THE STORY TELLER (CHAPTER ONE)

2010-12-31T12:18:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER 1

On a bitterly cold morning, I lay half awake, cognizant to the sound of the crying

wind as it wiggled through the small cracks in the circular bay window above my

head. Countless attempts to seal the tiny crevices where the stained glass joined the

wooden panes with fresh layers of white silicone only seemed to worsen the

situation. The decayed old particles cracked and flaked, leaving minuscule

passageways for the outside world to gain entrance in the two story sanctuary.

The frozen incubus had a devilish mind of its own and toyed with the house as if

it were nothing but a Rubex Cube. It twisted about the Victorian hovel with deft

nimble paws, caressing its repulsive body down the chimney flute, through the holes

in the attic dug by the filed mice that sought refuge, and through the clefts in the

basement that had been slowly succumbed to by the elements of nature. This old

house had survived the past five decades of relentless barrages of snow and rain and

would probably survive another hundred years with a little time and money spent

on maintenance.

The attic, adjacent to the bedroom was dark, but not completely barren of life.

The tangerine light of the full moon sifted through the rotting ventilation eaves in

the end walls revealing cobweb-festooned rafters under a 45 degree peaked roof.

Moist silk aqueducts linked together throughout the entire attic allowing swift

passage for the carnivorous arachnids that patrolled the area like German

Gestapo guards outside Block 11 in Auschwitz

The direct center of the room offered just enough headroom for someone to

stand erect, though closer to the walls, it was necessary to crawl on both hands

and knees over the wood and through the bundles of insulation, neatly

tucked inside the floor support beams like a newborn in the intensive care

nursery. Years ago I had crawled into the attic and laid the insulation by myself,

paying close attention to detail and making sure that each and every bundle

was spaced correctly between horizontal beams. By doing this, it kept the house

warmer in the Winter and much cooler in the Summer months reducing the

electric bill by at least twenty percent.

Though the attic was a tomb, a cold desolate plot that gave temporary

comfort to the insidious vermin and other blood drinking creatures of the

night, it really didn’t bother me much. Seldom was the room disturbed by

the presence of a human, though it housed the most valued possession that

I owned. Only the ravenous spiders dared roam these forlorn corridors of

empty boxes and antiquated relics that were neatly packed away, out of sight

and out of mind. An orange hue funneled its warm rays through the series

of rotted ventilation eaves leaving the far wall, adjoining the attic door in a

soft illumination. Sitting directly in its inviting wake, wedged tightly

between two empty Uhaul boxes stood a white porcelain urn, no larger

than a small coke bottle. Inside the white hourglass rested the cremated

remain of a two people. The crude shrine drank deep the few ours of light

that managed to trickle through the open eaves, holding onto every drop of

warmth that it could.

The sticky orb traps, meticulously spun by hundred of hungry arachnids

protected the urn from curious insects that unknowingly trespassed their

temple. These fanged vampires were the sentinels of the attic, the guardians

of flayed humans. They stood vigil over something that was no longer there,

honoring ways that had long ago ceased to exist except as a distant memory.

Deep inside the attic, these vermin slept sound, for they lived in a dream world

where heroes walked tall during the wee sleeping hours of the night, and

chivalry and justice were synonymous with honor. If one of these vampires

could have donned the brass helmet of Don Quixote or drank deep from the

ancient cup of Erasmus or scaled the walls of Sodom and Gomorrah and crushed

the dregs of society, they would have. With one flair of the almighty fangs, the

spider would have slashed through the iron gates of hell and forced his steel

incisors through the engorged throat of his enemy and drank deep into the night.

I would have given my life to have saved my wife and son from having to go

yet another day hungry, without food and without my love. And to take a bullet

from some ritual drive by shooting in order to save the spinal cord of some

innocent teenager from living the life of a paraplegic in a cold wheel chair,

that and more I would have given without hesitation to end the pain. In the frozen

alcoves deep inside an undisturbed turquoise reservoir of a child’s imagination, a

hero lived the life of a God, though in the real world they withered away locked in

chains inside some dusty old pirates chest.

I jostled about in my king sized sleigh bed, trying to find the perfect fetal

position, strategically placing the pillow between my legs. It would be just another

night of insomnia, something that was only to familiar and routine in my life. I

Knew that I had a new patient scheduled for 10:00 am this morning, perhaps he

would be late and I could catch up on some sleep in the office until he arrived. Who

was I kidding, these sick bastards were never late, if anything they were always

early and made damn sure that they got every moment that they payed for. More

times than not, the patients had to pay my hourly rate out of their own pockets

for fear of alerting their insurance carrier that they were sick in the head and

the possibility of being ostracized by their employers or even their own co-workers.

I usually reduced my rate from $150 per hour to only $80 dollars per hour

depending on weather they filed a claim with their insurance carrier or weather

they chose to pay cash. Sometimes the insurance claims adjuster would dispute

the claim, due to the fact that the patient had no prior authorization to visit a

Psychiatrist that wasn’t part of the PPO plan. Either case, it was a bunch of

bullshit either for me to try and recover my fees, or having to go through the

hassle of contacting the patient and requesting he or she stop by my office and

drop off a check. Thinking about it, it was rather ludicrous to think that a

crazy person might remember to pay the bill that his own insurance company,

claiming to be financially sound and sane, momentarily considered an asinine

profession and therefore were refusing to pay the claim. So, who really is crazy,

the patient or the insurance company. I would have to say it was a little of both; the

naive patient for thinking that his insurance company was going to be there when he

needed them, and the insurance company for believing their own lies.

The fresh morning air viciously stung my eyes and attacked my ear canals,

enhancing my audibility by ten decibels. I could hear the faint muffled scratching

behind the attic door, undoubtedly a few field mice attempting to conserve body

heat among hairy strangers. Perhaps they were busy fornicating, playing hide the

tail or lubricating the whiskers. Whatever they were doing, I envied them and

their idle behavior.

But, what did these rodents know of life? Did they have mundane jobs? Did

they worry about providing for or protecting their offspring, or for that matter, did

they even know the importance of a family? The proliferation of this

particular species would indicate that the family took a back seat to the raging

libido of Dear Old Dad. If self gratification were a paying job, these ground

dwelling cheese varmints would all be politicians.

Perhaps, just perhaps, these vermin had rules that they abided by, the most

important of which was the sanctity of life. It’s possible that Ricky the Rodent

got up every morning, stroked back his horned whiskers as to look more

conservative, picked up his attache case, and headed off to his private hell hole

inside the pantry. There, snuggled tightly between a bottle of Windex and a

carton of light bulbs, he would tend to the affairs at hand. During his hectic day

filled with scheduled meetings upon meetings to discuss further meetings down the

road, and his fourteen trips to the water fountain to wet his whistle and check out

the new secretary in the plaid miniskirt, he would conceive of new ways to move up

the corporate ladder, impress the Senior Vice President of Operations, and fantasize

about sleeping with the new intern in the miniskirt. All in all, it was a very

productive and busy day!

What about the rat’s wife? What was her innocuous role in society? Did she

stand watch over the children and dream about devouring the little bastards, or

did her fury thighs quiver at the thought of seeing her cheating husband

snared in a mousetrap, head split wide open? What wold happen to the family?

Would they be evicted from the broom closet and tossed into the cold basement,

or would some laboratory reject come knocking on the door with cheese in one

paw, and thoughts of torture and acts of perversion in the other?

Although I was a Psychiatrist, and a damn good one at that, I often wondered

where my mind was leading me. One moment I would be sitting in my office

listening somewhat attentively to my patient blubbering about something that

happened in his or her life that forever changed them, and the next moment I was

wondering if divorce and empathy were common in the rat world. Was

monogamy an overrated characteristic that only priests and little boys pretended

to practice behind the alter, or did society wean itself from moral issues and

traditions over time? This new suitor that came knocking on the door with a

wedge of cheese in one hand and a flask of Jesus Juice in the other, was he the

savior or just a wolf in sheep’s clothing. These and other mysteries

preoccupied much of my leisure time and in a perverse sense, made life more

enjoyable. Keeping myself busy late at night pondering over the animal

kingdom was my way to cope with reality, but more than that, it was the escape

route for my subconscious. By derailing my train of thought, I could unload

the infectious cargo that traveled the midnight tracks of my mind. If I could

find sense in a world that existed beyond my own, then by observing nature I

might be able to understand why Humans reacted so irrationally; Why skin color

or border difference caused mass hatred between seemingly ordinary groups. An

ant colony had more inner meaning and genuine order than that of the Homo

Sapiens. Homicide was nothing but a three syllable word that wasn’t tolerated

in this purified realm beneath the ground. The perverse need for adolescents

to measure antennas by comparing lengths and girths was something only

prevalent in bipedal males.

The whole of any civilization was far more important than the needs of the

one. If Marxism had roots, if some balding Historian from Dartmouth College

could have climbed inside his head during the early developmental stages of his

life, Marxism and the whole theory behind it might have originated with a

pubescent lad, a magnifying glass, and an ant colony. Though possessed at

first with the feverish quest of utter annihilation by burning their tender skulls

as they emerged from their mounds, Marx later grew to understand and

to appreciate these insects. Awed by their ability to overcome, their ability to work

together, and their flagrant disregard for their own well being, he came to respect

and admire these red colonies. They gave their life without remorse, without

a second thought to insure the survival of their species. Ants were the perfect

soldiers in a perfect utopia. If life were nothing but a chess game, these workers

were expendable pawns whose sole function was to protect the Queen.

The theory behind Communism probably grew and blossomed as the young

British lad passed the cool Summer days playing in the fields. The chimney red

clay roads wound effortlessly throughout the countryside up and over the green

hills and through the spacious meadows filled with potato farms and struggling

sheep ranchers. Wild blueberry patches and lavender flowers graced the green

pastors with Spring time vitality and beauty that only a God could create and only

a woman could appreciate and understand. Each river beckoned with hungry

trout just begging for a fresh worm and a metal hook, almost daring Huck Finn

enthusiasts to skip school and cast their bamboo lines into the mystical glacial

lakes and roaring tributaries that surrounded the Island. It was the perfect

moment in life without interference from the outside world, without the threat

of war hanging overhead like some ominous black cloud, a life pure of racial hatred

and utter contempt for limp politicians and ambivalent Governments.

Although bitten numerous times and hospitalized on at least four different

occasions, Karl Marx continued to delve more and more into this unknown world.

Often branded an oddity by all his fellow peers and ridiculed by his own family,

he drifted off into his new world of insects. Here he found solace from the cruel

world, protected in the knowledge that he had millions of new red friends that were

willing to serve and if needed, willing to die to protect Karl. It was the perfect

Communistic society thus convincing him that all civilizations, and all structured

Government hierarchy were destined to follow natures course and embrace the

words and ideology of Marxism.

If Prozac had only been around one hundred years ago and the field of

psychiatry a more acceptable form of treatment, the geographic boundaries of the

countries, world figures , famous speeches, wars, and even evil tyrants would not

have come to fruition. Rest assured, had I been alive back then, Hitler and Marx

would have been doped up on Prozac, hospitalized and then dragged outside one

night in their straight jackets and shot in the head. I never said that I was a great

Psychiatrist or claimed to have all the answers, I believe that some people just

can’t be cured by therapy and medication.

Some of my colleagues would argue that ethics governed people and the universe

and as long as we all adhered to moral principals and abided by the laws sent down

from Heaven, the Human race would survive for millennium to come. I don’t

slightly disagree with their opinions, I think it’s a crock of shit! The agonizing

truth was out there to be found, but was hard to swallow for a society that based

itself upon high moral standards and brotherly love. The easy choice for

dysfunctional society bordering upon the verge of extinction would be to totally

block out the past and to forget the torturous machinery and weaponry that man

created in order to eliminate his fellow neighbors. I never actually condemned

the military, but, I seriously wondered if the inhabitants of the North American

Continent actually fathomed the motivation behind the development of Nuclear

weapons. If bombs weren’t developed and dropped for ethical decisions, then why?

If this scenario were true, then society was not based on ethic decisions, but

rather upon greed and power. Without some sense of organization and group

direction, Humans were inevitably doomed to failure; as evident of the fall of

Communism in Russia. This was indeed a lugubrious situation.

In a strange way, both animal kingdoms were very similar in that both species

lacked the stamina to patiently exhaust all options before implementing an

action. Most so called ethical decisions were based upon fear and anger and more

selfless actions were based on true love. If it were true that a coward dies a

thousand deaths and a hero but once, then Humans would never die out.

Undoubtedly the number one priority of the ant was the colony; the number one

priority of any single person was the individual. Thus, it was safe to conclude

that Humans were not ethical.

I lifted my right arm out of the shelter of my warm igloo to brush the rumpled

hair from my brow. The warm palm felt soothing against the cold flesh as I tried

to waken the muscles in my face. “Razor stubble,” I mumbled out loud.

I was suddenly roused back to reality by the thunderous buzzing at the front

door. “Now, who in the hell could that be. No one in their right mind would be

ringing my doorbell this early Wednesday morning.”

“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Buzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

“Ok, ok, I head the damn bell”, I hollered. “Let me get some clothes on before

my boner freezes and breaks off like an icicle.” Again his train of thought was

interrupted by the shrill of the doorbell. It was as if the buzzer were being tortured

by some sadistic electrician, and its sonorous cries of pain seemed to reverberate

throughout the entire household.

“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

I grabbed the dirty jeans off the floor and pulled them up my half frozen legs.

Although it was mid April, it still felt like Winter here in Prince Edward Island.

The jeans were rigid, almost stiff as I pulled them up over my waist and pulled up

the zipper. I reached down and picked up a white sweater and proceeded to

simultaneously insert my head and arms into the appropriate openings just as the

front door buzzer went off again.

“Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”

Reaching over the night stand by the far corner of the bed, I flipped the switch to

turn on the lamp. Either the power had been shut off for two hours or it was in

fact 6:30 in the morning; the later being the more probable of the two. “Christ!”

“Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.”

“Yeah, all right, all right will ya!” I know it sounded crazy to yell at an

inanimate object and expect some sort of sane response back, but I did it anyway.

Maybe that’s the first sign of madness, knowing that you weren’t making any

sense even to yourself, let alone a licensed psychiatrist. I guess it would have been

more asinine to expect a verbal response back from the doorbell, but sometimes

we just do things that don’t make sense. Not only are we unethical, but

it now seems that we are not a lucid society. Boy, this day was going to be a real

winner if I continued with this train of thought!

I noticed the laundry pile on the floor was starting to look more like a homeless

persons shopping cart that he rolled through the streets rummaging through the

trash cans in search of food. There was a towel that looked like it had been washed

a few weeks ago clumped together on the floor with some shirts and another pair

of jeans. Perhaps tomorrow I just might tacked that monster load before it got

any bigger; before some Austrian rock climber came to my door, drooling over

the possibility of climbing the growing mountain. If these garments had any rights,

they would sue for negligence and emotional distress.

Any day now Social Services commonly referred to as CSS would come calling to

remove his dirty attire and place his garments into some sort of a Foster

Laundromat. Ripped apart from their biological purchaser, these pathetic

garments would be just another statistic of the welfare system. They, like the

countless victims were just another non-descriptive folder tucked away in some

file cabinet. And, if the lawyers got a hold of this, all hell would break loose.

Lawsuits, counter lawsuits, back stabbing, defamation of character, vulgarity, and

a whole slew of legal repercussions were soon to follow. Absolutely nothing that

the legal community could scrape from the bottom of the toilet bowl surprised me

much these days. In a society gone haywire, these fast talking parasites thrived

in shit. If the Devil had a paying job, he would be a defense attorney defending

Johnny Cochran on morality issues.

I finished in the bathroom and started descending the oak staircase towards the

front door. The bare steps creaked under my weight and each cold Neanderthal

foot landed squarely upon the polished oak, bringing to life this fatigued home.

Upon reaching the foyer, I hesitated just a moment before reaching for the door

knob and pulled the sleeve of the sweater over my right hand. As a youngster I

was often compelled to challenge the flagpole at New Bloomfield Junior High

School in the dead of Winter. How an ordinary ice pole had some mesmerizing

inner power, baffled the doctors at Summerside Hospital. In a show of courage,

the kids would pit science against future manhood; tongue against frozen object.

I usually lost, partially due to the lack of intelligence, but mostly due to my

excessively large tongue. Some of the kids joked that I could like the back of my

head with my tongue. If this were only true, I would have made many a woman

happy in bed.

Needless to say, the metallic monster boasted the remains of torn tissue, slabs

of lip parts, buckets and buckets of innocent blood, and tiny samples of spongy

ligaments. Each student left enough DNA samples to enable and clever Crime

Scene Investigator the ability to solve any crimes on the Island. These were the

trinkets of war time, worn proudly by the victor, daring anyone to strip him of his

title. Those painstaking images haunted my adolescence and somehow

manifested itself into my manhood.

“Come on ya big ape,” yelled the intruder. “I’m freezing my fucking ass off.

I’ve gotten frostbite on my nuts, now open the door. I can hear you behind the

door!” His voice was relentless as was his determination.

“What the hell do you want, Christian,” I snapped back? “It’s not even 7:00

in the morning if you hadn’t noticed! About time that you bought a real watch that

tells time!” In the seven years that I had lived in Cabot, Prince Edward Island,

Lieutenant Sterling had woken me up at least on four hundred and fifty

occasions.

“The doors frozen solid, asshole,” I said. “Now go home and sleep it off.”

Christian’s responded with, “Hey Travis it’s almost at 7:00 am

so open the door, get dressed and lets go get some coffee. Starbucks doesn’t stay

open all day, ya know!

“Yeah they do, you idiot!” Ever since Starbucks opened their first shop on

Main Street last year, Christian had to be there bright and early so he could get a

seat next to the roaring fireplace. Yeah, it was nice and warm and yeah the coffee

was pretty good, but it wasn’t worth the four dollars per cup, that was for sure.

The only reason Christian wanted to go to the coffee shop every morning and

get the seats next to the fireplace was because of the college ladies that came there

in their pajamas. If girl watching were a paying job, Lieutenant Sterling would

be richer than Bill Gates!

I reconciled myself to the fact that I would have to let the freezing bastard in

and flipped on the outside light. Leaning my one hundred and eighty pound body

against the door, I jerked it open.

An atomic blast of wind exploded into the dark room with such a force as to

almost knock me over. Angered by its own ineptness to gain passage, the cold

stalked the premises of 3930 Mallard Way, anxiously awaiting the opportunity to

vent its build up frustrations. When the solid oak door swung open, it wasted no

time in smashing its pure evil body against me, shooting millions of icy bullets

through the bone marrow, crystallizing the red blood cells into one frozen lake.

It then headed upstairs skipping two steps at a time until it had reached the top.

The wind creature knew the route only too well for it too had traveled the

midnight tracks of my mind every night since the horrible accident.

At the top of the staircase it turned towards the two helpless figures standing

by the doorway and in a low throat gurgling voice it pushed words of absolute

hatred down into the frozen foyer. Although I was certain that I was the only one

who could hear the voice, I knew that Christian felt its presence.

You mother fucking bastard! Where were you? Why weren’t you there to help

your family? I’ve come for the urn!” He arched his skull back almost touching

his shoulder blades and snapped the bones in his neck to draw more attention to

his presence. It hesitated for but a second before it disappeared into the bedroom.

Possessed by Lucifer, the incubus wedged its repulsive torso between the cracks

of the attic door and the frame. It was the voice of Satan, a voice that plagued me

every night and rocked my mind into explosions of searing pain. I wasn’t going

to let his arrival bother me, but I knew that a confrontation was inevitable.

“Man, it’s windy out there,” complained Christian. “Shit, you would think that

we could just have one day this year when the weather wasn’t below freezing.”

“Come in and close the door behind you,” I mumbled. “Fix us some coffee. I’m

going upstair to shower. And, don’t be lighting up any cancer sticks in my kitchen!”

I didn’t care to hear his response. For that matter, I didn’t care if Christian

took the time to close the door. Hell, when he got cold enough, he would damn well

slam the fucking door shut behind his fat ass.

I snatched the reindeer skin from the wicker chair in the foyer, wrapped it

tightly around my husky frame and proceeded to waddle back up the staircase.

My feet felt like scuba diving flippers slapping upon frozen marble an I

transcended towards the frozen alcove. It was a scene out of Dr. Zhivago.

Upon entering the room, I knew that I wasn’t alone. The beast lay in wait,

hidden in the shadows of the closet. He felt comfortable there, secure from

ridicule and disgust from the Almighty Creator. Caged in a bacterial infested

brown wool death shroud to hide beneath, he anxiously awaited the arrival of his

intended victim. The ivory nails scraped the walls leaving deep jagged grooves

to prove his presence as the sour stench of his antiquated shroud permeated

through the fibers of the dress shirts and slacks that hung neatly in the closet.

The fanged killer was a composite of hatred and fear, evil and deception that

lived vicariously throughout the centuries, feeding on misery. He was a

rambunctious killer in a hypocritical world filled with vivacious nuns and horny

priests, with vermin politicians and rich lawyers who fed off the Human race like

blood hungry leaches in a Vietnamese swamp. It lived for the gentle moments of

the night when victims were at their weakest, when they were most vulnerable to

pain. It like me because I was a challenge unlike the countless others that fell to his

soiled feet.

I could sense his presence, his starring molten lava eyes burning into the nape

of my skull. They were volcanic pits of burning magma churning about like a pot

of chili on top of a hot burning stove. A million pieces of hot shrapnel tore through

my body in one incredible explosion inflicting searing pain that pulsed through my

mind and soul. Every synaptic nerve burst like fire balls shooting tiny pitchforks

throughout my frame, immobilizing me emotional and physically. Life did not

exist, for if it did, it spit forth the bile of hatred into the face of a lonely child and

mocked my entire existence.

“I’ve been waiting for you, my little one,” whispered the voice. “Who is the

fucking hero downstairs? Here to protect you?” He started to laugh, but cut

himself short.

I walked into the bedroom and turned on the overhead light and turned my

attention toward the closet door. I cold have slammed it shut and ended the

antagonism, But instead I chose to respond. “Go to hell!”

“Been there,” he responded sarcastically. “Oh, saw your wife and kid there.

They told me to tell you that they were scared, and I do emphasize the word, real!”

He hit a nerve and drank deep from the tormented soul that stood helpless outside

the closet door.

The beast watched as the hero sat down on the edge of the bed. At that very

exact moment he knew that all heroes great and small simultaneous fell to their

feet and gazed in horror upon this once great storyteller. They looked in awe and

in fear as they knew only too well his fate, yet they couldn’t stop watching the man

on the bed. In every life and to every child comes the day when he no longer

believes in dreams forever closes his mind and shuts down his imagination.

That day was finally here, as the boy wept. He was defeated.

“What the hell do you want of me you fucking bastard, What is it. Are you an

addict? Do you need me to survive? What, you can’t live if I don’t fell guilty?

Is that it? Well, I do feel the pain, every fucking hour of every fucking day. If I

had enough courage to stick a gun in my mouth and blow my fucking brains

out, I would. I swear I would!”

Oh, the Beast loved it when he discovered someone’s Achilles heel. He was a

vampire, sucking the blood of hope from his prey. His fanged incisors punctured

the victims throat just above the jugular as his parched lips closed over the open

wound, careful not to drop one red morsel of fluid. It was feeding time at the troth.

“I want the urn and I want your soul now,” he said demandingly!

I looked straight into his monstrous face and replied, “You can’t have either, not

now, not ever,” and proceeded to slam the door shut. It was over for now, quiet for

the time being, but he would return. He always returned for another fight. The

onslaught of nightmares was sure to chew away at his subconscious later that

night.

The antiquated sour stench of failure to protect his family permeated the very

fibers of his mind, and the click of the almighty 38 assuaged the vein ridden

temples with promises of quick relief from reality. With a simple pull upon the

silver half moon icon, the child within could forever kiss the wings of immortality

and join the illustrious few that had so cowardly proceeded him.

I was not afraid to die, I was just terrified at the prospect of living in a world

that no longer cared for my existence. When a man no longer walks with his

shadow and finds solace in the form of revenge, then it was time to kneel before

the executioner and welcome death in any manner. Of this he was certain. Perhaps

tomorrow Dr. Travis Owen would blow his head off and end the torment, but

tomorrow was many hours away.

Ten minutes later, I emerged into the dimly lit kitchen doorway. Two

distinctive aromas instantly stung my frostbitten nostrils, cigarettes and coffee. I

often pondered the function of nose hair. They had to serve some purpose,

possibly to keep the nasal cavities warm, or maybe it was just a part of the

body filtration system. Whatever they were supposed to do, they didn’t do it! The

air was always cold, and I constantly had to blow my nose in order to breathe.

Now, I loved the fresh scent of strong coffee brewing, but detested what

usually accompanied it, cigarettes. Most of the inhabitants on the Island smoked.

It was a way of life, an hourly ritual that absorbed much of their spare time and

definitely consumed a good portion of their lungs. Marlboro, Camel and the

other tobacco giants controlled these drones like obedient junkies just dying for

their next fix.

“Hey, no smoking in the house, moron,” I snapped!

“Oh, sorry dude,” apologized Christian. He tossed the butt into the sink that

still contained the dishes from tow night ago. Lieutenant Sterling knew that

Travis Owen thought little of people who craved the taste of tobacco and who

selfishly forced others to breathe in the stale burning stench. Hell, Christian knew

it, and he even respected his best friend for not smoking. He smoked inside the

house to see if he could get away with it. Albeit Sterling was nearing thirty six, he

still acted much like the adolescent, Huck Finn. Telling him not to do something

only made him want to do it even more.

If someone dug a big hole in the backyard and packed it with venomous green

vipers from Sough America and emaciated alligators from the Bayous of Southern

Louisiana, dropped a full pack of Marlboros into the pit, Christian would dive in

head first. Simply informing him of the luscious prize floating in snake shit and

alligator spit would be too much for someone with absolutely no will power.

Telling him to leave it would be like telling a politician to refrain from taking bribes

from foreign lobbyist groups in Washington, D.C. And, telling him not to smoke

would be like telling Bill Clinton to keep his pants on in a Texas brothel. It just

couldn’t be done.

Christian Sterling and I were the best of friends, despite the name calling,

practical jokes played on one another, and the occasional scuffling matches. In

fact, Christian was the only friend that I had. He had been there for me through

thick and thin for the past thirty years. It was Christian who helped me pull

through the accident in 2001.

We were the best of friends, and we were the worst of enemies to ourselves. One

could not survive without the other and each of us would have given our life without

a moments hesitation to save each other. To die alone in a cruel world that never

acknowledged or appreciated your existence was unthinkable. If I had one last

good memory, one last reason to live to fight, it was Christian. Because of our

friendship, I survived the accident with most of my sanity.

The clink of a spoon as it hit the cold tile floor brought me back to reality. I

was back in his kitchen, Wednesday morning, April 16, 2005, having to deal with

another day. He took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the big round Seiko on

the wall just above the sink. The time, 10:05, but that’s what it always displayed.

I had never replaced the batteries since the death of Jill and his son, and that was

nearly 5 years ago.

“You put sugar in this, I hate sugar.” I was annoyed, but he expected this

of Christian.

“Oh, sorry dude,” replied Christian, half smiling. He could barely contain his

inner laughter.

“I hate sugar! What time is it?” I took a sip of his coffee and sat down

opposite Christian at the kitchen table. “You know, putting this shit in my coffee

just ruins the whole fucking flavor. It’s not supposed to taste like a Hershey

chocolate bar as if you didn’t already know that!”

Christian ignored the sarcasm. “Well, to answer you question, my watch is

freezing up, but it looks like Mickey’s little hand is on the six and his big hand is

pointing to something between his legs. Now, I would have to conclude that either

it’s 6:30 in the morning, or that Mickey Mouse is having another bout with crabs.

And, by the soured expression upon the little fucking rodent’s face, I would say that

his balls are on fire!”

I gave a short laugh of approval. “Thanks for the rhetoric numb nuts!” I

lifted the cup to his mouth and took a good sip before placing it upon the wooden

table. “Ah, I love coffee.”

“Hey, you might want to open up some of these,” Christian said pointing to the

mail on the table. Might be something important,”

“Yeah, like what. What could be important?”

“Ya never know. Could be that you won some sweepstakes. You want me to pop

these babies open, eh, Travis?”

I pushed the stack of mail across the table. “Help yourself. So, what’s the

bad news today?”

Christian reached down to pick up the spoon off the floor. He proceeded to

unbutton his gray overcoat and withdrew a conspicuous manila from the inside

pocket of his jacket. On the front of the eight by eleven inch envelope, printed in

bold letters read, PRIVATE.

I grabbed the parcel, threw it on the table and shook my head in disbelief.

I knew what sort of repulsive images spackled the five by seven glossy sheets. “I’ll

look at them later.” Working for the Government wasn’t all glimmer and

glory. There were no heroes to speak of, and nobody really seemed to care

anymore. People died every day, animals were beheaded for no apparent reason,

children were molested, and the elderly were shunned and forgotten like used

diapers. The 21^st century held so many positive possibilities for Government

reunification, employment opportunities, healthcare reform and a revamping of

welfare issues that it was inconceivable to think change was inevitable.

Working for the Canadian Wildlife Society, Christian had seen thousands of

grotesque pictures; decapitated seals, dolphins with their snouts chopped off, baby

whales gutted, and even giant sea turtles that had cocaine shoved up their rectums

to allude the Coast Guard. No rational explanation for these atrocities were ever

given, at least none that would make any sense to a humane society. For some

strange reason, I just couldn’t stomach it this morning. “I’ll look at them later,

dude. Besides, I’ve got a new patient to see today.

Bad news always seemed to live in his kitchen. Life for myself and my family

were to forever change on December 14, 2001. No matter how many years passed

and how many bottles consumed, I just couldn’t forget the horror of that day. It

always slithered inside my cold bed at night and wrapped its icy bones around my

aging body. It clung to me like a vampire feeding upon a fresh kill after a long day

rest inside his soiled coffin. The strong scent of guano shit and rotting blood filled

the tomb with sickening vapors, pacifying the hungry monster until it could escape

its prison of pine. When it drank from me, it drank from a succulent reservoir

that could only be drilled late at night when the eyelids reluctantly shut themselves

and prepared for a restful slumber.

But, all that I came to expect and longed for in life changed on that fateful day.

I had just gotten off work early and was eager to do some needed Christmas

shopping. It was getting on towards the holiday season and I was excited as a

Jack Rabbit in heat. I loved Christmas, not so much for the presents that I would

receive, but for the joy that it gave to my beautiful wife of ten eight years and to my

5 year old son, Brice. Yes, I truly believed in the old adage that, “it’s better to

give than to receive.” I desired nothing and needed nothing materialistically, but

did crave the frantic frenzy that Christmas created.

I was forced to double wrap all the presents, and then bind them in duck

tape as my inquisitive wife would undoubtedly pilfer a preview of coming

attractions. Jill had no patience and our son, Brice, obviously had gotten this from

her side of the family. As crafty as I thought I was, Jill always seemed to be able

to open the packages and re-wrap them, without showing any evidence of

tampering. A forensic pathologist would have a difficult time linking Jill to

the scene of this crime. God, he loved them!

Come Christmas morning, with a roaring fire to keep them warm, the family

would sit upon the white Lama skin rug that barely covered the den floor, and

proceed to rip open the gifts. Jill would hold a present high over her head, still

sealed in tacky duck tape, vigorously shake the box, and say, “Hmmmmmm, let me

see. Could it be a white bathrobe,” and behold, she was right. Now, I knew

that I hadn’t married a physic, rather a crafty lady who cold outsmart the pants

off David Coperfield.

Brice, on the other hand, was a typical youngster caught up in the Christmas

excitement. He would immediately grab for the largest gift, expecting to find the

most awesome of presents, only to be sadly disappointed. As a practical joke, his

Uncle Christian, who automatically assumed the title of Uncle, would wrap up a

large box with nothing inside. When he came over later on in the morning, as he

had been doing for the past 8 years, Uncle Christian would blame the Tooth Fairy

for stealing all the big presents.

Lieutenant Sterling would explain that difficult times and the slow economy

caused infirm adults to steal and commit hideous crimes of passion. He never went

into much explanation about crimes of passion, it was just thrown in nonchalantly.

Desperate times lead to desperate measures, and to put it bluntly, “the Tooth Fairy

was a pilfering fag.” Dressed in a baby blue tutu with his hairy butt cheeks

protruding out of his mother’s tiger skin panties, the fairy would sneak into homes

at night and steal all the Christmas presents. The Grinch couldn’t hold a candle to

this masochist! He cared little about the boys and girls who would be disappointed

on Christmas day, he cared only about his nicotine addiction and his prized porno

collection. The Tooth Fairy was especially fond of half naked pubescent

African girls posing in maternity undergarments. Fortunately, Brice was far too

little to comprehend Uncle Christian’s bizarre imagination. His story lines verged

on the edge of madness!

“Not to worry, little dude,” he would tell Brice. “Last night while your favorite

Uncle pounded the beat, I came upon the Fairy breaking into Mrs. Kanes Cheese

Shop.” Christian would pound upon his chest and contort his face to look more

fearsome and gallant. Speaking in a rasp voice as he knelt in front of the fireplace,

he would continue his fictional story that even O.J. Simpson’s delusional jury

wouldn’t buy. “I came up to him and gave him a good kick in the ass! Yes, sire,

that’s exactly what I did.” He was proud of himself, gloating in his story telling

prowess.

Brice would giggle like a cackling machine gun and listen attentively to every

word that vomited from Christian’s lips. He just loved the crazy adventures that

seemed to only happen to his favorite Uncle. He often wished that his dad was a

policeman instead of being a boring old doctor who talked to crazy people. When

he grew up he was going to be a policeman, or maybe a cowboy and clean up the

Island of all villains, of this he was certain.

Jill and I would cuddle up to one another, she sitting between my legs and

me leaning against the tan leather sofa, sipping my coffee and playing with her long

straight hair. We listen attentively to Christian and laughed along with Brice as

Uncle Christian recounted his escapades of heroism. Every year his stories seemed

to get longer and wilder and almost verge on the brink of idiocy

“That’s right,” growled Christian.

“What’s crimes of passion,” inquired Brice?

“Never you mind. Now listen, little dude, I gave him a big kick in the ass, like

this.” He proceeded to demonstrate using all is force that he could muster. “Bam. I

kicked him so hard that it would have killed any mortal man, but as we both know,

little dude, the Tooth Fairy ain’t no mortal man. No sir, he ain’t no mortal man.”

Brice jumped up and threw both hands in the air. “Like Superman,”he yelled.

Running around in circle he shouted at the top of his lungs, “look, I’m Superman!”

“Well, not exactly like Superman, in fact, quite the opposite,” said Christian.

“You might say that he was a super power villain. Do you know who O.J. Simpson

or Bill Clinton is?”

Brice stopped running. “No.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. The point is this Fairy was more conniving and

detrimental to the fabric of our society as we know it today. Do you understand me,

little dude,” questioned Sterling?

Brice shrugged his shoulders. “Nope.”

“It doesn’t really matter. Now sit down and listen to the story, ok?” Brice

plopped to the floor beside me.

There he was, dressed in a blue tutu and wearing is mother’s wild panties and his

sisters black arm boots, standing knee deep in the snow. He had stashed clumps of

Sharp Cheddar Cheese in his brazier, and I must say, if I were an ordained

Minister, I might be tempted over to the gay side!”

“The gay side,” asked Brice? “What’s that?”

“Never you mind,” interrupted Jill. “Just get on with your story, Christian!”

“Now, where was I,” muttered Christian? “Oh yeah, so there I was, man to

Fairy. He was the first to grab for his bloodthirsty weapon, the infamous fairy

wand. I knew that I only had a split second to react, or loose my teeth at the hands

of this demigod.”

“So, what did you do,” asked the ever impatient child?

Sterling grabbed the mug from my hand and took a sip to clear his throat

and to stall for time. He needed a second to scramble his thoughts and figure out an

interesting conclusion to his wild story. Fabricating a tale like this took more

energy and imagination than Christian had anticipated. Sterling gave a sour

grimace, “Yuck, no sugar. How can you drink this shit straight?” Not waiting for a

reply he continued, “I grabbed for my police baton and whopped him over the head.

Yeah, that’s what I did.” He starred at Brice waiting for some sort of response. His

credibility was on the line, and he knew it

“And,” asked Brice? “Hurry up. What did you do next. Did you punch him in

the nose?”

“He dropped his wand, grasped his skull, and started to cry like a baby with

diaper rash. Not waiting for him to react, I quickly threw my Super villain

handcuffs upon his fatigued wrists and tossed him into the squad car. Well, to make

a long story short, he confessed and told me where he had hidden all your presents.

I’ve got them just outside the door over there; that’s if you still want them.” He

jerked his head in the direction of the door way.

Faster than his little feet could go, he was up from the floor and out the door in

less than three seconds. Lance Armstrong would be awed by his speed and

determination. And, as Uncle Christian had promised, there in a neat pile by the

flower box were his stolen presents.

The following year, to give the charade more credibility, Christian went so far as

to have a fellow officer dress in a blue tutu and come over to the Owen household.

The joke backfired and almost resulted in his dismissal. Jill had taken a picture of

the office in drag, had it enlarged, and proceeded to post it upon the inside wall of

the local post office. Unbeknownst to them, the Captain’s wife had a P.O. box inside

the same location and she saw the pictures. It was no laughing matter; both

Christian and the fellow officer were severely reprimanded and suspended for two

weeks without pay.

This was the typical Christmas day in the Owen’s household. There were plenty

of gifts to open, stories to fabricate, food so delectable it would subdue a finicky

troll, and a bona fide feeling of love and warmth. If love were a transparent coat of

varnish, it had soaked its way into the very foundation of the old Victorian house.

The old two story white house was warm, cozy, well furnished, and most of all, it

symbolized the true meaning and creation of a home; it meant family and safety.

The home was constructed during the turn of the century by local carpenters. It

was a spectacular custom build Victorian situated on a manicured lot surrounded

by hundreds of elderly oaks and seasoned apple trees. These aged monstrosities

bathed the house in a cloud of cool shade during the sweltering Summer months.

The ornate trellises and intricate moldings that softened the appearance of the rigid

structure were virtually undetectable during the bright Summer mornings if not for

the brief reprieve from the sun. The trees served a useful function as well as giving

an aesthetic beauty to the landscape.

Jill was born and raised in this home and her father likewise before her. If she

had anything to do with it, Brice and his children would one day inherit it. After

marrying Jill in January of 1997, I moved into the house.

The cycle of events were forever changed on December 14, 2001. I was driving

home heading down Miller road like I usually did with tons of presents in the back

of the old green Cherokee. A fresh blanket of snow had recently fallen on top of the

four feet that was already there. The road was dark and dangerous to navigate,

especially this late at night, even for an experienced driver. Coming around the

bend in the road, I saw it. It looked like two cars had melted together in one

horrendous accident. I pulled in behind the large Ford Expedition on the

opposite side of the street to see if everyone was alright. It looked like the Ford had

lost control and swerved into oncoming traffic. It sure wasn’t going to be a good

Christmas for anyone involved in this accident, that was for sure. I turned my

ignition off, opened the car door and jumped out into the cold. It was at that very

moment when I saw the other car, that I knew who was inside the yellow Jeep

Wrangler, my family!

To some, pain can be measured in degrees of unpleasant stimuli that can awaken

the most tender and heavily guarded of nerves. These silos, created by our Maker,

were never to be opened, let alone be touched by mortal hands. Scientists have

questions their very existence if their only purpose was to inflict pain and sorrow.

Perhaps this was a flaw in man’s mortality! But, to every good, every front, every

high, every orgasmic pleasure, there awaits its antipode, ready to serve its most

basic of functions.

I stood there dumbfounded, weak at the knees, unable to fathom this brutal

sadistic scene. Time stalled, like a movie scene that focused on a corpse in order to

allow the audience ample time to soak in all the horror and anguish that these two

had been put through. The directors intention, to leave the beguiled audience with

an impression that they could never forget, something that would stalk their

memories, and plague them at a subconscious level had been accomplished. He

couldn’t have wished for a better scene which now transfixed and mesmerized

me.

I walked to the driver side window and saw Jill and Brice slumped over in a pool

of blood. They were dead, of that I was certain. A sharp piercing pain like that of

a sharp three pronged trowel dug into my lower spine and ripped its way up t the

nape of my skull. I wanted to cry out in pain, close my stinging eyes, vomit my

bowels through my throat, but I didn’t. I had been taught that men dared not

show grief for fear of losing one’s pride. I remembered my father striking me

across the face with his powerful fist for crying at my mother’s funeral. From that

point on, not a tear did I drop, not a hint of grief crossed my broad Scottish face.

The horror ridden baby eyes told a story of torment and utter fear, the likes of

which nightmares could never compare. Brice and Jill knew the car was about to

hit them. The last few seconds of their lives were spent screaming at the top of their

lungs. If the mouth could move, if life could but for one moment surge through the

tiny veins in his neck, Brice would utter, “Daddy, make them stop hurting me.”

The fingers dialed, 911. A soft voice answered, “Can I help you?”

Like the pounding of a thousand Arabian horses galloping into fierce battle,

sweat beads profusely dripping from their manes, the surge of tears spilled from my

misted green eyes and poured onto the snow. All the bottled up pain that I had

tucked away in my empty stomach was unleashed by this lady’s voice. I was no

longer a man, rather the feeble remains of a shelled cessation, ready to be boiled

alive and eaten.

“Can I help you please,” reverberated throughout the entire night? “Hello, are

you still there,” asked the telephone operator? She placed her hand over the

receiver to call for her superior. “We’re sending out a patrol car.” Those were her

last words.

I didn’t even hear her, didn’t hear the sirens beside my car, and didn’t

notice the officers, pistols drawn, scurrying about in the woods. I was in a

different world, Spring time on a luscious green pasture. The flowers blooming,

bees buzzing and busy sucking the nectar from the ripe buds, and the fresh breeze

filling my lungs as I laid down upon the blanket of green grass. The blueberry

bushes were full of ripe berries and the tart smell that they discharged from their

capacious bulbs attracted the attention of many a hungry insect.

The sun beat down upon my youthful face and naked chest, the warmth

massaging the tension that wormed its way into my muscular frame. I could see

Jill, clad only in a see through white sun dress, walking towards me balancing two

champagne flutes in one hand, and a bottle of chilled German Resling in the other.

Her intentions were clear, as were my own.

The light beat its way through the skimpy fabric and showed man how he could

truly enjoy like and forever be content. Jill’s vain attempt to conceal her nudity was

thwarted by a thousand bursts illuminating her gracious figure hidden inside the

cloth. The sight of her golden brown figure, nipples stimulated by the jostling of the

silky fabric against her skin, was truly the creation of a kind and benevolent God.

God created woman and hell begot man. It was so easy to see the truth of his

statement, but so difficult to accept the consequences. Man was a mushroom, a

filthy fungus that grew best in dark moist caves or in piles of cow shit. It sprang to

life during the wee sleeping hours of the sun, wiggling its poisonous shaft upwards

towards the moon in hopes that some naive virgin would fall in love with its frilly

opened canopy and pluck it to her gentle mouth. If man was indeed begot from the

biliary of hell, then man was nothing but the Devil’s penis.

And, if woman were created by God, she was an extension of his breast plate.

This tender animal was made from the finest droplets of moisture, mixed with the

essences of sun flowers and sprinkled with just a pinch of wind. She grew from the

rays of the sun and gave hope to all blind children of the night so that they would

walk about the thistle patches. Jill came to life to give life, not to take it. That job

fell to man, and it was man who beckoned on his closet door!

Of all the millions of species that had infested the planet, none were born so pure

and innocent as woman. Had man never been created, greed, hatred, and biological

weapons would not exist.

Travis slouched over the kitchen table and was roused from his dream by a

familiar voice.

“Oh my God.” The words were spoken slowly, one by one in slow speed. “Who

could have done such a thing,” moaned Christian. “In all my life, I’ve never seen

such a thing.” He placed his hand to his mouth. “Are you ok,” he asked in a

consoling voice as he tapped me upon the shoulder?

“Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.” I was dead emotionally

and physically to the outside world. Nothing seemed to move, the men standing

before him held no solid form; the air molecules snapped like bubbles; and white

objects ceased to reflect any color.

That was the first time that I was to see the apparition hiding in the shadows of

the dimly lit night. Its cranium protruded from the shroud and his eyes burned

with anger as he scanned the car. I was the only one that could see it, of that

I was sure. The beast longed to stay close to the corpses, wanting to run his bony

fingers over the slippery child, but more than anything else, he wanted to lick the

flesh of all its wetness. The feel of spongy muscles cascading ever so gently over his

dry tongue excited the taste buds into a feeding frenzy. Gobs of viral white

leukocytes drained out his jowls and formed a chain link of spit handing from his

lower lip. He looked more like a rabid German Shepherd nearing death, rather

than the cunning calculated killer that God threw from Heaven.

He bore no horns upon his massive bald skull, nor did he sport a lizard’s tail. He

was just a deformity, a freak of nature that belonged in a damp cellar, isolated from

Human tough; locked away in Pandoras Box! He scared me right down to the

bone marrow. Every hair frolic stood erect, every nerve moved cautiously before

sending a signal to the brain, and every muscle in my body tensed as the creature

disappeared back into the night. It was feeding time!

I knew that I had seen something, but what. I felt the coldness, smelled

his decaying body, and sensed his incredible power. Yet, in all the turmoil, I

wasn’t sure if the beast were a figment of my wild imagination, or if in fact, the

Devil himself was coming for the remains of my son and wife.

At first, I thought the spirits of the dead bodies were caught in limbo, pacing

the room in search of escape. Dubious to the surroundings, and lacking the undergo

to find the proper door, these wantonness specters wandered aimlessly throughout

the Jeep. I was to learn that this shadow demon was a cursed spirit, not the souls

of my recently killed family.

The driver of the other vehicle was injured, but he would live. A few days after

the funerals, I learned that the driver had been drinking. He was sentenced to

three and a half years in prison for vehicular manslaughter. I never saw his face,

and for that matter I never wanted to.