no idea what they were going for. That was in fact the whole problem. She could not afford to tell anybody.
Finally, the truck turned off onto a road, and out of their way.
“Whew, that’s a relief”, she said. “I was scared to death that fucker was going to end up in front of us the whole trip.”
“Fuck that, I was worried about those fucking logs”, he said. “The way they were stacked it wouldn’t have taken a lot to cause the entire load to come down around us. I’m not in that big a hurry to get there anyway.”
“Well, you might have changed your mind if he made the same turn-off we were heading for.”
“You mean we have another turn-off?’ he asked.
“Four more, to be exact”, she said.
“So how in the hell did it ever turn out with that one story you were investigating, the one about the old Priest?” Phelps asked after a number of minutes of silence.
“The old priest”, Grace repeated, as though trying to remember, though she knew full well what he was talking about.
“Yeah, you know, he was supposed to be a communist spy or something”, Phelps said.
“Turned out to be just a rumor”, she replied.
“You’re kidding”, he said. “You seemed pretty sure at the time. Didn’t some man accuse him of causing his father to be killed by Securitate agents from the Romanian embassy? Right outside their own house?”
“He was throwing a block party to celebrate the Romanian dictators’ death”, Grace replied, tiring of the questions and becoming slightly uncomfortable at Phelps’ persistence.
“Yeah, I remember that, right at Christmas a bunch of years ago”, the photographer continued.
“Not that one, this was years before that”, she replied. “You weren’t even born then. Neither was I. There was nothing to it. The Priest had nothing to do with it.”
They finally made the next turn-off, and Phelps noted with relief they were now back on a paved road.
“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have taken the van”, he said.
“Well, at the rate we’re going now, I’m guessing you will see why in about ten minutes.”
“So anyway, didn’t you say this Priest was responsible for a lot of people in Romania being arrested, that a lot of them just vanished?”
“A lot of people vanished in Romania, Phelps, they probably still do”, Grace said, starting to become ever more irritated at his persistence. “I should know, I’m one of them. Nothing is ever as cut-and-dried as it seems. Let’s just concentrate on the subject at hand, all right?”
“Hell, I would be glad to if I knew what the fucking subject at hand was”, he snapped. “Can we at least listen to some fucking music?”
“Sure”, Grace replied, “but none of that fucking fag shit you listen to”.
“Hey, I’m not gay, I don’t know what the fuck you’re implying”, Phelps said defensively.
“Well, I’ll put it this way”, Grace explained. “If you listen to an entire CD of Celine Dionne more than once and you’re a man, you’ve probably had more dick in your mouth or ass in a month than I’ll have in my whole life.”
“Ha ha, very funny”, he replied. “At least the music I listen to can’t be classified as psychotic.”
Grace now reached into the pocket of her jacket and extracted a CD, then instructed Phelps to put it in the player. He did so, warily noting the name on the cover.
“The Mocktones?” he said. “Who the hell are they? I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re a death metal band, sort of”, she said. “There is one song in particular I want you to hear. It’s the fourth song on the disc. But I want you to listen to the first three as well, so just wait for it.”
The first song was just finishing up as they made the next turn, onto the narrowest road yet, one unpaved, though covered with gravel.
“That shit was awful”, Phelps said. “Who are those people? You are not going to review them, are you? If that’s the opening song on the CD you know the rest can’t be worth a fuck.”
“Well, unfortunately, like the roads ahead of us, the rest just get only worse, more or less”, she assured him.
“Then what’s so special about the fourth one?” he said. “I know it couldn’t be good, but is it at least just not quite so bad?”
“I want you to note the distinction between it and the rest”, Grace explained. “It’s quite interesting. By the way, reach into my pocket and find a piece of paper.”
Phelps did so as the discordant noise of the band became ever more unbearable. The song now playing was “You Slay Me, Dandelion”. It was by now about halfway through, having followed the earlier atrocity “Cromwell Heights”. He looked with a wary eye at the title of the third one, which would be the next one-“Hung Up Wet And Crucified Dry”. He would be ecstatically happy when they got to the fourth one. He noticed that it was listed as fourth on the handwritten page, and was both circled and, as if to make sure the person for whom it was intended got the point, double underlined as well.
“Are you sure this is the right one?” Phelps asked sarcastically. “He forgot to put exclamation marks after the title.”
“She forgot”, Grace replied. “Her name is Sierra Lawson. She’s the groups lead singer. She wrote some of the songs too, and co-wrote some of them.”
Phelps looked at the picture of the somewhat cute, twenty-ish something girl with the pink hairdo, easily the youngest of the group, all of whom seemed to be in their late twenties, though one bald guy with a nose ring seemed to easily be in his mid-thirties. At the same time, they were so freakish it was hard to tell with any degree of certainty. They were all pretty much a bunch of stoners or otherwise losers on a quick road to nowhere. They probably didn’t really take themselves seriously.
“Good, it finally stopped, thank God”, Phelps now observed as the second song stopped-and then started right back up again at an even more maddening tempo. By the time the third one finally started, he felt the title was quite appropriate.
“Well, at least the drummer ain’t too bad”, he said.
“That’s the older bald guy, he’s the brother of the guitarist, who’s the leader of the group”, Grace explained.
“Yeah, we’ll he’s fucking terrible, nothing but fucking power chords, the same three over and over, and out of tune and off tempo at that. Not one legitimate riff so far. God, why don’t somebody just shoot these guys and save the world from more misery? Do these guys really think they’re good?”
“I think it’s a hobby more than anything”, Grace explained.
“Then why bother to”-but before Phelps could finish his thought he was reminded of the presence of the groups bass player, who suddenly came in overly loud and, true to the groups signature sound, vaguely out of tune and tempo. “Holy shit, what the fuck was that?”
Prior to this, the bass player was so far into the background his notes barely registered, but now he blared out in all his glory.
“That does it”, he said. “That drummer is pretty fucking bad after all. I just realize he sounds good in comparison to the others. That fucking girl sounds sick, does she have a flu or laryngitis? I see now why we are coming out here in the middle of nowhere. You want to bury this shit somewhere where nobody will ever find it, right?”
“Just be patient, Phelps, the good part is coming here in just a couple of minutes”, she said. It was now also time for the next to the last turnoff, onto the last of the paved roads, yet still a road even more narrow, more curvy, and surrounded by more forested overgrowth than the previous ones.
As they continued, Phelps looked once more at the circled and double underlined title of the upcoming song in question-“Sweet Sixteen (Leaving Home)”. He noticed then that the song was listed as having been written by “Sierra Lawson and Debbie Leighton”. So, there was another chick involved with this atrocity. It was only then that he turned the paper over and saw the song lyrics copied out by hand, in a flowing style artistic script. Sierra Lawson had signed it, but even more interesting than that was an address, which was written down. In fact, it seemed to have been hurriedly scribbled.
P.O. Box 478 Route 7
Bedford Virginia
Ominously, there was a map, which Phelps noted seemed to coincide up until now with the route taken by Grace.
Then, the song started.
“Rest in pieces, mommy dearest
Burn in hell, daddy, fuck you
Let me carve my initials
On the hands with which you hit me
Let me drain your blood and
Drink
Slice my knife across your throat
Watch me laugh, your pride and joy
As she sends you to your death
“Holy shit, that’s’-oh, fucking God, that is actually. Hell, that’s actually quite fucking good”, Phelps said, more than a little surprised.
“Yes, it is, ain’t it?’ Grace agreed. “Too bad everything else on the CD is more like the shit that came before it.”
Phelps actually found himself struggling to refrain from singing the chorus.
“I’m coming home-sweet sixteen
Coming home-for the last time
Oh but it’s time to say
Goodbye forever
To sweet sixteen-she’s leaving home”
“Shit that guitar player is actually good in this song. Listen to that. What did he do, record this on two tracks?”
“Sierra is playing the lead on that”, Grace explained. “The rest of the band is actually inspired by her, it seems. You’re right, they’re quite good here. Listen to the words of the song. It’s about a teenage girl who murders her parents, evidently in a very brutal way and with the help of some friends. Then, they just leave them there alone-unburied, and unmourned.”
Suddenly, Phelps eyes widened with the dawn of realization.
“Ohhh, shit!” he said. “Grace what the fuck are you doing? If you know something, spill it.”
“Nothing to spill” Grace replied as she made the final turnoff onto what would be the final road. “I met Sierra Lawson at The Crypt and she handed me that CD, and that note. She did not ask me to review it, just listen to it. She gave me the note at the same time. If I’m right, it explains something else she told me.”
“And that would be?” Phelps asked warily.
“She asked me not to tell anyone that she talked to me”, she explained.
“So this is a true story”, Phelps observed, as the final song ended with a merging of discordant noises that some might even consider stylistically creative. There seemed to be voices talking and laughing, and as the song ended, a man’s voice mooed like a cow.
“That is exactly what I’m wondering”, Grace said. “I did a little research into the area where we’re headed. According to the last census, one of the families in this remote area is the Leightons. At the time of the census, they had a nine year old daughter by the name Debbie.”
“The song’s co-writer”, Phelps observed. “Grace this is some scary shit. Is this band involved somehow in-“
“No”, she replied. “I don’t think so, anyway. Like I said, this band is just a hobby to them, they are really quite ordinary people, though Goths, contradictory though that might sound. I think their connection with Sierra is more sexual than work or music. The band is just an excuse for a bunch of married guys to get high and fuck with a teenager. In that sense, she is more an object of pity, being used by older, more mature men. At least, that is what I thought when I first met her. Now, though, I’m not so sure.”
The song now finished, Phelps removed the CD from the player and replaced it in the cover. He carefully returned it to Grace’s jacket pocket. He was glad to put it away. He was almost wary of touching it, as though it were now a polluted object.
Soon, they passed the last house in silence as they continued on the increasingly narrow and muddy road for up to forty minutes. Suddenly, and inexplicably, Grace pulled off the road and into a field, past some bushes, until she angled the car between two large and overgrown blackberry bushes.
“What the hell are you pulling off in here for”? Phelps demanded.
“This is the Leighton’s property”, Grace explained. “The car will be alright here. No one will see it, or should. We can walk the rest of the way. It’s about twenty minutes, by my calculations. Be sure and bring the camera.”
Phelps extracted his equipment from the trunk of the car, as Grace surveyed the surrounding landscape, which seemed totally surrounded by trees and bushes.
“Holy shit, when you said we were out in the middle of nowhere you weren’t fucking kidding, were you?” Phelps asked.
“To tell you the truth, even I didn’t realize how remote this place was”, Grace replied as they started walking a path that lead at first into a small clearing completely surrounded by thickets.
“Perfect place to hide a dead body or two”, she continued as they surveyed the thorn covered bushes.
“Shit, why bother?” he asked. “You could put them on a rooftop and nobody would ever find them here. Not that I want to find out.”
“You want this trip to be worthwhile don’t you”? Grace asked. She finally settled on a tentative path out of their surroundings.
“I didn’t ask you to come out here with your camera to have pictures for your scrapbook”, she continued. “Let’s try this way.”
After about seven feet, they finally cleared the bushes, but Grace cursed when she realized her windbreaker had been slightly torn on a particularly stubborn set of bushes.
“I’m glad I didn’t drop anything in that shit”, Phelps remarked. “It would probably be lost forever.”
“I’m sure that’s the worse of it”, Grace said, but Phelps was more focused on the many unnerving sounds of the surrounding forest.
“I think there’s something following us”, he said. “What kind of varmints are out here anyway? Wolves? Coyotes? Bears?”
Grace now thought she heard the sound of footfalls, slight ones, as though whatever it might be stalked them cautiously.
“Let’s hope its coyotes”, she said. “They’re not quite as dangerous to two adults. Just make sure you keep your gun at the ready.”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to lug all this shit and still be able to draw, aim, and accurately fire a gun in the space of two or three seconds”, he observed as they hastened their pace toward a larger clearing. “Who the hell do you think I am, Billy The Kid?”
“Who is that?” Grace asked.
“Never mind, Grace, let’s just hurry, alright? On top of everything else it’s cold out here”.
As they continued on, they came across a barbed wire fence that was down and, judging by the height of the weeds grown up around where the top lay almost to the ground, it had been down for some time. Grace pointed a flashlight over toward the area on the other side of the downed fence, and noted the horrific site of a long dead cow that looked as though fed upon by wild animals. At the sound of tromping through the grass, she pointed the light to see two other cows, both of them looking to be underfed and badly malnourished. One of them mooed pitifully, while the other seemed to barely be able to stand. A recently dead calf lay at its feet.
“I think curdled milk is the least of the worries here”, Phelps observed. He found himself profoundly moved at the saddening site.
“I think this settles the question of whether the people here are alive or dead”, Grace observed. “No responsible farmer would allow their farm and livestock to degenerate to such deplorable conditions as these.”
At that moment, they both reacted to the sound of growling, which sounded as though it came from no more than twenty feet from where they stood. Almost as though in response, Grace noted the sound of an automobile up in the distance. She then saw that Phelps had taken out his gun.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You can’t fire that gun. You will give us away for sure.”
“I can’t stand to see them suffer like that”, he said. “Those wolves, or coyotes, or whatever they are-”
“Phelps, those cattle are beyond help”, she explained. “Letting them be torn by wolves would be more merciful than letting them continue starving while being gnawed by vermin. What do you think you are going to do anyway, kill every wolf that lunges at them? Or us? The longer we stand here the longer we risk the wolves seeing us as competitors. Besides, a car just pulled up somewhere.”
She started to move on, and soon came to the edge of the forest, and the clearing that lead the way to the old dilapidated looking farmhouse. Grace noted immediately that the house looked to be in need of a new paint job, to say nothing of a new roof. More importantly, she noted the presence of the Saturn that had just pulled into the driveway of the house, beside what appeared to be a 96 New Yorker.
A man climbed out of the Saturn, and looked at the New Yorker curiously. He seemed to be carrying some object which he pointed in different directions, as he slowly turned in a circle. Grace retrieved a set of binoculars and trained them on the figure of the average height though heavyset man, and saw then that he also seemed to be carrying a gun.
She looked back, but Phelps had lagged behind. She was growing agitated at him, for she could not address him loudly, she feared, without the man hearing her. Therefore, she picked up a rock and lugged it at him. He jumped in reaction, and almost dropped his camera. When he saw it was her, she waved him over. He had been pissing, in fact, so he hurriedly zipped up his fly and proceeded to join her.
“Keep your mind on business, Phelps”, she hissed in a whisper. “See that man there? He has a gun. Get his picture.”
Phelps trained his lens on the man, about one hundred yards in the distance, as the individual in question proceeded somewhat cautiously up the front porch steps of the house, from which a lone light shined from the back. Suddenly, Phelps turned.
“Hey, I’ve seen that fucker before”, he said. “I’ve seen him twice, in fact. Once yesterday in The Explorer building, and earlier today at the fucking gas station, right before we crossed into Virginia. What the fuck is this, Grace?”
“You sure it’s him?” Grace said.
“Hell yes”, Phelps replied. “I remember the fucking Saturn from the gas station. The reason I remembered him was that I caught him eyeing us as we was leaving The Explorer building yesterday. I didn’t think that much of it, until now.”
“You don’t know who he is”, she asked? Right about that time the man was loudly addressing the occupants of the house, but Grace could not make out what he was saying. Neither, unfortunately, could Phelps. Nevertheless, he did note that, as the front door swung open, the man had his gun hidden behind his back. He feverishly resumed taking pictures as the man seemed to be ushered into the house.
“Did you see who let him in”, she asked.
“No, but shouldn’t we do something”, he replied?
She looked at him incredulously.
“Yes”, she finally replied. “We sit here, and we wait.”
After just a little more than two minutes, the silence of their vigil was shattered by the distant sound of a gunshot. In just under five minutes, a figure appeared at the door, and Phelps resumed his work. He seemed suddenly to become animated.
“Oh shit, it just doesn’t get any better than this”, he said with a gleam in his eyes.
“What do you mean”, Grace asked.
“I know that fucking crazy bitch”, he said. “Larceny Adams. Whoever that motherfucker was, he had better hope he’s dead.
“Who is she”, Grace asked as the seemingly bald woman dressed in black leather looked over the Saturn.
“She’s an S&M hooker, and a Satanist, and on top of that, just one cold hearted bitch in general. She loves to torture people. It’s how she makes her living. There’s a rumor that if she thinks a client has a whole lot of money, she kidnaps them and tortures all their banking account information out of them, then makes them sign everything over to her. She will keep them alive just long enough to verify the transactions, and then keep them going for several months just in case somebody really gets suspicious. After awhile, she disposes of them piece by piece.”
“Sounds like a lot of exaggeration to me”, Grace said.
“Could be”, Phelps agreed. “On the other hand, I’ve heard she likes to see just how long she can keep them alive after she starts chopping them up. Her goal is to eventually keep a mans head and heart alive and connected to each other, while disposing of every damned thing else.”
“Sounds to me like somebody is trying to scare business away from her,” Grace said. “After all, anybody that can afford a S&M prostitute has a lot of money to begin with. On the other hand, I have to admit-“
She suddenly stopped, and looked curiously at Phelps.
“Those people could be alive”, she said.
“What do you mean?” Phelps replied.
“The Leightons”, Grace explained as Larceny Adams finally went back inside. “They might still be in there, being tortured.”
“That kind of contradicts the song, doesn’t it?’ Phelps reminded her. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Yeah, you’re right”, Grace said. “I’m surprised I haven’t heard of this person, what with the connections I have at The Crypt. By the way, how is it you know so much about her?”
“The Explorer was doing a story about the American Neo-Nazi movement and its connections to the occult. It was mostly a shit piece, but she came up somewhere in the course of researching the story. She ended up edited out, though, because Jennings did not want to risk a lawsuit over something-
Just then, a blood-curdling scream emanated from the direction of the house, one so horrific it made Phelps’s hair feel like it was standing on end. He shivered uncontrollably.
“Over something that couldn’t be proven”, he continued.
“Look, we need to try to get closer to the house”, she said.
“How closer?” he asked suspiciously.
“Like close enough to look in the window and take pictures of whoever that is in there”, she replied. “We still haven’t found out what we came here to find out. Let’s try to go toward one of the side windows. Just be careful-and quiet”.
Grace led the way as they stayed close to the edge of the woods, but suddenly they heard a door opening, and then going shut as if left to do so on it’s own. They ducked back into the brush, and waited. Suddenly, a male figure appeared, a short, stocky, muscular looking man, wearing nothing but shorts and a dark t-shirt with some kind of writing on it. He seemed young, with his hair done in a buzz cut. They followed him quietly, as he appeared headed towards what looked to be an old barn.
By the time he made it about halfway there, they heard the front door shut, and a woman appeared from around the corner.
“Rhino, you watch things here. I’ll be back,” she said.
“You taking the Saturn?” he asked.
“No, but what difference does it make?” she asked.
“It don’t but I want to take it for a spin when you get back.”
“We aren’t going to be here that much longer,” she said.
“So? I’ll drive it home. Fuck it, he ain’t going to be needing it.”
The woman was now walking seemingly right toward where she and Phelps hid in the bushes, and Grace was suddenly wary. The woman carried a gun, and she saw for the first time that not only was she shaved completely bald, but strangely enough seemed to have a thin moustache and a goatee. It was not until she got within about twenty feet of them that Grace could see by the illumination of the floodlights from the barn, that these appeared to be tattoos.
As Larceny Adams drew closer, Grace fought off the absurd urge to shut her eyes, as though this might prevent her from seeing her. Suddenly, Larceny veered off to her left and continued toward Rhino.
“We can’t take that car, sweetie, its dangerous”, the woman said, as though talking to a young child. “What if they find him here, then find out you have his car.?”
“Well, we could bury the motherfucker”, Rhino said. “Just because he’s not dead yet ain’t no reason to not go ahead and get rid of him. He sure ain’t making it out of here, whoever he is. We ought to bury those other people too. It’s stupid to just leave them out like that.”
“You better not ever let Joseph here you talk like that”, the woman warned her partner. “He says the more they are left out the easier they will be to get rid of.”
“Yeah, he also said as long as we pay the bills and make sure the mail is collected nobody will ever find them”, the short stocky man said somewhat petulantly. “So who the fuck is that guy-and who is that fucking woman reporter he’s looking for, that he was supposed to have tracked here? Grace somebody.”
Grace and Phelps shot each other a look, yet the photographer noted that Grace did not seem very surprise. Moreover, she actually did not seem the least bit perturbed. In fact, she actually looked somewhat pleased. They cautiously drew closer to the two people, enough so that Grace and Phelps could hear their conversation, which seemed to suggest that Rhino thought that whoever Grace was, the man had unknowingly passed her up in the process of tracking her.
“She’s probably at one of the neighbors houses”, he said.
“No, the nearest one is ten miles from here”, Larceny reminded him. “Nobody with a tracking system like he has would overshoot the mark by that much. She is here somewhere, here on this property. She’s just got the damn car hidden. She could be anywhere the fuck around here.”
“You stay here and stand lookout and stop worrying about these fucking cattle, you’ve already fed them anyway. Keep an eye on the house. If she really is a reporter, she might be on to something. Spanky, or that stupid fucking crack head Milo, has probably said the wrong thing to the wrong person, or people. If so, we have to do something about it. We might have to dispose of these bodies after all. First, we have to take care of whoever this Grace bitch is.”
Then, Larceny Adams proceeded back toward the house, but then suddenly veered off to her left, onto a path where Grace and Phelps had just been no more than ten minutes previously.
“She’ll find the car, and when she does we’re in trouble”, Grace whispered.
“Then let’s get back there before she finds it and get the hell out of here”, Phelps insisted.
However, Grace was adamant as she shook her head in denial of Phelps’s seemingly reasonable suggestion.
“We can’t leave yet”, she said. “I have to find out who that guy is. He’s still alive, and-”
Suddenly, Grace heard the sound of a car starting, and wondered if the unfortunate man had somehow managed to free himself, or was not quite badly as injured as the his two captors thought.
“That woman is a professional at doling out pain”, Phelps assured her. “If that’s him he’s probably spent the last ten minutes crawling to the car, and I doubt he makes it out of the driveway.”
However, it turned out that Larceny Adams had merely doubled back and started up the New Yorker.
“Shit, she probably knows about where the car is and she’ll just drive right to it”, she said. “Come on, while that fucker is mulling around by the barn lets head to the house while we have the chance.”
Warily, Phelps followed along behind her, careful to stay to the shadows as much as possible while keeping his eyes peeled toward the man. They made it just around the corner of the house to the blind side from Rhino, and watched him cautiously as they checked the back door. Suddenly, they froze at the sound of what seemed to be at first a loud moaning sound. Rhino was mooing at the cattle.
They proceeded into the house by way of the back door into the kitchen, and were automatically greeted by the most horrific sight Phelps the tabloid photographer had ever seen in his life. There, sitting at the kitchen table, covered with dining bibs that draped down from their necks and covered their chests, and seemed to extend to their laps, were Mildred and John Leighton.
They were obviously mummified, and Phelps gasped loudly.
“Oh-my fucking God”, he declared.
The two were not merely dead, they had obviously been butchered and mutilated, the horrific expression on their mummified faces a mute testament to the horror they had undergone. Old man Leighton had an apple sticking from his wide-open mouth, as did Mildred, and both of them had what appeared to be forks dangling from their now skeletal hands. The plates set in front of them held what looked to be parts of their intestines. Phelps stifled a sickening feeling, and despite being unable to refrain from gagging, took some pictures of the sickening tableau.
Phelps fought back tears, and shook uncontrollably. He had to turn away from the ghastly sight. Grace tried to comfort and reassure him, then tried to force him to pull himself together.
“This is the worse possible time to lose your nerve”, she informed him. “Those two won’t be away from the house for long. Come with me now.”
However, Phelps, rather than following her, started taking yet more photos of the two individuals whom he calculated to have been dead for at least the last three months, maybe longer than that, as Grace proceeded to the living room. There was the man, the newcomer, so badly beaten and cut up, so bloodied, that they did not even consider it worth the time to tie him up. He was almost dead. Still, amazingly enough, he was yet conscious. Grace approached him cautiously. When she bent down over him, she could see the terror in his eyes.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” she said. “I’m here to help. What happened?”
“Girl-tied up”, he said, then struggled to breathe. “Man swore he-not do it. She tricked me-stabbed me when I went to help her. They-“
Then he started crying, and started begging Grace to help him.
“Who sent you to follow me out here”, she asked. “And why? If you want me to help you then you must tell me the truth, the whole story.”
The man then looked and seemed to have realized for the first time that it was Grace to whom he was talking.
“Morrison”, he said. “Congressman Morrison. Grady Desmond-he works for him and bugged your car. Please-help me I beg you.”
Grace soaked this bit of news in with no emotion, and regarded the man coldly.
“Morrison is dead, he was killed in a plane crash in India”, she said.
“That was-Congressman’s father. Luke is his son”, the man said, now struggling to pronounce every syllable, obviously in ever more pain with the passing of each second. He was obviously going to die shortly. He would have no reason to lie.
“Should I call somebody?” Phelps asked, now having rejoined Grace.
“No-not for the time being”, she replied.
Please-help”, the man said, but then suddenly he drew in one last, deep breath, then exhaled, as his eyes then went back in his head.
Suddenly, the two reacted to the sound of the back door opening, then closing, as they quickly yet quietly backed up toward one of the bedrooms. They heard the sound of the refrigerator opening, as someone was obviously perusing the contents. Taking advantage of the opportunity, they made their way to one of the back rooms, and found themselves in a small bedroom that had obviously at one time been that used by the Leighton’s only child, Debbie.
While Phelps listened at the door for any sign from whichever one of the pair it was that had returned to the house, Grace shined her flashlight around the room, now piled up with boxes and bags. Most of them had what looked to be nametags written on masking tape in black marker ink. She gave them only passing, cursory looks, until she noted one in particular that captured her immediate interest. One large box, near the corner by the closet door had written on it the name “Marlowe Krovell”.
As Phelps listened at the door, Grace opened the box, noting it appeared to contain jars of embalming fluid. She then saw a large backpack likewise marked with Marlowe’s name. She quickly looked inside to see nothing but some clothing, but in the side compartment, she noticed papers, along with what seemed to be discs. Most of them were metal bands, but one caught her immediate attention. It was a DVD marked by handwriting “Family Photos And Movies-Private”.
As she stuffed it into her windbreaker’s pocket, she heard a voice. A man was speaking, but seemingly not to anyone in the house. He was asking to speak to someone named Billy.
“He’s called someone on the Leighton’s telephone”, Grace said, amazed at such brazen stupidity.
Suddenly, Rhino sounded ecstatic.
“Damn, thanks Billy, I really appreciate that”, he said. “And I promise you, I won’t let you down.”
“We’ve got to get the hell out of here, Grace”, Phelps said now.
“We can’t leave until they do”, Grace insisted. “She’s probably found our car by now. If not, she will. She probably took our unfortunate followers hand-held tracking device wherever she went, so it should not take her long. I do not think she is quite as stupid as this guy.”
“Great”, he said. “So what the hell are we going to do?”
“Just hope I can remember how to hotwire a car, and hope they leave us one”, she replied. “Otherwise-well, it’s a long walk.”
When Larceny finally returned, Rhino quickly gave her the good news.
“I get to try out for The Blackbirds day after tomorrow”, he said, obviously well pleased.
“You didn’t just call somebody from here”, she said.
“Hell, just Billy”, he replied, “and he won’t say nothing.”
“Rhino, you fucking idiot, I thought I explained this shit to you, three times in fact.”
Rhino was non-responsive. Larceny was obviously very pissed off, and her partner realized that, on some level, he had just badly fucked up.
“Have you been keeping an eye on the house like I fucking told you, at least?” she demanded.
“Yeah, I come back here as soon as you left. There’s nobody around here. That guy just got it wrong. He’s dead now. You really did a number on the guy.”
“He didn’t get it wrong, either,” Larceny replied. “I found the fucking car he told us about, so she’s around this property somewhere.”
“Great”, Rhino moaned. “So now what the fuck are we going to do?”
“Only thing we can do”, she said. “Make sure there’s nothing here for her to find. So come on, let’s get busy.”
Grace and Phelps then heard the pair walking into a distant room.
“They are going to bury the bodies, probably take them off somewhere”, Phelps observed. “Shit, who knows how long we’re going to be here.”
“Maybe not long”, she said. “But we’d better try to find a place to hide, in case they come for something in here”.
They decided their best bet was to hide on the far side of the bed against the wall. There were clothes and pictures piled up under the bed, which Grace hoped would hide them sufficiently were someone to look under the box springs. It was a tight fit, and quite uncomfortable, but Grace figured that made it that much better as a hiding spot.
Sure enough, soon Rhino came into the room, and proceeded toward the closet, where Larceny told him to pick up the box marked “Marlowe Krovell”.
“Just the box with the embalming fluid though, leave the other shit”, Larceny instructed him.
“I still want to kill that motherfucker, because he fucked Raven”, Rhino complained. “The fucking bitch. Some fucking girlfriend she was. I want to kill the fucking bitch that’s snooping around here too. So much for getting this farm. That’s been fucked all to hell.”
“No, it hasn’t”, Larceny assured him. “As soon as Debbie turns eighteen we have the Leighton’s sign it over to her, and then she’ll sign it over to us, just like Joseph promised. Sierra isn’t quite as good a forger yet as Spiral was, but she’s good enough that by the time another two years go by, she should do the job well enough for people to believe the Leighton’s have retired and decided to see the country.”
“Hell, anything can happen in two years”, Rhino said, as Grace could not help but observe that this was probably the most profound thought this young man had ever entertained. “Okay, I found it here.”
“Yeah, it took your slow ass long enough,”:Larceny complained. “Come on, we’ve got to hurry the fuck out of here.”
“So when do I get my new punching bag?” Rhino asked. “If I’m going to be a Raven I have to make sure I stay in shape.”
“I told you I’d find you somebody, you just have to not be so rough on the next one”, Larceny replied. “I think you ruptured Julio’s spleen the last session.”
“Fuck him, he’s wore out anyway, I want one with some muscle the next time around.”
Soon, Grace noted the sound of a car’s engine starting, and after a couple of minutes, it could be heard pulling out.
“What the fuck kind of people are these”, Phelps asked. “Are these even human beings?”
“Did you get any pictures?” Grace asked.
“I got a few of that moron, and the dead guy in there, and Larceny, and the Leighton’s, yeah why? Did I fucking miss something?”
Suddenly, Grace was filled with a sense of dawning realization.
“They didn’t move them”, she said.
“What are you talking about?” Phelps demanded.
“They left too quickly”, she explained. “They left that guy dead in the living room, and the Leighton’s as well. And I’ll tell you something else”.
“What?”
“I smell smoke”.
Within a couple of minutes, smoke started streaming throughout the house, and into the small bedroom where they remained behind the bed.
“We have to get out of here”, Grace said. “With all this shit in here, it will go up fast. But we have to be careful.”
She pulled herself up and made it to the window just in time to see two automobiles going up the road and away from the house.
“Great, they took both the New Yorker and the Saturn”, she said. She continued watching as the two cars stopped up in the distance, probably looking back to survey their handiwork.
“Grace, this window here, this is the quickest way out of this”, Phelps shouted, obviously growing increasingly concerned.
She followed him out, thankfully noting that they were on the blind side of the house from where the two automobiles waited. They started making their way up toward the barn. Once they made it there, they headed for the blind side.
“We have to let the cattle out”, Phelps said. “The way that fire is blazing, the heat is liable to ignite the hay in there.”
“Phelps, we don’t have time for that”, she said. However, Phelps ignored her and headed for the back of the barn, where he opened the back door. The cattle, sensing the heat, began hurriedly piling out. Phelps came close to being trampled in the process, as Grace warily looked up toward the road, just in time to see both automobiles pulling away. She then realized they were headed in the opposite direction from where her car was hidden.
Phelps was obviously distraught. In fact, he seemed to be at the end of his rope, and when Grace advised him they should return to the car, he was dumbstruck.
“They’ve probably flattened the tires, or stolen the carburetor or the battery”, he said.
“I don’t think so”, she said. “Remember, she is thinking we never came to the house, which is why she set the house on fire. She is hoping it will look like the Leightons died alongside an unknown guest in the course of an accidental house fire. She would not bother with that if she thought we saw the bodies. Plus, since she thinks we never made it there, she might be hoping that after we see the house burning, we will just leave and forget about it. She couldn’t expect us to leave if she sabotaged the car, right?”
“Are you sure those two are that damned smart?” Phelps asked skeptically.
“She is, I think”, Grace assured him. “Maybe not as smart as she thinks she is, but hopefully enough to not want us to have to call for outside help to get away from here.”
Phelps mumbled something unintelligible as Grace silently assured herself that she might be right. It made a degree of sense, but as they made their way to the clearing, Phelps suddenly started coughing, and went down on his knees. He was vomiting. He had never spent such a horrific night.
“It’s back to church for me next Sunday,” he said. “I promised God I would and I intend to keep that promise.”
“Good for you”, Grace responded. “So why are you throwing up?”
“Just shut up Grace”, he replied. “Aren’t you just a bit affected by the fact that two people were savagely murdered and left to rot in their own kitchen, and another man was beaten and stabbed so badly he died in horrible agony right in front of our eyes? That kind of thing tends to make us common people just a little on the queasy side.”
“Yeah, I know”, she said simply. “So, what do you say you pull yourself together and let’s get the fuck out of here, before they come back to make sure they did the job right.”
Phelps looked back through the clearing, and saw the frame of the house was barely visible through the blinding flames that engulfed it.
“If they had caught us there, that’s where we might be right now”, he reminded her. “Who knows if I could have drawn my gun in time? But to hell with that, who needs to carry their gun when they have pictures to take, right?”
“Well, if you can’t make a living, why bother to stay alive?” she retorted. “Stop complaining, and let’s get out of here.”
They finally made their way up the same path from whence they came to the house, Grace leading the way, as she heard Phelps mumbling, breathing erratically, and at one point, she thought, crying. They eventually made it back to where they had earlier noted the emaciated cattle, along with the dead one. Grace saw yet another one, a calf, had joined the ranks of the bovine dead, as a large black vulture, having noted the development, now feasted upon the carcass. The calf’s mother stood helplessly by, almost too weak to move. What happened, she wondered, to cause these strays to get so far beyond the others, only to become so weak they could seemingly not make it back?
Perhaps, she decided, there had been a considerable period of time when the outlaw gang had not fed the herd, resulting in a scarcity of available feed and grass, which was scarce at any rate throughout the passing winter.
She had to piss at this point, and so she lowered her jeans and squatted down. Phelps was the shy sort who ordinarily would have automatically turned upon seeing this, but he was now too distraught to give it any thought. She noticed that he had put down his camera and retrieved his pistol. She warned him seriously not to shoot, assuming he meant to kill the vulture whose gaze now met her own as she squatted down there at just about it’s eye level.
It looked at her in an attitude of suspicion, and called out an ungodly sound.
“I’m not worried about the vulture”, he said. “There’s something behind you.”
She turned on her haunches and was met by the gaze of what seemed to be a wolf, some twenty feet from her. It looked at her with a questioning, wary gaze from which she did not flinch. The piss continued to flow from her system, and she felt relieved, finally, to rid herself of the burden, which previously she had not noticed due to necessity of staying focused upon the more pressing issues of the night.
Finally, she finished, and she rose carefully, pulling up her pants after wiping herself with a Kleenex. She looked once more upon the big black bird that had by now seemingly forgot her presence, as he continued his feast upon the carrion that he himself may probably have hastened unto death.
By this time, Phelps had moved some distance from her, but seemed undecided as to the direction they should go. She joined him at his side, as she could yet hear the curious footfalls that seemed to follow behind her. She pointed the way to Phelps, and then proceeded to lead the way. After another ten minutes, they found the car, seemingly unmolested. She checked the tires, the battery, the carburetor, and the plugs. Everything seemed to be in place.
“What if those fuckers are hiding around here waiting for us to come to this car”, Phelps asked.
“No, I doubt that the woman would take the chance that we might have called for help by now”, she said. “I’m sure they’re gone. Lucky thing for you, as I don’t think you would last long as a human punching bag.”
Phelps ignored the taunt and walked to the road. Looking all around, he saw no sign of anybody, as Grace started the ignition. It started without a hitch. She realized she would have to ditch the automobile. At least she had accomplished one thing this night. She had discovered proof of her suspicions as to Grady’s complicity with the Russian mafia and its Romanian branch, and in particular with its fellow American travelers. Moreover, as an extra bonus, she knew now that Luke Morrison was involved. It just kept getting better and better. She had special plans for that son-of-a-bitch.
The trip back home was a long one, but it was still early in the morning, well before dawn, when they arrived at Grace’s house.
“Oh, so now on top of everything else, I don’t even get a ride home”, Phelps said as they pulled up to her apartment.
“You don’t want a piece of pussy, fine with me”, she said. I was going to let you fuck me before we left the farm, but I knew you were too afraid to stay around there any more. I thought you’d have yourself together by now.”
“Well, I’m broke”, Phelps said.
“No charge”, she said. “You’ve been a big help. I want something from you though. I want you to hold off on this story for a few days, until I can do a little fact checking on these two people. I also want to dig a little into our late lamented follower. Just for a few days, I promise, and then you can do the story. We, actually, can do the story. My by-line, your pictures. Is it a deal?”
Phelps laughed. He was astounded at Grace, in her obvious opinion of her desirability. Of course, she was a great fuck, going by just the one time he had her before.
“Okay, agreed”, he said. “No more than a week, though-two at the most”.
Grace agreed, whereupon they went up to her apartment. She took a quick shower, whereupon Phelps decided he most definitely needed one as well. While he was cleaning himself thoroughly of the mental garbage, as much as the physical dirt that had this past night assaulted every fiber of his senses, Grace started her computer and, lighting up a cigarette, she extracted the disc of family photos and home movies that had been the possession of the Krovell family.
She had almost forgotten the strange, balding, overweight man she had met at the John Hopkins University Hospital Emergency Room, but now there he was, in a series of photos, some with other members of the family. There was a young man who was obviously Marlowe. There were two more-a man and woman she thought were his parents. Yes, that was who they were, she decided, as she remembered seeing their photos from the story of their deaths that the Sun had covered months earlier. In these photos, they were considerably younger.
Then, something strange happened. There was a series of photos of what appeared to be cadavers. All of them were either grown women, or young girls. She actually recognized the last one, a girl by the name of Mary Evans, who had died just recently, had drowned in her family’s heated pool because of a drug overdose. This had occurred a few weeks after the deaths of the Krovells, and shortly before Grace had met Brad Marlowe at the hospital emergency room.
She sat back and watched in unsurprised curiosity, and almost some whimsy, as Brad began engaging in sex with her and, as the show unfolded, with many more corpses as well. Someone was obviously photographing him doing so. This took up a great deal of the DVD, and after a while Grace found it monotonous, and so started speeding through it.
Then she saw something altogether unexpected. There was young Marlowe, at about the age of twelve it seemed, hovering over the body of a dead girl of about his age. Brad was there as well, as was Richard Krovell. For the first time, there was more than just background noise, as Richard insisted that Marlowe had to learn to put his feelings away, and do his job. Brad seemed somewhat perturbed, even sympathetic, but offered no objection, even though Marlowe looked more than just a little distraught at the prospect of engaging in work on the body of this girl.
He proceeded to his work, and actually conducted the majority of it. From time to time, his father would appear and take over briefly, after which Marlowe would then resume. At one point he was actually left alone to work on the body of the dead girl. Grace noted now how the camera had remained fixed in place and not followed any of the people around, a circumstance that often caused their removal from the range of the camera. Still, at one point she thought she could hear sobbing.
After a couple of minutes, the sobbing stopped, and young Marlowe walked back into camera range. He suddenly seemed to be addressing the corpse.
“What?” he asked. “Linda, I’m sorry”
Then, he started once again, crying loudly. In a couple of minutes, he pulled himself together. Grace found herself so engrossed in what she was seeing, she watched him continue with his work for more than twenty minutes. Incredibly, when his father once more returned and offered to take over for him, Marlowe actually refused. The entire procedure went on for some time, while Grace started to wonder what was keeping Phelps so long. She checked on him, only to find that he was on the commode.
“I’m feeling pretty sick”, he explained. “Do you have anything for nerves, an upset stomach, and for a headache?”
“All of that?’ she said. “I have Tylenol and Pepto-Bismol. That is about it. Maybe you should just lie down and rest for a while.”
As she said this she returned to the DVD, and the long ago drama still playing out on her computer screen. Marlowe was now standing once more alone beside Linda, the dead girl, and told her he loved her. Interesting, she thought. What must that be like, to perform an in-depth embalming and preparation process on the body of a young girl, and you yourself a young man who felt, as this young man obviously did, a great deal of emotional attachment toward the object of your work? Had his parents been aware of this? Obviously, if not at the time, they would quickly have learned of it. At least somebody would have.
Phelps was now throwing up, and seemed to be very sick. He would not likely be engaging in sex tonight. Therefore, Grace would have to come up with some other enticement to insure he kept the nights information between the two of them for a week or two. He was not only sick, but he was still very upset. In fact, Grace was certain he was crying, though evidently trying to contain himself. She continued watching as Brad returned to Marlowe’s side.
“Beat it, kid”, he said. “I’ll finish up here.”
Marlowe left, and Brad turned at the sound of the upstairs door shutting, looking as though to make sure Marlowe had actually left. He then, as Grace expected, began having sex with the body of the young girl, beginning as he most often did by the performance of cunnilingus, augmented by a series of groping various body parts, and finally ending in fornication. He seemed far more turned on, Grace noted, with his ordinary sexual proclivities, than by his one profoundly distasteful and quickly concluded incident with her at the motel.
She wanted to kick herself when she realized that she should have offered him a blowjob, something she doubted Mr. Brad Marlowe had ever experienced. That would be something few corpses could hope to compete with, she mused, as the DVD went blank, only to resume with yet another of Brads many “conquests”.
Quickly tiring of this, she fast-forwarded the DVD closer toward the end. There was Brad Marlowe again, even younger this time, and there was the likewise younger Krovell couple, as Grace realized that the further the DVD went toward the end, the further back in time it went. Brad almost looked handsome, though still overweight and even at this relatively young age showing signs of balding. He also looked somewhat morose, and almost even fragile. Ah, and there was Marlowe, who at this point could not have been any older than somewhere between eight and ten. She magnified the time stamp on the lower right hand corner of her screen. July 1993. Yes, Marlowe would have been eight years old.
Phelps now came back out of the bathroom.
“Finally”, she said. “I was starting to think I was going to have to piss in a pot.”
“You could have said something, you know”, he said, as she put the home movie on pause, and made her way toward the toilet.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“The Krovell family”, she said. “Remember that mortician that was killed by his wife in some kind of murder suicide incident a few months ago? Them.”
“What were those people doing with it?” he asked. “They have something to do with it?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out”, she said, as she sat there pissing with the door open, looking at him with a smile. He turned away. Yep, he’s starting to be his old self again, she thought. She finally finished, and then returned to the living room where Phelps awaited. Hopefully, he would not want to watch any of the video. He had obviously seen all he could stand to process for one night.
“I piss once tonight while a black vulture and a wolf is staring at me, only to piss a second time to see two-in-one wanting to leer at me but ashamed to do so”, she teased. “So, are you ready for me, scavenger?”
“There’ll never be another like you, Grace,” he said, with a bemused smile and a swing of the head. “I think I need to call it off for tonight. I just am not in the mood for anything. Don’t’ worry, I’ll keep your secret. For one week, that’s it. Maybe two, if you come through later. Right now, I just want to sleep, and I want to stay here tonight. I just am not in the mood to make the nine-mile drive home. Who knows, maybe tomorrow I’ll be more in the mood.”
“That’s fine, Phelps”, she said. “So, why not take your jacket off and stay awhile?”
“I need to walk around a little, get some fresh air”, he said. “Besides, I need to get a pack of smokes. I have seen what the shit you smoke, and I need something with a kick to it, now more than ever. Like a non-filtered kick. Can I get you anything?”
“Come to think of it I can use a pack of Winston”, she said. “Light, please”.
“Got’cha covered”, Phelps said. “The fresh air will do me some good anyway. It’s a seven block walk, but this is a pretty safe neighborhood, ain’t it?”
“I hope for somebody carrying a gun it is”, she answered.
“After what I’ve been through tonight, I think nothing around here could ever scare me”, he replied. “Be back in a few,”
“Wait, I’ll tell you what”, Grace said. “I’ll make out a check, and you pick us up a twelve-pack of beer too. I could use some beer right now anyway, and I’m sure you can. That’s the least I can do for you. If there is anything else you want, go ahead and get it-within reason, of course.”
Grace hurriedly made out the check, and then handed it to him.
“Don’t be gone too long now”, she said, though she actually hoped he would take his time.
Grace smiled a polite smile of acknowledgement as he blew her a kiss. What a cornball, she thought, as she resumed the playing of the DVD.
Brad and Marlowe were taking their lunch into the living room, as someone mentioned something about an Orioles game. The tape then cut off temporarily, only to resume at the same day, probably just a few minutes later. Marlowe and his mother were down in the basement. He was asking her why she wanted him to go down there with here. Grace noted they were wearing the same clothes, but Mabel Krovell was acting much differently than she had been upstairs. She was acting suspiciously, as though not wanting to be overheard.
“Do you remember what we did in the bathroom last week?” she asked.
Marlowe looked away, as though frightened. No, more than just frightened. Ashamed. In fact, he looked as though he was humiliated.
“Answer me, Marlowe”, she said. “Do you remember what we did in the bathtub last week? How I came in, took my clothes off, got in it with you, and-“
“Yes”, Marlowe moaned. “And I told you I don’t ever want to do that again, I-“
“You threatened to tell your father on me, I know”, she said. “So, I already told him. He knows.”
“You did what?” Marlowe demanded in shock.
“Only I told it my way. I told him you forced me. You got in the tub with me and forced yourself on me. He is mad at you, Marlowe. He has even been thinking of having you put in a home for bad kids. Do you know what that would be like? What if word got out why you were there? As I said, Marlowe, your father is very mad at you. Can’t you tell? As for me, I am very hurt as well as disappointed in you and your attitude.”
“It’s wrong”, Marlowe said. “And you lied, I’m going-“
“You’re going to what, Marlowe, tell him the truth? Tell him that I wanted to have sex with you, and made you do it? Whom do you think he would believe, Marlowe-his wife, whom he loves and has loved for years, or you, who disappoints him on a weekly basis? A boy who has been caught in lies several times?”
As Grace watched this recorded drama unfold, she lit a cigarette, and wished she had some popcorn, and that Phelps would get his black ass back with the beer. On the other hand, it was just as well. This was something Phelps would not be in the frame of mind to deal with tonight, of all nights.
Mabel Krovell now demanded that Marlowe, her eight-year-old son, play along with her. If he did so, she would tell his father that Marlowe had been overwhelmed by the flu medication he had been on at the time. He had just not been himself when he entered his mother’s bathtub and forced himself on her. However, he had to do everything she told him from here on out.
“Including now, Marlowe”, she said as she started unclothing. As she did so, she lay upon the large metal table ordinarily used for the embalming of dead bodies. She was now demanding that Marlowe eat her pussy, and Marlowe, though offering one weak, pleading objection, yet tearfully and ashamedly did as she demanded. After a few minutes, his mother then pulled him with her legs towards him as he unzipped his pants, the erect penis barely visible from the vantage point of the lens of the silent, hidden camera that recorded everything, including even the glaze that now seemed to come over Marlowe’s eyes as he breathed deeply, and moaned loudly.
The phone then rang, and Grace answered. It was Phelps, calling from the neighborhood Speedway Station, just seven blocks away. The manager wanted voice verification of her check, she explained. The manager then got on the phone, whereupon Grace Rodescu repeated the information printed on the check. Then she got Phelps back on the phone.
“You got the beer and the smokes, right?” she asked.
“All that and a bag of chips”, Phelps replied. “And dip. That all right?”
You say you like chips and dip more than pussy, fine with me”, she teased.
“Hardeharhar”, he said. “You say I can go ahead and hand that story and pictures into the Explorer tomorrow?”
“I got your camera”, she replied.
“You wouldn’t”, Phelps said anxiously.
“Calm down, I’m just kidding”, she said. “I could use some anyway, I’m starving and there ain’t shit here but baloney and bread with mustard, and some pop. Chips and dip sound good. Just hurry back.”
He assured her he would, whereupon he hung up. She lit up what turned out to be her last cigarette as she returned her attention to the DVD. Marlowe had finished performing his mother’s demands, and he was crying. He was crying, and she was laughing.
What a fucking bitch, Grace thought, as The DVD suddenly went blank. After just a few seconds, however, it resumed, and they were back upstairs. There was Mabel and Marlowe, along with Brad, and two other people.
They were two older people, and they joined Brad and the Krovells in singing “Happy Birthday” to the just turned eight-year-old Marlowe, who looked aloof, sullen. He briefly met his father’s gaze, and he his, and in that one moment, Grace could tell-he knew everything. It was a game, some kind of sick head fuck that went on for no telling how many years.
Grace once again magnified the imprint of the original time-stamp of the old film, and saw the date-June 1st 1993. The newer time-stamp showed more clearly the date of transference to disc as being May 10th of this year. Marlowe’s parents had been dead for about half a year. So who had done the transference? For that matter, who was the unseen person who recorded the original film, those parts of it done by hand, such as this part here?
Grace could hear the man being addressed in the party film, which featured presents from each member of the family. Yet, though Grace could hear his voice, he never stepped into the picture, not even when young Marlowe Krovell suddenly broke down and started sobbing uncontrollably. His Uncle Brad looked unnerved at this, even distraught, and seemed genuinely concerned, asking him what was wrong.
However, the older man, whom she had heard Richard Krovell address as “dad”, the man Brad called Martin, waved him off. Martin Krovell, Marlowe’s grandfather, now derided Marlowe as a weakling. A man never cries, he informed him, and young boys who cry never become men. He then looked at the parents and winked, while Richard Krovell smiled a sadistic smile. Then, the woman who was evidently Marlowe’s grandmother declared that she would be happy she and her husband would finally be moving to Florida and away from Baltimore. She then told the unseen cameraman to stop filming, as such a record would be an embarrassment to the family history.
Grace looked over all of them at the same time. She got a good look at the Krovells and at Brad Marlowe, who seemed more uncomfortable than angry. Finally, she focused on the two older people, the two people that called themselves Martin and Nancy Krovell.
Suddenly, Grace felt overwhelmed by an inexplicable feeling of sadness, followed by a mounting rage. She looked upon the family, at the ostensible occasion of a young child’s eighth birthday party, and her stomach started churning. She was becoming hot, and dizzy, and started to feel weak, and then sick. She made it to the bathroom just in time to eject the majority of the vomit into the toilet, though she halfway heaved some up by the time she got to her bathroom door. She could feel the puke burning her nostrils as she tried with all her strength to restrain it until she finally reached the commode. When she did so, she found to her dismay that she felt no better. The room was starting to spin. Weakly, she pulled herself away from the commode, and made her way back to the desk chair and the computer. She removed the disc, and turned off the computer.
After replacing the DVD in its case, she found she could not get the faces of the people out of her mind. They spun around seemingly in the opposite direction as she did. They alternated from Marlowe, to Bradley, to Richard, and Mabel, and finally to Martin and Nancy Krovell. Then, they finally seemed to merge into one face, a mask of sheer horror, a head without a face, a demonic entity shrouded in darkness. She then went into dry heaves, but for just a brief period of time, when she suddenly noticed there were insect bites marks all over her arms and legs. Chigger and mosquito bites, she realized. They had made large welts on her arms, her hands, and even on her cheeks. They itched, and for a few seconds she scratched uncontrollably.
The last words on the DVD, those spoken by Martin and Nancy Krovell, suddenly resounded in her mind. She could hear them, repeatedly, intermingled with the laughter of Mabel, amidst the anguished and silent though obvious despair of Marlowe, the perplexed uncertainty of Brad, and the incisive, leering gaze of Richard. She became ever dizzier as she continued to hear the words spoken during those final seconds of the DVD.
“Now that we’ve decided to retire, it’s time to live the good life”, Nancy said. “I hope you don’t feel like we are abandoning you, but it so happens that is just what we are doing.”
“But you will always be in our thoughts”, her husband Martin now said with a wry smile.
Grace felt sick still, but knew she had nothing left inside her to puke. She was hurting. She needed a fix. Therefore, she fished around inside the inner pocket of her jacket until she found the hidden, secret compartment that contained the heroin she had swore she would never again take. Despite this vow, she kept it with her. The overwhelming urge had crept up on her suddenly, as it had so often done in the past. It had always been a nagging pain, but she had controlled it over these last few months.
She started to cry as she entered the kitchen, and started to heat the water she would need to mix the powder from the packet, the powder that she would have to cool enough then to inject into her oft-abused veins. She could not wait until it boiled, to say nothing of the extra minutes it would then take to cool to a safe level of warmth, and so she merely allowed the water to get hot enough to ensure she achieved the adequate solution. Her body was suddenly wracked with pain, as she suctioned the formula up into the syringe. She quickly found a rag, and tied it expertly around her arm. Aware that her mental state was not conducive to insuring accuracy, she tested the contents numerous times to insure a lack of air bubbles.
She then pulled at the makeshift tourniquet with her teeth, and tied it as tightly as she could. She tapped a vein in her lower left arm. It seemed to be adequate. Just one more time, she promised herself. After what she had seen this night, she was certainly justified. All she wanted was to rest, to sleep. If Phelps returned, and fucked her while she was wasted, so much the better, she reasoned. He could have what he wanted and she did not have to know about it. All she cared about now was getting through the rest of this night.
She injected the heroin, as she noted that it was now raining, and there was even some lightning. Good, she thought. This will hold Phelps up for a while, and give her a chance to hide the evidence of her failure to control her lifelong addiction. Possibly, he would merely surmise that she was exhausted, that the events of the evening had all caught up with her.
She felt now the rush from her bloodstream, into her body and mind, of the dream-like state she so secretly longed for, yearned for, and the desire for which she could never completely free herself from. She replaced the syringe and the now empty vial of heroin in the secret compartment of her jacket. Then, she moved herself slowly over to the sofa, and collapsed down upon it. The room was still spinning around, but now in a good way, in a welcome way. She finally felt serene, at peace with herself for the first time in months. She was a fool to think she would ever be any different. Why should she be?
“I am that I am”, Grace now said, repeatedly, as she started to fade into a semi-wakeful dream state that seemed to go on forever. She could still see the people on the DVD, but now they seemed clownish and ridiculous. As they gradually started to fade, she could hear what seemed to be the barely contained cackling of an insane man, but this faded as well. She was now feeling so much better. It was all nothing but a dream, her life.
A series of loud and assertive knocks at the door, however, interrupted this welcomed trance state. For a long time Grace ignored the knocks. Despite this, they seemed to grow successively louder. Then, she remembered something.
“Phelps”, she whispered, barely able to hear herself speak. She knew then she had locked the door. She pulled herself up, and she tried to shout at him to wait, but it only came out as a whisper. Still, Phelps must have heard the whisper. He stopped knocking. She made it to the door and unlocked it. Now he would know she had shot up again. She did not care. She opened the door and smiled a dazed, dreamy smile. Phelps wanted pussy too much to bother with a lecture, she realized.
It was not Phelps, however, and the young woman with the goatee and moustache tattoo did not carry beer and a bag of groceries, but a hand-held tracking device and a pistol.
“You fucked up big time, bitch”, the woman said, as she fired a shot from the gun. As Grace collapsed to the floor, she could feel the blood pouring from a wound from which she strangely felt no pain.
That was good, Grace thought to herself. That was all right. She just wanted to rest. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
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