Sentinel Of Liberty-Symbol Of Justice

Well, we've just gone through another annual remembrance of 9/11. Rather than post yet another maudlin set of obligatory sentiments, or angry rants, I thought I'd do something a bit different. I kind of got this idea from the recently passed Senate testimony of General David Petraeus. The controversial remarks of the Democrats on the sub-committee holding the hearings (most especially those put forward by those Democrats currently engaged in a run for the Democratic nomination for the presidency in the 2008 election), are most remarkable.

Petraeus's remarks are of course meant to stiffen the spine of those Republican factions who fear their electoral re-election prospects if things don't work out. Petraeus was the man sent to stiffen it for them. I am not saying that he was lying in his remarks, just that, of course, he was going to say what he said. He didn't have to clear it through the WHite House. The WHite House knew what his report would be when they put hi in charge of the Surge to begin with. Luckily for the White House, it worked as good as it did. I am not believing for one minute Petraeus was lying.

Unfortunately for the White House, it just did not work well enough. The country will remain as divided as it has been for now these four and a half years. The only difference is, the balance is tilting toward the left, as it has year after year. And the longer it drags on, the more it will continue to drift to the left.

The left wants the job over. The right wants the job done. See the distinction? The American public at large-not the party bases or fringes, just the average American voter-would prefer it be done right, but more importantly, they just want it over and done with.

Iraq is one issue that is to me too complicated to solve with a sound bite or a pre-packaged political position. There is too much at stake, and the political aspects of the war are as profoundly disturbing as any other aspect of it, maybe more so. We are, in effect, as a nation ripped apart by this war. That is all I know for sure.

Well, I do know one other thing. I know who should have been sent to Iraq.




I know who should have been sent to Iraq, but it never happened. He would have been one hell of a morale booster had he been sent. He could have single-handedly busted an Al-Queda cell bent on destruction, and might have saved captured prisoners held as hostages.

He could have taken on the Mahdi Army and sent them all running in fear of their lives.

However, don’t think for one minute he would have been a mindless automaton. He would have gone after corrupt bureaucrats in not only the Iraqi government, but would have eagerly busted extortion rackets conducted by self-serving American contractors.

Unfortunately, it’s too late for all that now. He’s dead. Shot down by a sniper working in conjunction with his own brainwashed lover, outside of a federal courthouse in Manhatten.

Even fans of Captain America were so divided over the Iraq War, Marvel Comics knew they couldn’t possibly have pleased both sides.

Liberal fans wanted the company to portray Cap as an outspoken critic of the Bush White House, lamenting US involvement in the Iraq War and the allegedly deceptive way Bush manipulated us into the conflict. Conservative fans of the comic book hero, however, urged he be used in pretty much the same fashion he was used during World War II, during which at one point sales of Captain America, published by what was then known as Timely Comics, outsold Time Magazine.

Jack Kirby and Joe Simon created him specifically as a rallying cry against Hitler’s Nazi regime in 1941. The first issue appeared months before Pearl Harbor. The cover portrayed Cap punching Adolf Hitler* square in the face. From that point on, Captain America and his teenage partner Bucky were stalwart defenders of American values and justice against the Nazi menace.

After the war, the strip ended, though there were several unsuccessful attempts to revive the character in the late forties and early fifties. His return in the early sixties revealed he had been frozen in Arctic ice in a state of suspended animation since just before the end of the war, due to an incident that cost the life of friend and partner Bucky (who was finally revived years later as “Winter Soldier”). The less successful late forties and early fifties returns eventually were explained as attempts by well-meaning imitators to keep the Captain America legend alive.

He fought as the eventual leader of The Avengers (who rescued him from suspended animation) and in his own strip, where for a while he shared equal billing with Iron Man before going on to star in his own full length adventure series.

His major villain was The Red Skull, an old Nazi adversary who also was in suspended animation for decades. He as well rose from a decade’s long sleep to perpetrate yet more evil. In the end, the Skull took his life through the auspices of a hired assassin, Crossbones, though the fatal shot was fired by the hypnotized Sharon Carter, his long time on-again, off-again lover.

Captain America had resisted American government efforts to register all persons with super powers. This effort lead to a civil war in which heroes who supported the measure fought against others, like Cap, who did not. In the end, Cap decided to call off the war. He was on his way to testify in federal court when he was shot and killed. After the funeral, the Avengers and Namor, the Sub-Mariner, secretly returned his body to the Arctic ice from which they rescued him decades before. Namor, at times heroic, at times villainous, is now on good terms with the Avengers, and swore no one would disturb the sleep of Steve Rogers, aka Captain America. It was Namor, by the way, who discovered Cap’s ice-encapsulated body, worshiped by an indigenous Arctic tribe. The Avengers pursued him at the time, and when he tossed the frozen body into the ocean, they found it.

Of course, Marvel will eventually revive him, as they did once before. Captain America’s origin is as follows-Steve Rogers, as a young man of weak physique and poor health who wanted to do what he could for his country, yet being physically unfit for military duty, was chosen as a guinea pig in an experiment. He received a series of injections and oral ingestions, and subjection to a series of ray particle bombardments that transformed him almost within a mater of minutes into a “super soldier”. Unfortunately, the scientist who concocted the experiment had committed the formula to memory in order to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands. Following the experiment, a rather ridiculously and obviously dressed “Agent X” appeared in a trench coat with dark glasses and assassinated him.

Rogers’ identity was known but to a few, including Franklin Roosevelt, who presented him with a shield, made of a fusion of a steel alloy and “vibranium”, and which was almost indestructible. In addition to use as a defensive shield, he used the discus shaped implement as an offensive weapon, by throwing it, sometimes in ricochet fashion. The formula also transformed his speed and reflexes, as well as his strength, to the peak of human perfection.

Not long before his death, the formula used on Rogers turned out to have actually been a manufactured or mutated virus of some sort, and was the same basic virus, in modified format, that resulted in the creation of the X-Men hero Wolverine. The healing, regenerative capability of the virus provided an explanation for the ability of Rogers to languish in the ice in suspended animation. I have no doubt the virus will eventually be used as an excuse to revive him in the future-way in the future, evidently, after the Iraqi War has either been settled, or has become not quite the divisive issue that it is today.

That’s too bad, really. Like I said before, what would be the more perfect place for Captain America than in Iraq. He could play both sides, really, and stand as a unifying force.

*He could have fought crooked greedy contractors in addition to Iraqi insurgents and terrorists.

*He could have protected innocent Iraqi civilians from the few rogue soldiers that might abuse them, while making clear that these few examples are not the norm, not the typical American soldier, and most assuredly do not represent the best of American values.

*He could address the issue of the constant stress of multiple deployments that take their toll on even the most hardened, capable veteran. He could involve himself in the demands for adequate treatment of wounded veterans.

He could do all these things and more, and at the same time remain the same symbolic figure of true American patriotism he has always been. An antagonist caught up in the war, unsure of the rightness or wrongness of various aspects of it, yet at the same time, loyal to his country and its values.

The potential storylines could have been endless.

He could have avenged the rape of a young Iraqi girl, and then protected her from the wrath of her father, who might feel she has brought ‘dishonor” on the family. He could have addressed other aspects of Islamic culture in such a way that might be educational, without being either apologetic or demeaning

He could have run-ins with treacherous Sunnis and Shia’s, and valorous Sunnis and Shia’s as well. He could find himself in Fallujah, in Anbar province, and among the Kurds. There would be so many plot potentials it staggers the imagination.

Of course, it would be controversial. The best comic books usually are. It was Marvel who lead the way-and DC quickly followed-in revolving storylines around social issues, such as drug abuse and racism, and eventually even rape, child abuse, and homosexuality.

Instead of this, unfortunately, Marvel wussed out, on what is arguably the major issue of our time. They didn’t want to offend any of their readers, so they took the cowards way out. WTF? If they had just thought it out, they could have sold more Captain America comics than has been sold since the earliest days of World War II.

Ironically, that would have been the best way to finally kill him off, in the middle of the Iraqi Civil War, fighting for truth, justice, and the American way, so to speak-for both sides and against both sides. Of course, if they wrote the script the way I envision it, and it sold like I think it would, I have no doubt they would change their minds pretty quick about killing him off.

Maybe some entrepreneurial, adventurous soul at Marvel will arrive at the same conclusion and take that plunge and bring him back, and send him to the Iraqi War.

I guess the only thing left to decide is who they want to illustrate him punching out on the first new issue’s cover-unfortunately, the more liberal readers would probably like to see him punching out *Dick Cheney. In a way, I can understand why they decided to kill him off. It's just too bad.

A Crazy Little Thing Called Synchronicity

In the upcoming Showtime series "Californication", David Duchovny (formerly of the Fox series The X-Files) portrays a hapless writer that is suffering from a profound depression resulting in a serious writer’s block. He can no longer write at all.

In addition, he suffers in this series, billed as a "screwball sex comedy", from a condition known as satyriasis. He throws himself into one ill-advised sexcapade after another. Once with two married women, another time with a "random bimbo", and yet another time with a 16 year old sadist. He has another affair of sorts with a hot nun, though only in a dream sequence.

And all this is only in the pilot episode.

Yet, you would think things would be looking up for him. He has written a serious novel, which he seems, at least in his own mind, to put on the level of a Faulkner work, or on a par perhaps with John Steinbeck.

Not only is the novel-titled "God Hates Us All"- a success, he has further experienced the good fortune to have his creative masterpiece picked up by a major motion picture studio for a screenplay adaptation. So, what could be the problem? Well, it seems like the finished production of the film has little in common with his original version. In fact, it has been vulgarized to the extent it has been made into what he considers a typical Hollywood commercial movie-a schlock piece now titled "A Crazy Little Thing Called Love" starring, of all people-Tom Cruise and Katy Holmes!

No word, by the way, as to whether TomKat will actually appear in the series. Tom at least does not particularly strike me as having that great a sense of humor.

At any rate, this is what they mean by synchronicity. In fact, it is almost a perfect example of it. When I first read about this up-and-coming series in the pages of Slate, I had recently played around in my head with the exercise of trying to figure out, if I should be so fortunate as to have my novel Radu published- if it did well enough to be made into a film-who would play first one character and another.

No, I have no parts in mind for Cruise. He is much too old to play a convincing Marlowe, far too young to play Father Khoska, and none of the other characters would be of sufficient importance to gain his interest. I admit I take a kind of sadistic pleasure in seeing him in the role of Uncle Brad, the necrophiliac mortician, but in all honesty, he is not exactly right for that part either. Therefore, Cruise is probably out of the running. It’s just as well. If he did agree to a minor role, he’d probably end up insisting the character’s part be expanded far beyond it’s originally intended significance, and in the meantime would demand the Goth characters all end up converting to Scientology.

I just have this feeling that I would end up feeling like Duchovny’s character in Californication. .



Honestly, I can do without Cruise anyway.

Katy, on the other hand, is a different matter. I can easily see her in the role of Grace. In fact, for now she is my first choice. She is the right age and looks the part as I see it. Moreover, I have faith in her acting ability. I really do mean that.



Surely, it would not be that much of a stretch for her to take on the role of a cold hearted, heroin addicted whore-grasping, manipulative, and bitter, yet able to come across in a sultry and maddeningly seductive manner as she juggles her reporting career with heroin use and blackmail. Just look at her




Yep, I think I’ve found my Grace.

Actually, if I can somehow finagle my way as to be in charge of casting, there might well be a casting couch in Katy’s future.



Yep, I can see it now. That would be some "Californication" I could really relate to. What's so bad about satyriasis anyway?

Enyalios And Christ-Praying While Greece Burns

Cartoon by Ilias Makris (Ekathimerini)

I have a strange idea that we are now in the period of history repeating itself in a big way in Greece. The whole damn country is up in flames, or at least the whole southern part. I mean, this is something that is on a level that is unprecedented. We’ve had the Chicago Fire, the San Francisco Fire, the Great Fire of London, The Fire of Rome-all child’s play. This makes all of them together, in terms of area affected, look like a small brush fire.

My question is, has this happened before? Something happened in Greece, more than three thousand years ago, that brought about the end of the Mychaenaean Era, and ushered in a period of roughly five hundred years duration known as “The Dark Ages”.

Here’s the thing-no one seems to know for sure what it was, or who or what caused it. Tablets written in what has been termed “Linear B” Greek gives only vague clues that something horrific was transpiring. They contained orders for sacrificial rites to Poseidon, Hera, Zeus, and a multitude of other deities. In fact, the Mychaenaean Greeks, it turns out, worshipped almost all of the major deities we know today, and did so before the actual arrival of the ancestors of the modern Greeks (known them as Argives and Achaeans), who adopted the Mychenaean deities as well as the language.

Some of the Linear B tablets were degraded, and seemed to have been scribbled on as though in a great hurry, as in the midst of a dire multi-city state calamity. Yet, there is no written record of what that emergency was. Some of the tablets had even been erased, and written over, with specific instructions for sacrificial rites and offerings of incense, animals, and what might have even been human sacrifices.

One of the deities predominant in these ritual instructions was a god named Enyalios-technically, the true original name of Ares. Why? I asked a Greek friend the meaning of the name once, but he was unknowledgeable about ancient Greek paganism-even classical Greek religions. He seemed to think the name Enyalios denoted peace, calm, and had something to do with water. I assumed his unfamiliarity with the subject merely led him to the wrong interpretation.

Still, he may have been on to something. Could Enyalios have originally been invoked as a deity that brought peace by way of total destruction and annihilation of the enemy? That leads to the question-what, in this case, was the enemy? Could it have actually been, not a human invading force-but a fire, a great conflagration that swept the whole of the Greek mainland, or a very substantial portion of it?

Maybe there is just something about the Greek mainland, or perhaps a combination of factors, that lends itself to this phenomenon. It’s position at the Mediterranean and from the equator, the overall make-up of the land, it’s physical features and plant life, etc., under the further combination of the right atmospheric conditions, might encourage such a conflagration on a fairly regular basis-every three thousand years or so. If this is correct, it might also go some way toward verifying that the period of global warming we are going through now might in fact be to at least a large degree cyclical.

One thing is known about this period concerning the destruction of Mychaenaea-there was a fire involved. A great many of the ruins dating from the era verify this. That is all that anyone really knows. Who would have thought it might well turn out to be that the fire in question was nothing but a completely natural phenomenon, with no other apparent causes or reasons, or any intentional provocation on the part of any potential adversary? The fire consumed an entire region. It brought such devastation and despair even the deities seemed helpless in the face of it, or possibly culpable. I should point out that, in this latest fire, there was an accompanying earthquake on an island some 185 miles southwest of Athens. Could this as well have been a factor?

Now, fortunately, it seems the remaining major fire in the region finally seems to be under control. As the government teeters on the brink of collapse for their weak response to the disaster, the EU has stepped in and has in fact supplied most of the aid Greece has received. The English language Greek newspaper Ekathimerini heralds this in its editorial pages as proof of the wisdom of Greek affiliation with the EU.

What, they would not have lifted a finger to help in such a disaster if Greece was not a member of the EU? The US could not help, or would not? It would seem to be the case that politicians, bureaucrats, and pundits the world over cannot resist using even tragedies of this proportion to help further their agendas. Who knows, it is even possible the US has been discouraged from giving assistance in order to further the willingness of the overall Greek population to throw in with the EU.

The first step seems to be working. Understandably, Greeks are calling for accountability from their government, whose response to the disaster has been tepid at best. To their credit, arguably, the fires did no damage to ancient sites and artifacts. Otherwise, and for the most part, it seems to have been too much for them, other than going around the country arresting some individuals for arson. True, this might have been somewhat of a factor. Yet, in the meantime, while the EU is fighting fires, the Greek government seems mainly preoccupied with hunting boogey men.

As might be expected, the fires and the resultant smoke have been declared an overall danger to the world, due to the carbon factor. Yes, somebody somewhere decided this would be a perfect opportunity to ratchet up the Chicken Little Global Warming rhetoric yet another notch.

I guess the European Union could easily be compared to the Argive invasion. In the meantime, Greek Orthodox Priests stand around waving incense censors while they piously pray, though to no effect-as did Pagan Priests in days of old.

A Little Sympathetic Magic

Cartoon from Cox And Forkum

Thanks to Hillbilly White Trash

Senator Larry Craig is finished. Well, no surprise there. The authorities have doubtless been getting complaints out the wazzoo for months now about unsavory characters tapping foots from adjoining bathroom stalls at the Minneapolis Airport. Who knows what else they do trying to pick men up? If I’m in the stall at a men’s bathroom, the last thing I would want is some creep playing footsie with me, and sticking his hand over on my side. I think that’s called, in some quarters, invasion of privacy?

Who would have though that one of the people they would have nabbed in a sting operation would have been a Republican Senator from Idaho who has opposed gay rights, to the point of supporting a constitutional amendment which would effectively ban gay marriage in any state of the union?

Nevertheless, as a person who in fact supports gay marriage, and gay rights in general-depending on how you define the word “rights”, that is-I thought I might do my part to concoct a little guide to public bathroom behavior. It will get the message across in a satisfactory way, and in such a fashion as to, hopefully, afford some degree of protection against malicious prosecution.

STEP ONE-Take your position inside the bathroom at any public place. The more heavily populated is the area, and the more widely used the facility, the greater your likelihood of success. Prior to entering the stall, stand at the sink and wash your hands thoroughly. Do this continuously until the entrance of a person who meets your criterion.

STEP TWO-Notice the person’s age. Hum, or whistle, an appropriate tune as he walks past you. If he looks to be in his fifties or sixties, perhaps “Sugar Sugar” by “The Archies, for example, “Light My Fire” or “Touch Me” by The Doors, or “Born To Be Wild” by Steppenwolf.

If the gentleman in question is considerably younger, then you might prefer to make use of a song more pertinent to his era-something by Nellie if he is black, for example. If he looks like more of a metal head, a more hardcore sound would be preferable. If he is an older metal head, I might suggest “Enter The Sandman” by Metalica.

If he is a younger metal head, however, I strongly urge you to avoid any thing by that group, as they are considered by most young metal lovers to have “sold out”. If you are his age, you might want to consider something by such a group as Rammstein. If, however, you are considerably older than he is, you might want to incorporate a generation bridging song, such as “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osborne. That way, you need not worry about sounding prententious.

IMPORTANT –DO NOT SING. YOU MUST BE ABLE TO INCORPORATE NOT ONLY THE LYRICS OF THE TUNES BUT ANY APPROPRIATE GUITAR RIFFS (WHOEOW’S AND NYANG’S), KEYBOARD NOTES (DA DA’S), BASS RIFFS (“WHOM-BO-DOE’S) AND PERCUSSION BEATS (GHINGG’S AND BO-DOP’S),ETC.

Once your target chooses his stall, you must waste no time. Position yourself in an adjoining stall. If you are lucky, he will have chosen the stall that is the second from the end closest to the wall and farthest from the entrance to the bathroom. If he does, you can make a point of going to the very last stall.

Why is this important? Simply put, by choosing the side of him that makes it impossible for another person to enter a stall on your other side-as there will be none-you are telling him that you are so impressed with him, he is the only one you want, and no one else will do.

If he is one of those older metal heads I mentioned before, you might want to now consider humming “Nothing Else Matters” by Metalicca. Otherwise, something else, though not the same song as you hummed before. In fact, you might want to make clear to him that you are looking for some gay action by humming a medley.

Finally, if he makes no response, yet has not left the stall, drop down to your knees and pray out loud. Pray facing his direction, leaning against the divider between your two stalls. Pray for good health, good fortune for all your friends, and for the chance to meet a man whom you would be willing to share a portion of your substantial wealth with for nothing but a brief five minute or so tryst inside an airport restroom facility.

Your pants should be down around your knees as you kneel against the side of the stall that is facing him. As you pray, you should fantasize about the sex you want to have with him. However, do not say it aloud, as you might be bordering on lude and lascivious conduct should this be overheard. Instead, allow your penis to become sufficiently hard so that it rises, and protrudes over to his side of the divider between the two of you.

He might become shocked and intimidated by this. In order to minimize the potential for this, a little humor might help to relieve the tension. Prior to your arrival at the airport, paint a smiley face on the head of your dick.

Well, that’s about it. Happy hunting. Remember, no matter what anyone says, you’re not queer-just a little strange.

Hillary's Not So Ancient Chinese Secret

There’s a lot of controversy over financial contributions to the campaign of Democratic Senator Hillary Clinton allegedly being funneled from the People’s Republic of China through Johnny Hsu, who was accused of doing he same thing during the re-election campaign for President Bill Clinton in 1996.

It’s easy to see why. Bill Clinton, after all, pushed through Congress an agreement for certain American companies to sell their technology to China, in a move that benefited the Asia behemoth in myriads of ways-scientifically, economically, and what is perhaps most ominous of all, militarily.

Does it necessarily follow, however, that Clinton was “on the take”, or that Hillary Clinton has similarly compromised her principles? Well, no, not really. On the other hand, while there is an alternative explanation, it isn’t really any better.

Bear in mind that, when a PAC donates money to a political candidate, that candidate doesn’t necessarily always approach the potential donor for campaign donations (although in a good many cases it is safe and reasonable to assume they do). In a great many cases, if not the vast majority of them, such a PAC seeks the candidate out, not the other way around. Therefore, if the national Rifle Association, to use one example, makes a campaign donation to the coffers of a candidate-in this case it will usually be a Republican-they do so based on that candidates history-not only his spoken words and campaign promises, but on his or her past performance. They know they have a friend, and they want to do their part to help their friend maintain their seat. It is, of course, to their benefit to do this.

So it is with the Clintons and the Chinese. The Chinese know they have a friend in the Clintons, and so they wish to help Hillary achieve her goal of becoming President. It is just as illegal, no more or no less, than if she had sought them out, but they will do it regardless. The fact that they got caught this one time they doubtless view as an unfortunate occurrence, but not an insurmountable difficulty.

The fact that Hillary turned the money over to some charity is also viewed no doubt as a misfortune, but not a tragedy. Nor is it viewed by either side as a revocation of an agreement. Technically speaking, there probably was never any such agreement between the two parties. After all, there was never any need for such an agreement. Just like the NRA donating money to a candidate with a history of support for the Second Amendment rights of private citizens to bear arms, no agreement is necessary. In the case of Hillary and the Chinese, it might not even be desirable. What is most pertinent is the recognition of a common, or at least a mutually beneficial philosophy.

That’s what’s so troubling about this story.

An Idiot's Guide To Suicide

The following primer should not be read by anyone under the influence of a bottle of over the counter medications, as the instructions contained herein require steady nerves, dedication, and clear intent.

There are people that search for the proper way to end their lives. Some people wish for a dramatic finale in a public setting. Others wish to inflict maximum damage, presumably in order to insure success, yet at the same time are desirous of privacy. There then are those who wish to leave this life peacefully, serenely, and yet physically intact.

In what we will refer to as Example A, the sincere seeker is likely to jump from the top of the tallest building from which he has access. Or, in some cases, he might well seek out a suitable bridge or highway overpass. On rare occasions, the person might dodge intentionally into the path of an approaching train, bus, or other such heavy vehicle. An ever growing trend in this day and age are those who, wishing to go out with a blaze of glory, confront the authorities, therefore involving themselves in what has been referred to as “suicide by cop.”

Example B is the more common route chosen by those who wish to “end it all”, and they more often than not do so with a bullet to the brain, either to the forehead, temple, or in some cases through the inside of the mouth. Many others might well opt for hanging instead. It has been noted that most of the people that opt for B are men. A examples seem also to be mostly men (though seemingly by not as large a majority).

Example C usually involves an overdose of medication, often accompanied by ingestion of alcohol. Women are the majority of suicide practitioners in this case, presumably due to vanity. (the reasoning being here not so much that women fear physical pain-they just want to go out looking their best).

There is a way to commit suicide that provides at least some elements of all three-

It has a great deal of the drama of Example A, though it is best not to try it in a public setting, but a private one which brings us the area of Example B, along with perhaps the most concise and appropriate reasoning employed by these folks-it is most effective, which is the preference of the B group. The C group as well are represented, in that the process is relatively peaceful, painless, and though it might well leave your hair a mess, you will at any rate remain relatively intact. Oh, and clean.

It has been legitimately referred to as “The Roman Method”, precisely because it was the preferred method of suicide practiced by ancient Roman aristocrats in the days of the ancient Roman Republic and following Empire. It is quite simple, but effective, to wit:

A. Draw a warm bath, and immerse yourself in the water. The water should be of relaxing warmth.
B. Using a sharp implement of your choosing, cut a major artery on your wrist. Do not cut across the artery, but at an upward angle, actually following the path of the artery, resulting in a deep and wide gash.

Then, just lie back and relax. The blood should flow at sufficient quantities as to hasten death, the warm water acting to prevent the blood from clotting.

Therefore, in conclusion, let us make clear the distinction, in the area of right way versus wrong way-

WRONG WAY

You take a bottle of pills. Oh, it might work, depending on the dosage and the strength, but there is a very good chance you will merely pass out, get very sick, and vomit up the pills before they have sufficient time to become absorbed in your system.

RIGHT WAY

You should take a bottle of pills as an auxiliary measure only, and this should be the last step.

WRONG WAY

You cut your vein in a single slash across the wrist. This is very unlikely to do the job, or at least the likelihood of success is far from certain.

RIGHT WAY

You cut upwards in your arm, into the artery and up a number of inches, to insure maximum blood loss.

WRONG WAY

You sit on your sofa, or your recliner, or at your kitchen table, or in your bed. If you do this, you are going to make a big mess for someone to have to clean up later.

RIGHT WAY

Climb into a bath of warm water. This prevents clotting, and doesn’t make a nasty mess. Most of the blood will go down the drain, like your life.

WRONG WAY

Wait until you are certain a loved one-such as a brother, for example-is soon to arrive.

RIGHT WAY

Make reasonably certain you will have no unexpected company, lock all your doors and windows, and turn out all your lights. It is best to wait until late at night to proceed, to decrease the likelihood of any interruptions. After all, if someone discovers you too soon, some might well assume that your suicide attempt is in reality nothing more than “a cry for help”.

Especially, that is, if you are a popular motion picture star, for example, who can command million of dollars per feature film.

Hat Tip to Pamela Morrison for providing the inspiration for this post

Pleasant Dreams

This is how fucked up the worlds leaders are. Afghanistan's opium production this year is at record levels. It's the biggest cash crop they are capable of growing in any appreciable amounts. Afghan farmers make good money selling it. We invade the country and what do the Western leaders propose? They should grow beans and corn and wheat. Yeah, okay, I'm sure they'll take that under advisement.

In the meantime, we diverted our resources from Afghanistan, so the place is about as fucked up as Iraq-at least as fucked up as Iraq. So the resurgent Taliban are back to paying top dollar for the opium, and are using the profits they make from selling the shit to Western countries-including the US and Britain-to fund their war.

So who are the Afghan farmers going to listen to-the Taliban, or the British-American cheese eaters? And please don't tell me about the potential for ethanol from growing corn.

Hey, why don't we buy the shit from them-or allow our pharmaceutical companies to buy it? Let them buy every last poppy plant and make-oh hell, I don't know-codeine? Morphine? Oxycontin? Why the fuck not? Because it would be so cheap then, the pharmaceuticals wouldn't be able to make one third the profit they make to relieve the pain of cancer or to hook people through the auspices of crooked physicians?

I don't know, just a thought. Also, I have an idea back in the distant past, Afghani Buddhist monks used to sit around in the caves of Tora Bora, and others, just sitting around smoking opium for the purposes of spiritual enlightenment. In fact, this probably was an ancient time honored ritual from ancient pagan days.

So maybe we can make the shit into a weapon, gasify it to the point it can be disseminated inside the caves. Maybe Al-Queda and the Taliban might get a whole new perspective on life.

Radu-Chaper XIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Segments:

Prologue and Chapters I-X


Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII



Radu-Chapter XIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
20 pages approximate

Joseph Karinsky was as pissed off as Sierra had ever known him to be, at least at her.

“I see now what you’re all about,” he said bitterly. “Fuck all of us, as long as you get to walk. Is that how it goes?”

“Did I tell you to kill a bunch of high school students,” Sierra demanded. “Did I encourage you to get some stupid kid that thinks with his dick to try to kill a teacher? How the hell was any of that supposed to benefit me, or any of us, can you explain that?”

He looked away, and made no reply.

“So, I was right,” she said. “Spanky has you wrapped around her little finger.”

“Bullshit!” he replied angrily. “I would have done the same for you or any of the others.”

“Well, the others wouldn’t have been that fucking stupid,” Sierra insisted. “Even Spiral Lamont would have had more sense than that.”

She knew she had to keep talking. Any sign of weakness would inflame Joseph much like a hungry bear, roused from her winter slumbers and stumbling upon a wounded deer. He would rip into her if she gave him the slightest such opening.

“Look, I’m not saying I really blame you for trying to make a deal,” Joseph said as he softened his tone. “It all worked out for the best anyway.”

“My faith in you was rewarded, despite everything,” he continued. “When you moved in with that reporter, you made it all work to our benefit. You found the pictures that bitch took of Larceny and Rhino at the farm, and the Leighton’s bodies. We got both copies of the film. Even if there is more, fuck it-we got the original as well as the negatives. Any other copies would be worthless.

“You came through for us when we needed you the most. That’s all I care about.

“Faith, Sierra,” he concluded as he adopted an uncharacteristically soothing tone with her. “Faith is what will keep us all together, and will make things work out for the best, for all of us.”

“So you’re saying you want me to stick around,” she said.

“Of course I do,” he said. “We’ve got to get the fuck out of Baltimore, though. It ain’t going to be safe around here. I just called Sherry, and I think Milo is more than happy to be getting out of here. Just the same, I need you to go around to their places and make sure their asses are in gear. Do that first, and then go to The Crypt. Gus should have everything ready by then.”

“You’re that worried about the 17th Pulse?”

Sierra was surprised Joseph would admit to being afraid of anything or anybody, but the Pulse was not exactly a casual threat to be taken lightly.

“I laid the blame for the poisoned pot off on them,” he explained. “If I was them I’d damn sure be looking to get our asses, wouldn’t you?”

“All right then, so we leave tomorrow night, right?” Debbie was still unsure as to whether she should go off with them. She wanted at times to rid herself of them, especially after they killed Spiral, who had been her best friend for years. Then, there was the influence of Debbie Leighton, who Sierra secretly hated from almost the first time she saw her. At the same time, Debbie was gone for good, as was Spiral, who really brought her fate on her own head with her infidelity with Marlowe, the absolute worse person with whom she could have been unfaithful.

“Where are we going anyway?” She asked Joseph this though her mind was far from made up.

“We’re going someplace where nobody will ever find us, just outside of town, for just a few days. After that, I’m thinking Baton Rouge, maybe in time New Orleans. It shouldn’t be that hard to fit in there once things are back to normal. I haven’t really decided yet, but we’ll all talk about it, and decide as a group.”

Sierra nodded her assent, and then said she would go check on the others’ progress. However, Joseph stopped her at the door.

“There is one other thing I’m curious about,” he said. “That CD, the one you and that so-called band The Mocktones made? I’ve been wondering just how Grace Rodescu ended up with a copy of it. I’m even more curious as to how she found the Leighton Farm. I don’t guess you have any theories about that, do you?”

She knew now she had to think fast. Joseph had taught her well, but for the same reason he knew how to see through her, and was in fact the only person she knew of that could do so. She knew she had to choose her words carefully, but not take too long in doing so.

“I passed out a bunch of those CDs,” she explained. “I purposely gave her one because I hoped she would review us in the Sun articles she was doing on Gothic sub-culture.”

Joseph gave her an exasperated look as he rolled his eyes.

“That would be the last thing you should want,” he said. “You guys were four of the most terrible musicians that ever plugged an amplifier inside a garage. What the fuck were you thinking? And how the hell did that lead her to the Leighton Farm?”

“I don’t know,” she said as she assumed a thoughtful pose. “I’m guessing Debbie said a bunch of shit to people that got rumors started, and since her name was on one of the tracks-“

“You and Debbie wrote a song together?”

“Yeah, it was called ‘Sweet Sixteen’ with Coming Home in parentheses. The crazy bitch wrote the lyrics and came to me one day, wanting me to put it to music. I did, and then the group recorded it. Grace told me it was the best song on the CD. That was really all that was said, that I know anything about.”

“Well, it almost got our asses hung, I hope you know that,” he said critically once more.

“I know that,” Sierra said. “But like you said, have a little faith, and everything will work out for the best.”

She left then and went straight to Milo’s apartment. She was surprised to see him sporting the most absurd Mohawk she ever saw. It was a bright almost neon green, and stood in a tall thin spike seemingly a full two feet from his head.

“Wow, couldn’t you have waited until we left to do that? You’re going to stand out like Michael Jackson in a day-care center.”

She was laughing as she said this, but was serious too. The last thing the group needed was to leave with an identifying characteristic sported by any of them that made them easier to track. Larceny was even getting rid of her moustache and goatee tattoo for this very reason. She was also going to allow her hair to grow back after they left. Now Milo has to go and pull this stunt. Yet, he acted unconcerned.

“Fuck the 17th Pulse,” he said. “They are a group of nobodies outside of Balmer, and what they are here is hyped like hell. So when the fuck is we leaving?”

“Are you sure you can?” she asked. “What about probation?”

“Over as of five days ago,” he said. “No thanks to you, by the way, you almost got me violated-you and your fucked up songs and your big mouth.”

“Yeah, I guess that tight little pussy not being around when you need some has got you kind of tense, huh? Well, you can always fuck her heifer aunt once more before you go. Or, there’s something else you can do”.

She bent down over her former boyfriend and gazed longingly in his eyes as he sat on the love seat and looked up at her expectantly.

“You can always have me back,” she said. “All you have to do is close your eyes, think about me, and jack off.”

“You want to get fucked up real good?” Milo asked her this as though unaffected by her obvious taunting. “It’s been way too long since I felt safe getting high. Now that I can finally do it, I want to get really good and fucked up. I think I am going to just float on out of Balmer when we leave tomorrow. I don’t even want this fucked up place to register in my mind as we go.

“I want to stay straight, at least until we’re out of here,” she replied. “And if you insist on getting fucked up, you damned well better be able to leave here on your own.”

He told her he would be fine. She looked around to see he had packed everything he intended to take with him, all in two suitcases and four backpacks. She looked back at him, and could tell he was in fact already stoned. With Milo, it was sometimes hard to tell. She was sure he would be all right tomorrow, and as ready as the rest of them to get the hell out of Baltimore for good.

She only wished they did not have to wait as long as they did, but Joseph had to be one hundred percent certain it was all clear with their lawyer. He was responsible for clearing it through the courts. It was a matter of their own safety, and frankly, the Baltimore authorities were quite happy to see them all go.

She left Milo’s apartment and made her way to the loft apartment maintained by Sherry “Larceny” Adams under an assumed name. By the time she made it up there, she could hear the agonized screams of her latest victim-and client. The crazy bitch was at it again, she realized.

She had no idea know who the fuckhead loser was, but he was a bloody mess. He was naked, with knife and scissor wounds, and wide, deep scrape marks-raw flesh into which vinegar and alcohol poured in a steady drip from different bottles suspended above him. A table saw rested down the table, between his legs, and was available for use at a moment’s notice. Larceny prided herself on rarely having to use that tactic. She preferred to leave her clients intact and therefore not devoid of some slim hope-at least until she got everything she wanted.

Larceny was nowhere around, which meant Rhino had to be somewhere nearby. She walked down the hall toward one of the other five rooms on this top floor of the old dilapidated apartment building. She listened carefully, but heard nothing, as she opened the door. There was Rhino, sitting with a perplexed and hurt expression on his face.

“It’s no good,” he said. “Everything is fucked up.”

Evidently, Sierra realized, he thought he was talking to a retuned Larceny. She decided to have some fun with him, and so concentrated on lowering her voice several octaves, something she did often in some songs she sung with the band.

“Mr. Dodd? Mr. George Dodd?”

Rhino stiffened, then exhaled as he lowered his head and then turned, not so much terror as something that almost looked like a resigned defeat registered in his eyes, until he saw it was Sierra.

“That’s not funny, Sierra,” he said. “If you had done that a couple days ago I probably would have decked you. Now I just about don’t give a damn if you were a cop.”

“Damn, what the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded. “And where the hell is Sherry anyway?”

“She’s transferring our landlord’s bank account to some island. Don’t ask me where the fuck it is because she won’t tell me.”

“That guy out there is your landlord?” Sierra was appalled at such a betrayal, as their landlord not only ignored all their activities, he did not even charge Larceny any rent, in exchange for a few infrequent sexual favors.

“”No, I don’t know who the fuck that guy is,” Rhino said. “I had to get me a new punching bag.”

As he said this, he pulled a lever on the wall. Suddenly, a door opened, allowing for the advance into the room of a hooded man, bound and gagged, suspended from the floor by a rope attached with hooks to specially fitted thick leather coveralls, the other end of it to a pulley incorporated through a special groove in the ceiling. The unfortunate man squirmed helplessly. He appeared already to be the victim of Rhino’s grueling exercise routine and obviously assumed another was on the way.

“Don’t you think you’d better go a little easy on this one?” Sierra asked.

“Nope,” Rhino answered. “Don’t matter-we sure can’t take him with us. It’s useless anyway. I was turned down for nose-tackle of The Blackbirds, thanks to you. Maybe I ought a put you up here.”

“Rhino, you were never going to get on with The Blackbirds,” Sierra said, a little concerned at the serious manner in which he conveyed the threat. In the meantime, the landlord, Freddie, seemed terrified as he attempted helplessly to beg for mercy, which he must have known was unlikely to come his way. Sierra was almost positive she could smell the scent of both urine and feces emanating from the terrified, pain-wracked man, the third such of Rhino’s toys. The first one lasted only two weeks. He went easier on the next one. He lasted all of four months. Freddie the Landlord knew about all of it, so perhaps it was fitting that he was probably spending the last day of his life in the same predicament as the other two men, both undocumented immigrants from Guatemala and Mexico.

Rhino could care less about them, of course, though he did take exception to Sierra’s stated view of his professional potential. He had worked and trained too hard on his strength, stamina, and skill, and built it up to the point where the steroids he had previously used were no longer a necessity. He worked out an average of six hours every other day, and ate only the healthiest foods. No opposing teams quarterback would be safe from him. He would have been the greatest nose-tackle in the history of Arena Football He would have almost single-handedly led the Baltimore Blackbirds to consistent domination in their league, to hear him tell it. Now, he had no chance for a contract. He would be lucky to find work as a parking attendant or towel boy.

“Rhino, it’s just as well, believe me,” she said. “When you were in the locker room and the other guys saw those little marble sized balls from all those steroids that would be it.”

“Bull fucking shit!” he shouted in a rage. Then, he started into a rant about how he would sue them if they did not give him a spot. No one ever proved anything on him, and no one had any right to withhold any opportunity from him.

“I’ll go up to the GM’s office and have a motherfucking talk to him, and if he won’t listen to goddamn reason I’ll rip the motherfucking son-of-a-bitches head off and punt it out his cocksucking window!”

“Wow! That would really show ‘em all, wouldn’t it?” Sierra said. “In the meantime, why don’t you work out your frustrations on ol’ Freddie here? We’re going to have to get rid of him before we go anyway.”

“Freddie” started to moan desperately at the sound of this and quivered in terror, though his bonds were such he had no true freedom of movement of which to speak.

“Nothin’ personal, Freddie,” she said. Indeed, she just wanted Rhino to take his obvious anger and frustrations out on something-anything-besides her.

However, Rhino now suddenly seemed to be back in his previous solemn mood of despair, and with a grasp of the lever, sent Freddie sliding backwards into his previous hiding place.

“Go on, get out of here, Sierra,” he said. “Tell Joseph I’ll be ready whenever he says we go.”

Sierra left. She had never seen Rhino in such a mood. The only other times that came close were when Raven began dating Marlowe Krovell-and the time shortly afterward, when she died. Larceny had latched on to the group by then, and made it her project to get Rhino over the tragedy of his loss. She did it with the whips and chains that were her stock in trade. Rhino was a changed man afterwards, having been granted the punishment he felt he deserved for losing Raven not once, but twice-and he got his rocks off in the process- or, as Larceny put it, “his gravels”.

She and Rhino became inseparable. They were lovers, though not in love, even if Rhino did do everything she told him. She for her part loved Joseph, but Joseph was wholly unattracted to her. The roughly one time a month on average when Joseph fucked her put Larceny into a girlish mindset, which made her look even more ridiculous than she already did. Sierra looked now at the calendar, with the date circled as August 17, with Joseph’s name scribbled in overlapping fashion to the circle. Four days from this date, Larceny would get her monthly fuck from Joseph. She did not care. She wanted to be away from all of them.

Rhino was a child in the body of a man, his testicles being the one physical match for his intellect. His penis as well was considerably shorter than average. Rhino was nevertheless capable of having sex multiple times in one night. If he had sex with four different women in a row, he would tell every one of them he loved them-and would mean it sincerely.

Milo was weak in other ways. He was intelligent enough, and he was better than average sexually, but otherwise had zero drive. He thrived only in the company of other, more aggressive persons, such as Joseph.

Joseph, she realized, was Milo’s polar opposite, and derived his strength through others. He knew how to read people, and how to play up to their vanities, as well as their weaknesses. He was a master manipulator.

He played up to Sierra by granting her the degree of independence she needed. Sierra fell for it but realized in time Joseph had his ways of reeling her in whenever he needed to insure he maintained the proper degree of control over her. He had been the same way with Spiral Lamont. When he realized how treacherous she was, he gave her enough rope with which to hang herself. Sierra was the rope. She was Spiral’s confidant, and Sierra regretted her role in Spiral’s death more every day.

She betrayed her friend for no other reason than to be with Joseph- just as she ended up betraying Grace Rodescu for the same reason. Why had she done that? She could have been free of Joseph, could have began the long, difficult process of putting her life back together. Joseph’s power over her, unfortunately, was way too strong. He was like a drug, one she knew she could never be free of, only in part because he had her hooked. The truth was she never really wanted to lose the addiction.

The only person who had ever openly spoken out against Joseph was Raven Randall. She was positive Raven’s death was no accident. The whole drug overdose scenario did not add up. Raven told her once she was through with the group, and advised her to leave as well, before she got in too deep. Sierra never mentioned anything about this to Joseph. Still, Joseph must have known. He knew them all far too well. Raven changed in those last few days, in which she returned, seemingly as though nothing had ever changed. Joseph as well acted as though nothing had changed. Nevertheless, Raven was dead within two weeks.

Now, as she sat outside Larceny’s loft apartment, on the stairs, she wondered why she did not just leave as well. No one that expressed any real independence from Joseph lasted very long. What made her imagine she would be any different? She lit up a Marlboro, and just sat and smoked, breathing in deeply as she inhaled, hoping to center her thoughts and calm her frayed nerves. She knew it was out of the question to turn back to Grace. She fucked up what could have been a very good thing, all because Joseph called her, boyishly excited and enthusiastic about the news of his release on bond.

She had almost decided to leave and cut her ties from the group forever, when Larceny returned.

“What the hell are you dong out here?” she demanded. “Rhino’s up there, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, but he’s not in a very good mood,” Sierra replied. “Plus, that guy you got tied up in there gives me the creeps. Who is he anyway?”

“An old, old customer, and a very, very rich one,” Larceny replied. “At least he was rich up until about an hour ago.”

“What are you going to do with him and Freddie?” Sierra asked. “Joseph says we might be leaving tomorrow night.”

“Me and Rhino will be taking a little trip to the Leighton Farm early in the morning,” she explained. “We’re going to leave Debbie a little going away present. Can you believe that bitch gets to keep her parent’s farm? The state of Virginia put it in escrow until she is an adult. Seems there is no real evidence she had anything to do with her parents murder.

“Can you believe that shit? The bitch spends two years in juvie, and after a couple years of therapy, she is home free. I guess you know Joseph is planning on us making a little trip back there in two years. He thinks she will be waiting for us with open arms. Hell, who knows, maybe she will.”

“Yeah, that is fucked up,” Sierra agreed. One of the main reasons Joseph wanted to leave Baltimore, outside of fear of recriminations from the Seventeenth Pulse, was his uncertainty as to whether Debbie could keep quiet about their role in her parent’s murder-among other things.

“So, you’ll be ready to go by tomorrow night?” Sierra asked.

“Yep, I’ll be ready,.” Larceny answered. “Somebody’s coming by tonight to get rid of the rest of this fucking tat. Rhino does not want me to get rid of it, but fuck him, I am sick to death of it. This guys good too, guarantees to leave no scars or shadows. He damned well better not, I know that much.”

“Damn, I was wondering about that,” Sierra said. “I can’t tell any difference.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to tell under these lights if you’re not used to it, but it’s more than half gone. I have been getting it erased gradually. It has been four treatments over the last three weeks. Tonight will be the last step. So, as you can tell, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me, and a lot to do if we have to get out of here by tomorrow night. I don’t see what the big rush is myself. The Seventeenth Pulse can’t go the fucking bathroom without the cops holding their cocks. Still, I don’t exactly want to hang around this fucking place any longer than I have to either.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you later then,” Sierra said, making her way down the steps, wanting to leave as quickly as possible. Next to Joseph, she feared Larceny more than any other person she knew. Rhino was not dangerous so long as you knew how to talk to him. Unfortunately, Larceny had him as well trained as any pit bull. Yet, Joseph controlled them both. Joseph was the only person Rhino truly feared, and Joseph was the only person for whom Larceny truly had any kind of affection. Milo was only dangerous to himself. She and Milo were more alike than the rest of them, she realized. The only difference was, Sierra saw what path she was on, even if she seemed helpless to stop.

“So, what did that bitch say about me anyway?” Larceny asked as Sierra made it to the bottom of the steps. “Does she remember I’m the one that shot her?”

“Yeah, but she was fucked up on heroin that night,” Sierra said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, I’m not worried”, Larceny said. “I have another special surprise for that nosy fucking bitch, and it’s coming real soon now.”

“Well, it better be fast,” Sierra said, trying to hide her concern. “You can only do so much in a day.”

She left then, and happily made her way back out on the street. What in the hell was she planning to do to Grace, Sierra wondered. Was she really planning anything at all? Was she testing her loyalty to the group? Surely, that was it. Joseph would not allow-and then she stopped herself.

Joseph controlled all their lives. He controlled where they spent their time and how, and with whom, even down to delegating their sexual conduct. No one ever questioned him. It was baffling. At the same time, it was profoundly the truth, to such an extent Sierra knew full well that if Larceny did have some special plan for Grace Rodescu, Joseph was aware of and agreeable to it. The worse part of it was, she as well should know by now. The fact she did not know, if it were true, did not bode well.

She made her way into the street, and though night had now fallen, she found herself almost overcome by the stifling heat. She had one more stop to make, and wondered if she might be better off hailing a cab. Joseph, unfortunately, lost his job driving a cab, and she herself had no automobile. Joseph had sold his own car, and was now busily at work on the new van he purchased from the proceeds of not only his own automobile, but Larceny’s as well. In addition, he somehow managed to get two thousand dollars from the car stolen from the murdered man at the Leighton Farm who stumbled unsuspectingly into his own horrible fate.

Nevertheless, it was a used van, almost six years old, and Joseph engaged his time in assuring it was in the proper running condition. After all, they did have a long trek ahead of them. As for now, Sierra had one hell of a long walk, almost thirty blocks, to The Crypt, and she was not looking forward to it. Unfortunately, she had less than twenty dollars on her, and was not in the mood to part with any of it for something like a cab ride. Still, it was hot, she was tired, and she was not that crazy about walking alone in this neighborhood-not at this time of the night.

Suddenly, an old stretch limo pulled up beside her, as she thought, damn, what I wouldn’t give to get a ride in that fucker right now. She noticed the black man opening the door and stepping out, but did not really notice at first the dark burgundy colors he wore around his head, or the eerie way he eyed her dispassionately. Then, others got out, and she recognized one of them.

“Hey, Toby, what’s up?” she said. “Hey, can I get a ride?”

“Yeah you can get a ride bitch,” he said. “Get your skank ass in here.”

She looked around nervously, aware now that her friendship with the Pulse hardly made up for their present enmity with her boyfriend, Joseph Karinsky. She nervously started to shout out for help, but Toby had a gun pressed right into her side. How could she be so stupid, she thought. Of course they aren’t going to give her a pass. She had to think fast, let them know she had nothing to do with Joseph’s betrayal. She allowed herself to be ushered into the backseat of the limo, right beside the waiting figure of, to her surprise, newly freed though accused mass murderer and gang leader Spooky Gold.

“Spooky-you’re out!” she said. “That’s cool.”

“Shut your mouth, ho, before I kill you faster than I’m already planning. Who the hell you think you are anyway?”

“Oh, she’s just an innocent little girl, Spooky,” Toby now said, “just like that-what’s her name-Alfalfa, or is it Darla? No, Spanky-that’s it. Yeah, I wonder how that sweet little girl is doing these days? I don’t guess you would know, would you?”

“I heard she was sent back to Virginia yesterday, to some teenage group home for problem kids,” Sierra answered. “Look, guys, I don’t know what the problem here is, but I swear, it ain’t nothing to do with me. Whatever Debbie Leighton has done-”

“Yeah, we need to talk about what Debbie Leighton has done,” Spooky said. “Oh, and Joseph, and Milo, we need to talk about them too, and those other clowns you run with. First though, we need to talk about you.”

“Uh, do you mind if I ask you exactly where we’re going?”

Sierra was starting to become deathly afraid as it finally sunk in to her she might not be able to reason with these men, for very good reason.

“You know, I started to have the world at my fingertips,” Spooky said. “The DA was going to drop the charges on me for killing Marshall, all for me agreeing to the rap for killing George. Ain’t life funny? Marshall offs himself, I kill George, and I go down for just what I done. You know, that’s just the way life should be. I was looking at getting out in four years with good behavior-mitigating circumstances and all, you see. The deal was all set up, and then one day I get a visit to my cell. That’s exactly why we’re here now, Sierra. Oh, you asked me where is it we going? Well, where was it you was wanting to go?”

“Uh, well”-

Before she could continue, Spooky Gold backhanded her across the lip with his closed fist. The sudden pain almost made her black out, and blood oozed from her nose and mouth.

“Uh-well ain’t a place, bitch”-

“The Crypt,” she said as she now began crying and quivering, unable to contain her terror.

“The Crypt,” he repeated. “Good, it just so happens that’s exactly where I’m going. I guess we’ll just go there together. Damn, this time of the night, I’m sure they’re open, just ready and waiting for all the little white ass freaks.”

“Hey, is there any brothers that go there?” Toby asked. “I’ve always been curious about that. If there are, I think they not black at all, just constipated.”

“No, there’s a few,” Sierra said, desperate to try to talk reason to these men, and feeling at the same time they were past all reason.

“Look, Spooky, I didn’t have anything to do with you being blamed for what Debbie did.”

“We’ll see,” Spooky replied. “Not that it matters though, ‘cos you see, there’s a reason I’m out of here tonight. I ain’t supposed to be here. By the time they do the morning bed check tomorrow, I’ll be a wanted man. See, I ain’t planning on being anywhere around. In the meantime, I got some scores to settle. And right here we are at the first scorecard. Damn, what do you know, the fucking place looks closed. Maybe we should just leave, huh?”

Toby got out of the car and gave a series of knocks on the door. In a matter of seconds, the door opened, but Sierra could not make out who was there. Toby returned then and gave the all clear.

“All right, when we get in you take this thing back to the shop and bring Caldwell’s Land Rover back. I’ll drive it out of here. You guys have your own things worked out, right?”

“Got’cha bro,” Toby said, and seemed misty-eyed. “It’s been a wild ride, my man. I’m gonna miss it.”

“Yeah, me too, but what the fuck,” Spooky replied as he clasped the hand of his lieutenant. “I’ll see you whenever. Keep a pina colada ready for me. I can use some sand and surf.”

Spooky looked like a man who knew the end was near, and he was not in nearly as accepting and philosophical a mood about it as he tried to portray. When he once more turned his attention to Sierra, she saw the eyes of boiling anger.

“Me and you are going toward that door,” he explained. “And if you so much as look like you’re going to run or shout out for help, believe me, I’ll shoot you down just like I would a losing pit bull, and not feel half as bad about it. You feel me?”

She nodded her understanding, and they got out. Sierra was shaking so badly, it was all she could do to steady herself as Spooky held her by her right arm as though escorting her to the door, all the while a snub-nosed revolver stuck in her right side. He knocked a series of knocks, whereupon the door opened, and another Pulse member granted them admittance.

There were already more than twenty regular patrons there in all, and Sierra noted the presence of a terrified Marty Evans, as well as others she knew, some vaguely more than others. She then saw another man, a bouncer named Mackie, shot dead on the floor. On one of the pool tables set a mountain of cell phones, all guarded by a Pulse member by the name of Fishbait. Marty was obviously curious about Sierra’s presence and wanted to communicate something, but seemed to know that would not be advisable. Spooky told her to sit at the bar. She did so, about three stools down from Marty.

“What the fuck is this?” Marty demanded. “Are they going to kill us?”

Sierra finally started crying.

“Hey, no talking, you two, unless one of us talks to you first, got it?”

“Hey, fuck you, you’re going to kill us anyway, right?” Marty replied to Fishbait, who glared at them menacingly. “Do it or shut the fuck up. In the meantime I’ll talk to who the fuck I want.”

“Oh, will you now?” Fishbait said as he rose from his seat and walked toward the apprehensive Evans. Before Marty could rise to meet the advancing Fishbait, the Pulse member gave him a savage rabbit punch to the kidneys, which sent the hapless Goth down to the floor in a spasm of unbearable agony.

“You got something you want to say about that, bitch?” he then asked.

Suddenly, there was another knock at the door. Fishbait nodded to another Pulse member, who went to the door, to admit an already returned Toby.

“Tell Spooky the LR is on its way,” he said. “I decided to stay and play with y’all. What the fuck, this is the last dance, right? Don’t seem right to be missin’ out and all. Hey, what’s this, a fucking karaoke machine? Groovy, just what I need, a chance to make my last Baltimore appearance. Hey, anything by Nellie on this piece of junk, or Fittie Cent?”

He now addressed the horrified disc jockey as Marty now painfully pulled himself up to his stool. The DJ affirmed something to the effect that there were some rap songs, whereupon Toby told him to shut the fuck up. He then “requested” a specific number.

“I think I’m going to show these white kids how you really supposed to karaoke.”

“Toby, what the fuck you doing back here?”

Spooky Gold was now standing outside the office of The Crypt, glaring at Toby in surprise at his sudden return.

“Everything’s being taken care of, boss man,” Toby replied. “I figure a little number here will keep it from lookin’ suspicious.”

“With the door locked, and a ‘Closed For Repairs’ sign in the window?”

“Good point. I’ll change the sign to ‘private party.”

Toby was even now getting in position to perform his number at the Karaoke machine, and Spooky just shook his head.

‘Okay, fine, do it. You say everything else is smooth?”

“On the way, Spooky,” Toby assured him.

“Get your ass over here, bitch,” Spooky now commanded Sierra, who warily removed herself from her place at the bar and went hurriedly past the still whimpering Marty Evans. Toby now began a rap version of what was actually a metal version of an old rhythm and blues song, only in his version he was fucking everybody’s mother “cos I’m a real motherfucker.”

“The party ain’t in the office,” Spooky said as Sierra looked past him toward the manager’s office. “We got a date down in the storage basement. We got company coming, you might say. Actually, we be the company. Only you ain’t coming, you’re going.”

“Spooky, please, I’m begging you”-

“Just shut up before I hurt you worse than you’ve ever been hurt,” he warned her.

They moved down the steps into the basement, Sierra almost tripping on the stairs once in the semi-darkness. When they made it to the bottom of the stairs, Sierra could see the form of Gus Rakovski, the owner and manager of The Crypt, guarded by two other Pulse members.

“It looks to me like the end of the line,” Spooky said.

“You are making a big mistake,” Rakovski said. “Do you know who I am? I am not some low-level thug. I have pull. Do you really think you are going to get away with this outrage? You colored people are too much. Do you think my people give a damn about playing up to the vanities and sensitivites of your particular race? We can and will destroy all of you, and everything you care about.”

“So you’re saying I should just forget about you paying Karinski to poison my product so you can take over my territory? That’s really something to think about. Maybe we should make a deal.”

Suddenly, Spooky extended his hand, and fired his Smith and Wesson into the gut of the Russian mobster. The man slumped to the ground in shock and agony.

“Now, here’s the deal. You tell me everything, and speak clearly, and when I leave here, I call an ambulance. Otherwise, I just let your White Russian ass bleed to death. It don’t make no never mind to me. I’m leaving anyway, for good. I do want to leave with my rep cleared though.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rakovski insisted, groaning as the blood pooled around him. He struggled just to stay on his knees.

“Don’t know what I’m talking about, huh? Hey, bitch, what were you coming here for?”

“Joseph said he was supposed to give him a set of numbers to an offshore account. I was supposed to check the numbers and verify the amount. It was supposed to be two million dollars. Then, I was supposed to call Joseph, and he was supposed to transfer the money into his own offshore account. But really, Spooky”-

The gang lord held up his hand, as he addressed the bleeding, dying Russian that now collapsed with a groan upon his basement floor.

“Two million dollars,” Spooky repeated. “Two million dollars and bail, and probably all charges dropped to boot. Sounds to me like Mr. Karinsky sure must be doing something right. I wonder what that might be?”

He then addressed one of the other members.

“Go bring that bitch down here. She’s up in the office.”

The gang member left, and after a brief period of silence broken only by the loud and painful moans of the dying Russian mobster, he returned with Debbie Leighton in tow. Sierra was surprised to see her, but noted she looked more aggravated than afraid. She looked over at Sierra, and then shot her head up in the air.

“Okay, now let me get this straight, bitch,” he said. “You went along with this shit to poison those school kids, but you didn’t know it had anything to do with setting me or my boys up. Is that your position? As far as you were concerned, you just wanted to kill a bunch of people that were giving you a problem in school. Do I have that all down?”

“Yeah, now can I please go back to the group home? Sierra was probably in on it all, I didn’t have any idea what they were up to.”

“You lying little bitch!” Sierra shouted.

“You miss the group home, huh? Funny, seems I hear you was anxious as hell to get away from the place, couldn’t leave fast enough. All it took was Fishbait pretending to be a caseworker whispering he would like to help you get out, and you jumped right to it. Now you want to go back? So why should I take you back, or let somebody else take you back? Come on, I’m waiting for a good reason, not a load of shit about how you’re just an abused, misunderstood teenager.”

“I told you all you needed to know. I admitted this was Joseph’s idea,” Debbie said, now finally starting to show some degree of real concern. “I’ll tell the cops anything you want me to tell them, I swear.”

“Yeah, then you would gladly spend the rest of your life in prison for mass murder? Sorry, that does not add up to me.”

Spooky Gold now made a call on his cell phone, and asked to speak to “Aunt Ellen”. After a brief couple of minutes on the phone, during which he learned the status of some undetermined persons was “the same”, he told his auntie that he loved her, and then terminated the call. He returned his attention then to Spanky.

“That was my Auntie Ellen-a good woman-a good Christian woman. She was kinda upset at me over Rev George, until she heard the whole scoop. Me and her are cool, she don’t even worry none about me being the head Pulse. See, she knows she can count on me to make things right. Like with her little brother Huey, and her kid, Darnell. Yeah, that would be my uncle and my cousin. Come to think of it, though, you know them both-or you did. Darnell, well he’s dead, may he rest in peace. As for Huey, he be laid up in the hospital, fucked up for good, a vegetable for life. Wanna take a good guess why?”

Spanky just looked shocked, and then dropped her head, but her sudden terror was obvious.

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you, you little skank!”

Debbie Leighton bolted when he said this, and forced herself to meet his gaze, as he withdrew a hypodermic needle from his change belt.

“See, I think I is gonna send you two on a little trip. It damn sure ain’t gonna be no pleasure cruise either. See, when you own fighting dogs, you are in the position to experiment. Know what I got here? I wondered how you could inject embalming fluid in somebody’s veins in just enough combination with some other shit to really fuck somebody up without actually killing them.

“You know what this shit will do to you? Not only will you be a fucking vegetable for the rest of your life, you’ll be conscious, with no control over your bowel movements or your urine, just like poor Huey.

“Oh, but that’s not all of it, not by a long shot. You is gonna be in perpetual pain, going through frequent convulsions, conscious through all of it-and at the same time, you is gonna stay horny. Nothing would satisfy you. In fact, it will just get worse and worse. Course, I’m gonna show you a little mercy, Sierra. That is, somebody else might show you some mercy and give you a little dick here and there, not that it will do you much good. As for your little bitch friend here”-

Spooky Gold now produced a box cutter and opened the blade as he glared menacingly toward Debbie Leighton.

“By the time I’m through carving your skank ass up, nobody will be able to look at you without gagging, let alone giving you dick. I might send some hommies over to visit you once a year or so, just to torture you that much more with sex talk. Too bad you ain’t gonna see ‘em, ‘cos see, you ain’t gonna have no eyeballs to see with, or a tongue to talk with. As for that stinikin’ cunt, I got that covered too. If somebody does get weak and decide to show you a little mercy, it’s gonna feel like acid the minute somebody sticks a dick in it, or anything else. See, bitch, hell can be here on earth after all. So, if you got any last words, either of you, I advise you to say ‘em now, what few seconds you have left.”

Both of the girls were crying now, and begging, and Debbie for her part was screaming for help.

“Bitch there ain’t nobody that can help you now, and nobody that would want to if they could,” Spooky said as he advanced towards her, box cutter in hand.

Suddenly, there was a loud noise, the sound of a door crashing down, almost like an explosion, and gunshots fired, the sound emanating from upstairs.

“Holy shit, Spooky, it’s the fucking po-po. and there ain’t no way out of here.”

Spooky made his way toward the gangster on the floor.

“Quick, old man, if you want to live, where is the key to the back door?”

However, the old man just stared out into nothing.

“Fuck, he’s dead!” Spooky said, as he grabbed for his keys.

“Spooky we ain’t got time for that, they probably got the back covered anyway. We’re gonna have to fight our way out of this.”

Suddenly, Toby appeared at the door, and then turned desperately to lock it. He then ran hurriedly downstairs.

“The fucking cops, somebody called those motherfuckers, Spooky,” he shouted. “The fucking shits over. We gotta get out of here.”

“We ain’t got no way out of this,” another Pulse member said. “It’s either go down fighting or go down like punks. Which is it going to be guys?”

“We take as many of the pigs with us as we can, that’s what it’s gonna be,” Spooky answered. “They can only come down these steps one at a time. If we try to hide, they’ll be down here like a fucking herd of elk. We gots to face them straight up.”

As the four Pulse members made their way toward the stairs in readiness for the battle they knew they could not avoid, Sierra quickly lunged toward the old man, and went through his pockets. As the police upstairs banged upon the basement door, she found a set of keys, and one thing more-a postcard with a phone number, along with another set of numbers that Sierra figured must be to the offshore bank account. She ran around to the other side of the stacked cases of liquor and beer, hunkering down and feeling her way toward the door.

Debbie now joined her, and told her to hurry.

“We have to get the fuck out of here!” she told her.

“Shut up, Debbie, and stay the fuck out of my way!” Sierra warned her.

She tried first one key and then another, to no effect, trying to keep track of the ones she already tried, as she noted in frustration there had to be more than fifty keys on this one chain.

Suddenly, the basement door from upstairs flew open, and shots rang out, as Spooky God and his fellow gang members tried desperately to return fire, with the exception of Toby, who bolted and made for a refuge underneath the steps. One by one, they went down, until Spooky Gold stood alone.

“Drop the gun, Spooky. It’s over!” commanded the lone voice from the top of the stairs.

Gold dropped the gun, and raised his arms.

“Okay, I give up,” he shouted.

A gunshot then rang out from the one lone policeman at the top of the stairs. Spooky Gold dropped to his knees, and then crumpled forward dead, with a bullet through the heart.

“Sierra, it’s all right, it’s the police,” Debbie said. “We’re safe now”.

“All of you stay up there until I give you the all clear!” the policeman shouted as he walked down the steps.

Suddenly, Toby stepped out from under the steps.

Debbie made her way now out from behind the boxes, as Sierra continued desperately to search for the key to the exit door.

“God, what a mess,” the cop said as he surveyed the carnage. He checked the pulse of the old Russian mobster, dead from the blood loss of a wound to the gut.

“God, I’m glad you’re here,” Debbie said as she approached the lone cop.

“Who are you, young lady?” the cop asked.

“Debbie Leighton,” Spanky replied while pointing toward the now dead Spooky Gold. “He was blaming me for the pot that poisoned those kids, but it was his pot. He’s crazy.”

Shut up, you stupid bitch, Sierra thought to herself as she finally found the key to the exit door. She turned it as quietly as she could as Debbie was now explaining how the Pulse brought her there from her new group home, and how Spooky murdered the owner of The Crypt.

“That’s really too bad,” the cop said as he extracted the gun from the hand of the now dead Spooky Gold.

“Of course, he’s dead now, so we’ll never hear his side of the story,” he observed, as he then put a bullet squarely in the forehead of Debbie Leighton from the gun of the now deceased Spooky Gold.

Sierra almost screamed, but restrained her terror as she now ducked behind a stack of beer cases, one of which now leaked beer, courtesy of a stray bullet.

The cop looked around the front stack of beer and liquor, but saw nothing. He checked the door to see it was unlocked. Sierra tried her best not so much as to breathe. She could hear Toby Da Pimp walking and rapping to himself, and cautiously looked out to see the cop, stepping over the body of the deceased Gold as he approached Toby Da Pimp, apparently for now the lone survivor of the 17th Pulse.

“You guys let the other girl get away,” the cop said now to Toby. “She must have got Gus’s keys. That might not be so good. Really, Toby, I hate to say it, but you kind of fucked up. Of course, I can see where it would be hard to pull your end of the bargain, what with hiding under the steps and all.”

“Hey, I did the best I could under the circumstances,” Toby complained. “It was you who was late gettin’ here.”

Berry ignored Toby’s excuses as he placed Spooky Gold’s gun back in the hand of the dead Pulse leader. Then, he pointed his own gun at Toby.

“Hey, Berry, we had a deal, motherfucker,” Toby shouted desperately.

“Sure we did-we still do”, the cop replied. “In fact, you might say it’s as solid as lead.”

He then sent a bullet flying into the left thigh of the gang member Sierra realized was a police informant all along.

“Oh, fuck, you son-of-a-bitch, what the fuck are you doing?” Toby was obviously in pain as well as shock, and moaned as he cursed the officer, whom Sierra vaguely recognized. He and an older partner had once questioned her and her friends about the vandalism perpetrated by them at the Krovell Funeral Home.

For now, she merely hoped she could get out of this basement storage room with her life. She remained as quiet and motionless as possible, forcing herself to breathe no more than she absolutely had to. Her heart was pounding, and she had to remind herself there was no way anyone could hear it.

“Calm down,” Berry told the gang member. “Instead of Toby Da Pimp, you’ll just be Toby Da Gimp for a while. Besides, you’re going to need the street creds. It’ll look good on your resume if you ever decide to apply for City Manager of Baltimore.”

“Couldn’t you have shot me in the arm?” Toby was furious at the cop, but the cop just sneered at him.

“Yeah, that would look real good, huh? Every one of your gang members in this club shot dead, and you walk away with just a shot in the arm? Nobody’s going to buy that. In fact, we got to make it look real good. A shot in the gut should do the trick, since the ambulance is on the way. Well, it should be anyway. Don’t worry, I know just where to put the bullet, and from exactly what distance and angle. It’s the price of power, my friend. Wish me luck”

“Oh, shit, no, not in the gut, what if you fuck my stuff up? You already come close to”-

However, Berry put another bullet in the stomach of the treacherous gang member, who now howled in agony as a voice shouted from upstairs.

“Berry, what the fuck is going on down there? Are you all right?”

“Yep, I got’ em all. Get that ambulance here now. We got a survivor, Toby Da Pimp. Hurry it up. I want him alive for questioning. Spooky Gold is here, and he’s dead. So is the owner of this piece of shit club. Any casualties up there?”

The other cop was now halfway down the stairs, and another one was behind him.

“Yeah, the Pulse-they’re all dead, what ones are here. Only civilian casualty is a bouncer named Morris Mackey, killed before we got here. Everybody else is all right, just shook up. One kid took a jab to the kidneys from one of them, but he should be fine. Otherwise, everybody else is uninjured.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Berry replied. “Teenage girl was killed down here, right before we got here too. We just didn’t make it in time. But, you know what they say-you can’t win ‘em all. As soon as the ambulance gets here, we can go over everybody’s statements. Then we can bar the door and shut this dive down, hopefully for good. Otherwise, we can pull on out of here. No need in all these squads being holed up here any longer than they have to be.”

Soon, Sierra heard the sound of ambulance personnel arriving with their stretchers. They lifted Toby Da Pimp up onto one, still conscious, cursing, and moaning in pain. She thought now maybe she should present herself. Whatever Berry was involved in, he would not dare pull anything now, but she was not sure. She was too terrified to think calmly. Worse, he had locked the door back, and so she now had to find the key again. Soon, the EMT’s carried all the bodies out on stretchers, including Debbie Leighton’s. After what seemed to be an eternity, they seemed to have all gone. Still, as she waited, she extracted an undamaged bottle of gin and took a large gulp. She had to steady her nerves. She elt like her skin might pop open at any minute.

She also had the keys to Gus’s car, but feared that by the time she made it outside, the cops would impound it. She dreaded even trying to leave, and wanted to go upstairs, to the front door, but Berry gave instructions to barricade it. The metal door of the basement, with its bolt lock, would make that unnecessary-or so she hoped. She rummaged though the keys, separating the ones she thought might have been the right one based on her skimpy knowledge from before. Luckily, she found the right key with the fourth try, and cautiously opened the door. She stepped outside, and heard nothing. Still, she left the basement door open, but barely so. She then went on up the concrete steps.

Gus’s car was there, and so was Marty Evans. He sat hunched on a curb, talking to three other former Crypt patrons, all of them obviously trying to process the events of this past night. She got Marty’s attention, whereupon he made his way from the group toward her.

“What the fuck was all that about?” he demanded. “I thought you were dead for sure. They killed Debbie, did you know that?”

“Yes, and good fucking riddance,” she said. “Look, Marty, I need a favor. I need you to go with me to Larceny’s Adams’s place.”

“Not me, I ain’t going near that crazy bitch,” he said. “I ain’t got a ride anyway, mine’s in the shop.”

“I got Gus’s keys, we can take his car,” she explained. “You don’t have to go up with me, just drop me off there and wait outside. I’ll give you some pussy, alright? I need you to take me to Milo’s after that, and then home. Please, Marty, you know I give good head. What do you say?”

“Fine, I want a blowjob first, though,” he told her.

Sierra gave Marty the best blowjob she ever gave anybody in her life, but it was more out of desperation than any kind of pleasure. Marty was dirty and sweaty from the heat, and seemed as though he had been out partying non-stop for two whole days. She could not afford to worry about that now.

After she finished, he followed her directions to the loft apartment of Larceny Adams.

“I’m keeping my eyes open and the engine running,” he warned her. “The minute I see one person besides you, I’m bolting.”

She hurried into the apartment, and ran up the steps. She could hear the sounds of somebody screaming in terror, and the sounds of the table saw running. She checked the door, which seemed locked from the inside. She knocked repeatedly as she shouted for Sherry to answer. Desperately, she kicked it repeatedly, until the old door finally gave way. She peered inside.

She screamed at the top of her lungs at the sight of Sherry “Larceny” Adams, bound to the table. Her face was completely gone, dissolved into a hideous mass of melted flesh, as she made her way toward the spinning blade. She was, incredibly, still alive, up until the point where the blade entered between her legs, through her vagina, and continued up all the way through her abdomen. Her blood gushed out, a stream splattering on Sierra’s blouse and face, and for a second, she was transfixed in horror, but suddenly made her way to the exercise room.

Suddenly, a figure bolted out of the room. She screamed as the man ran into her, knocking her down. She screamed again, as the man garbled something unintelligible, and then made his way in seeming desperation toward the stairs. Sierra looked toward the exercise room, and then entered. She then saw a stream of blood oozing from under the panel that contained Rhino’s human punching bags. She pulled the lever in the wall, and watched in horror as the battered form of George “Rhino” Dodd projected into the main room. The chain went through his rectum and out of his mouth, and he hung there, his body and head beaten to a bloody pulp.

Incredibly, even though his brains oozed out of his crushed skull, he was alive, and even seemingly conscious.

“Rhino, who did this, baby?” she said, overcome with pity at the terrifying site of the fate of the man who was really little more than a child at heart.

“Marlowe,” he said weakly, and then breathed his last breath.

“Marlowe?” she repeated. “What do you mean, Rhino? Rhino?

She shook him, shouted at him, trying desperately to revive him, and then sobbed helplessly as she staggered out of the room, and back down the steps. By the time she made it back out into the street, she saw the police, no more than three blocks away, as the ambulances pulled up. She saw the police cordoning off that block, and she saw two of them kneeling by a completely naked, bloody and badly injured man. She saw Freddie in his leather coveralls. She looked desperately around for Marty, and finally saw him, two blocks from where he first parked in the opposite direction from the police. She nervously made her way toward him, trying to hurry, fearful he might well decide to leave without her. As she approached the car, she thought she saw the policeman named Berry, but could not be sure from that distance. She reached to open the door, but Marty had locked it. She pounded on the window and shouted his name.

When he saw it was Sierra, he unlocked the door, and she quickly climbed inside.

“What in the hell is going on down there?”

“Just get out of here, Marty, please!” she said, unable to disguise her fear. She had forgotten all about the blood.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he demanded, obviously concerned. “Where did all that fucking blood come from? It’s all over you.”

“Marty-just fucking leave, please, and I’ll tell you, please,” she said, by now losing her composure completely. “It’s not mine, all right, I’m fine. It’s Larceny’s. She’s dead. Somebody murdered her and Rhino too. Please, get the fuck out of here, now.”

As he drove, in the opposite direction from where the police even now made their way toward the apartment of the late Sherry “Larceny” Adams, she told him the horrific details. She was shaking and seemed to be on the urge of a nervous breakdown. Finally, she started wailing, loudly. Marty said nothing. He just drove, as he considered all the gory details of what he heard.

“We better go to Milo’s place,” he said. “Hopefully, we’re not too late. We’ve got to get him out of his apartment before he gets him too.”

“Before who gets him?” Sierra said.

“Marlowe Krovell,” he answered. “The fucker is alive. He has to be”

“Bullshit!” she shouted. “This was the Pulse, it had to be. They were going to kill me, and they did kill Spanky. They’re after all of us.”

“The Pulse are either dead or in jail,” Marty assured her. “I’ve been hearing all about it on the radio while I was waiting for you. Besides, they wouldn’t go to the extent you said they went through with Larceny and Rhino.”

“For God’s sake, Marty, they were going to inject us with embalming fluid with other shit mixed with it. The cops busted that up just in time, but”-

“Yeah, but that’s because of what Debbie and Joseph did to those kids, especially to two of Spooky Gold’s relatives, and then laying it off on them,.” Marty said. “That’s their idea of justice, but that other shit just ain’t their style. Believe me-I have no reason to defend them.”

“Rhino said Marlowe’s name right before he died, but”-

“Uh huh, see? That fucking settles it. Here’s Milo’s crib, come on, I’ll go in here with you.”

“Marty, if it is the Pulse and they’re here”-

“Shit, it ain’t the Pulse,” he insisted. “I’m telling you, what Pulse members weren’t killed in that bust at the Crypt tonight was rounded up earlier today. Not only are all seventeen of the charter members either dead or in jail, but thirty-one lesser members have been taken in. They’ve even rounding up all the newbies, and they wouldn’t be involved in something that heavy anyway. Plus, they been watching them for months now. People are already saying the bust at The Crypt looks like a set-up.”

“It was, Toby Da Pimp was involved, with some cop named Berry,” she said. “I heard it all go down. But shit, Marty, Marlowe”-

“Toby Da Pimp?”

Marty was more stunned at this revelation than he was at her account of the horrific deaths of Larceny and Rhino, and he wanted to know who in the hell was “Berry”.

“For God’s sake, Marty, it’s not important,” she said. “I just want to get the fuck out of here. If you’re going in with me, let’s go.”

They left the car, and proceeded to the apartment of Milo Richmond. They heard no sign of life or any kind of activity from the door. Marty knocked loudly, and asked if he was there, and if he was all right. Sierra nervously shouted as well, telling Milo to let them in. She added that both Larceny and Rhino were dead.

“Are you going to tell him about Spanky?” Marty asked.

“Milo, please open the door,” she said, ignoring Marty for the moment, as she started to fear for the worse. She finally looked inside her purse, and extracted a set of keys. Finding the one key to Milo’s apartment, which she still had from the days she lived with him, she inserted it into the lock, and opened the door. Nothing but a nightlight and the streetlights from outside provided scant illumination inside the darkened, musty room.

“My God, this place is a mess!” Marty said. “Does he ever clean this fucking place up? There’s books and papers all over the damn floor.”

“Yeah, he wants to make sure people knows he can read, I guess,” Sierra said. “Milo, where the fuck are you?”

“Sierra, Marty, is that you?” a voice responded. “Damn, I was laying here zoned out. What’s the deal?”

“We wanted to make sure you’re all right,” Sierra said, her voice quivering with anxiety but also relief. After all, she did still care somewhat for her bonehead ex-boyfriend.

“Why wouldn’t I be all right? What was that I heard you saying about Rhino and Larceny? Are they really dead?”

“Sierra, something’s not right here,” Marty whispered. “He doesn’t sound like Milo. His voice sounds like him, but”-

“Sierra, I’ve been thinking. I really do love you. I know I never told you that, but it is true. I would give anything if you would take me back.”

“Milo, are you sure you’re all right?” Sierra asked nervously as Marty fumbled for the light switch.

When he finally found it, he flipped on the switch, only to hear Sierra gasp, and then scream in horror. He turned to her, and then to the body of Milo Richmond, stretched out on his recliner, a gaping wound in his stomach and abdomen from which his blood pooled and all his internal organs protruded as he stared outward in what seemed to be his last conscious memory of horrific pain and terror.

“Come on, Sierra,” the voice said, actually seeming to emanate from Milo’s corpse. “I’m spilling my guts here.”

Sierra was now crying frantically as Marty just stared, his eyes transfixed on the horrific scene. Finally, Sierra tugged at him, trying to pull the incredulous Marty Evans back to reality, but he seemed incapable of speaking or responding to her in any way. He just stared, and shook, until they both heard the sound of what seemed to be the flapping of bird’s wings. It was loud at first, and seemed to be coming toward the open window, but it faded within a few seconds, and finally stopped.

Marty now responded somewhat to Sierra’s desperate attempts to engage his attention. He turned, looked at her, walked out the door, into the yard, fell to his knees, doubled over and vomited. By the time he finished, he too was crying, loudly.

“Marty, come on, we have to go, it’s not safe here,” Sierra urged him.

They finally returned to the car, and somehow Marty managed to keep his composure enough to drive away as calmly as possible.

“You’d better not go back to Joseph’s tonight,” he said. “You’d better stay with me.”

“No!” Sierra replied. “You can fuck me, but then I want you to take me to Joseph’s. I have to go there. I have to”-

“You think I just want to fuck you? What do you think would make me want to have sex after seeing that?”

“No, I want you to”, Sierra insisted. “Please, Marty, I’m serious. You don’t know what I’ve been through tonight. I really need it. Please.”

“No! After what I just saw I don’t think my dick will be getting hard for a long time to come,” Marty said in an angry tone of voice. “I don’t give a fuck about Larceny or Rhino-good riddance. I ain’t all that concerned about Joseph either, for that matter. But Milo and Spanky were friends of mine. How can you even think about sex?”

“Milo used to say he was going to take me on a trip to Europe, or Hawaii, sometimes the Bahamas, before we split up,” Sierra said, though it was as if Marty was no longer there. “He still used to say stuff like that, even after”-

Suddenly, she started laughing insanely, manically, all the time staring straight ahead. Marty found it difficult to keep his eyes on the road as he made it finally to Joseph’s apartment.

“Look, I can’t take anymore of that,” he said. “If you decide to get out of here, for whatever reason, you got my cell number.”

“You never told me,” she replied as the tears continued streaming down her face, though she no longer laughed. “What makes you think Marlowe Krovell did all this?”

“Because a few weeks after Raven died, I went to see him, just to see how he was holding up,” he explained. “We both got real good and fucked up, and he went into this long list of things he was going to do to all of you. He was still not over Raven, and wanted back at all of you. He had specific plans for you, all of you, even Larceny Adams, even though she was nowhere around when Raven was alive. He just hated her because she was part of your group. Everything that happened tonight-to Larceny, to Rhino, and to Milo-was exactly what he said he was going to do.

“The only thing that happened tonight he never mentioned so far as I can remember was the little ventriloquist number he did with Milo. I’m worried now he’s after me as well. I know he’s alive, and he has to be crazy as a loon to actually do that stuff.”

“What-was he going to do with me?”

“I don’t remember for sure, ‘cos like I said, we were both wasted,” he replied. “I just remembered it after what I saw tonight, but it’s otherwise still a jumble. I didn’t really take him seriously at the time. In fact, I laughed. We both laughed. I thought he was just blowing off steam. I do remember something though about you and Joseph meeting in a group home, but that’s all.”

“Yeah, Raven must have told him that,” Sierra said. It was true. She, Raven, and Joseph all met in the same Catholic group home. She and Raven were Catholic, in fact, though Joseph just ended up there through the auspices of another agency. Within less than two weeks, he talked the both of them into running away with him, first talking them both into seducing the manager of the home. They eagerly and easily did it, after Joseph explained he would be unlikely to report them after they ran off. When they left, Milo was waiting to pick them up, and afterwards they met Rhino and Spiral, who at that time was Joseph’s bitch. They had been together for all of seven years since that night.

Still, what did all that have to do with Marlowe’s plans for her, and Joseph? She decided she had no choice but to go inside. Regardless of her uncertainties about Joseph and their current relationship, he did not deserve to suffer the grizzly fate of their friends. In the meantime, since all of the others were now dead, Joseph needed her more than ever. Maybe things would be better.

She merely hoped that she could reason with Marlowe. After all, she had left him warning through his uncle Brad about the disgusting things they had done to the food at Marlowe’s place while everyone was away. Surely, that counted for something.

“Sierra, just be careful, all right?”

Sierra assured Marty she would be fine, and then went to the door. The door was unlocked, and she walked inside. There was Joseph, sitting on his recliner, staring out into space. His eyes looked blank, almost expressionless, as she began crying. She turned, and heard a voice ask her what was wrong.

She turned to see Joseph had not moved.

“Joseph, is that you?”

Finally, he moved, and looked up at her.

“They’re all dead. Milo, Rhino, Sherry, all of them. Spanky too, I heard about it on the news, shot dead at the Crypt.”

He now got up and went toward Sierra cautiously.

“Krovell was here,” he said, as though trying to process the information he saw with his own two eyes. “He killed Milo, and Sherry, and Rhino. He bragged about it, and said you and me would be next. He said he just wanted me to know that, and wanted me to sweat it for a few days before it happened. He said what happened to the others would look like child’s play compared to what he was going to do to me.

“I-I shot him and he just stood there and laughed at me.”

Sierra was crying again, and lit into Joseph.

“This is your damn fault, Joseph!” she shouted. “Why did you kill Raven anyway? That is what this is all over. Do you see now what the fuck you caused?”

“No,” he said calmly. “He killed her. He told me that tonight. I thought she really died of a drug overdose. We all thought that. He told me tonight that he killed her because-because she broke up with him and went back to us.”

“That-motherfucker,” she said, now collapsing on the floor beside him.

“Joseph, we got to leave. I got the numbers from Gus. You can call and verify the account, and transfer it, and then we can get the hell out of here. We have to go some place where nobody can find us-not the Baltimore police, the Russian mob, the Pulse, or Marlowe. We have to get out of here tonight.”

Joseph just stared out the window. She had never seen him in such a solemn mood.

“I saw the fucking bullets hit him, all four of them. One of them hit him in the arm, one in the leg, one in the chest, and one right in his forehead. I saw the impact. He just bled a little, jerked some, and then kept walking toward me-laughing. I never saw anything like it in my life.”

“Joseph, please, call the number here and verify the fucking account and transfer it, and let’s get the fuck out of here,” Sierra pleaded, her terror growing more by the second. She was visibly shaking and her arm was jerking as she handed him the recipe card onto which Gus had scribbled all the information. Joseph took it and stared at it for a few minutes, and then finally made the phone call as Sierra made her way to the bathroom.

She threw up as she listened to Joseph make the transaction, and finally made her way to the refrigerator, where she extracted a gallon of tea. She drank down two glasses of it, as if she had consumed no liquids in close to a week.

“Okay, let’s go now,” he almost whispered, the usual commanding tone in his voice a shadow of it’s former self. The van was completely loaded with both of their possessions, what ones they decided to take with them. They got inside, with Joseph at the wheel.

“I’ll never forget the look on his face, or the last thing he said to me before he left,” he said.

“Joseph, really, I don’t want to talk anymore about it,” Sierra replied, already by now well past the end of her rope.

“He said I wasn’t really important to him,” he said. “He could care less personally whether I lived or died, or how I died, but as he put it, Marlowe’s memories wouldn’t let him see any peace until he took care of all of us. After all, he said, it is Marlowe’s brain. That is what he said. Marlowe’s brain will not let him see any peace.”

Sierra tried to process that information as Joseph drove on, soon ending up somewhere far out from the outskirts of Baltimore County, then making their way toward a long, narrow, winding country road that eventually took them somewhere into West Virginia..

“Where is this place?” Sierra demanded as Joseph pulled off to the side of the road, after about a three-hour drive. He did not answer, just got out of the van and walked down a slope. She removed herself from the van and followed his path, until she saw him hunkered down beside what looked like a small river. It was not until she got within about ten feet from him that she saw the body of the middle-aged woman.

“Who is that?” she asked him.

“My attorney-our attorney actually,” he replied. “Luckily, she has no family to speak of. We’re gonna be staying in her place for a few days. I was lying. She got everything settled early yesterday. I just wanted to make sure the money was all set before I said anything. I was afraid everybody would want to bolt too quickly.

“It’s really too bad. She was a good lawyer. She did a real good job, but we don’t need her anymore. We do need her place, though.”

“I thought-we were going away,” Sierra said hopelessly.

“Oh, we are,” he assured her. “We just have one more thing to take care of first. You know, Krovell doesn’t really seem to know who he is now-let alone what he is. Well, I do know, and I know there’s a way to deal with him. If we leave without doing it, we will just have to do it later, or let him play his little cat and mouse game until he decides to pounce. I ain’t made that way.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. He made a big mistake not killing me tonight. The next time I see him, I’ll be ready for him, I promise you that. I owe it to the rest of them.”

“What about her? You sure she won’t be found here?” Sierra said, looking back one more time toward the ravine. “We could bury her somewhere around here, it shouldn’t take that long.”

“Too risky being here that long,” Joseph said, “especially around a murder victim. The river will take care of her”

They then heard the shrill sound of a bird somewhere nearby, and Joseph looked up to see the arrival of what looked to be a large black vulture, circling over them, and finally perching on top of a rock on the bank across the river.

“If not, that vulture will.”

Joseph laid the body of the deceased attorney just into the edge of the river. He seemed almost gentle, even respectful, as he pushed her on in. He then stood up, and regarded the waves as they lapped around the body, but only for a minute. He then stood and walked toward the van. Sierra looked at the body, and then over toward the vulture, which seemed to watch her in a bizarre pose of mocking curiosity. She then got up and followed Joseph.

They got in the van and left, as the vulture watched them with baleful eyes.