Necroman

By Raymond James Hancock

Necroman is the story of a man who turns from all that is good entering into dark places. He is seduced by the power of true evil as it gives him the ability to unleash a lifetime of sorrow, betrayal, and anger on the most deserving in society, criminals. Necroman finds that the battle is sometimes fought with lead and steel but can only be won in the spirit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond James Hancock
• Release date: Dec 23, 2009
• ISBN: 9781451503432

Raymond James Hancock

Raymond Hancock, a writer of fiction and poetry, was born in 1972, in Yakima Washington. He has written many poems, a screenplay, and aspires to many novels, Necroman being his first.Besides dozens of poems, Raymond’s first work was a screenplay called, Into The Darkness, written in 1995. Quickly he turned his efforts from the film industry, feeling that he was not ready for the arena that movies offered. Novels, as Raymond saw it, have more freedom and substance. He also believes they are a better place for an author to become established.In recent years Raymond was married and now has a beautiful family. He believes family and faith is the center of his life. Raymond has worked hard to cultivate his skills as a writer, starting at the young age of ten years old.Raymond looks at his writing as largely unconventional. He desires to create stories that take a different angle on traditional plots. Raymond wants his work to glorify God. He wants the reader’s imagination to be cranked all the way up, and at the same time expose them to biblical principles.

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Necroman

Raymond James Hancock

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Raymond James Hancock

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cesarean Faith

Necroman

What is it that people say? Strangers’ voices are faint memories now. Well I do remember some of what I’ve heard them say, if you live your life a certain way the desires of your heart would be fulfilled. Their voices echo through the ages and have always been. I suppose they will always be.

Funny how phrases like that are supposed to help in life but they never really do. You force a smile and say, thank you, when what you really want to say is, burn in the sulfur-ridden depths of hell. I have no idea why I ponder this dribble over and over like a whirling spin of trash.

The world is made up of all kinds. No matter how hard I look I never seem to know exactly where I fit. I once heard that you are what you come from. That is one of the only truths I cling to.

You see I was born in an alley, yep a rat swarming, stinking alley. My drugged up mother had no idea she was pregnant. The drugs messed up her cycle so bad, she had no clue which way was up. She thought she had another freaky thing with her cycle. You bet it was freaky. It was me.

If it hadn’t been for a passing bag lady seeing me lying there I would never have survived. With my umbilical cord dangling from my mother I laid face down in a puddle of water. My mother was leaned over vomiting in a nearby garbage can. This bag lady picked me up and swatted life into me.

My mother told me that story so many times; I really have no idea why. Maybe to rush a little kid into early suicide. She also would tell me that I am a miracle. She would liken it to the birth of Christ. How he was born in an animal stall. If he had such humble beginnings, she would say, then I could be anything. I guess her little analogy was the best her feeble mind could muster, considering the drugs. She spent a lot of time at church in the hopes of learning how to believe.

I believe, my Mom made sure of that, and I started to think that maybe it wasn’t where you come from but rather where you were headed. That belief was the only thing my mother ever taught me. She was like a playmate more than a Mom. I called her by her first name until she died when I was fifteen.

My rage, I harbored such rage. I can remember the first time I released the rage. I was eleven years old, a passing neighbor boy named Mikey Lauler laughed at me as I tripped going into my apartment. It made me so angry, some punk kid laughing at me. I stood up clinching two tennis rackets in my hands. You see that’s the reason I fell because one of the rackets got caught on the steps as I barreled for the door. I yelled all kinds of burns at Mikey. The substances of my slurs were about his gutter-slut-trailer-trash mom. That enraged Mikey Lauler, which is exactly what I wanted. He rushed up to me and started swingin’. I was a lot taller than him and at least fifty percent larger. His punches landed harmlessly on my chest. I, on the other hand, began to pound the tennis rackets into Mikey’s sides until they broke. That didn’t stop me; I just kept raking the jagged aluminum shanks across his body. He fell down from the pain of my aggression as I kept swingin’. He shouldn’t have hit me that only made me angrier. By the time some neighbor guy pulled me off of him, Mikey was a bloody mess.

I never saw him again, but a rumor arose that he lost an eye from our altercation. Most times when the rage would overwhelm me the only thing that got beaten were the walls.

My mother quit the dope when I was 8 and got hooked on another addiction, the government tit. You know what I’m talking about. Where a mysterious check comes on the third of every month. Well I suppose times have changed, it is deposited onto a debit card these days. Either way it is the dole.

The best times were career day at school (sarcasm dripping from that sentence). Where you would talk about what your parents did for a living. Of course the most popular were the policemen and firemen. The least popular were the welfare moms and dads. Eventually the teacher catches on and just starts skipping you when it’s your turn to talk about your parents. She might as well have put a big red flasher on my head. All the other kids knew why I was skipped so did I.

I grew up to be stronger and bigger than ninety percent of most people. So no one wanted to tangle. That kept me out of trouble since I would have probably crippled if not down right killed somebody.

###

I was twenty-nine years old when my life changed. I sat alone at an all-night diner sipping my after-meal coffee. Trying to waste as much time as possible before heading back to my empty apartment. I spent that night like a hundred others except for one thing. A strange little man watched me. He had a very dark complexion as well as a very miniscule build. He wore a polyester jacket. A pair of brown Levis and a dark fuchsia colored button up shirt, which wasn’t out of place for the 70’s but it is 1999.

He had thin lips and a little pointed nose. His hair was a business style cut, above the collar parted on one side. His eyes are what really made me feel uneasy. They seemed to look right through me.

I have one word for you Glock, that’s right the Austrian made polymer revolution. I have carried a pistol since I was twenty-one years old. It’s paranoid situations just like this that I dreamed of all those years ago. Now after eight years I realize that I’m a civilian, the chances of me needing to use my gun are about the same as winning the lottery. Now I carry it because I’m used to it and I just simply love guns.

I remember the first time I ever fired a gun. I was seven years old; my uncle took me out to the range. I had a little twenty-two-caliber revolver. He put some empty shotgun shells on a cardboard box maybe ten feet away. I put on my clear glasses, earmuffs and fired away. Of course I hit nothing. He carefully explained the concept of aiming to me, but my medium sized seven-year-old hands just couldn’t coordinate the deed.

So here I sat twenty-two years and at least one hundred thousand fired rounds later. A forty-caliber fourteen-shot automatic pistol strapped to my side. It wasn’t just my gun. However, it was my smoke wagon. I had heard that in an old western movie and liked it a lot.

I lifted my coffee to my mouth; with the other hand I deftly brushed the button that strapped my smoke wagon into its holster. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that your own smarts are what keep you out of trouble, not a gun. When rubber meets the road though, you’d sure be glad you didn’t have to cower under a table hoping some nut job with a machete looked you over during his chopping spree. Instead it would be like rock, paper, scissors; gun beats machete every single time.

That diminutive little man just kept staring at me, it was as though he could read my mind. It wasn’t long until he slid out of his dining booth and crossed the thirty feet that separated us. I of course gripped my smoke wagon with my right hand, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

He walked with a swagger that was his alone. It may be an exaggeration to say he barely pushed five feet tall but he had the presence of a giant. All his moves were calculated very carefully. He finally reached my booth and slipped in without so much as a polyester squeak.

My Glock moved effortlessly from its leather home. I pointed the muzzle underneath the table in the creepy man’s direction. I glanced around real quick to see if anyone noticed my action, no one seemed to.

He picked up the ketchup bottle that sat at my table and began to read the ingredient label.

Have you ever noticed that almost everything has corn syrup in it? So how did you enjoy your corn syrup dinner? he said to break the ice.

I didn’t reply. In my head I was already imagining several different ways this was going to go. Every one of them ended with him on the floor.

So you’re here all by yourself? he continued.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head as if to convey my disbelief at his boldness. I still said nothing.

So why the heck are two handsome guys like us out by ourselves at two o’clock in the morning? Why don’t you and I go have some fun? he finished.

What are you some kind of faggot? If so, I am not interested, I replied.

Hey no need to get all huffy. Why don’t you just go ahead and shoot me then? he asked musingly.

I was a little surprised at that. When I drew my gun I had done it completely under the table, only people to my side could have possibly seen me. Maybe he had some kind of intuition?

I’ll shoot you if you pull anything. Look why don’t you do us both a really big favor and just leave me alone? I brusquely whispered.

At that point he put both his hands under the table as if he were taunting me. I tensed up knowing full well that by drawing my smoke wagon I had escalated this to a potentially lethal level. If I didn’t shoot him now, he would think I wasn’t going to do it at all. So I decided to put my gun away, grab my bill, and leave. My eyes never left him.

Night, freak, I said spitefully as I passed him heading for the register.

I paid my bill and left. As I moved out of the all-night diner, I watched the area he was seated in. He had left. I thought maybe he got up and went to the bathroom or maybe he moved to the register. At my angle I couldn’t see the till.

When I got to my car I unleashed the smoke wagon again. For a moment I thought that this guy could be one of those people that taunt gun owners like me. Only to call the police and then

I’m the one sitting in jail for intimidation. Why anyone would risk being shot for that is beyond my comprehension.

No one was in or near my car so I relaxed a bit, although I kept my gun out. I knew carrying a gun didn’t make me a cop. It only made me, and those around me, safer. After all, police rarely prevent the messes; they are there to clean them up. I got in my car, while watching the restaurant doors in my rear view mirror.

As my keys hit the ignition my front passenger door swung open. That eerie little man plopped down in the seat. At that point there was no hesitation. My Glock was in my left hand and I let three rounds fly. It was so loud that I could barely hear it. At first nothing but pain in my ears, followed by three booms, but not nearly as loud as I would have expected. The flashes were almost like camera bulbs going off. I have spent countless hours at the range, but I had always worn my eye and ear protection. The car filled with bluish gun smoke as he went limp against the passenger door.

I nearly freaked out. My heart was pounding, a sharp pain settled in my lower back from the adrenaline rush. I jumped out of the car looking back only long enough to see him look me dead in the eyes.

Come on, get back in and let’s talk. Hot damn. You are the man I am looking for, he said plain as day.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. There he is, three forty-caliber rounds in his body and he began chatting away as if nothing happened. I became hyper-focused. I didn’t think about anything other than right here, right now. At that moment I didn’t care who saw or heard what just occurred. I didn’t care whether the police were on the way or not.

He raised his shirt to show me he had no wounds, no holes. All I could think was How? I know I did not miss.

Look cowboy, you just went John Wayne on me. Now you’re still pointing that gun at me, right out in the open. I strongly suggest you get back in and we drive somewhere less obvious. Besides, I’m not holding anything against you. In fact, that little triple-tap was the best damn résumé I’ve seen in a long time, he said.

I didn’t know what to do, I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. I’d heard of guys taking twenty rounds and still fighting back, but this guy didn’t have a scratch on him. I thought about unloading the rest of my clip in him, but I didn’t. I found myself getting back into the car.

I sat there staring at him. I put my smoke wagon away as it wouldn’t do me any good anyways. He didn’t say anything for a long time. He let me chill out a bit.

Why are you messing with me? I asked

I’m here to help you, he replied.

Help me what? I continued to inquire in disbelief.

You haven’t seen me until tonight, but I have been watching you for some time now. I’ve seen you all alone in the night. I know you’re different. You’re exactly who I’m looking for, he said.

Looking for? What do you want me to do? Are you an angel? I asked he was smiling now after my last question.

No, I’m no angel, he ponders for a brief moment.

Well you might call me an avenging angel. Look, I know you see things in people. I know you feel things. You can look at some guy and see the depth of his filth, he trailed off.

I started my little four-cylinder beater and drove out of the parking lot. I wasn’t driving anywhere in particular.

Yeah, but doesn’t everyone think things like that? I continued the twenty questions.

Sure they do, but they aren’t right, like you are. They are looking through rose-colored glasses. They may think one thing or another about someone, but it isn’t reality. It is their experiences and beliefs that judge others, he said.

But isn’t that exactly what I do? I asked him.

"No, the difference between you and most everyone else is