Twenty-two dollars and some change plus a two-dollar tip

I bought a delivery pizza and paid $3.00+ for this slice (the apple cost $.60) from a popular national pizza franchise. I won't embarrass the company by naming it, so we will just give it a fictional name like A Table Not So Square; a name just randomly picked from my imaginary hat. I found myself caught up in the moment last night as I stared at that miserable dry hunk of crust with pre cooked pre formed artificial "topping product" piled loosely above unmeltable cheese-like food stuff. The pizza sauce was so thin it soaked into the crust leaving a feint pink paint brushed effect on the pizza. So as I analyzed and determined that a slice broke down to roughly a dollar a bite I became uncomfortably aware that I had just been culinarily raped by the delivery girl and even as she left I still tipped her two dollars (it would have been more, but she forgot the soda that I was billed for and she had no idea how to remove the charge and would not relinquish my pizza without payment in full. The tip would have been less, but I don’t like spit in my pizzas either) after she promised to return with my beverage as if she believed I would wait eagerly by the door waiting with school girl applomb for the revisit that would never come.(And never did, in case there are any of you optimists still out there.)

When did frozen grocery store pizzas become better than pizzaria pizzas? I knew we were in trouble the day I pulled into a truck stop, and as I browsed through the aisles I spied a Pizza Kiosk also sporting a popular national name we will refer to as pizza shack. There was a young girl selling pre made pizzas run through a microwave oven to customers from behind a small counter. The selection was limited and the quality of the junk food was compromised but yet there was a long line of customers waiting to order.

I need to spend more time in the kitchen

sweet mysteries of life

OK. Here’s one of those, oh so fun mathematical problems. There are seven books in a series, I bought them all, but of course they arrived at different times, but they all arrived. Maybe. Definitely according to my records. I read book one and kind of enjoyed it, so I ordered book two, three and four. While I was reading book two I ordered book five, six, and seven. They came in less than numerical order after book two, and I ended up reading another book outside the series between books three and four. By the time I started book five all the books were in except books six and seven. After I finished book five I was ready to start and actually began the first few pages of another book outside the series when book six came in the mail on the very day I picked up a Peter Straub paperback. I set Straub aside to read book six and book seven came in hardback version the very next day. I was settling into book six when it occurred to me that a vague reference to a previous death of a cousin in the books first chapter has now been referred to in the past tense several times by the middle of the story and actually the tale seems to be evolving around here to unknown facts from the loosely mentioned previous event.

Have you ever been reading a book and fallen asleep? Most anyone who reads does this at some time or other. I do it frequently, often dreaming about the subject matter I’ve been absorbing. But sometimes, not very often, but on some rare occasions I realize midway through a chapter that my eyes have been closed for several pages. Invariably, I am able to convince myself, though barely; that I nodded off and lost my place in the book somehow navigating backward in my unconscious efforts and upon awakening found my book open several pages from where I left off. So that it only appeared that I continued along the books pathway with my eyelids closed. This explanation train arrives in a timely fashion from common sense yet embarks on its journey to points unknown with me feeling edgy and enveloped in a sense that I am strangely gifted in the rare art of pulp fictional paperback scrying. The logical clarification hardly leaves me feeling any more sated than the arcane theory of magic and otherworldly perception.

Somehow this knowledge does not help my equation very much; it merely muddles the factoring assumptions and misdirects my course of calculations. I went back to my previously read books and inventoried the titles. Book one, check. Book two, check. Book three, check. Book four, check. Book five. Wait a minute where is book five? Book six is in my hands and book seven is the yet un-cracked hardback sitting on my nightstand with the Straub thriller patiently parked below it. So I stretch and limbered my arthritic fingers and begin counting again, one two three four five six. Six of seven books accounted for. One alleged story unread, one book unaccounted for. Basic math says one and one make two, one missing book and one missing story line seemed to equal out in my mind. My assumption would be that the missing book IS the missing story and I would of course be correct in a sane universe.

I went to the Internet and addressed my online Bookshop ‘til You Drop web page of choice and reviewed my transactions thinking to myself that clarity has finally struck the chord of truth and shown me that obviously I stepped out of sequence with my series and have yet another book to account for. I am quick to blame myself for such over sightedness as I have numerous priors in fanning this kind of flame of confusion. I returned to basics. I investigated the correct number of books in the series. Seven. Good. I Compared titles with books already in my possession. I went to the page describing the missing book and as I read the product description, my fingers trembled and a little bit of drool leaked down onto my beard as I realized the subject of this book was already known to me and in fact I was certain I had already read the story (maybe in a past life?) and I remembered with the recall of one who recently absorbed the information in considerable detail of what that adventure entailed. Now I was back to my unstable reality where uncertainty ruled the realm and I began once again from the beginning, reading the back covers of each book and reviewing the stories in my mind. When I came to book four the plot was familiar, in fact so familiar it matched the online description of book five to a tee. There you have it, book five was improperly represented with the wrong product description. That is why it seemed all too familiar! Relief and reality joined hand in hand once more to set me in a determined effort to find a sensible solution to this mystery. I turned to the back of book four and reviewed the preview of book five in the excerpt that was provided to encourage readers to buy the next installment.

The story line was certainly different, but no less familiar. I have read book five, I know it, I remember it, and my records show I received it, but I cannot find it. It is missing. I searched the house once again. I went outside and searched my pick up truck. I dug through the trashcan. This book five is now a mystery in more ways than one. So in conclusion, I have read books one through five, book six still refers to events unknown to me (maybe I mentally blocked out a few chapters of book five?) from an inferred previous tome of unknown description. Book five has fallen through the cracks of space and time and is unavailable for discernable review, my mathematical skills are in irreparable despair, and I am sitting here writing instead of reading. What would life be without a little mystery?

Billy Bob And Billy Jean

I lived in a small duplex in the Surrounding San Diego area for a time with a girlfriend name Jazelle, she wore her blond straight hair in a long ponytail that reached down to the small of her back and wore fringy leather vests and hip hugger bell bottom jeans with a peace sign sewn just above the bottom left cuff. She was a serious thrill seeker, loved surfing, sex in sleeping bags, and jamming on the back of my bike. We were by all standards the perfect match made in Hell, destined to be together for weeks. I knew that she might not be the right one for me when one day we encountered a minor mishap; the front forks on my chopper snapped on the freakway (here name for it not mine) while traveling about eighty five miles an hour in the fast lane. After dropping the bikes frame to the asphalt and skidding into the center divider spewing sparks like it was the 4th of July I scraped myself from the bike seat and with trembling hands, legs and torso stepped back and assessed the situation. I noticed right away as I fumbled and failed to light a cigarette that the road had ground away the bike frame and eaten into the engine block, fluids were leaking onto the blacktop like the choppers own blood, and life had seeped from the engine until it was obvious there would be no resuscitation for this sad puppy. As I shook from the realization that death had just narrowly missed grabbing us by the nape of the neck and hurling our limp bodies into the oncoming traffic, I looked over to Jazelle to see her jumping up and down yelling “Far freaking out man! That was so righteously bitchin’!” It was that very moment that I realized something needed to change in my life.

Soon after the near death experience, I presented Jazelle the bad news, explaining that I realized I wasn’t good enough for her and that she should move on to someone more worthy; like, I don’t know, a secret agent or a shark hunter, someone who might have a minimal chance of survival while being around her. She was, much to my surprise tearfully shattered. I secretly suspected that Jazelle would leap at the opportunity to be free of me and be gone in a split second. But she told me she really wanted to make our relationship work and she did this with a completely serious face. She told me she would prove she could be just as fun at home as she was on our road trips and somehow after gazing into those solemn sincere eyes I held my resolve in check and agreed we should rent a place giving cohabitation a chance. I know I wasn’t thinking with common sense, after all, if I couldn’t deal with her part time, what chance would we have together ALL the time?

Well this ill thought plan was put in motion, we found the small duplex in my price range, and could have had the whole house for a little more money per month, but we had plenty of space, and frankly I couldn’t afford the extra cash after replacing my recently departed chopper. Jazelle set up housekeeping, decorating our home in Post 60’s hippy fashion with macramé plant hangers, Indian rugs hung on the walls accented with posters and neon paints, avocado furniture in the front room, tangerine dining set in the kitchen. Waterbed, lava lamps, strobe lights flashing in rhythm to Janis Joplin on the stereo, black lights shining on love beads hanging across the doorways, we were one cozy little family.

In fact it was kind of sexy. For a while… then Jazelle started with the incense, which wasn’t bad really, then she began hanging talismans and dream catchers all about the house. Finally, out came the ouija board. That was a little creepy, and Jazelle was showing signs of captivity syndrome, all twitchy and nervous and yes getting just a little too bitchy for comfort. I am an easygoing kind of guy, I let a lot flow off my back, but I was at the point where something had to be said.
When I confronted her, Jazelle broke down in tears quite atypical of her usual hard-core personality and said that she was afraid of the house. “How can you be afraid of a house?” I asked, and she said that things were happening while I was away playing Navy and that she didn’t want to be alone in the house any more. Well that was weird even for Jazelle. I was at a loss for words. She said she could prove it and brought me to the kitchen table where she had the Ouija board set up. I examined the board; it was crafted with Egyptian styling, a trademark stamp depicting the board as manufactured by the Kennard Novelty Company and a copyright by Elijah Bond dated 1891. To each corner were faded stencils of icons, to the upper left, a sun, to the upper right a crescent moon, and in the bottom left and right corners a single star in each. With arched stenciling there were two rows containing the entire alphabet, below that in a straight progression were the numbers one through zero. Just above the line of numbers was the crystal pointer which rested directly over a skeletal “joker” looking pattern that although faded or maybe because of the fading, oddly appeared to be laughing in a most disturbing manner.

“You see?” she cried out.

“I see an ouija board thing, so what of it?” I asked fairly exasperated and just a little shaken over Jazelle’s sudden change of personality.
“The pointer thingy! It’s…it’s pointing to the symbol for death! My death! Your death, our death...I don’t know, death!”

Well I spent most of that evening calming her and after a couple of wrong turns managed to get her to see the foolishness of her fears and settle down. I took her out to dinner then brought her home, tucked her in bed and promised everything would be just fine then slipped into the front room to get some needed privacy and rest. I was not accustomed to playing caregiver, at least not on this level, and although what she said made no sense to me, I could tell she was deeply disturbed by something. I put some music on and let the earlier events of the evening slide off of me like so much baggage. The entire day onboard ship had been stressful enough, this was way beyond the call of duty. By the end of the cassette, a weight lifted from me and I was floating in the twilight of calm and stress liberating bliss. I was too mellow to even change the tape, I just sat back enjoying the quiet hassle free moment.

I heard a cupboard slam shut in the kitchen. I must have dozed off for a moment there and Jazelle had gotten up. I groaned and raised myself from the couch and headed for the kitchen. “Whatcha doing honey?” I asked as I came around the corner. No one was there. Now that was weird. I must have really been out and dreaming some funky shit, I thought to myself. I turned to go back into the front room when behind my back I heard the cabinet door under the sink slowly creak open. I turned with a shock and watched as the door gently rocked on it’s hinges and laughed at myself for being so jumpy. I reached into a drawer on the other side of the kitchen and grabbed a screwdriver and some WD-40 to fix the lazy cabinet door once and for all. When I turned back to the sink, the door was closed. Now I understand about unbalanced doors with loose hinges forced by gravity to swinging open, but how do you explain it swinging shut again? Obviously there is one, I was just at a loss to figure it out that night. I went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, thinking I really needed a case of this stuff at that moment. I returned to the couch, put another tape in the stereo and kicked back, mulling over the peculiar events that had just transpired. I settled down and drank my beer and feeling much better as I finished the last drop from the can, I was thinking another beer might be in order.

Just then the cassette stopped in mid song. Cursing my bad luck just knowing the stereo deliberately devoured my favorite tape again I grumbled and started to get up from the couch one more time. As I stared at the silent stereo I heard an awful clamor in the kitchen, and the front room plunged into darkness. I stood there trying to recall where I kept the flashlight for such emergencies when a pair of headlights shining through the window lit up the room. It was an eerie bluish haze that spanned the area, but there was enough light to make out some details. I walked to the kitchen, still wanting a flashlight and was pretty sure the breaker box was located there as well. As I came into the room, my foot brushed against something shadowed in the dark, startling me into keen awareness of my surroundings. I searched with my foot and tapped against what felt like a small box, probably Screaming Yellow Zonkers size. So that was the commotion I heard in the kitchen? Some rodent attacked the munchies supply on the counter? I laughed at myself, Jazelle sure picked a night to freak out, she had me on edge and susceptible to my rather enormous imagination. I found the flashlight and went over behind the table and locating the breaker box I reached for the switch. To this day I don’t recall if I actually flipped the breaker or not for at that very moment all the lights came back on and I was staring at the kitchen floor. Every single box, can and bagged item from the cabinets were scattered all over the ground. Once again horror chilled me to the core, freezing my actions for several moments. My mind just could not wrap itself around the sinister event that had just taken place in my home. Grabbing a broom for defense and a beer for courage I stood in the middle of the room taking in all the damage. A cabinet door swung closed, and others just sway lazily on their hinges, innocent enough looking to make me reconsider my diabolical assumptions, and sit down at the table and finish my beer.

“Pretty funny joke” I proclaimed out loud to the joker skeleton laughing absurdly at me from his Ouija resting place. Of course I realize if a sly mouse can attempt to hijack my Zonkers, then it doesn’t seem so far fetched that a pack of wily rats might have tried knocking over the entire kitchen surplus taking advantage of the brief plunge into darkness and scurrying away the moment the lights came back on. I got to hand it to them for ingenuity but tomorrow the traps come out. It just then occurred to me that there were headlights at the window earlier, and I wondered who could be there. It wasn’t that late yet, at least not in my world, midnight was not an unlikely time to find visitors at my doorstep. I am nocturnal by nature, although there weren’t a lot of acquaintances that kept the same hours as I did it left me to ponder over who the mysterious night caller might be as I reached for the front door. Damn, I didn’t hear anyone pull away, but the car was definitely gone.

“Oh well,” I thought to myself, “I ain’t much in the mood for company anyways, but it sure would have been nice to have some help putting all that stuff back in the cabinets. Good thing for the rats nothing was gnawed on or I would have bypassed the humane traps and went for the back snappers.”

After stowing all the gear and squaring away the kitchen, I gulped down one last beer, I decided to quit while I was ahead and turn in for the night. I quietly snuck into bed not wanting to wake Jazelle, and most certainly not feeling up to answering any questions about recent events. I felt her warm breath as she snuggled up to my shoulder and I settled into a shallow sleep filled with wicked dreams. The remainder of the night passed all to quickly and I was up and rushing to get ready for work and worrying that I was going to miss revelry again. I kissed Jazelle gently on the forehead, normally I would have kicked her ass out of bed when I rolled out, just because I could, but this morning I thought that she needed her rest after yesterdays anxiety attack. Besides, I wasn’t sure what I would find when I slipped into the kitchen to make coffee. Much to my relief, everything was in its proper place.

At lunch I was ordered by the Lt to go downtown to the Public Library and collect some information in the microfiche department from Miss Darling. I could imagine a spinsterly gray haired old woman tending to books slightly older than she herself and figured if I played my cards right, I could probably finish off the afternoon with this one job. The Lt had been informed his inventory was ready for pick up, but mistakes happened, and one mistake was sending me on a task so close to the pool hall downtown. I jumped in the ships assigned jeep from the carpool and cruised on over to the old town district then parked in front of the pool hall walking the half block to the library. As it turned out mistakes did indeed happen and the Lt’s order was in but had not been brought up from the archives yet. I was sent down to one of the lowest sublevel basements by the quite matronly librarian, and as I thanked Miss Darling with a smile and a wink, she sharply corrected me in a hushed librarian manner.

“Mizzzz Darling is in the lower basement and you will quietly report to her this instant!” Ouch, the only thing missing was for her to wield a ruler and she would be the spitting image of the cover girl on this months Mad Magazine.

I marched heavily down the stairs several flights, descending into dustier, darker, mustier surroundings with each level. Finally I reached my destination. It was poorly lit and hazy in the grimy storage room, and as I looked about, all that was visible to the naked eye was not the orderly rows of shelving that neatly bore the support of the Dewey Decimal System, but half filled boxes and stacks of magazines that had fallen over from aspiring to reach far too high. A lone desk, bare of any familiarity save for a computer terminal and a single microfiche machine sat in the center of the room paired with an empty chair that had seen better days. I called out in a bare whisper, “Miss Darling, ma’am?” and received no reply. I wandered among the stacks of yellowed newspaper bundles scattered across the floor and softly called her name again. After the previous night, anything could spook me, and of course I had to find myself alone beneath tons of aged concrete in a dark and dismal room cut off from the entire world.

“May I help you?” A firm but tender voice rang out from the unnatural silence.
I jumped at once, and croaked in a nervous murmur “ I, I am here to see Miss Darling, uh pardon me, but do you know where I might find her?”

“You already have” came the melodic voice “and there is no need to whisper down here, no one but the dead can hear you.”

At that moment a youthful vision of splendor appeared from behind several large stacks of belligerent magazines, wearing a knee length light blue dress that put curves in all the right places, her tawny gold hair was tied with two baby blue ribbons making cute pig tails that captured the preciously scarce light in the room and accented her sapphire blue eyes that were slightly hidden behind oversized glasses set in a thin frame and resting low on her button nose. I cleared my throat and explained that I was sent to retrieve certain microfiche information requested previously by my Lt and was here to offer my services in any way that I might be of assistance. Suddenly I had forgotten about the pool hall, the previous night or what day it was for that matter, all I could see or think about was that lovely girl standing before me.

“Are you ok?” I heard. “You spoke to me but all I got was something about reprieve civilian fishes pitied by the rest and you need my systems’?”

Damn my nervous mumble. “ I said I was here to collect some microfiche information for my Lt.” I stammered, “And offered my assistance if you need It.” There I got it out.

“Oh,” she smiled “you must be the Navy guy. Are all you sailors so shy?” The day was just getting better and better.

“No ma’am,” I replied, “ Shyness is my specialty, I have worked strenuously for years to perfect my own personal form of shyness and quite frankly anyone you meet out there trying to be shy was probably trained by me.”

“ Shy but not modest, a peculiar combination of traits.”

“ Those are two shining attributes to my personality, but not the strongest traits to my character Miss Darling.” I said leaning against her desk. I swore I could sense it slip just a fraction under my grasp.

“Then I hope patience is one of your ‘stronger’ attributes as I am still searching for some of the information your lieutenant asked for, and please call me Sam.”

“Sam?” I asked. “That is such a coincidence, you can call me Darren.” I smiled back at her, I felt a little foolish afterward for the slight play on words, since she obviously never watched an episode of Bewitched, and now she didn’t know my real name. After my fumbling first impression, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

She dropped a stack of papers on her desk and started back to the rear of the room telling me to have a seat and make myself comfortable. I swung around the desk and started sifting through the assorted paper work and realized the Lt was searching for historical references to our ship. I wondered if it was official business or some trite hobby he was absorbed in that brought me here. I finished an article about a family picnic held at Balboa Park in honor of the returning Destroyer Escort, my returning Destroyer Escort and was wondering why I hadn’t heard about a picnic for ship’s personnel when I noticed the next article down, An Ode to Billy Bob and Billy Jean. The title was pretty corny, but the subtitle grabbed my attention; Duplex murder/suicide Friday night. I looked at the ancient date of the article and read further. The Crestmore duplex apartments located in the lower east section of San Diego was the scene of the subsequent arrest of Jackson Pole, a known dealer of drugs and prostitution for the apparent slaying of person or persons not yet divulged to the press. Pole, a 34-year-old felon is being held without bail pending further investigation. The suspect has been under investigation for fraud, extortion, drug peddling and prostitution for several months. This follow- up story reveals the shocking truth of what happened within the walls of the fateful Crestmore home. The Crestmore home is the very house that has a diabolical history of death and tragedy for more than 120 years.

The introduction though disturbing and written years ago had a ring of familiarity, so I read further;

Billy Bob and Billy Jean were married right out of High School. Both were raised on small Indiana farms and Billy Bob joined the Navy just like his two older brothers. After Boot Camp Billy Jean came out to San Diego and shared a small efficiency home with her husband for a short time until he was shipped out for a six-month tour of duty. After Six months Billy Bob’s tour was extended and Billy Jean was left at home very bored and quite lonely. She met a man who took her out dancing, to exotic parties and introduced her to drugs. Before she knew what happened, Billy Jean was getting high, sleeping around and running ‘errands’ for her pusher boyfriend. After 18 months overseas Billy Bob finally returned home and one hot August evening showed up at their doorstep with flowers and chocolates and a reservation to the most romantic resort he could afford. As he got to the front of the house he left his car running and dashed straight to the door, fumbling with his keys he could not get the right one to work, so wanting to surprise his lovely bride, he ran around to the back of the house, slipped open the bedroom window and crawled in.
Misfortunes often step into people’s lives whenever dire circumstance allows and this was certainly one of those tragic occasions. Billy Jean was passed out on the bed with her pusher boyfriend Jackson Pole who was awakened when he heard some commotion and in a fit of fear and desperation, or perhaps in cold calculating deliberation shot Billy Bob to death as he came through the bedroom window.
The police came and arrested Jackson Pole for involuntary manslaughter and knowing this man for his reputation wished to God they could do more. They searched the crime scene well into the night and most of the next morning for evidence of drugs or paraphernalia but found nothing. The boyfriend wasn’t a stupid man, just ruthless and coldhearted. The car that Billy Bob left idling in the drive glared its accusing headlights into the front room of the house, its engine idling in vain until finally after overheating it too died, leaving the headlights to run off the battery well into the early morning when the car was towed away. With what little evidence there was bagged and tagged and sent down to forensics, the investigating officers returned to their station to file reports and Billy Jean was left alone in an empty house.

Billy Jean was crushed by the tragic events that had unfolded the previous night. Riddled with guilt and mentally distraught she tore through the house looking for something to calm her down, knowing Pole had cleverly hidden his stash somewhere where the cops wouldn’t find it, she searched well through the rest of that day searching for relief from the pain that tore into her heart and soul relentlessly. Reflecting and retracing Jackson’s steps in a moment of clarity, she recalled the pusher boyfriend spending a lot of time in the kitchen after shooting Billy Bob. She went through each and every kitchen cabinet meticulously until she came across a box of rat poison that she found in a cabinet under the sink. She emptied the contents into the basin and discovered a baggy containing a syringe and a plentiful supply of uncut heroine. Not knowing or perhaps not caring of the potency of this drug, she sat down in the front room after injecting a massive overdose and waited. Waited for emotions to fade far away, waited as she sat without sensation for her life to fade even further away. Perhaps it was the drugs, maybe it was the guilt, but the last thing she saw before she slipped into deaths comma was a pair of headlights shining into the front room.
Her body was discovered days later when a detective came by to follow up on some questions about the tragic murder of Billy Bob. He found Billy Jean collapsed in the drive in front of the house, her body covered with chocolates and roses.
I sat in that deep clammy cellar and waited for the feeling to return to my legs, I sat still, silently oblivious the world outside. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding faster than a drum solo; I felt the blood slowly leaching from my face back to other needy extremities that had been without for far too long. I could not focus my gauzelike gaze from eyes that were blurred and distracted, I could feel how close to unconsciousness I had come and slowly shook my head from side to side in denial.

“No,” I thought to myself,” “this isn’t possible!”

“Here you go, that’s everything, and I must say you have that shyness thing down to a tee. Most boys who come down here won’t leave me alone unless I agree to a date. I rather like your approach. You may have my number.”

She passed me a slip of paper and I folded it up in my hands with the article that was already there. I absently pushed them into my pocket and offered a feeble thank you and walked out. I couldn’t get out of that cave fast enough. I ran up the stairs, I ran away from my fear, I ran out into the sunlight and drove straight back to the Naval yard without so much as a thought of the pool hall, or anything else for that matter. My mind was locked in neutral. I was afraid to think anything, afraid to relive the information that slammed into my mind with the force of a fleet invasion. I was afraid of the truth, afraid of the past, afraid to go home.

I sat in my shipboard office compartment and stared at nothing, I sat there in silence, I sat in stillness, I sat alone too terrified to assess the information I had obtained. I sat and thought of nothing. I have no idea how much time slipped away, how long I sat there, but at some point my Lt turned up and said, “There you are! Did you get what I asked for?” I faced him and placed the papers in his hands. “Is this everything? Did she find all I requested?”

“Yes sir,” I responded finally. “There was also an article.” I hesitated. “An article about a picnic…” I searched my pockets and pulled out the half folded half crumpled paper and held it out to the Lt. “ It says there was a family picnic for the ship sir.” I offered.

He took the paper giving me a suspicious look and I told him “There was another article about the apartment I live in written by Steve Carroll I believe his name is and it had some pretty gruesome things to say about that house.”

“I know that name,” Responded my Lt “He’s a ghost chaser, thinks of himself as some kind of Kolchak or something, I wouldn’t listen to anything he has to say.”

I thought about what Lt said and realized I was just being irrational. It is funny really, when you think about all the coincidences that led up to my hysteria, but in the sensible light of day it all really did seem like a fools dream. Come on dead people reliving their worse nightmare at my expense? It is laughable now that I look back on it, all right? I’m just glad no one was around to catch me playing the neurotic simpleton. I figured this was a story I would keep to myself for many years. After all the family already had too much ammunition for holiday get-togethers as it was.

By the end of the day I was back to my old self and was seriously considering using a phone and calling Sam. Tonight Jazelle and I needed to have a very long serious talk. It was her freaky superstitions that got me all worked up in the first place. I kick started my new bike and hugged the wind as I road home, and then bracing myself for an emotionally draining evening I walked through the front door.
I was received by the blur of a vision charging straight towards me, I flinched and pulled back expecting a blow, but it was the old hyper Jazelle leaping into my arms and smothering me with kisses.

“I am so sorry about last night, lover. I don’t know why I got so worked up. We have a lovely home and I want to spend the rest of my life with you!” she assaulted me with another barrage of kisses and hugged the very breath from my lungs.

“I’m glad you are feeling better…” I started to say.

“You are the most wonderful man in the world you sexy thing and I am going to show you how much I approve of you tonight!” she wiggled and giggled in her flirtatious way and said “The flowers and chocolates are the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me. How did you know that roses are my favorites?”

She held me close and I couldn’t breath. She planted kisses on me and I couldn’t feel them. She leaned into my ear and whispered “Honey, there’s a car coming up the drive, are you expecting anyone?”

Borrow

Borrow. It is such a diminutive, innocuous word. Commonly used on any day in just about any situation. One might for instance request from a stranger in the bank or at a department store register; “May I borrow a pen?” or to a friend or relative one might ask; “Can I borrow some money?” How often it seems we use the word “borrow” in our daily lives. By definition it implies you are going to return said item. Sometimes though, it is used without the objective of returning the item, such as asking a neighbor to borrow a cup of sugar. There is certainly no direct intention to return that same cup of sugar to your neighbor; it more implicitly conveys a possible acknowledgement of an implied debt of courtesy. It was this last case just a solitary year ago, that quite nearly cost me not only my life but my very sanity as well.

My name is Michael Wining and until a year ago, I was a carefree bohemian ne’er do well. At the tender age of twenty-five I lived my irreverent life to the fullest, or at least so I thought at the time made possible in its entirety due to the vast fortune my grandfather left me. I went to only the select snob parties, dined at the finest restaurants, and reveled with the beautiful people. I thought I was in heaven when I gave it any consideration at all, but one late night in July I fell from my towering heavenly bliss and descending deep into the very bowels of Hell’s torment itself.I had been on that particular night barhopping with some friends in the gaslight district of San Diego when I decided I was at my celebratory peak and the appropriate time to go retreat to my lodgings was eminent. I think it was around three or four in the morning. All the clubs were closed down to regular folk and only the caustically wealthy remained after hours. I was feeling reasonably excellent and so in the mood I decided against driving in favor of a brisk stroll back to my Hotel room. The decision was a logical choice reached by illogical means, the last bastion and defender of the drunken and inept; the very least outcome of the evening I desired was a DWI to un-mellow my high. Besides, I reasoned, the hotel was only a few blocks away and an early morning stroll would suit me well. I offered my goodbyes, paid my tab and a departing round of drinks and left the bar. I was well on my way to the hotel when I reached into my jacket pocket to get a cigarette. I pulled out an old cigarette pack but crumpled and tossed it aside as the packet was empty. It always amazes me how much I smoke when I imbibe and at that moment found it difficult to believe I finished off the entire pack in such a short time. I was traumatized, I only smoked Helmars Turkish Blend Cigarettes and looking around, it was obvious a small local convenience store would not be likely to carry them much less even be open at this early hour. A quick glance at all the dark storefronts on the street confirmed my suspicion. I cursed the world, feeling serious nicotine deprived spasms coming on merely from the knowledge that no nicotine was immediately available. A moment of clarity set me walking a faster pace with the realization I had another pack in my hotel suite. All sane thought was pushed from my head with the single exception; I needed a smoke, a thought which may not have held a dollop of sanity in and of itself if I were to believe the surgeon general.

About a block from the hotel, I was wheezing and beginning to acquire a sweaty and unhealthy flush to my complexion. I found myself once again cursing the world for not having another pack of cigs on me and cursing the local shops for being closed between deep gulps for breath. I was about to break into a vigorous amble towards the hotel when the whistle of a soft melody drew my attention. I saw a man, the melody stopped as I exchanged a subtle glance with the stranger standing beneath a streetlight. He was leaning against the pole, dragging slowly on a recently lit cigarette, by no means reminding me of a macho smoke commercial. I stopped for a moment, sizing him up as I thoughtfully observed him deeply inhale a lungful of nicotine.

He was of diminutive stature, a small man, maybe 130 lbs. He wore tan khaki pants, a smart sports shirt with hibiscus blooms patterned in Hawaiian fashion covered by a cerulean blue nylon windbreaker with a logo I couldn’t quite distinguish. His footwear were stylish deck shoes wrapped around clean white ankle socks made visible by the short wader cut of his khaki cuffs. I guessed his age to be maybe late forties or early fifties. My brain, inhibited by the absorbed alcohol judged him as not likely to be a threat. Cautiously I approached, hoping he proved to be a Good Samaritan who would facilitate a fellow smoker with the gracious act of sharing. As I drew near he turned his face towards me. He had green eyes the color of dirty dollar bills; the most penetrating I had ever seen and they watched me approach with a modest sparkle of amusement in the recessed corners of those dusky verdant portals.I cleared my throat and asked him, “Hey Buddy, would you happen to have a cigarette I could borrow?” It was such a simple question.

He looked me up and down, obviously trying to assess the situation. His eyes met mine again, I felt a cold shiver run down my spine but I shuddered once and ignored it considering the cool hour of early morning. Then he smiled at me, “Sure Buddy, always happy to help a fellow smoker.” With that said he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack. Tapping it on the side of his hand to get one out, he said to me “You know my Mother, may she rest in peace, always taught me to be careful with my grammar. She was a stickler for grammar my Mother was. ‘Sammy’ she would say, it was her pet name for me, Samael is my given name but she often called me Sammy. ‘You must always use proper grammar. If you don’t, people will think you are uneducated. Say what you mean and mean what you say.’ That is what my Mother rest her dear soul, would say.”He handed me the cigarette he pulled from his pack and I took it, thanking him as he lit it for me. That is when the impression of Heaven actually materialized wrapping my mind in a cocoon of pure ecstasy as that first puff was like sheer manna to me. The nicotine beast within was finally placated. I stood there for a moment, my eyes closed; taking pleasure in the exquisite taste when I remembered Samael was still standing there beside me. I opened my eyes and found him staring intently with a big wicked grin on his face. “You really must have been dying for a smoke Buddy. I never saw anyone enjoy a drag like you just did.” I returned his smile, “My name is Michael, nice to meet you. Yes, I thought I had another pack on me but I was wrong, I was just now trying to get back to my hotel to get one. Thanks again for the cigarette.”Samael just waved his hand, “Oh please, no need to thank me, I am glad I could be of some small assistance. So you are heading back to your suite, what hotel are you staying at?” he asked as he took another cigarette from the pack and lit it for himself.I continued to smile, I was in a self indulgent state of nirvana and felt no menace from Samael as I looked down at him and I thought to myself the least I could do for my grinning savior was to lend a sympathetic ear to bend for a few moments while I finished my cigarette. He struck me as a lonely man just wanting some one to talk to; why else would he be out on the streets at such an early hour in the morning?“I’m staying at the Sheridan Grande Hotel.” Samael let out a small but sustained whistle, “Wow, that is some pricey accommodations you have Michael, I once knew a lady who worked the night shift there, Maggie was her name. Nice enough girl but she had such extremely poor grammar.” He spoke wistfully.With my nicotine addiction temporarily satisfied, my bladder then spoke up to warn me that it was a good deal too full to continue holding the imported beer I had consumed before leaving the bar. “Sorry Samael, but I have to get going, but maybe I’ll see you around and thanks for the smoke.” I turned and started to jog towards the hotel. Just before I got out of earshot, Samael yelled something to me that sounded like “I’ll see you soon Michael.”The next morning I awoke with a pounding headache. I had forgotten all about Sammy and the cigarette and his peculiar grammar lessons by then and I called up room service ordering some breakfast and a few aspirin for my miserable spinning head. As I was eating the few bites I dared ingest without risk of losing everything I received a call from my friend Paulie who proceeded by informing me that he had finally and succesfully accomplished the conquest of a certain socialite he had been after for months. I listened with a half heart while grabbing my fresh pack of Helmar’s and lit one up. I cut Paulie short telling him I had something urgent to do and made plans to meet him later that night at said socialite’s elite gathering on her daddy’s little boat dockside at the Blue Moon Harbor Yacht club at slip L337.

I went back to bed, waking up at five pm in a mood much more to my liking. The pain in my head was finally gone and as I lit another cigarette, I sat at the convenience table, pulled out my laptop and checked my e-mails. I found mostly junk mail except for a few messages from Paulie with jpegs of him and his latest conquest in compromising positions. But one email in particular caught my eye. The subject line just read “Grammar”. I didn’t recognize the address it came from but my virus protector gave it no cautionary disapproval, so I opened it. I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read the content.“Dear Michael,

I hope you enjoyed the cigarette you borrowed from me last night. However, since you borrowed it, I assume you mean to give it back to me. I will be around sometime tonight to collect. Remember, always say what you mean and mean what you say. Sincerely,Samael.” I was absolutely astonished. I couldn’t believe this guy not only found my e-mail address but he also was demanding I pay back the cigarette I “borrowed” from him. I glared at my screen for a moment. I had no intention of him coming to collect a cigarette from me. I mean I would give him one if I saw him again should he ask for one, that would only be courteous but this kook claimed he actually intended to collect on a cigarette debt. It then occurred to me that the message was sent in jest and the lonely old guy must have one sick sense of humor. I placed his e-mail address on my ignore list and went back to checking the remainder of my mail and as I did, new mail came in with just the one lone word “Grammar” in the subject line, they started popping up faster than I could delete them and I found myself thinking this nut must have one Hell of a Spam-ware program and I shut down my computer. I tried to put Samael and the borrowed cigarette out of my mind, concluding that if he did show up and things became violent, I could easily defend myself against his age and slight build and then I would just call the police and be done with him. Considering my financial independence, I was used to having scam artists and such trying to fleece money from me. I decided Samael was one of these people. I also decided I had learned my lesson and from that moment on, I would never again ask to “borrow” another cigarette from a stranger. I would make sure I had enough on me.

I hired a cab to drive out to the harbor, where I met up with Paulie and a few other partygoers. It was a great bash, lots of idle conversation, music and dancing; making out and the best liquor that money could buy. It was obvious early on that Paulie and our hostess were going to hook up again and so when the party started to wind down, I thought it best for me to return to my hotel. I looked around for Paulie and our hostess to let them know I was leaving, but not finding them I reasoned they were likely preoccupied. I went topside and debarked the yacht.

As I strolled down the pier I heard someone whistling behind me, it was an unfamiliar tune but a recognizable tone. I quickened my pace, wanting to make it to the parking lot where I knew a line of cabs and limos would be waiting to transport any party goers off to perspective abodes to sleep off the night’s events or on to the next adventure as their recreational motivated constitution allowed. The faster I walked, the faster and louder the whistling became, now I could hear footsteps behind me as well. I started to run as my muddled brain brought forth the memory of the e-mail I had received from Samael earlier that day. I knew I was too drunk to defend myself now and all I could do was get to the safety of the illuminated parking lot, where there would be safety in bright lights and tangible people. I could see a distinct glow up ahead. I was so fixed on watching the lights I didn’t see the anchor that lay across the deck of the pier. I let out a small yelp as my toe caught it and I went sailing across the wooden planks, skidding for a few feet and ended up sprawled face first on the splintery ground. There was a sharp pain in my ankle and I knew I had twisted it or worse. I rolled onto my back and sat up, rubbing my ankle. The whistling had stopped, so had the footsteps. The only light was the faint blush from the full moon hiding behind thin veils of clouds above and I could only see dark shadows. I held my breath, straining to hear any noise but the only perceived sound was the slight clatter of distant carefree laughter coming from another yacht anchored in the harbor. I waited a few more minutes and when I realized no one was coming after me, I struggled to my feet. My left ankle let me know immediately it would not support any weight, so I started to hop on my right foot towards the parking lot. I had hopped maybe 4 or 5 steps when I heard a voice from behind me say, “That was a nasty spill you took Michael, are you okay?”

I froze. I recognized the owner of the disembodied voice immediately. It was Samael. I turned slowly, careful not to put my left foot down. He was standing behind me, the moonlight reflecting off his misty sea green eyes, giving them an ethereal quality. He was dressed almost exactly as he was the night before but tonight he wore a navy pea coat and a sailors wool cap. He was holding something in his had but I couldn’t make out what it was. I started sobering up quickly as he strolled towards me, his face covered in an evil grin that made my blood run cold.“Are you okay there Michael, buddy?” he hissed as he came closer. I opened my mouth to yell for help but he was instantly on me. In a brief imperceptible moment I was tackled to the ground and the wind was knocked completely from me. I marveled at his almost super human speed and strength as he punched me in the head, producing dancing stars before my blurry eyes. I tried to put constructive thoughts toward fighting back but my reeling mind could not settle on anything useful and my stunned empty efforts at struggling accomplished absolutely nothing. My ‘buddy’ Sam produced a pair of handcuffs and locked my hands behind me. He then pulled out a roll of duct tape from his pocket, ripped off a sizable selection and slapped it over my mouth just as my senses were crawling back from the deep nether they had retreated to. As my senses revisited to assess the situation, my mottled and blurred vision cleared as well.

He sat cross-legged on the pier, glaring down at me as I looked at him through questioning eyes. “I imagine right now you are wondering what is going on. Well allow me to explain. You see I am a product of my dear Mother’s insistence that grammar be used properly. She used to beat the dog snot out of me if I used improper grammar or etiquette. I tried, my best to keep her happy but day after endless day I failed and suffered for my inadequacies. In the end I had an epiphany as I cringed in my bed late one night, covered as I was with bruises and abrasions from Mother’s disappointments. It was there and then that it became solemnly obvious that only one action on my part could grant my dear Mother peace, and it was up to no one else in the entire world but me to gain my Mother’s approval by giving her what she truly wanted. So one night as she lay sleeping in her bed, I snuck into her room and placed the pillow over her head. She struggled and screamed as I most certainly anticipated, but amazingly for all her proper grammar, in the end she resorted to cussing and swearing like a New York whore. After completing my distasteful task there was for one brief moment a feeling that I was finally free or so I thought, but alas I soon discovered that was not the case at all. Much to my dismay I found people in this world use improper grammar all the time and it drove me crazy! Like when dear sweet Maggie said to me “You ain’t worth spit.” I corrected her grammar quickly; one quick slash across the carotid and it was over. It was the first time I had used a knife. I uh, I wasn’t used to the blood you see? I did find myself sick on that first occasion but over time I diligently built up a tolerance, yes even a taste, a hunger for the bloody morbid service I perform. I often wondered as a young child what my purpose in life would be one day and about ten years ago I realized my destiny was to stop the mistreatment of the English language and “teach” proper grammar to those poor unfortunate souls in need of education and to ruthlessly butchering any wretched abusive soul who proved guilty of butchering our precious grammar. Take for instance you my young friend. Last night you approached me and asked if you could borrow a cigarette from me. Borrow, do you know what the definition of borrow is? To borrow is defined as to have permission to temporarily use another’s’ possession, with intent to return that item. You borrowed a cigarette from me last night and I have come to get it back. Now where is the item I allowed you to borrow last night Michael my boy?”I stared wild-eyed at him. My heart felt as if it were going to pound a path out of my chest. I didn’t know how I was going to make my escape from this maniac. I tried frantically to think when I suddenly remembered I had a pack of cigarettes in my breast pocket. Quickly I started to gesture to Samael, trying to get him to look in my pocket.“What’s that Michael? You have cigarettes in your pocket? Well let’s take a look shall we?” He leaned over, I could smell the sour sweat on his face and a sickly aroma of stale tobacco on his breath as he rummaged through my pocket, “Ah, here we go, what have we here?” he said as he pulled the nearly full pack out from its storage. I mumbled a prayer as he flipped the pack over and read it. “Oh Michael…tsk. .tsk. .tsk. You really weren’t paying attention last night were you? These are Helmar’s, I don’t smoke Turkish Cigarettes because they make me ill. I smoke only American brands. Well I am afraid now my dear friend you will most certainly obtain a valuable lesson in the use of proper phraseology when putting forth direct questions. You see if you had queried if I had a cigarette I would let you have, you would of presented an appropriate question, using proper grammar. But you asked to borrow a cigarette and since you cannot return the cigarette to me, you must learn a terrible lesson and as we all well know education does not come cheap I fear I must extract a most grievous price from you. Now hold still, it’s not as messy that way.”

Samael stood towering over me, I could feel tears running down my cheeks as I watched him pull out a long sharp dagger from his coat. The metal glistened in the musty moonlight as he started to swing the blade towards me. What happened next happened incredibly fast; I’m still plagued by gaping holes in my memory and don’t recall all the details of what exactly happened. One moment I was praying hard, hoping beyond all hope he would slip and fall over or somehow miss me. Then the next moment, I heard a distant “pop” and saw Samael stop, his knife still midway between his maniacal grimace and my rapidly soon to not be beating heart. He stumbled back, holding the knife out in front of him. He regained his footing and took one more step towards me. I heard an additional pop then I saw a large stain growing on his chest. I thought he was staring at me but he had turned his head towards the harbor. Finally, Samael fell to the ground with a loud “thud” sounding to me like a large burlap sack filled with rotted fleshy fish. I sat there, shaking, afraid to even breathe; afraid any movement might reawaken the psychopath laying just three feet from my face. I sat there a few more minutes until I heard several footsteps running toward me. I turned my head and saw two police officers and a rather large fellow with an empty gun holster peeking through his open blazer. One officer ran over to look upon Samael. He put his finger to Samael’s throat, checking for a pulse. Finding none, he proceeded place a call to dispatch. The second officer came over to me and after checking my vitals located a key and removed my cuffs. I pulled the tape from my mouth.“Sir, are you okay? Don’t worry we have an ambulance on the way, just lay still until they get here.” The second officer spoke.The ambulance came and rushed me to the Alvarado Medical Center. It was there as the doctor took x-rays of my ankle that I found out what actually happened. Apparently Mr. “Gun Holster” was an armed bodyguard for a certain celebrity whose yacht had been anchored in the harbor right across from where Samael ambushed me. This bodyguard said he had gone topside on a routine security check. He was used to fans and paparazzi trying everything to get a glimpse of his employer so he used a pair of night vision goggles to make sure there were none lurking about with the intention of annoying his boss. He said he saw Samael at first but did not see me right away, but when he saw Samael was talking to someone on the ground, he made out my silhouette as Sammy bound and gagged me. He ran back to the captain and told him to call the police. The two officers who had saved me were already at the harbor investigating a report of a fight on the nearby boardwalk when they received the call. As they approached the pier they saw Samael with the knife and myself all trussed up. They ordered him to drop the knife and when he didn’t they fired. The doctor said I might not have heard them because of hysterical shock. They hit him once in the shoulder but he still had the knife and refused to drop it, they fired again, this time the bullet entered his side and went through his right ventricle.
It was discovered after the next few weeks of investigation that Samael Waters, was responsible for at least thirty-five deaths over a ten-year period. He was suspected in several others including the mysterious death of his mother twenty-five years earlier. He was a troubled loner who was raised by a cruel and hateful mother. His was a sad story of abuse and degradation actually, and if he hadn’t tried to kill me that night I might have even felt sorry for him.

That was a year ago, eventually the name Samael Waters faded into obscurity, as do most all flash in the pan serial killers. Soon enough the public moves onto another sad and grotesque story that likely has an unhappy ending. People can be fickle that way. As for me, the experience changed my life. I decided to drop out of the party scene and settle for a small quiet little home in a small town where no one remembers the name Sammy Waters or “The Grammar Killer” as one newspaper dubbed him. Here I am safe within these meager walls; here I am free to express myself and to be myself as I was always destined to be. Free to fulfill my destiny and continue what was begun late one night during those sweltering dreadful July hours of darkness a year ago.Someday I will write more about my experience but for now I have work to do. And my work is so very important, I must reach out to my fellow man, I have a lesson to teach. I am the salvation of the uneducated, those who are so blatantly unaware. Now if you will excuse me, the woman next door borrowed a cup of sugar and I must go get it back…

A Tale Of Dexter Irwin

There was an occurrence only three nights past that put my soul on ice. Not an incident of mine but of someone previously unknown to me. He had revealed in due coarse a personal portrait of unfathomable and objectionably gloomy form so incomprehensibly mysterious that it terrified me to the base of my now jaundiced spine. It is also the reason as for why today I find myself hiding in the dark damp recesses of my mind, apprehensive in respect to the contemplation of returning into the populated sunlight.

I sat upon a stone bench surrounded by the vibrant park-like grounds of the university campus, a student of contemporary religion, as well as carrying a minor quite adeptly in courses of philosophy and modern social hierarchy commonly referred to as social studies. There was a blistering Indian summer heat blazing into the back of my tender Caucasian neck, yet my insatiable thirst for educational stimulation kept my workbooks open within my hands. Stooping from where I sat, I reached into my bag and retrieved a pen, preparing to begin my regimental litany of impromptu spontaneous studying which I performed judiciously every day like clockwork for the past three and a half years when I sensed rather than felt a supplemental weight affixed to the searing air beside me.

Turning, I saw a short round-faced young man of no more than twenty-five years sitting there; expressionless. His vibrant green hunter eyes wild and inconstant never seemed to focus on one particular thing, yet contained an inexplicable concentration. He had short, thick oily black hair and wore wire-rimmed spectacles of the coke bottle variety; dense lenses oozing out of thin frames. He was sweating a lot even for this unnatural arid temperature and his breath was quick and sharp. After an exchange of the usual conversational formalities, I had learned his name to be Dexter Irwin, a science student here at the university. He had a history of constantly being an oddity even among his fellow scholars and in his own words he described himself as a man who dares to dream and defy reality. A sentiment the bulk of the masses would like to believe they shared, but the conviction and manner in his elocution made it painfully obvious that the masses fell far short of their claims to true defiance, which in truth was possessed by and was indeed a somewhat unnerving reality belonging only to Dexter Irwin.

We talked nonsensically for a determined short while of his studies and his pointed interests, and I do not lie when I say that I was intrigued at what he relayed to me regarding his and his family’s exploits:

His grandfather, Dr. Fredrick Irwin had been a leading explorer in his day. He had ventured out into the deep Congo, seeking out the traditions and demigods of hidden tribes. Dexter’s father, Hershel Irwin some time in October of 1971 had received a letter of Dr Irwin’s’ sketchy demise and so his Grandfather was consequently never known personally by young Dexter Irwin. In the communication presented to the Irwin family were vague details concerning the “unidentifiable and suspect disappearance of Dr. F. D. Irwin,” telling of how the great silence within his company of six men (excluding the doctor himself) pointed to a mutinous plot of murder, and that the disloyal comrades were feeling the guilty repercussions of such a duplicitous act and now refused to impart any information as to the body’s whereabouts to the authorities. The truth of it was never known, and so there shall be no slander or conjecture speculated here, but the chances of an insurrection within the small group was highly improbable compared to the apparent barbarity of the secret tribes, which the aged voyager had written about in many of his journals. The clans he went to scrutinize (also noted copiously in his diaries) were idol worshiping and united spiritual social clusters of overpoweringly religious zeal.

The events surrounding the death of Dexter’s father, the aforementioned Hershel Irwin, were abundantly less suspicious. He had been killed when a storm had loosed itself upon the house where Dexter had spent his childhood. A striking bolt of electricity had shot down from the dark threatening clouds overhead and turned the house almost instantly into a fiery inferno. His father had died somewhere within millimeters of the source of that blaze.

From the age of eleven, Dexter had spent the majority of his youth in the custody of his uncle, his father’s first choice of guardian. A stern faced, god-fearing man who fastidiously chastised Dexter for every wrong footstep. He forbade the readings of certain texts, including the surviving remnants of his grandfather’s writings, most of which had burned in the fire at Dexter’s previous home, the place of his father’s untimely and untidy demise. Uncle Irwin was a good man at heart, and he kept a good living as a farmer, but the harsh restrictions he imposed upon Dexter had most certainly resulted in a specific and ominous consequence upon his bright nephew.

I discovered I had begun to form an uneasy connection to this unusual man and his history, and after scrutinizing a surmountable sum of profound interest marked in my increasingly curious eyes, he invited me to witness the results of some of his more recent studies, to which I keenly agreed.

Dexter’s house was situated unobtrusively upon a quiet prominence some miles away from the busy noise infected city, within a small familial suburb where everyone knew everyone else. Except that nobody seemed to know or recognize Dexter Irwin. He passed through the community without receiving a single sociable glance or so much as an offering or ambiguous murmuring of greeting as even strangers passing by are often known to do in such casual easy going neighborhoods.

It was from first glance that the somewhat dilapidated building of archaic design offered its ominous profile, which was leant a peculiar aura from the evening’s autumn orange sky, and yet this modest home was strangely welcoming and amiable in it’s simplicity. Within the confines of Dexter’s suburban cookie cutter structure were the usual happenings of any accommodation: a neglected kitchen where hung all manner of grimy pots and pans along two of the three door-less walls. A forgotten refrigerator was humming furiously in one corner with the door slightly ajar. I watched the light bulb which had previously illuminated the inside of the chilly appliance to reveal various aged cold cuts and other less identifiable food matter, stutter a moment and then extinguished itself completely as if much too embarrassingly mortified to reveal it’s meager content to a stranger. In the other corner stood a breach into the pantry, whose floorboards creaked and complained as it was attacked by the slightest of our dual approaching steps coming from the still-open front door, which led to this dim culinary juncture.

Continuing on into a small living room, I saw that there was not much need for furnishings when one lived as alone and excluded as Dexter Irwin did. It contained only a worn-out scruffy old colonial style couch that had broken through its fabric and now displayed discolored yellow padding here and there, and a tiny television set sat alone on a fragile three legged table standing slightly apart from the wall, unplugged and gloomily covered in dust, disgust and self loathing.

Dexter led me hastily through that cheerless room and to the stairwell, which we passed moving instead through a heavy ancient and groaning door opening out to a passage that descended by means of some wormed and squeaking wooden steps into a mottled, strangely scented cellar spotted with what could only be described as threateningly active culture specimens of unknown origin. Dexter’s lumbering pace grew to be more eager then, if I remember accurately, for I vaguely but certainly recall the haunting rhythmical sound of his soft shoes upon the steps as he moved downwards in front of me.

He explained as we descended deeper into the basement, that he was most proud of his off-site research and efforts. Ambling almost casually through the darkened shadows of the house’s underbelly, Dexter found a frayed cord, which he gently pulled and we suddenly became flooded by a powerful sallow radiance, which came from a single hi intensity bulb hung from the ceiling. Upon my first glance, it was evident that Dexter spent most of his time in his prized basement; for the neglect and decaying final phase of dilapidation the rest of the home seemed plagued by were not apparent here.The sterile conduct of his work beneath the house was emphasized by the hygienic purity of everything I encountered. His (what he had called previously) “laboratory” was a hospitable clean room, and I might have taken some pleasure in naming it a sanctuary for respite from the chaotic world, had it not been for the blasphemous impiety of the wickedly sterile confines.

The walls were layered in a multitude of shiny instruments, some delicate and some verging on bludgeoning armaments, many mounted on frames like cherished prized quarry of a lengthy hunt. A large desk spanned one side of the room and was covered in loose-yellowed mature papers and documents, all bearing the insignia of one Dr. F. D. Irwin. Searching through them, I came across one, which caught my eye with dreadfully ardent attention. It was dated October 30th 1971, and read:

The indigenous and innate prejudices of these tribal people are amazing even to me. I have tried and succeeded in communicating with the man who I have assumed to be the chief, and am beginning to understand their ways of life more straightforwardly. Their abundance of idolatry for their Nature-Deities has led me to believe that even a classification as Pagan would be too much of an underestimation for me to consider.

And one from the following day:

My guides and workers have left me. During the night they ran, I heard the breaking of sticks and massive rustlings of leaves too late as they disappeared. I had noticed a strange behavioral pattern as of late; they seemed to gravitate more towards escape than faith and loyalty in me, ever since I had achieved a thriving contact with the people hidden in the trees.

There was not an entry for the first day of November, but there was an item dated November 2nd, 1971. It read:

By what merciless Gods do these people worship? Their rich and callous treatment leads me only to reinforce an already long-standing stereotype. Yesterday, I saw a rite of ancient alacrity, and it had disturbed me greatly, for they held me as I watched, seeking some sort of wicked approval. They had strapped a young pregnant woman, arms and legs, to a pole on either side with ropy vines, and driven these into the mud beside a nearby riverbank. Squirming and writhing in fearful terror, she had her baby by the way of a sharpened stone slicing into her belly. The infant, slick with blood was drowned instantly within the mired sludge at its mother’s feet, she was then beheaded and dissected, her body parts subsequently impaled upon ceremonial spears held by her brothers and sisters.

I will lavish no more detail than this, for that shocking scene which made me gag then vomit, would surely do so once more should I recollect it more intensely.

Leafing through the nearby papers, I discovered the missing entry from November the 1st:

They marked me today, a simple slash upon my palm. I presume it to be some kind of clannish symbol, though I have seen no other living soul bear it as well. They seem to see me as an ally now, after I had exposed to them some various marvels from our western worlds, to which they reacted at first frightened, then curious, then they gasped with wonder as if those marvels were great enchantments. My acceptance is made apparent by my being the first to taste from each meat that has just come from the bounty of a recent hunting trek, and the numerous trinkets and charms given to me by the village’s women.Perhaps they see me as some sort of hero or champion, or even, in my narcissistic way, as another God.“Look, here,” whispered Dexter’s stark accent, which disturbed me from my reading. I am almost glad that it did, for the other two entries which followed the account of the ritual on November 2nd would surely be far less pleasant than I deeply feared. He stood at an extra desk, which was on the opposite side of the room to me. It was covered with a long white cloth, beneath which were the disinfected metallic curves and protrusions familiar to any medical student or coroner.

Dexter Irwin pulled the fabric back and revealed a face I had seen just recently. It was in the local newspaper a few days past, one George Thurman, a retired blue-collar professional who had died in a hospital some days ago. I had read his inconsequential name with usual remote neutrality, as I did with most of the obituary records, but I remembered his picture well. It was a photograph displaying the man in the latter stages of his life, bearing a gentle smile and vibrant eyes. Now laid out the victim of a stroke upon a scientist’s table. Dexter explained that his “subject” (as he so sickeningly described it) had been covertly retrieved from a nearby cemetery the night before, and had been unceremoniously hauled back here to his laboratory with neither consent nor hindrance.

My stillness was powerfully mysterious and inexplicable, yet grim silence it was all that came from me. Perhaps I was shocked by his grandfather’s accounts, or maybe I was appalled at the way in which Dexter Irwin so fervently illustrated his ideas and tactics for his latest subject, or even as it has faintly crossed my mind recently as I have been hiding so fixedly within my thoughts, my silence was due to a morbid interest and stupefaction in this student’s supplementary learning. Of what it was that kept me quiet, I cannot or dare not say. But silent I was, even so.

Dexter commenced in applying liquids and viscous gels to the body of George Thurman, energetically smearing them with a heinous exuberance. He placed on the body, some strange utensils of which their sinister function was just as foreign to me as their shape and design. He bade me watch closely while he “defended his Father's honor” by completing the studies of which Hershel Irwin so ardently loved and pursued until that fateful night when God's own thunderbolt brought his diabolical research to an immediate and terminal disruption.” Having been previously banefully fixated upon the letters and memoirs of the late Dr. Irwin, I had just then noticed the antiseptic luminance of the room retract and fade and that there were a selection of levers, pedals and switches nearby. Dexter had quietly stridden purposefully over to these protrusions and was now initiating a service, which had become so systematic and encoded upon his brain that no dim or no light could ever befall him as an obstacle. He was ceremonious in methodically pulling, pushing and twisting at the machine as if he conducted an invisible archaic orchestra the likes of which were just as unfamiliar yet anomalous as his practice.

Then the voltage deprived muted light from the single bulb dimmed even further. It flickered violently as strange electricity surged powerful throughout the dank cellar. The ozone blue of the voltage that flowed through odd equipment illuminated Dexter maniacally beneath his fingers and toward the contraptions he had placed upon the specimen which he so treasured. It lasted only a short moment and then the pandemonium turned to quiet. The hushed echo of my accelerated heartbeat hammered a deafening rage at my ribcage, and threatened to burst out pitilessly from witnessing this following scene.

The deceased body of George Thurman twitched and thrashed fanatically, grasping at something unseen in the air. His vivid blue eyes snapped suddenly open, as if he had never died. They bore a knowledge of which I fervently wished to have no part, and I fled the house of the mad scientist Dexter Irwin, replaying the sight of the demented scholar clutching his reanimated cadaver by the dirty and sullied collar, shaking it fiercely and yelling, “Tell me what you saw! Tell me what lies beyond death!”