The Woman Who Needed to be Queen

By Winster Bogun

Within these pages lie tales in the tradition of the classic parable. These fables are brushed by diverse colours of style and setting; each contains respective characters of distinction and definition, each pulses simultaneously with humor and suspense, each brims with hope and despair, but each preaches the same Universal Moral: ‘Beware the Wolf in Sheep’s clothing’ - or in this particular case, ‘The Narcissist in Heels.’ Ever hopeful, the author underpins and overlays this perennial lesson of warning with a Divine hope that Faith, Family, and Love between Father and Child will forever conquer Evil in all its self obsessed and heavily mascaraed forms.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winster Bogun
• Release date: Apr 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310587863

Winster Bogun

Author Winster Bogun regrettably can not and will not provide details about his exhilarating past, exacting education, epic global travels nor the particulars of his own considerable entanglements with the courts at the instigation of his own sociopathic ex-wife, not for fear of, but in anticipation of more unmerited, needlessly bellicose and most poignantly expensive legal action should he do so. He hopes that in the future such anonymity may be unnecessary. He also reminds the reader that the purchase of this and future books help to put food in the mouths of his young children - and for a while longer yet, the mouths of his lawyer’s children.

Book preview

THE WOMAN WHO NEEDED

TO BE QUEEN

A collection of Short Stories

From the Fields of Narcissus

By

Winster Bogun

Copyright 2014 Winster Bogun

Smashwords Edition

*****

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. He and his children appreciate it.

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Table of Contents

Dedication and Notes

Introduction

Disclaimer

That Kind of Girl

Justice

Silversteen the Shit Queen

Her Soul Black as Ebony Wood

Saint Hubert’s Displeasure

How Can I Possibly Thank You?

Ooo Eee Five!!!

The Woman Who Needed to be Queen

Out of the Frying Pan…

A Daughter’s Love

About the Author

*****

Dedication

This book is lovingly dedicated to

Aline, Thibaut, Nantes and Daniel.

May God protect us and speed us to safety, children.

Your gardener loves you.

Special Note of Thanks

to Sara Mintz Rabe

for all her assistance in the preparation of this work.

*****

Introduction

Dear Reader,

It is the prayer of the author that you read these stories and see in them fantastic, near impossible scenarios, light years from reality, no more real than the possibility of interstellar travel. It is hoped they will amuse you and that they might serve as cautionary tales.

To those of you who have strolled upon the Fields of Narcissus, who have lived on them, made love on them, done battle on them, strewn appendages on them, for those of you who recognize yourself in these struggles, on these misty and ever shifting fields, know that you are not alone.

The author apologizes for some of the language in this collection. The sad truth is, evil frequently has a potty mouth.

In some perverse way, the author owes a small modicum of thanks to the narcissist who sucked him into her own whirlwind and fed off his soul (and income, and family and friends, etc.) for nearly a decade, for she was the impetus and inspiration for this volume. And in some even more perverse way the author thanks her for pushing him further into the arms of the Savior. Her behavior made it abundantly clear that the choices before him were patience or prison. The author has chosen Love, and hopes you make the same choice.

For those who can, run. Run fast and far from the fields. Run now.

For those who cant, be still, be resolute, dispel the perverse vapors with love and devotion, fight when you must, protect yourself and your children, and when you can, run like hell.

It is good to find others who have been there before you and to find your comrades who are there by force, like you. Help and protect one another, never cease praying, and when you can, run like the wind.

Never forget to shine a bright light on those who prowl the fields looking for fresh victims. It may not kill them, but it might keep them at bay long enough to effect your escape.

W. Bogun

*****

Disclaimer

The characters and events depicted in these pages are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The deaths represented herein are allegorical of spiritual death.

No threat or implication of threat is made to anyone nor should one be construed under any circumstances, ever.

*****

there is no justice

there is no mercy

there is no sense of humour save a sick one

there is only twisted animal instinct masked under a shroud of 'relationship'

and quivers upon quivers of sharpened barbs around every corner of one's house

In the end there is only one thing and one thing only -

Capitulation.

W. Bogun

*****

THAT KIND OF GIRL

She was the kind of girl who wouldn't have noticed her bike seat had fallen off until climactic waves engulfed her and threatened to compromise her balance. She was the kind of girl who twisted emotion like a black hole devours light. She was the kind of girl who made bongs out of men’s skulls. She was the kind of girl who was always popular at parties. She was the kind of girl who a man of any sense knew he had to avoid, but couldn't. She was the kind of girl who presents herself as easy prey, but is really predator. She was the kind of girl who had a monopoly on pheromones on her block. She was the kind of girl who, clad only in promise, invaded one’s dreams to build carnal empires just so she could take pleasure in destroying them in the waking hours. She was the kind of girl who lobotomized civilized men and left them kneeling in their own drool, because it amused her. She was the kind of girl who dreamed about Harleys with fair frequency. She was the kind of girl whose fierce loneliness was an insatiable ravenousness she fed ceaselessly at the silken jaws that were her thighs. She was the kind of girl who understood her power, and understood patience. She was the kind of girl who projected such unbridled possibility that men found it easy to cast themselves into her furnace ignoring the compulsory consumptive power of flame. She was the kind of girl most good men wanted to help, but ended up sating instead. She was the kind of girl most bad men wanted to consume, but were themselves eaten to the bone. She was the kind of girl who, if one were able to by Herculean effort free oneself from her orbit, provoked the deepest sympathy and sorrow. She was the kind of girl that lingered in the memory, but longer in the conscience.

She was in fact the girl sitting across from me at my breakfast table in boxer shorts, my boxer shorts and my tee shirt, which clung to her gravity defiant body, causing me no little amount of discomfort. I could smell the warmth of her freshly showered body, could hear the downy silk on the back of her neck, and could taste her generosity, which I had so valiantly denied myself not 8 hours ago.

I had been in the desert well more than 40 days and was prideful of resisting the worldly dominion that was her most glorious flesh. By most men's standards I was a fool, a turgid fool, but I strove to be a conscienced fool. This was truly a much-needed star in my heavenly crown; an eternal pity that pride goeth before a fall.

So, have you decided what you're going to do? I asked over the breakfast table. I had a right to know, they were my boxers after all, boxers that might never see a washing machine again.

Um, do you have any marmalade?

Yes, here. So, what are you going to do?

Yea, I know. Would you think I'm a pig if I had some more grits? They're really good, you're a great cook...

I do dearly love buttered grits, but never before has that word been spoken so that it caused a stir of desire in anything other than my appetite. She was good. And persistent. I also knew that I could be anyone. I wasn't flattered, inflamed yes, but not vain enough to think that I couldn’t have been any other guy from whom she wanted something.

So, I asked again, what are you going to do?. Watching her squirm underneath the weight of a question she didn't want to hear was not without its own reward, but I was getting a little impatient and she couldn’t stay with me much longer regardless of her personal problems. I'm trying to help you here. I thought I meant it.

I know, and I really appreciate it. You've been just terrific... She smiled and peered out from beneath her lashes as her chin dropped to her collarbone. Even one's favorite flavor of ice cream becomes tedious after too many bowls. Perhaps not.

I'm off to work. Now look, you've got till tonight to come up with a plan. I knew she wouldn't, but I spooned out the parental mush anyway, o-K?

O-k. She winked.

I removed myself to my room and in front of the mirror attempted to finish my tie when her head appeared on my shoulder. I didn't notice her contrived grin as I was lost in the smell of her hair and the feel of her femininity mashed against my back.

Eat what you will, read what you will, watch what you will. I'll be back after 5:00. Then, and I was forceful, you have to go. I’m serious.

Ok. She deliberately brushed her fingernails against my chest, stomach, belt, then turned me by the shoulders to make me face her.

Let me help you with your tie. Her breath was lilac scented, her hair was spun of gold, her body a lush field in which I might lie and spend some hours exploring.

She leaned her head forward and I fell into her. I fell headlong into paradise knowing full well that expulsion and death were already chasing me down.

I leapt into her warmth, danced amidst her ringlets, swam in every dewy pool, my mind and body aflame. Somewhere in the foggy ecstasy my conscience screamed out, God! Forgive me! You know I only wanted to help her! I didn’t seek this out!

But God knew differently. He knew that I had hidden a grain of seeking, wrapped in oiled paper, knotted in a bag, locked in a trunk, sealed in a room in a bolted castle in a forgotten land hoping I would forget it, hoping He would never know. But He did know and I knew it too, despite my protestations of innocence, and now I had effected my own destruction. Even as the seeds from the forbidden fruit of Eden fell to the ground to sprout for man’s further demise, my own fruit was rent, my own seed was spilling, and would soon germinate in her initiating an unavoidable transformation from ineluctable goddess to inescapable harpy. It was just a matter of time, days or weeks I did not know, before a monster emerged from her shapely silken chrysalis, before I would be caged, chained, and tortured no end.

I had known, oh, I had known and had sold my freedom for sugary sweat and sticky concupiscence! Where are you now, righteous vanity? Where are you now, conviction of Faith? She had chosen me, she had bound me and she had conquered me all while I vainly affected superiority and an unvanquishable bearing. Basely I sealed my own doom with spasming and illusion.

From my own door she gave me a bouncy, youthful wave that might have come from a new bride ablush, but was actually the wave of a girl who was so familiar with sleeping anywhere but her own bed that had she been at her own door she might have been disoriented.

I waved as well, but it was not at her, it was a goodbye to my life. I could muster no smile but left without a word. I left my home and there I left my pride and security, I left my soul and any hope of heaven. I left them inside her. I deserved nothing for I had willfully thrown it all away. The only certainty to which I could cling now was the vengeance and wrath that would surely erupt from her the moment I held my own opinion.

Proverbs 5: 1-8

ToC

*****

JUSTICE

I trust you shant keep me waiting again. I am not a woman accustomed to waiting. Her voice was regulated, but contained an undeniable threat. The man sitting across the desk from her smiled weakly, then let his eyes drift to the brute of a man standing over her right shoulder in a white dinner jacket, a man who looked familiar with and ready for all manner of violence. The man returned his eyes to the woman, wrung his hands and said rather rapidly, There were unavoidable delays, then sighed, Please forgive me.

She did not look at him but spat in his direction, Please forgive me - Countess. She further corrected him, You must not assume to be so familiar, even if our dealings may be of a very personal nature.

He breathed deeply and begrudgingly corrected himself, Please forgive me - Countess, and received a glare of incredulity from the man in the white dinner jacket. He continued, Would you like to remove your jacket, Countess? It is rather warm, dont you agree? Her man made ready to assist her in the removal.

No, she said curtly as her palms caressed their opposite biceps. This is a very rare jacket, made of only the highest quality mink skins from the Siberian plain, there is not its equal in the world. I do not wish to remove it. Her avowal had the weight of generations of nobility behind it, and so she sat, embracing herself in the stuffiness of the library, embracing herself in the hot, sticky silence that hung between them. One did not keep a Countess waiting; one was kept waiting by a Countess. He must learn this.

The countess leisurely took in the appointments of her magnificent library, charcoal granite floors imported from Austria, shimmering gray drapes made from costly Himalayan alpaca wool, rows of mahogany filing cabinets containing her inventoried collections of rare artifacts, and volume after volume of hand selected first editions that she had painstakingly acquired on her travels traversing the globe. True, it was more of a manly palette than one might have expected from a woman of such nobility she allowed with great condescendence, but her life had been coloured to some extent by her masculine avocation. Being a European Countess by blood had meant less to some in America than it ought to have, but she had served her new country well by acquiring covert intelligence internationally for the American state department. As a woman of such refinement and renown, was she not invited to events and functions where other of lesser stock could not gain admittance? She delighted herself that she had been more effective than most men and settled herself comfortably into the rich leather wingback that matched her antique Roman desk, once said to have belonged to Pope Benedict VI. She kept him waiting.

I was told you wanted to see me, he said finally, and as her eyes darted to him expectantly he finished his sentence, Countess. She warmed to him slightly.

I was told you might be of some assistance to me… she left her intonation unresolved.

Yes, Countess?

Ah, but where are my manners, she referenced over her shoulder to the brute standing there, I’ll have my valet bring you refreshments. Victor-

No, thank you, please, no, Countess the seated man raised a hand of protest to her servant, I have many things to attend to, merely tell me how I may serve you, Countess?

She smiled at his deference and awkwardly stood, recovering her composure quickly and began to perambulate.

First of all, you must resign yourself to the condition that I can not tell you everything. My past has been, well, she tightened her grip on her arms, stormy, dangerous. My health doesn’t permit me to travel much now, nor to tie up the loose ends of my life, she turned and faced the seated man, taunting him with her vagueness, but it has been a life that has left loose ends that do require, she weighted her words, knotting. She glared at him with such urgency that by sheer insistence of her will her thoughts might burst from her pupils to be implanted in his consciousness. Then just as quickly her eyes left him and she resumed her peregrinations.

Are you discrete, sir?

Ma’am?

Are you capable of great discretion, sir? The continuation of our conversation hinges on this one answer...

Countess, you may say that I am bound by discretion.

Very good! she ejaculated, And is your resolve steely, sir? Can you see a task through to its conclusion?

I have always endeavored to do so, Madam.

Even if the task be damp?

Damp, Madam? he was confused. She whirled on him and whispered violently in his face,

Bloody, sir, if the task be bloody, will you wince from it!? The man was pushed back in his seat at the intensity of her question. He instinctively looked over her shoulder to her valet who still loomed by her side. The beast of a man registered no emotion and spoke not a word, but looked ready to pounce at any second.

The man recomposed himself and asked her, Countess, are you asking me to-

Quiet! she hissed, Even the walls in my mansion have ears! She leaned even closer to him and through spit flecked lips said, I wish you to execute a contract for me. There was a chill in her declaration that stole his breath.

The man rose, Countess, wont you please be seated. I am happy to discuss this contract with you, and I want you to be confident in the trust you have wisely placed in me; I believe I can be of benefit to you. He and the burly man helped her to her seat.

I have a sense about men, you see, she leaned into him, her smile seductive, and I knew we could come to some agreement, she whispered.

Yes, Countess, whom is it you would like, knotted?

Their noses almost touching she mouthed the words silently, My husband.

You wish me to kill your husband for you. Is that correct?

SHHHHH! she shouted, Please! Remember your discretion!

Of course, Madam! But in these matters, clarity is of the upmost importance! We can't have innocents harmed, can we?

There is nothing innocent about him! He is a monster! A beast! And as a beast he must be destroyed. She was icy, It is only justice.

Yes, a monster, certainly. The man removed a pen from his pocket and slid to himself a tablet of writing paper lying on the desk.

What are you doing?! the woman demanded, You must leave no trace! No evidence!

Do not fear, Contessa. I write in a hand known only to myself, but I must make notes to best execute this justice, surely you understand and will permit me…

On your solemn vow that once your deed is done, you will bury what you have written.

You have my word.

Then you have my permission.

I thank you, he said dramatically giving her a slight bow of his head. Now, please tell me about your husband. His habits, his condition, and what he has done to you that merits, well, death?

He is the vilest of all creatures, a bastard of a bastard. He crawls through the world on his belly, he lies, he cheats, he steals; if one believed in religion, one might even pronounce him possessed!

I understand, truly I do, but do give me an example of his egregiousness, please.

It is unimportant! You have my word, and that is all you’ll ever need. If I say it, it is Gospel, do not doubt it ever!

Yes, Countess, of course, I do not doubt it! Obviously, the stink of this man pollutes even the mention if his name in polite company, we will drop him for the time. Please, tell me about your children, perhaps.

I have no children, she said abruptly. Her would be assassin was momentarily confused,

You have no children, Countess? he inquired again.

No.

Have you ever had children, Countess? he probed her.

No. I have no children. Do not pursue this line any further if you please. The man found himself looking at the man in the white dinner jacket who returned a stony glare.

I see. What other family do you have?

Pathetic, penniless parents, not worth the breath to mention or the ink to notate them.

Brothers? Sisters?

None.

None?

None whom I care to discuss.

The man made more notes then continued, Well, this vile husband of yours, is he your only husband? This question seemed to rouse the Countess to vigor.

Good heavens, no! At the mention of men her spirits instantly became buoyant, effervescent. I’ve had several husbands, and have gone through men as I have tissues! Oh, my good man, does that scandalize you? she said tantalizingly. What I know could be put to good use, after you have completed your task.

Yes, how inviting. Then this would be which husband you seek to eliminate?

Hmmm, well, I guess he was the first one… she mumbled as her eyes shut and she became lost to interior visions of men courting her, praising her, touching her. Her body swayed in the chair as she danced to music that accompanied her vision.

It took the man a few attempts to get her attention, Countess?

At length she opened her eyes, still grinning like the Cheshire cat, and answered him, Yes?

When ruthlessness is called for, I am equal to the task, but I am not a man without a conscience, and so before I remove a person’s freedom, or life, he was very grave, I must have good reason. Please provide me that reason.

Fine then. She clearly wanted to hold on to her visions of adulation, but focused her mind desiring the death of her husband more. What do you wish to know?

I wish you to tell me about your husband, but first, about yourself. Tell me about your childhood, perhaps.

My childhood? I can not see how this is pertinent to our agreement.

Please indulge me, your grace, and let a poor man live vicariously a few moments of your splendid life, hmm?

She smiled at him condescendingly,

I was a child of privilege. It could have not been otherwise. I excelled at all I did from my academic studies to my personal interests. I was a competitive horse rider from a tender age. I was flying planes solo as soon as my feet were able to reach the pedals. I was a published author before my twelfth birthday. I was fluent in Egyptian Hieroglyphics before puberty. But these things were normal for me. My siblings did not have similar gifts, so naturally funds and attentions were directed toward me and away from them, but it couldn’t have been otherwise, could it?

And your adolescence? Was it remarkable in any way?

Well, there was great interest in me for the stage, my singing and dancing were well known, but I never felt truly called to such a life. Theater people are rather low born, dont you agree?

And your admitted promiscuity, when did this begin?

She raised her eyebrows to him flirtatiously, Ah, it comes back to this topic does it? she smirked. Even in my youth I was regarded as a beauty, but truly, what good is beauty if it can't be made to serve an end? Hmm? Beauty and love and sex are wasted unless they are sharpened as tools to use to one’s advantage.

Countess, doesn’t that strike you as somewhat cynical?

Not at all! We live in a real world! My father introduced me to such things in my youth. Ah, I can see the shock in your eyes! She took delight in his discomfort as he understood her meaning. Do not think harshly of him. Admittedly he is a shallow and hateful man, but he did awaken me to my feminine, she paused, prowess, which has helped me obtain my many successes, my many triumphs… She began drifting back to her dream world but was interrupted.

Countess, where was your mother while your father was, instructing you?

Oh, lost in a cloud of opium, on her back I imagine, pursuing her own dreams.

So, she was absent a good deal of your youth? the man prodded.

She spent some time in sanitariums I seem to remember. I was never much concerned with her, the poor woman was jealous of her husband’s attentions resting on me, but that was her concern, not mine. Her smirk sent a shiver down the man’s spine, which resulted in more note taking.

So, would you say your siblings were of the same mind about your parents?

The Countess snapped and her nostrils flared, she did not like being distracted from her memories.

Parents? Siblings? You speak about them as if they were human! What are they to you?! What are they to me?! It is my Husband! It is that monster you must kill!

But why, Countess?

He needs to die! Her nerves were coming undone.

But Countess, why?

He defied me! He stole from me! He lied to me, to ME! She was shivering and moisture had gathered in the corners of her eyes.

But Countess, does it merit death? What exactly did he-

YES! she spat uncontrollably, I want justice! Is justice too much to ask? I have suffered on this earth long enough knowing that he walked free, that he had my- she stopped herself.

Your what, Countess? She grasped herself even tighter slowly doubling over in her seat as if forcing her soul to remain in her body.

He killed them… she finally let escape, her eyes focused on some place or some time very distant from the one they occupied.

He killed whom, Countess? the man leaned toward her.

He killed them…

Whom did he kill, Countess? The man was calm but insistent, Countess, whom did he kill?

She slowly lifted her head and her eyes came into frightening proximity with his. Her labored inhalation seemed to remove every centimeter of oxygen from the room,

He killed my children! she erupted with a horrific violence, The fucking bastard killed my children! HE KILLED MY CHILDREN! That’s why he has to die! Her shrieking was primal, blood curdling; snot flowed from her nose and sprayed off her upper lip as she wailed, He Killed My Children! Now you must kill him! Kill Him! Please kill him! She collapsed on the floor, hopelessly lost to spasms and sobbing, her arms rigidly locked in place around her body protecting what was left of her, ...kill him… she whimpered, ...kill him, kill him...

Both men, the man from whom she sought to purchase death and her manservant, stood staring at her collapsed form. They stood, motionless, till she had spent herself utterly, and then after her breathing had slowed, both moved in unison to put her back in her chair. Her servant resumed his position at her side; the other man straightened his coat and regained his seat. No words were spoken. Minutes went by before the countess returned to some lucidity and raised her head.

She addressed the man seated across the desk from her, You should not have made me divulge my secrets, her tone was not scolding, but seductive, and with a wet face and disheveled hair she continued, No, you should not have pushed me like that, but surely now you see the justice of my cause? Can you, a man, not help me in my hour of need? She licked her lips and cocked her head at him.

Countess, I thank you for your time. I believe I have a clearer perspective now.

So you will help me? she cooed.

Rest assured, Countess, it will all be over soon.

And then unbelievably, she winked at him. Come, Victor, she spoke nonchalantly over her shoulder, help me back to my rooms. I am tired but will take some refreshment before a nap. There was no indication in her tone that betrayed any recollection of the scene she had just presented. Victor helped her to her feet and walked her to the door.

In the door jamb she paused and turned her face back to the man who still sat at the desk,

Thank you, she was docility itself. Thank you, she said again, the door making little noise as it closed behind her.

The man at the desk pulled over to him the pad on which he had made notes and began transferring them to his computer. A full ten minutes elapsed before there was a knock on the office door.

Come in, the man said, still typing his notes. The door opened to reveal a man in a white, sweat stained, institutional smock.

Yes, Victor?

Doctor? asked the orderly, Can I talk to you a second?

Sure, sit down. What’s on your mind? The hospital attendant walked to the desk but didn’t sit.

That lady, Doc. I’ve worked at this facility for nearly twenty years, I’ve seen a lot of fruit-loops, a lot of crazy stuff, but this woman scared me shitless. I outweigh her by a hundred pounds, but I was worried I wouldn’t be able to control her if she got violent.

Vic, she had a straight jacket on the whole time! the Doctor teased him.

I know, I’m just sayin’…

I know, I’m just messing with you. She’s a scary one, no doubts there.

Doc, why did you talk funny like that with her, all old fashioned, and call her those weird names?

Well, Vic, sometimes you have play into a patient’s fantasies to get them to talk. She thought she was a Countess, or she wanted me to believe she thought she was a Countess, so I talked to her like she was a Countess. I’ve done this a long time, Vic, it’s just what one does sometimes.

Does she believe it? Does she actually believe she that crap about being a Countess, or was she just puttin’ on?

The doctor shrugged his shoulders at him. Victor stayed where he was.

Is there something else, Victor?

Sorry, Doctor, but did her husband really kill her kids? Victor seemed genuinely concerned.

The doctor pushed himself away from his painted metal desk, lifted himself from the old metal tube chair, and walked to the window of his office. The psychiatrist’s office was a dingy grey, from its cracked linoleum tiles to its faded and frayed cotton curtains, to the doctor’s frequently frayed and worn disposition. The majority of the psych books on the shelves were outdated twenty years ago and the computer that sat on his desk was only slightly more modern. State funds did not come readily to the institutional lockup. Soon, the Doctor would make a decision, and the horror that was this woman would be distilled to ink, consigned to paper and buried in one of the many dented and chipped filing cabinets that resided in the corners of his office, eventually to be forgotten.

Vic, the doctor turned to him, she killed her own children. Victor’s jaw dropped. Then she tried to kill her ex, the father of those kids.

Good God! Were they young?

No, they were almost in their thirties.

But, why?! And, sorry to be gruesome, how?

She hadn’t seen them in a long time, any of them. They had been estranged for years, I mean, crap, if that woman were my mother, I’d have kept clear of her, too. Anyway, she invited them over for dinner to talk about reconciliation, about starting over with them - and she poisoned them.

Victor unconsciously wrung the bottom of his white smock, The father, too?

No, he refused to come. But later in the evening, that bitch took her dead daughter’s mobile phone from her purse, and standing right next to her corpse, sent him a text asking him to come pick her up. He came to get his daughter and when she opened the door, she shot him. Point blank. Hadn’t seen him or them in over a decade, no words, just, boom. He’s in a coma at Mercy, but he’s expected to survive. She’s here for me to determine if she’s fit to stand trial for murder, or if she should be committed to a facility for the criminally insane.

Victor processed that and then asked, If she got convicted, d’ya’think they’d inject her?

The doctor looked at him solemnly.

Wow. So you kinda gotta to decide if she lives or dies? It was as much statement as question.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and turned his face to the window again. There, hanging in the stillness, lingered the heavy chill that follows in evil’s passing; both men felt it.

Doc, Victor interrupted the silence, what are you going to do?

The doctor contemplated the specks of dust floating lazily in the sunlight by his window, unaffected by what had just transpired in their presence. He touched the pane with a single finger and drug it slowly over the glass leaving a faint line, then said with the dispassion of a hired killer,

I think I’ll give her what she wants. Justice.

ToC

*****

SILVERSTEEN THE

SHIT QUEEN

Roger Duggins walked into the cafe with his laptop and set it atop the coffee bar while he perused the menu that was written in chalk on a blackboard hanging above the coffee machines.  He was finalizing his choice when a large man appeared behind the counter and addressed him,

Good morning!  What can I get for ya?

Hey, I'll have a large coffee and one of those danish right there. Yea, the blueberry one, thanks.

You want it heated?

Yea, that'd be great.

That's five forty seven, thank you, said the imposing counter jockey as he took Roger’s money. You sit yourself down and I'll bring it to ya when it's hot.

Real good, thanks.

Roger looked about the room and found himself a worn but comfortable looking stuffed sofa and sat down.  He put his MacBook on the table in front of him and fired it up, waiting for the free Wi-Fi to engage.  He took a moment to peruse the room.  There were two housewives hunched over a clothing catalogue one of them had received recently, and a small nondescript man sitting in the corner.  He would have gone totally unnoticed except for the outrageous boots he had on, teal colored alligator cowboy boots with silver conchos on it that jingled whenever he shifted in his seat. The surroundings were simple and the furniture looked as if it had been taken out of peoples’ homes about a decade ago, as in fact it had.  There were a few mismatched bookcases on a wall that held magazines and the locals’ advertising, as well as more napkins, straws and cutlery.  It was all very homey feeling, which was the desired effect. It wasn't long before the man from behind the counter sidled up to the table and set down the danish in front of Roger and smiled affably,

I dont think I seen you around here before, you visitin'?

Roger stuck his hand out as he stood, Roger Duggins, just moved down from Kennesaw.  My wife and I bought that ol' house on Minor Street, you know the one with the funny white columns?

Oh, yea sure, that place's been on the market for ages.  You like it?  Real pretty from the street least I can tell, but I never'v been inside near as I can recall.

Oh, yea, real nice, the wife took quite a fancy to it right off and we're retired and the price was right, so here we are.  Wife's got kin in Hammonton nearby, so it all made sense.  We got heat and water at the house but the Internet'n'cable people cant fit us in till Tuesday, so here I am, he said referencing his laptop.

Well, welcome to the neighborhood!  You need anything, you let me know, I'm Billy, Billy Dawkins.  People calls me Big Billy.  Big Billy was a big man.  Big Billy had on clean jeans and a flannel shirt that was beginning to fray at the cuffs.  The apron that covered the front of him looked as if it might have been his grandfathers, as did the clock on the wall and many of the other decorations that adorned the cafe.

Pleased to meet you Big Billy. Roger sat down, but stood right back up again.

Hey, Billy, Roger said and Big Billy retraced the few steps he had taken from the table, this is kind of odd, but there's a real nasty smell sometimes over at my place. Well, much of the time frankly and we cant tell where it's comin' from.  Is there a paper mill or a sewage processing plant or something near here or what?

Big Billy paused and looked him in the eye and swallowed hard, No one told you, huh?

Told me what?

Billy shook a fist in front of him, Damn them real estate agents, they dont tell nobody nothin! Billy looked at Roger real hard for a moment, Naw, you aint been told, he decided. Lemme sit down, you mind if I sit down? Billy looked real serious.

Please, you're killin' me here, Billy, what is it?

Looky here, the house you bought is only a few blocks from 'Poop Palace', least that's what we call it around here.

Poop Palace?! What are you talking about? asked Roger, beginning to guess he was about to become the butt of a locals’ joke.

It's been a while now, and people try to block it from memory, pretend like it never happened, but there was a woman, Ms. Silversteen, who lived in a house over yonder, 'Poop Palace', just a few blocks from your house. People called the woman who lived there, 'Silversteen the Shit Queen' - if you'll pardon my French.

Silversteen the - Oh, come on man!  You're pullin' my leg! Roger laughed.

No, sir, I'm not.  Big Billy wasn't smiling.  Some powerfully bad things happened in that house, and until someone takes it seriously, that house is gonna stink this town up.  People gotten sick from it.  Some died.  Some never been seen again.  But no one wants to deal with it.  Everybody thinks that if they ignore it long enough it'll just go away, quit stinking; the locals have just gotten so's they dont notice the smell anymore, but I dont need to tell you, it's still there.

Billy, you're a riot, Roger took a sip of his coffee.

You stay away from that house if you know what's good for ya, ya hear?

Roger took a moment and sized the man up, You're serious, aren't you?

Serious as a heart attack, Big Billy stared back at him.

Well then, go on, tell me the whole story.  My wife's goin' to love this.  Roger, still not convinced it wasn't a joke, closed his laptop and settled himself in the couch with his coffee in his lap.

You wanna refill before I start? asked Big Billy.

Naw, I'm good.

Well, I'm'onna get me a cup. Before Big Billy could get up a large woman in a stained white apron put one down before him on the table.

Billy looked up at her and smiled, You a good woman! 

She smiled back, Dont give yerself angina, Sweetie, she said and walked off.

That's my woman, Billy laughed and looked at Roger.

You're not married? asked Roger.

Oh, yea, thirty four years soon, but we pretend like we're just living together, on the run from the law, just to keep things interesting.  That gets hard when the kids come to visit, but we pick it back up when they leave. 

Roger laughed not knowing what to believe from Big Billy, but Roger took the bait anyway, All right Billy, your wife looks lovely, but the house, this 'Poop Palace', let's hear about it!

Ok, Big Billy leaned in over the table and got real sober again, It's like this, see… and Big Billy began his story.

Wasn't too many years ago that this woman and her husband moved into that house not too far from your home.  They were young and everybody liked them at first.  Shoot, they was real easy to like.  He was just a normal lookin' guy, real friendly, but she was a looker, ya know what'a'mean; curves where a lady should have curves and big ol' hayer, always down and bouncing in ringlets, real nice. Well, then they started havin' them some youngins and then she starts acting all wonky like.

Wonky like? asked Roger for clarification.

Yea, ya know, nice one second, then just as likely to snap at ya the next. She'd just about bite your head off if you didn't keep some distance.  It got to a point when even the blacks around here wouldn't work fo'er no more she was that mean to'em.  The whites, and everybody needs a job these days, am'a wrong? Well, they gave up on her much earlier.  Jes too mean. Anyway, everybody in town started to feel sorry for the man, ya know?  So he'd get asked places without her and he'd bring the kids, beautiful kids them kids!  Real well behaved, an'sweet - least when they was with him.  If she had them out, and that didn't happen too much, there was more'n likely some fussin' going on and them some yellin' and hittin' on her part.  She made folks uncomfortable.  People were fed up with her crap, but nobody knew what was down the road a piece.

She didn't do so well with the kids?

Well sometimes, but more often not; but them kids loved their daddy, damn shore!  ‘Bout that time, people would start to get an occasional whiff of stench by their house.  So I done what any normal person would'a done, I asked the man, You got a backed up sewage line or something I might could help you with? You know what he told me?  He told me,  No, Big Billy, that wife of mine craps all over the house!  She dont use no toilet, she just picks a corner and starts to crap in it, and when the pile gets so high she cant get her ass over it,