The Silent Moment

By Shannon Lee Martin

What does an Ancient Man with godlike powers, a Moslem Jewish Banker, and a former doctor who is now a fish have in common? They're all in this book. So is Herman Blitz.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shannon Lee Martin
• Release date: Aug 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476139708

Shannon Lee Martin

Onlinebookclub.org said "The Silent Moment" is . . ."unique" and. . ."very creative". . . :D Feel free to contact me at any time at [e-mail]

Book preview

Part I

devil’s plaything

in my hands

if you don’t want pain

you don’t understand. . .

Danzig

Chapter 1: The Right Place, The Right Time

James Lawrence Conway was born screaming the second his tiny feet cleared his mother, until they cut the cord. The instant those surgical scissors snipped he became as calm as the eye of a hurricane, bright-eyed and smiling. He managed to stay awake for the remainder of that day, his unfocused, sky-blue eyes looking at everything and nothing as infants will, his smiling happiness never fading. Late that night he slept at last, his first deep slumber in that strange new world outside the womb.

His first few hours of sleep, unfortunately, were to be the only peaceful slumber he would have for the rest of his life. Peace was shattered by a ghostly blue face with a blue-gray beard, with eyes the color of a dull blue flame. The face opened its mouth and laughed, a laugh that caused a child not yet a day old to open his eyes with unnatural clarity. Little James would never cry again, and would rarely smile. No matter his mood or expression, his face belonged to the haunted. Only sheer exhaustion, for the most part, could be the temporary reprieve for his constant insomnia. For years he could never remember, even vaguely, what his dreams were like, but it seemed to those who ever knew him long enough that he got more rest awake than he ever did sleeping.

From the day he saw that terrible face and heard that horrible laugh, you could not look him in the eye for too long without being forced to turn away; it was simply too painful. His eyes seemed to tear a hole right through the darkest and most formidable recesses of the mind, but surely it was only their imagination, surely.

One could only wonder what went on behind eyes like his. . .

* * *

The lash is very painful, my mistress. Hurt me more. More! Dammit woman, can’t you hit me any harder than that? Yes, like that, you stupid slut!

* * *

James Lawrence Conway awoke on his seventh birthday to a resounding slap across the side of his head. He snapped awake with a jerk, and closed his eyes while he shook away what little grogginess Eddie’s wake-up hadn’t smacked out of him.

Wake up, boy. It’s yer birthday. We’re goin’ to th’ zoo. Get up. Eddie’s coarse voice didn’t have a trace of kindness in it, and neither did its worn-out face.

James rose to sit on the edge of his narrow bed, and glanced up to see beer-bellied Eddie scratching his ass as he walked to the door of the tiny bedroom. Eddie was stepfather #4, a lousy bum and incurable alcoholic. That’s what his momma always called him anyway, right before he’d beat the living shit out of her. Eddie would wake up that following night with a knife to his throat, and threats would be screamed back and forth like pong until they finally made up as raucously as possible. That drama was almost a daily routine, that and just disciplinin’ th’ boy. Discipline for such major infractions as looking at Eddie the wrong way, not moving fast enough to get up and change the channel on the T.V., or quickly enough to get a fresh bottle of Ancient Age from under the sink in the kitchen, or whatever else might offend Eddie in any given Mood. Eddie took no pleasure, of course, in haffin’ ta discipline that lazy son-of-a-bitch all th’ time. That gleam in his eye while he did it, of course, was his mother Glenda’s fuckin’ imagination, and why th’ hell are you always tryin’ to start some shit, ya fuckin’ troublemakin’ bitch?

Happy birthday, Eddie belched as he took another glugging sip of his breakfast Budweiser.

James glared. Eddie met his stare and held it.

I told you about lookin’ at me like that boy. You wanna go to th’ fuckin’ zoo or not?

The boy smiled a happy little smile, his sad eyes dancing with joy. He was ecstatic! Whether it was this drunk shit or a merry fucking red-nosed reindeer taking him, he was going to the zoo!

Get dressed. An don’t take forever about it, alright? Eddie gently closed the hollow particleboard door and began to whistle, pausing to utter a whispered yee-haw! sigh after chugging the rest of his breakfast.

Still slightly weary from another restless night full of forgotten nightmares, James rose heavily from the bed, pulling on a blue Superman-emblem T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. His room opened into a narrow hallway that led to the kitchen. He had to stand on a chair to get a can of Beef Ravioli out of the cabinet over the sink. His momma seldom cooked breakfast, or cooked at all. She had to sleep for the night shift at the twenty-four hour Super-Mall. The beauty salon she worked in got all sorts of costumed, rubber wearing, blaze-eyed customers at that time of night. It made James nervous to sleep at night knowing those heavily made-up, lace-and-chain freaks were prowling the town, but that was only the latest excuse his subconscious had come up with to explain why – no matter how deep or how long he slept – he never woke up feeling rested. He’d learned how to shake off the weariness after a couple hours or so into the day, but that didn’t help him to have as much energy as other kids his age. His addiction to Dr. Pepper seemed to help, a little.

Eddie and his ten-year-old son Timmy sat on the shiny red pleather couch in the den watching G.I. Joe cartoons. James took his steaming bowl of Beef Ravioli from the microwave, and sat down to watch from the kitchen table. Timmy turned to greet him, his smile full of crooked teeth.

Zartan and Destro are whippin’ some ass! he said, quickly returning his attention to the 19' color Sanyo. Timmy was the offspring of a horrible marriage between Eddie and a Whore. Eddie ‘d had to shoot the Whore when she’d come at him with a tire-iron for not giving her more of her own money for crack. There were plenty of witnesses to corroborate his one-sided testimony, be they his buddies and her Johns or not.

James put the empty bowl in the sink, and sat down by his stepbrother.

Eddie’s takin’ me to the zoo today for my birthday! James said, brandishing one of his all-too-rare smiles. Are you goin’ with us?

Nah. Been there, done that. I’ve got better things to do.

Like what, you little shit, Eddie spat, in a way that said he really didn’t care for or expect an answer. His eyes were glued to the T.V., a fresh Budweiser glued to his hand.

Timmy rolled his eyes. Yall better go ‘fore pops drinks too much. You know how he is. Eddie grunted, and took another swig.

Yer brother’s right. Come on boy, let’s go, before I drink too many of these to be able to. He sloshed the backwash around in the can before tossing it without accuracy toward the kitchen trash. He rose from the couch, his straightening spine popping like a sheet of viciously twisted packing bubbles. He packed a cooler full of Bud for the mile and a half trip, dropping a Dr. Pepper into their midst as an afterthought.

James knew as soon as they left the driveway, turning left instead of right, that he wasn’t gonna get to see any animals today, unless they were stray dogs or the skeletal remains of a cat that had been rotting in the alley beside the Liquid Toasty Booze Emporium that was practically Eddie’s primary home.

And don’t you tell your Mamma we came here, boy. You know what you got the last time. He raised the back of his hand menacingly.

And you know what she told you about lying, too, James snapped back defiantly, tears of disappointment showing only in his voice.

Right. Right. And just how many times has your Mamma threatened to kick me out? Eddie’s sneer was contemptible delight, his poised hand coming down with sharp agony against the side of James’s head.

Just sit here and drink yer Dr. Pepper, boy. I’ll be out in a little while. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a five and handed it to the boy. Happy birthday. Don’t wander too far. The car door shut behind him, his back to the dirtiest look a child of seven could possibly muster.

I wish I could strangle that bastard and beat him with one of his ribs at the same time. He punched the dash of the car, jerking his fist back with a hissing intake of breath. "Son of a Bitch! I’m gonna kill that sorry bastard one of these days. Damned if I don’t!" He sighed, and reached into the cooler for his Dr. Pepper, thinking of how quickly twelve beers had turned into three.

He drinks those things one after another. A small smile played on his lips. I’ll show him. Be damned if I ride home with that Bastard when he’s drinkin’ ever again. Oh damn! I didn’t mean to get lost on the way home. I just didn’t wanna die in a horrible fiery car accident. Honest ma. His smile grew even wider.

* * *

The police found James at around 3:00 that morning inside the 7-11 on the other side of town from the Liquid Toasty Booze Emporium, his nose buried in Street Fighter II. Skinny Dhalsim of India was repeatedly smashing the fists of his exaggeratedly long arms into the slow moving bulk of Zangief the Russian, when officer Charlie Nub Slocum came to stand behind James, controlling Dhalsim, and Earl the Security Guard, losing with Zangief. They called Charlie Nub because everything about him was short; legs, arms, fingers, temper, neck torso penis memory.

Hey boy, the naturally bald cop asked, What chew doin’ out this time of night?

What’s it look like? James answered, delivering a body-spinning flying kick to Zangief’s head, followed by a head-butt.

Yer parents know yer whereabouts? The door of the store chimed as officer Slocum’s partner entered the store zipping up his pants, a skinny Crack Whore slinking off around the corner spitting jism.

What’s goin' on, Charlie? the tall hulking officer asked, his eyes glazed, his black face wet with exuberance.

"Smart assed little. . .boy here’s out after curfew. I was askin’ him if his parents knew where he was when you came in." At that moment Earl the Security Guard chose to speak.

Damn, the ancient man cursed as he lowered his gray thinning head in defeat. His heavily wrinkled features were twisted in silent rage as he glanced down briefly at James. Lousy, lousy, lousy little Bastard, he mumbled under his breath as he chimed out of the store to make his rounds. The policemen took no notice of him.

Game’s over boy, Charlie said, towering a couple of inches above the boy. We’re takin’ you home.

I’m not done yet. You can wait a minute. You ain’t got nothin’ better to do. He was about to challenge the well-proportioned, mini-skirted Chun Li, when he was grabbed from behind by the scruff of his T-shirt and dragged with difficultly to the other officer, who neatly tucked James under his arm and carried him to the squad car.

* * *

I do not wish to speak of the rest of what happened, my mistress. . .

Chapter 2: Come here, Bitch!

James Lawrence Conway, a sixteen-year-old pothead, sat back in the moldy easy chair of the abandoned house, and with calm efficiency, rolled a fat, tight blunt. Only it could ease the pain buried so deeply in his chest it made him sick to his stomach. A week ago he had been diagnosed with his first ulcer.

Two weeks earlier, he had escaped Shady Pine Sanitarium.

A month before that, he had been committed after having a nervous breakdown, because of what happened a week before that.

He had killed Eddie, and had seen the Ancient Laughing Face on the other side of the mirror, the Face that would not stop laughing, the Face he’d seen every night’s sleep since.

Eddie had beat him one time too many. Just because he had come home high was no reason to start beating the shit out of him. It wasn’t like it was the first time he’d done it. Hell, he’d even smoked some bud with Eddie a time or two, and besides, it was the first night of summer vacation! What the hell!

Fucking dopie. Stupid fucking dope-head sumbitch! Eddie raged, the rancid breath of a fifth of Ancient Age wafting across the room. He had already taken his thick leather belt off, its tip twitching with agitation.

James just couldn’t understand it. Lousy Fucker!

Where’s my porno, boy? Yer momma said she ain’t gonna put out no more, even after I beat the shit out of her. Slam! "And where’s my dope, boy?" Wham! God-dammit! Think I’m ever gonna share mine with you if you’re not gonna share yer shit with me? Slam! You ever think about that, boy? Wham! You ever think about anybody but yer own goddamned self?" Slam! Wham! Hmn? Slam! Wham! Hmn? Slam! Wham! Do you ever think about me? Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam!

Slam! Slam! Wham! Slam!

Slam! Wham! Wham! Wham!

Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham! Get yer fuckin’ clothes off, boy! It’s time for you to play Momma again! God-dammit, come on!

James took off his clothes, just as he’d always done before. I can’t take this shit anymore! I can’t take this goddamned shit anymore! Goddammit! God damn you Eddie I’m gonna fucking kill you, you sorry fucking Bastard! But James could only imagine saying that to Eddie. The last time he’d fought back – and he did fight back in the past, every single time! – Eddie put him in the hospital, and threatened to kill his Momma if he told the truth. So Eddie told everybody that James had been jumped by a gang of punk-assed niggers that had raped him while beating him half to death. Yes, that’s how it happened, miss, James had answered the investigator, three long years ago.

After herding James into his own bedroom, Eddie put his belt down, pulled off his Levi’s and Haines, picked up the half-empty jar of Petro Jelly from atop the dresser with one hand, and punched James in his jaw with the other. James fell to the floor with a mighty crash.

Get on yer knees! Don’t make me tell you again! The Crystal Lady has once again opened my mind! I have snorted her a thousand times! She has given me something better than Beer! You will give me something better than your Momma’s fat flabby pussy! God-damn-it! Oh. . .yes! Oh God Damn It!

Go clean yerself up, boy, Eddie said, just as if nothing had happened. Yer momma’s gonna be home any minute.

All was quiet for one brief, silent moment. James felt no emotion, felt nothing. It was the state he always succumbed to after Eddie violated him. He picked up his clothes from the living room floor and trudged into the bathroom. The grief and shame of his lot slowly began to overtake him, began to become the muted rage that always ended with him smashing or ripping or pounding something, usually his head, sometimes his most treasured possessions. He screamed and raged and cursed in his mind, with only the occasional brief flicker of expression to betray his inner turmoil. There was nothing he could do about it, and that was that.

James raised his eyes from the floor, to once again face his cowardice in the mirror, but instead of staring into his own blue eyes, he gaped in terror at eyes the color of blue fire burning beneath opaque glass, eyes that danced with the perverse merriment of the mute mocking laughter that accompanied it. First it was the eyes, but by some trick of the mind it slowly became an ancient face full of delighted scorn, gaining joy from the fact that James was Eddie’s Bitch. He felt more than heard words in his mind, a taunting parody of Eddie’s voice.

Come here Bitch! Suck it or I’ll cut you, Bitch! You’re my Bitch, and you like it, don’t you, Bitch? What are you gonna do about it, Bitch! Oh, much better than yer momma, Bitch!

Come here, my Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!

James smashed the face that laughed at him, shattering the mirror that held it, his hand dripping black blood. And perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt as if he had a purpose. Determination. He was gonna kill Eddie, and he was gonna like it!

He walked past Eddie – sprawled out on the couch in the living room – on his way to the kitchen, and Eddie’s hand thrust out to grab him by the wrist.

Put yer clothes on, boy! What the hell you think yer doin’, walkin’ ‘round th’ house naked? Dammit boy, yer momma’s gonna be home any minute!

James wrenched his arm from Eddie’s grasp. If thoughts could kill, and emotions could power them, then Eddie’s head would be ripped from his shoulders and stuck to the ceiling by his bloody stump of neck, and a light bulb would protrude from his mouth with enough light to blind the sun, burning everything, all things, washing it down with Eddie’s blood. . .

Goddammit boy, I said go and put some clothes on! If you don’t listen to me I’m gonna –

You’re gonna what. It was not a question, and his voice was as cold as a machine.

Eddie barely had time to be confused before James leapt on him with all the hell and hate an entire life of torture could muster, his fingers talons whose only purpose was to rip Eddie’s throat asunder. If only my fingers really were talons, if only I had the power to burn him with my mind, if only. . .

Eddie was more fat than muscle, and James was a six-foot-four wiry giant with his knee in Eddie’s stomach, with all his two hundred pounds straining into it. Strength gained, strength denied by being Eddie’s lifelong slave in all things, was now the gristle and bone digging beneath Eddie’s thorax. His fingers met through flesh, and with a monstrous heave, James held a lump of torn flesh in his wet hands. Only in his death throes did Eddie possess the strength to fling James from him. James watched the spectacle from the floor with glee, dodging the occasional flailing limb. I killed Eddie! Stupid Fucker!

The minute had arrived, and James’s mother stepped through the front door. Half a pause later she screamed, her naked son sitting on the floor giggling manically, painting his face burnt umber with a chunk of Eddie’s throat, the rest of Eddie lying next to him doing the Flintstone Twitch.

In Bedrock, twitch twitch. . .

* * *

James took another deep drag from his half-finished blunt, and rubbed the rest out in the black plastic ashtray on the arm of the chair. Reaching down on the dusty floor, he picked up the book he’d stolen from the library. The Powers of Sorcery, by Larry Green. He didn’t know why he walked into the library the day before, or why he was reading the book now. It wasn’t a compulsion really, just strong, odd curiosity. He thumbed through the pages, not really reading them, just something to do while he fell asleep.

The dream was lucid, laid out with an order not unlike reality. He stood before a giant tree on a field of green, a single golden apple hanging from an outstretched limb. He stared up at the apple, just within arm’s reach, his long fingers stroking stubbled chin. A shining purple light approached from his left, until it was hovering about a yard away and above him.

What do you want? he asked the light.

I want you to kill yourself, the light answered.

I told you no. I want the apple.

You cannot have it. The apple is mine.

Not yet, he said.

It will be, said the light.

Not yet.

Chapter 3: A Horrible Cry of Terror on the Edge of Waking

James Conway had to climb through a bedroom window to get into his own house. His wife was still at work, and his four-year-old daughter was still at her Grandma’s. The guys that had given him a ride home had reluctantly given him another joint, though he was plenty high after helping them smoke three. Boy, was he happy! It was indeed a record day. He’d just gotten back from an

Iron Maiden concert at the Hall, and had a great idea for another painting. Boy, was it a hum-dinger! He couldn’t wait to buy more paint.

A mighty cyborg on a battlefield, creatures and machine-men standing behind him, the crumpled broken bodies of men beneath them, the cyborg’s fingers clenched in a head freshly ripped from its body, the cyborg and his followers smiling and laughing. . .

Being at home alone with no one to complain, James cranked up the stereo as loud as he could stand it, grooving to The Phantom Menace. His mind began to soar through the chaos of the infinite mindscape, his reefer slowly burning. He smoked half of it, and saved the rest for later. Turning off all the lights except for the red bead on the volume dial, he lay back on the thin carpet floor, limbs slightly spread, and began to soak up the music.

James stood atop a hill overseeing a vast fertile valley, a broad blue river coiling its way through the middle, the shadow of lush green hills touching the eastern edge. The hour old sun was a pale yellow orb in a clear winter sky. He smiled, and a wicked grin began to creep its way into his passive-aggressive expression. He stretched out one of his arms, an old hand peeking from the coarse woolen robe. Making a tight fist, he sliced his arm through the still air. The air began to vibrate, violence born of the rising heat beneath the quickly drying grass in the valley. The river began to first steam, then boil, becoming a churning roll as the now-brown grass burst into bright yellow flames. The green hills surrounding the valley remained untouched. James thrust his hands out to either side in a wild gesture, the palms of his hands facing the water. The water rushed at him, stopping a yard or so from his feet, and stretched in front of him into an undulating sheet, a mirror of water hot enough to burn his face. . .but the face reflected was not his.

The short scream that burst from his lungs was hard enough to hurt his chest, and after a small moment, he began to laugh.

It never ends, does it, he said to himself, amused. He thought about the many times he’d seen that face, unable to decide if he was looking into the face of a past life, a demon, or his own madness. How long have I thought about that? How long have I wondered if I really was once a sorcerer, old when the world was young. . .

The power can be yours, boy. You need only follow the path. Only I can show you the way. The voice shattered his thoughts. This wasn’t just a voice in thought, he actually heard the words inside his head!

That’s it. I’ve smoked too much, or this shit is laced, he laughed out loud, a short, tittering chuckle. Did somebody say something? Hello inside my head? Damn! This is some good shit. He stood, and went to sit on the couch, reclaiming his inch of joint from the coffee table, lighting it, careful not to burn a runner in it. When he finished it, he fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, and it was a wonder to his dimming consciousness that for once he didn’t see that Goddamned face, being as stoned as he was.

* * *

There was a horrible cry of terror on the edge of waking. James rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and he seemed to be more baked than he was before he fell asleep. His wife flitted around the house almost like a dream, and though he knew he was awake, the dreamlike quality of everything around him persisted. Janet knew he was stoned, and she didn’t mind? Dimly, that was a wonder, because she was usually furious. Normally she was screaming about him not having a job and being a bum, even though he did occasionally sell one of his drawings to Last Caress Tattoos. His young daughter was chattering excitedly about the fun she’d had that day at Granny’s. His wife had brought home enough alcohol to party fifty people, it seemed to his stoned-sleepy mind, and that, too, was unusual. She hadn’t done anything like that for as long as he could remember, at least at the moment. She was talking about something, but he couldn’t really make out the words, but whatever they were, she was smiling, and that made him happy beyond reprieve.

A loud knock came to the door, and he went to open it. Some guy he thought he might have met once at Waffle House was standing there.

You wanna smoke some weed? the man asked.

Sure, James said. You wanna drink some Ancient Age?

Absolutely, the tall man with the wavy hair and handlebar mustache said with a toothy grin.

His daughter went to bed without complaint, for once, and James, his wife, and the almost-stranger sat around the coffee table, drinking and smoking, laughing, joking. James was having a hell of a time. It was almost like somebody was describing one of their dreams, or their life, and neither were anything like his own. The worm was there, floating in the Mezcal, smiling at him, asking James to swallow him. He obliged the pale squirming critter. It tickled when it went down. His wife gave him a Charge from the blunt, and he held the smoke until all of it had achingly dissolved into his lungs. The world grew so hazy he could barely stand, and when he sat down from his strange dancing, he didn’t stand again. Sleep claimed him a second time that day, but it didn’t seem to last more than a second before he was woken by a loud, "Daddy! Daddieeee!"

James stood, the rage of burning adrenaline setting aside his sleep-dope stupor. He ran to his daughter’s room with fire flooding through him like flames of the Apocalypse, and hell was in his eyes. The stranger-guest was lying on the bed with his daughter, his finger buried knuckle-deep in her obliterated maidenhood.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" James leapt on the man fist first, his arms the handles of rock crushing mauls, bludgeoning the bleeding face into a mass of dark purple pulp. His scream was the rage of a maddened bear, and the man he was beating screamed like a terrified girl. His wife burst into the room, her eyes wide with shock.

"What the hell’s going on, James? James? Stop it James, you’re goin' to kill him! You’re going to beat his fucking brains out! Stop!"

Hurling the man into the dresser mirror, he kicked him in the stomach as he fell to the floor. He locked the man in an iron headlock, and pulled him through the hall, through the living room and to the door. Open the door, honey! Moving too slow for his liking, he screamed, "Shit, Janet, open the god-damn door!" Smashing the man’s face a few times into the door facing, he shoved him down the short steps to the cold wet ground below. The man lay face down in a puddle of rainwater, slowly staining the tiny pool red.

James slammed the door closed, and took a deep breath. Before his wife could ask, he said, "Janet, I caught that sorry son-of-a-bitch in there diddlin’ Leslie. Goddammit baby, let me get my knife and go out there and finish that motherfucker!" Before she could respond, the door was flying between them through the room, and the barrel of a Colt ‘45 was pointed at his chest.

Not such a bad motherfucker now, are you? The purple bruise pointed his gun at the ceiling and fired, and in a blink the gun was re-aimed at James’s chest. The bruise with the giant mustache smiled. I ought to fucking kill you! But hell, I’m so numb I can’t really feel anything. God damn you, dude! You hurt my fucking feelings! The man went to sit on the couch, and gestured for James and Janet to sit in the chairs opposite him on the other side of the coffee table.

James felt as beaten as the other man looked. A throbbing dullness pulsed in his head. He could hear his daughter sobbing softly from her room. It hurt him deep in his chest, but he made no move to go comfort her. He was no good to her dead, and death loomed over him with a smoking gun. He’d told his wife time and time again that they should buy a gun, and now the lack of one burnt him into uneasy submission.

They all sat there staring at one another for a long stretch of time, and at last the man spoke again.

I’m sorry. His head dipped down in shame. Man, I’m so fucked up I can’t think straight. I don’t even really remember why you just kicked my ass, but if you promise not to do it again, I’ll put my gun up.

James was about to spit in the man’s face before Janet poked him in the ribs with her elbow. He turned to look at her with repressed anger, but the way her eyes held his, he shook his head in understanding, if not complete agreement. She wanted to handle this, so he let her.

He won’t beat you again, Sonny. I promise. All was quiet for a few short moments, and Sonny finally nodded his head in agreement. He thrust the gun into his pants.

Janet, go check on Leslie. James pleaded. He could still hear her miserable cries, though her sobs were quieter, now. His emotions were growing colder and colder by the second, a thin sheet of ice thickening over his consuming hate.

Man, I really hate to ask, but can I crash here tonight? I ain’t in no condition to drive. Sonny was acting as if nothing had happened, and in his mind, it occurred to James, it probably hadn’t.

James’s eyes shrunk to slits, and his smile was that of a viper. Sure, sure. But you’ll have to sleep in the kitchen.

Already smoking another joint, Sonny nodded his head.

* * *

Sonny was asleep on a pallet in the kitchen. As he dozed, a shadow fell over him, blacker than the already dark night. James knelt behind the prostrate man’s head, a dim gleam from the frozen stars in the window reflecting on his Buck knife. With one swift lurching thrust, the knife bit through neck, bone, and linoleum floor.

Funny how there’s so little blood, he thought. He should be bleeding like a stuck pig, but. . . He pulled the head away from the body, and there was still hardly any seepage. With a shrug he wiped the blade clean on Sonny’s liquor-stained shirt, and stood. He put the knife back in its leather-wrapped wooden sheath laying on the movie shelf in the living room, and went to check on his girls. Leslie had her head snuggled into her mother’s robust bosom, and they were sleeping peacefully. Not wanting to wake them, he went to his bedroom, and lay down to sleep.

* * *

Somebody was beating on the door. Door? What door? He rose from his bed, donning a robe, and went to answer his nonexistent door. Strangely enough, the door was there, and he scratched his head in wonder. He opened the door, and standing behind it was a small horde of nervous policemen. He thought he recognized the one standing at the forefront, a tall black man that made a midget of those around him, even James.

Hey, don’t I know you? The officer asked, before realizing he was out of character. Sir, we’ve had some complaints about a lot of noise, ungodly screaming, you beating your wife out in the middle of the yard with a shovel, that sort of thing. Do you mind stepping back sir, and turning around and laying on the floor with your hands behind your head?

Sir, did you hear me? I said turn around and lay down on the floor, with your hands behind your head! The cop grabbed his nightstick, and so did the others behind him, preparing themselves for a bull rush.

James heard everything the officer said, but he could not comprehend it. He could only stand there as the cop aimed his weapon for a blow to his head. He threw up his arms, but they could not stop the onslaught as the cops surrounded him and laid into him, their heavy clubs falling on him in unrhythmic thumps. After beating him to a bloody pulp, he was handcuffed and thrown to the couch.

What in the hell’s goin’ on here, he finally managed. What in the fuck is goin’ on! I haven’t done a god damned thing, you sorry motherfuckers! He began to shake as anger poured into him.

You haven’t? barked one of the policemen. You haven’t done anything? Then what the hell is this shit in the kitchen? What the hell have you done, man? What the hell have you done! The officer started toward him with his stick held high, his other hand unconsciously unbuttoning the strap on his gun holster. The giant black cop intercepted him, holding him back with ease.

That motherfucker molested my daughter, god damn you, so I fuckin’ did what I had to do! Janet! Janet! Honey, wake up! Strange that she hasn’t come in here already, he thought. "My wife ‘ll explain everything. Janet! Janet!"

The towering black cop holding back the skinny brown one shoved the man he was holding aside, and went into the kitchen. The other cops were standing there behind the bar that separated the kitchen from the dining room. One was cussin’ mad, and one was so angry he had tears in his eyes. James couldn’t see what they were lookin’ at, but he knew. He just didn’t realize that looking at a beaten beheaded bastard would cause them so much grief. Hadn’t they probably seen worse than that before? Or at least imagined it? He shook his head with a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. The big black cop looked down, for at least a minute, at what lay on the floor. Then he turned around, thrusting a miserable, hate filled stare at James, his lips tight with fury, jaw clenching, clenching.

Mister, you wanna come in here for a minute? There’s something I think you need to see. His calm voice contrasted sharply with the look on his face.

Wrenching himself from the awkward, handcuffed position he was in on the couch, James finally managed to stand. He limped into the kitchen, and looked down at the floor.

Janet lay sprawled on the floor beaten, bloody, her face caked with blood. Looking at his shirt, he finally noticed that it, too, was covered in blood, though it had already dried. Her head lay about a foot from her body. He fell to his knees, and slipping on the still-wet, blood-streaked linoleum, he fell again, his jaw snapping with a sharp crack. Pain, rage, and horror twisted together through his mind, slicing away at his perception like a madman with a razor trying to kill all the eyes that weren’t really crawling on his flesh. . .

His screams mixed with a yelp of terror from an officer in his daughter’s bedroom, and he heard a loud voice pounding through suffering cries.

Oh my god! Oh my living god! Oh god oh god oh god oh god! the panicked voice shrieked.

What is it? What? asked the giant that held James under his right armpit. Another cop was holding him under the other arm as they dragged him toward the door, mercilessly pinching him in the side with his free hand.

Come and see for yourself.

They dragged him to the door of Leslie’s room, and what they saw there inspired the police to beat James within an inch of his life. He wished they’d went ahead and finished him. He knew, somehow, that he was responsible, and deserved nothing less than death. Hell, he was still feeling the Mezcal – had he really drank Mezcal? – yes, there was the empty bottle, its neck caked with drying blood, lying between her. . . He turned away from his daughter's cries, muffled behind the duct-tape that bound her firmly to the bed, from her swollen eyes in her bruised, tear-streaked face. . .

No. . . How? No. . . He had no memory, but he knew, every time he closed his eyes and looked into those hungry, ancient, laughing eyes, he knew. . .

Chapter 4: Not Anymore

Madam Merciless idly toyed with one of the straps on the knee-length, black leather boot that crossed her bare thigh as she sat reading the day-old morning newspaper. She sighed as she skimmed through the article about another hooker that had been murdered the night before in another alley. She flipped through the pages till she got to the comics, and smiled as Andy Capp got the crap beat out of him by his wife again, and was thrown out into the street. That never ceased to amuse her.

The phone rang, and she answered it. Business had been slow lately, and her customers were boring her to tears. She hoped it would be a new potential client. It was.

May I speak to Madam Merciless?

Speaking, she answered.

"Oh, yes, um, well, I was reading in the magazine Bondage the other day, and, well, I – "

You’ve been a bad boy, and you need to be punished, am I right?

Um, yeah, that’s right.

What’s your name?

Horus.

And the rest of your name is?

I am Horus the Mad.

Is this a joke?

Nope.

Well then. I see. You really are a naughty boy, aren’t you. I can schedule you for an appointment at 7:00 this Friday. Will that be a problem?

Nope.

Ok Horus, I’ll see you then. She hung up the phone, picking up her whip on her way back down into the Dungeon, to finish teaching obedience to the broken toy that lay in chains there. I’ll bet this Horus is quite a funny little man. We’ll see.

* * *

Time went by in a haze, and Friday at 7:00 leapt upon Madame Merciless swiftly. And the little man was late! She hated it when they were late. Boy, was he gonna pay extra for that!

Horus the Mad was neither little, nor did there seem to be anything at all funny about him.

An old man, she pouted. Those are the easiest to break. Oh, well, money is money. . .

Days, weeks, months passed, and the old man remained unbroken. He took perverse pleasure in the pain Madam Merciless inflicted upon him, and whatever lengths she went to, he wanted more. But she could only go so far. Hell, she still didn’t know anything about him, and if his name was really Horus the Mad, then Madam Merciless was certainly the name she was born with! All other men, young or old, would have been broken by her long before, and molded into her mewling slave. He might have been humorless, but he sure as hell wasn’t boring. And was his ability to take it somehow a comfort to her? Might he not be the one she was looking for? Would he be the one to end her longing? Her virginity? Could a man that took a beating like he did, while hollering on and on for more, make her happy? Could she, in turn, ever satisfy him? Whatever she gave him, he took, but he was always hungry for more. He said that he could not, would not get enough, for the horrible thing he’d done.

The terrible, terrible thing he’d done.

She would see. If the old tricks would not work, then she would just have to invent new ones. Only a man of his strength could ever make her a woman, and by God, if sacrificing even that was what it took to break, or even bend him, then so be it. She would try a few more things first, though. And then? Well. It would be a day long remembered. Besides, he wasn’t really that old. Old enough to be her father, she guessed. God curse his soul!

* * *

This was it! This was going to be the day. All else had failed, but she would not be beaten. The thought of actual penetration scared her, but she could not, must not let him see that. The most a client ever got from her was permission to masturbate. What the hell had happened to her professional ethics? Right out the fucking window with her sense, she guessed. Had he, through his inability (such strength of will!) to be broken, and his disobedience that goaded her to torture him with every ounce of hate she could muster from her fucked up past, broken her instead? Never. He would pay for her even thinking it. But damn him, he would like it! The man had enough scars from her to look like the Monster of Frankenstein! Well. That son-of-a-bitch was late again! That didn’t surprise her, though. He was always late. Always. She sighed.

The chime of the bells as the front door opened made her want to touch herself as she sat peeing on the toilet. Wiping herself and zipping up her red leather panties, she stood and got her whip from the sink counter, ready to lash into him just as soon as she opened the bathroom door. Her arm was reared back to snap as soon as the door was open, and she lowered it slowly as she saw that the person that had arrived at that early hour was not Horus, but instead some old, giant black man in a cheap suit. Well. What the hell was this about?

You always come out of the bathroom ready to strike, Madam? The man asked with an amused, mock-knowing grin. And he laughed! She would certainly like him to sign up for a lesson or two! She just looked at him, her head cocked and her free hand on her hip. He pulled out his wallet, and flashed his detective’s badge.

Ma’am, my name’s detective Glover, and –

What is it you want, officer? I don’t give police discounts, and I don’t do sex, period, but if you’re here to sign up, I’d appreciate it if you came in or called at a more decent hour. During the day I’m closed. Boy, ain’t I the bitch!

He shook his head, and his amusement slowly died. But there was still a faint smirk there, though. Maybe she’d offer him a lesson for free, just to wipe the little smile off his face. Maybe.

No, Ma’am, I’m here on official police business. He pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket, and walked up to show it to her. Have you seen this man? We’ve been checking out every place like yours since the murder of Madam Mei Ling a couple of days ago. I didn’t want to come here during the regular business hours and interrupt any of your, um, sessions, and since you live here as well as work, I thought that a visit after hours would be more appropriate.

Well, you could’ve come in during the night, just the same. Patience is a part of their lessons. She smiled prettily up at him. Goodness, he was a very large man, and in more ways than one if that wasn’t a sock in his pants! She looked at his picture. It was Horus, though a bit younger. A chill ran through her.

Yes, I’ve seen him before. In fact, he’s due here any minute. Personal, not business, she said wryly. Did he kill Madam Mei Ling? Goodness! And she was actually going to let him fuck her!

We have reason to believe he did, Madam. He looked unnerved, and started glancing around. Did you say he’s going to be here any minute? You’re not pulling my leg?

He’s late, as usual. He is a customer of mine, but. . .nevermind. What makes you think he killed Madam Mei Ling? She was going to fuck a killer! He was probably going to kill her, too! The nerve of that man!

Now his face was all seriousness, as grave as a corpse. His fingerprints were all in her blood that he smeared on the walls, and dried on her dismembered parts, and various other places he left his hand and fingerprints. He did it on purpose, of course, as usual. We’re pretty sure he’s the one. He broke out of Shady Pines a few years back, and. . .are you all right Ma’am? Madam Merciless was crouched over, scattering her innards all over the linoleum floor. He went to comfort her, and ask her where she kept her wash rags, then thought better of it and went to hide in the bathroom, leaving the door cracked, drawing his gun.

I hate to be inconsiderate, Ma’am, he whispered forcefully, but I need you to go clean yourself up and act like nothing’s wrong, if you don’t mind. Damned right! He’s coming right to me! Damned right!

Well get the hell out of my way so I can, idiot! she raged as she shoved past him into the bathroom, pushing him out and locking the door. Go find somewhere else to hide. Go get under the desk, or something. He was about to say something smart to her when the sink came on to drown out his unuttered words.

My big ass won’t fit under that tiny little desk! Can’t call for backup because the radio’s in the car, again, and the car’s outside, and he’ll walk through that door any second –

The door chimed, and Detective Glover dove behind the desk without thinking.

He’ll see my feet and he’ll run! He heard me land and he’ll run! He heard me bang against the desk and he’ll – He heard the door to the bathroom opening behind him, and he prayed that would distract him enough to. . . What the hell