Judas Moon

By Les Mason

A film directed in Hell

Leon Loeb is now bored, living the soft life in California. By his own volition he allows himself to be  drawn into a tangle of murder and intrigue surrounding a dangerously unstable film negative sent to a local news cameraman. The sender, Judith, a renegade Mossad agent acting outside her sanction, maintains the old film is of immense value to a powerful political figure in the U.S. government. The motive, blackmail, backfires when the target retaliates, unleashing an army of enforcers, bent on destroying the film and eliminating all those that have seen it. What ensues is a violent storm with Loeb at the centre. Involvement he lives to regret. Using whatever influence remains at CIA, Loeb tries to prevail against impossible odds. Judgment impaired by personal feelings, Loeb makes mistakes and faces the most gut-wrenching challenge of his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Les Mason
• Release date: Aug 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9780994847225

Book preview

PROLOGUE

LA VIOLENCIA

Bogotá, Colombia, 1947.

The streets outside the Ministerio in the Hacienda de Publico were quieter than usual tonight. Dejas would finally find some time to return to Lutz’ Spanish text manuscript.

Lutz had already gone, taking with him the two guards from the courtyard and leaving behind his latest chapter for Dejas to peruse. Only the patrol along the Avenue Factataivá remained. For the moment at least, Bogotá had been secured from the marauding Liberals of Gaitán and Chulio. The roads to the north and the plantations of Boyacá were pacified once more. An unusual calm had settled on the area. For now, it seemed as though the endless cult of La Violencia had been put on hold.

Dejas poured his favorite cognac into a snifter and swirled the contents, coating the glass in a veil of umber liquid, then crossed the marble flagged floor from the oak cabinet to the open window. The palms below him rustled lightly in the mountain wind that blew down from the sultry Caribbean coastline.

His mind wandered to the darkened holding cells at the Fonfibon Detention Center. Tomorrow would be an important day—a day to impress the military elite. As always he wondered how fast the interrogation might proceed and conclude. The two priests who would come under Dieter Lutz scrutiny on this occasion were neither ignorant peasants nor the simple, inbred indian stock that Lutz found so predictable. Both were highly educated and intellectual. Members of the southern Narino religious order known as Miraflores. In the past, priests had presented the greatest challenge to Lutz. Some possessed the ability to endure the cruelest procedures with barely a whimper, chanting their prayers in trancelike serenity. But priests were human and their intellect and imagination would betray them. The pain in their torn bodies would be insignificant compared to the pain in their minds when they finally betrayed their "companera" and themselves.

Many times Dieter Lutz had demonstrated how to harness pain as if it were a natural resource, and use it to drive the machinery of greater power and influence. His credentials were impeccable, but he needed somewhere to hide, whereas Dejas needed better information results, rather than a fresh stack of corpses to show for his clumsy interrogation work.

The partnership and timing proved magical.

Not long after his alliance with Lutz, Dejas rose meteorically through the ranks of the Pjaros to become the main security enforcer for the Partido Conservador, thereby proving there could be no greater influence than Gestapo-style interrogation in this obscene society called post-war Colombia.

Forced extraction had always been a craft to Dieter Lutz. A deep study into the finer points of fear. His fascination never lay in their submission, but in the all-important avenue of resistance. Dejas took and used what he extracted, but the end results never interested Lutz, only the path with its twists and turns—its valleys and peaks. Reading the timbre of the screams, the writhing contortions, he always knew exactly how and when they would finally submit.

The brandy, true to its aroma, tasted smooth and satisfying. The wind had dispelled the humidity and bore a welcome coolness into the night, making the Napoleon all the more delectable. It stoked a fire in the center of Dejas’ belly that spread slowly; the way the pools of blood and urine would seep across the floor of the interrogation room a few hours hence.

Dejas returned to the cabinet, replenished his glass and moved to the side of his desk looking down on the neat stack of typed pages Lutz had left behind. He’d been surprised by the German’s excellent command of written Spanish.

Until this moment Dejas had not been aware of a silent figure standing in the darkened vestibule. His ears picked up a slight sound: the dry rustle of a lightweight linen suit over a shirt.

The American. Not unexpected given the circumstances.

The darkened figure moved partly into range of the green light that pooled from a desk lamp. He stopped at the office threshold, a good thirty feet from Dejas.

Dejas moved only his eyes. His head remained bowed as his fingers continued to sift through the sheets of typewritten paper. He recognized the runt intruder more by his stature than by his shadowy face.

Buenas tardes, señor, Dejas welcomed. You will join me, yes? This brandy is excellent vintage and perfect for the night. He held up the glass giving the contents another languid swirl.

The American remained silent and still.

Dejas shrugged. Then if you do not want to drink with me...

Don’t pretend, Dejas. You know why I’m here. I want the movie film. I want the negative and all the prints—everything. I want them now! No one could mistake the American’s tone: demanding; trying to hold back a raging fury.

Dejas straightened to his full height, pinning his shoulders. Even with distance separating the two men, the slight American remained at a statuesque disadvantage to the six-foot Colombian. Ah, just so, the film, Dejas parried. Tell me, señor, why are you needing this film?

Dammit, Dejas, I said you know why! the American railed through his clenched teeth. Get it through your peasant brain, I’m not going to leave the country without it.

For the first time Dejas noticed a silenced pistol gripped in the American’s hands. Its elongated barrel pointed at the floor, centered between his short spaced legs, as if it were a phallus.

The Colombian could not have been less impressed.

There had been a time when Dejas regarded the American with a modicum of respect, someone who appreciated the craft and wanted to learn.

But no more.

Over the intervening months his usefulness had waned into liability. A new agency had slipped into place and the runt would return to America, forgetting all he had learned, if indeed he had learned anything.

His fascination centered on the hapless victims, not the subtlety of the methods. The man needed to cosset himself in an orgy of sadistic pleasure and Dejas had come to despise him because of this. Torture became an art form when performed by a great master like Dieter Lutz. The American’s interests were merely self-indulgent.

Slowly Dejas set the brandy glass on the desk, making sure the agitated American could see each deliberate move. In a few days you will return to your homeland and all of this will be only a memory. He folded his arms and hinted at a laugh. But like all such memories, they fade in time. The film perhaps will keep it alive for you? Something to show your grandchildren?

The American took two paces forward and pointed the silenced automatic at Dejas’ face. Shut your filthy mouth—you ignorant fucking Mestizos. Stupid me, to believe I could ever trust a piece of peasant shit like you. He shook and perspired, but not from fear. "Was it blackmail you had in mind—eh? You and that sick Kraut? My people took care of his kind of racist shit in Europe. There are folk who would pay a fortune to hang him from the nearest lamppost… Should I tell them where he’s at? He moved even closer. Get it through your head, I’m the last enemy in the world you need. I’ll say it one more time; I want the film—all of it! Maybe then you and your Gestapo buddy might live to make another one."

Dejas’ eyes had narrowed. His shoulders moved in a slow exaggerated shrug. The film is not here, señor. General DeSantos took the negative to Barranquilla. He has been gone several days.

The American thumbed back the hammer. You may be skilled at extracting the truth, Dejas, but you’re far from an accomplished liar. General DeSantos is flying to Cartagena with Mr. and Mrs. Delgato for a little rest and relaxation. He left the film in your hands. I know this because I just came from Delgato. I also know what is on that final reel. He blinked from the accumulation of sweat on his eyelids and shook his head in a single snap, scattering the droplets. Is it all worth dying for, huh?

Dejas smiled the smile of a jackal. A row of perfect teeth contrasted sharply with the encircling cropped beard. His arms and hands seemed to gesture a signal of defeat. "I see now I am perhaps wrong to try to play such idiota games with someone like you. Please, señor, take the film—take it with my blessing, destroy it if you like. The film is not important. Let me get the keys… "

Dejas started to reach behind the desk but the American cut him off, darting to his right, intercepting the move. He pulled out the shallow center drawer revealing the keys to the basement vault nestled beside a loaded Luger.

Again Dejas smiled as the American lifted the gun from the drawer and tucked it into the waistband of his baggy pants. I should take the film and kill you anyway, you treacherous barbarian, the short man threatened while grabbing a handful of the papers that lay in a neat stack on the desktop. The Kraut still writing his Gestapo memoirs? Really, Dejas, just who the hell would be interested in his sadistic endeavors?

I recall you were, not so long ago.

I made a mistake, okay. Curiosity got the better of me; it will never happen again. He crushed the sheets of Spanish text in his hand and contemptuously scattered them to the floor. I wish I’d never set eyes on you—any of you. You poison everything you touch. I only wanted to see, I didn’t mean to get involved. You tricked me—led me on, knowing I was fascinated... He clenched his fist and pressed it to his forehead while his face contorted. Damn you, I never meant to touch that girl!

Dejas could see the American had begun losing control. He’d never been in danger from this weakling.

How could I—as you say, a simple peasant—trick someone like you, señor? he goaded. You wanted—needed to feel the power. When you slit the girl open from her vagina to her throat it made you feel like a god. He swept wide his arms, like a holy father blessing the congregation, then pointed his right index finger dead center on the American’s face. Only now you are denying this. You haven’t the strength to admit to yourself the truth of what you are—what you always were. You know I’m right.

The American reeled back, his face drenched in sweat, shaking his head uncontrollably. No—no, it wasn’t like that! he yelled. You tricked me, you tricked me!

The moment to end the pointless confrontation had arrived.

Dejas relied on his army training. For such a big man he moved with deceptive speed.

***

The two-man foot patrol on the Avenue Factataivá failed to hear the gunshots, even though the windows of the hacienda were fully open to the night air. They had paused in their slovenly stroll to light their home-made cigarettes in the eerie quiet of a midnight curfew, a mere hundred yards from the corner building. One of the pair unshouldered his carbine and leant against the high stone wall, savoring the cannabis smoke with deep pulls.

An area patrol car rounded the corner, its headlights sweeping across the two policemen as they continued their repose. The car swung north without slowing and the Commandant beside the driver lamented on the discipline problem facing city security forces, dealing with such untrained, unmotivated men.

The warm Caribbean wind continued to blow, raising dust, carrying away the deeds of the night.

1

MOVING IMAGES

Los Angeles, 1970

It wasn’t quite 7:45 A.M. when Timor greeted Frank at the front door to the small industrial plaza; a warrenish place on two levels with a loggia-faced central courtyard. Normal salutations were dispensed with.

It’s in the cutting room. Timor began.

You sounded very mysterious on the phone, I hope this won’t be another of your anticlimactic letdowns.

Left at the end of the corridor.

I know the way. You look like you could use a drink.

Yeah, I’d say so. I just had the living Bejesus scared out of me, Frank.

"This I got to see. Didn’t think anything scared a hot-shot like you."

Is that supposed to be funny? Most people wouldn’t know what they had. I’m one of the few shooters around that can still recognize the potential danger of this stuff. Someone needs locking up for this—I swear to God!

The cutting room remained cramped and untidy as usual. Originally it had seemed like a large enough space; but after installing developing tanks, drying racks, a contact printer, numerous spoolers, viewers and both four plate and six plate Steenbeck editors, cat swinging was definitely not on the cards. Timor pointed toward the only concession to a solid working environment, a small table containing a coffee machine and styrofoam cups in a dispenser that no one had yet found time to screw to the wall.

Pizza! Frank exclaimed with a chuckle, you shouldn’t have bothered, it’s a bit too early for lunch.

Right, Frank. Pizza with a kick.

The large-size pizza box sat atop wrinkled brown wrapping paper, its lid partly open. Gondola Pizzeria and takeout. The Culver City address on Sepulveda Blvd. along with the phone number came emblazoned along all sides and surfaces in large red type. Frank smirked again and reached out a hand to flip the lid all the way back. Timor clamped his own freckled hand over his wrist.

"Better let me, Frank. How often do you get a bomb in the mail?"

After a brief hesitation Frank correctly interpreted the expression on Timor’s face. He recoiled like he’d been stung, Jesus H. Christ, you’re serious! he blurted out with the irreverent phrase he used constantly.

Never more so.

Timor opened the box lid with the thumb and index of his left hand. Frank recognized the flat metal canister immediately. Tarnished gray paint, concentric stamped ridges for stiffness and a flat area in the center to accommodate labels. Small traces of a gummed label were still in evidence where a scraping tool had failed to fully remove it.

Film can. Twenty-four-hundred footer. Sixteen mil by the depth, Frank observed while trying to hold his breath. What the hell’s in it?

Film.

Fuck off, Tim. You said it was a bomb!

Might as well be; can’t you smell it?

Smell what, my shorts?

Nitrate gas.

Timor let the lid flop back to its former position, making no attempt to open the film can so Frank could see inside. It’s real old stuff; manufactured in the late thirties by my guess. Like all cellulose-nitrate stock it’s bad news, but this particular type proved so unstable they banned its production. I ran across some of this crap once before in the NBC archives, over on Alameda. The base degasses all the time—can’t stop it—and there’s something in the emulsion that aggravates the situation. NBC had it all transferred then burned the original negative before someone at the archives got incinerated by accident. You only need the slightest spark when it gets unstable like this. The gas has a flashpoint so low, just removing the lid from the can could set it off.

Jesus H. Christ...

You said that before. Some raving lunatic sent it through the mail to my shop, Frank. If I’d been smoking when I popped the lid… well I hate to think. That gas came at me with a rush. Judging by the concentration I don’t think the lid has been off the can for years.

Frank stooped low enough to peer into the partly open box but made no attempt to touch it. Any note or return address on the wrapper?

What do you think? Postmark is local.

Figures. Pissed anybody off lately, Tim?

"Not that badly. Besides, it dumbfounds me that any of this negative is still out there. Only a complete idiot would keep it around knowing what it’s like."

Frank straightened up. But you said it yourself: you’re one of the few shooters in town who can recognize what it is.

And a fat lot of good that would have done me if I’d created a spark when I opened the lid. Even the warning label’s been scraped off. It might as well have been dynamite; all it lacked was a fuse. Okay, I concede that it probably wasn’t deliberate, but it makes me mad as hell all the same.

I take it it’s been developed?

Timor carefully avoided the package while he poured two cups of strong black coffee and handed one to Frank. Oh yeah, it’s an exposed negative all right. A pair of twelve-hundred-foot camera reels spliced together, from what I can tell. That’s why I called you. I don’t have anything here that will run it without tearing up the sprocket holes. It’s too brittle for my equipment.

Frank almost choked on the mouthful.

Okay, okay. Before you take a fit let me explain. I can make it safe enough. All we need is adequate ventilation. It’s the gas that’s the real potential danger; the stock only burns if you light it, and we’re not likely to do that, are we? You have access to one of those special Zeiss Moviscop editors, you know, the one with the sprocketless drive?

For God’s sake, Tim, are you trying to get me fired?

Timor pounded back the coffee in almost a single gulp then crushed the empty cup in his hand. Fired? Isn’t that a bad choice of words?

***

The 8:00 A.M. traffic proved irritating as always; it seemed as if everyone worked north of Hollywood Hills these days, and they all took the Hollywood Freeway to get there. Mercifully the relatively cool morning air still prevailed, but by midday the San Fernando Valley would become the stifling oven it always did in mid August.

For Frank, the word cool on his dashboard must have acted like a placebo. The air-conditioning unit on his twelve-year old Dodge sedan had not worked for longer than Timor could remember, yet Frank kept the selector lever constantly set to the coldest position, as though the dashboard statement was enough to satisfy Frank’s unswerving faith in Chrysler engineering. It said cool, so it must be cool. Timor speculated that if Frank ever experienced transmission failure, he would sit motionless in his parking space for eons; staring at the word drive convinced he must somehow be moving.

Today thing were different. For the first time ever, Frank expressed concern over the interior temperature. He could hear the occasional rattle of the metal spool inside the steel can, and each time it made its presence known, Frank became more nervous.

I’m telling you we should’a stashed it in the trunk.

Timor twisted to look at the pizza box on the back seat then shook his head as some of the blond hair flapped into his eyes. Not enough airflow. It’s safer where it is. Keep all the windows rolled down and everything will be fine.

What we’re doing has to be illegal. We’re probably breaking a dozen highway codes transporting that shit… Jesus H. Christ, I swear this traffic gets worse every day.

By 8:30 they’d cleared the mess at the junction of the Ventura Freeway and nosed down the Magnolia ramp into North Hollywood Park, then headed east toward Burbank.

I still don’t know why you didn’t just call the cops.

Curiosity. Admit it Frank; you’re as curious as I am. You’d never have agreed to this otherwise. That reel has to be twenty—even thirty years old. Could be long lost newsreel material; war footage the archives would kill for.

More likely vintage porno… some flapper getting her tail screwed off on the hood of a Duesenberg.

We always did have different tastes in entertainment, Frank.

***

WestColor, looked typical of the nondescript three story stucco buildings on Burbank Boulevard, six blocks over the town line. Timor Jensen knew it well and it brought back memories as it came into view. Four years ago he’d toiled there himself: running the optical printer, color timing, writing studio reports. Not a place he missed. Too much union regulation. Too many bosses and temperamental directors.

Freelance became the answer, if not salvation.

He wasn’t making a fortune, but Jensen Productions did okay and allowed him some indulgence. He liked the freedom of independent news work and could care less if he had to lug his own equipment to each location. Overseas assignments had been sparse, NBC news division once considered him too inexperienced for the pressure and responsibility of foreign editorials, but that had changed. Next week he’d be heading for Japan in a media zoo to cover Hirohito’s first full public press conference since the end of the war. Not earth shattering, but moving in the right direction despite desperate problems at home.

As they walked across the staff parking lot, Frank tried to keep several yards ahead of Timor, but Timor kept catching up, his film can rattling away inside the pizza box like an incendiary grenade without the pin.

Jensen knew he’d called it right about Frank’s curiosity. But hell, if something went wrong inside the lab there’d be the devil to pay. Frank only made senior technician six months earlier, elevated from the ranks of processing engineer, allowing him to snuggle up close to the feature rushes that everyone craved. In this town you sold your soul for a possible screen credit.

Frank had always found it tough to refuse him and today proved it beyond a doubt. They’d been friends for years—decades. When he abandoned a secure, well-paying job to go firetruck chasing in a recession year, Frank thought he’d gone mental and said as much.

They entered by way of the receiving bay at the rear of the building.

Hey, Timor. Good to see ya. Where you been hiding? If that’s pepperoni, save me a slice! You should carry it flat or the cheese gets stuck to the lid.

The female voice belonged to Renee Freedman a color timer who insisted her name should be pronounced Renae. Frank claimed a brief passionate relationship there, but Timor now suspected bullshit. Renee had been his senior in all respects, and Frank preferred them much younger.

Renee turned to look at Frank. Carson wants to see you as soon as you’ve got a minute, Frank. Her manner turned visibly cool. Timor suspected Frank’s inappropriate claims had somehow filtered back to her, but so far there’d been no direct confrontation on the subject.

***

The 16mm optical room had been locked down and declared officially unoccupied under a union regulation that didn’t include senior staff such as Frank. He opened it with a master key.

Jensen knew the layout and immediately began warming up the contact printer, taking particular care that all the fans were functioning properly. At first Yablonski looked on in silence and swallowed as Timor gently pried the lid from the can of nitrate negative, then took a step backwards as a wave of rotten egg-like odor seemed to fill the room. Timor then began slowly spooling off a few hundred feet by hand-turning the reel carrier with his fingers, carefully watching for broken splices or torn-up sprocket holes.

The contrast is weak but there’s enough image left to pull a positive with some boost. It’ll probably get better deeper into the reel. Timor felt satisfied with the amount transferred to the printer load spool and surgically snipped the film neatly between frames. I’m going to look at this bit on the Moviscop screen before I go any further. If it is nothing more than scratched-up vintage porn, there’s no point in wasting good print stock. Although Yablonski’s anxiety appeared reduced, Timor knew he’d never stick around for the next operation.

Frank cleared his throat. Look, I gotta see what old numb nuts wants before he tries to track me down himself. We still need this facility, so try not to blow it to hell and gone while I’m upstairs, okay?

Without looking up, Jensen raised his arm. Go. Leave me to it. He needed maximum concentration and Yablonski’s nervousness only made Jensen nervous. At last the door closed leaving him alone.

After threading the negative through the pressure rollers on the viewing head, he attached black leader to the take-up spool and dimmed the room lights. The film viewer’s lowest lamp setting would have to be enough.

Now let’s see what mystery you hold, my volatile friend. Jensen mused aloud to himself, and prepared to call on that special knack all experienced film technicians had—the ability to mentally reverse negative to positive in his mind’s eye.

***

Yablonski found Carson in a foul mood. Baker Productions had been in his face about the illiterate lab technicians he hired that Baker claimed couldn’t even read a simple camera sheet. Technicians that must have spent hours diligently canceling out an artsy flicker effect in the faces of Baker’s overpaid actors from the off-camera open-hearth fireplace. Technicians that Frank Yablonski, had taken responsibility for since his promotion.

Yablonski already knew of this debacle. In fairness it wasn’t all WestColor’s fault. Baker had included some unlogged test shots that were minus the flicker effect and forgotten to label them as such. He initiated his defense. In any set we always match to the first reel, it’s standard practice.

"That doesn’t mean you ignore the log sheets entirely. This cost Baker a whole day’s shooting and that means it cost us. We’ll have to extend them considerable credit." Carson tossed his glasses on to the desk and laced his fingers.

Yablonski recognized this posture. It meant a patronizing lecture lurked just around the corner.

"I rely on you Frank. I made you up to supervisor because I need someone with your level of experience I can trust. It’s high-pressure, responsible work. I can’t afford to let some fool loose down there unsupervised, and this sort of thing only underscores the need for total vigilance. You’re there to see everything runs smoothly and efficiently. You’ve done a good job up until now, but we mustn’t have any more of this… he tapped the Baker lab report with a fingertip as if it were contaminated. And before you say anything, I’ve also had a word with Domenic the night-shift supervisor. Blame is not the issue here. WestColor has a good reputation that we’ve painstakingly built up over the years, and I intend to see that it remains intact."

Yablonski sat bolt upright, his chin slowly retracting back further into his neck as if Carson’s verbal invective applied sufficient pressure to squash his face flatter than a fillet of sole. If he allowed himself to think of Timor’s illegal industry two floors below, the ends of his fingers would begin to tingle.

Carson’s voice had a droning quality with almost no change in pitch. Although I now consider this matter unfortunate history, it’s far from forgotten, Frank. Carson hunched forward on the desk delivering the final mantra. "Not blame… responsibility. That’s the key word here. Forget titles. My people are promoted into responsibility… and I hate to be proven wrong about something like that." He slid the glasses back in place and began perusing the scatter of paperwork. Frank remained motionless in the chair like a discarded ventriloquist’s dummy.

After a few seconds, Carson looked up and feigned surprise at his continuing wooden presence. Okay, Frank, that’s all.

Yablonski had almost made it to the door, when Carson’s monotone added a postscript—all part of his tactic to let the underling think the ordeal had ended just before adding the sting. Supervise the Baker rushes personally—day or night, Frank. I’ve given them my personal assurance. For the time being they own your ass.

Frank’s hesitation at the doorway culminated in a swallow. He closed the door ever so gently, then flew down the two flights of stairs in all-out panic.

***

Dammit, Tim, you gotta get the hell outa here—right now!

Yablonski burst into 16mm Optical as though his tail were on fire; flushed and panting; thankful the room still seemed intact.

Jensen sat at the viewport on the Moviscop with a strange glazed expression, barely registering Frank’s eruptive return.

Carson’s on the fucking warpath over the Baker mess and he’s dumping it all on my... Frank’s voice trailed off as he registered the stunned expression on Timor’s face. Jesus, Tim, you look like I feel. What the Christ is it?

Jensen raised his eyes slowly and at the same time drew his hand through the thick shock of long yellow hair. The fingers seemed to tremble. It’s not porn, Frank… not in the sense you mean. Oh, hell, I think I feel sick.

Yablonski registered confusion. What, Tim… that old nitrate? I’ve never seen you like this before. What in God’s name did you see?

The room remained silent except for the hum of an electric motor. Timor turned to look at the contact printer that slowly fed the excised section of negative off the supply spool and into the machine’s lightproof case. Have you ever heard of underground films from South America. Films especially made for the most perverted tastes you could possibly imagine?

Yablonski said nothing.

"I’m talking about murder, Frank. Torture and murder. The real thing, not some trick fx shot—the real goddamn thing!"

Jesus H. Christ.

I WISH YOU’D STOP SAYING THAT!

But you’re only just pulling a pos now—

I know what I saw, goddammit! I can read a neg as well as the next guy. A tinge of aggression had seeped into Timor’s voice. The vile shit going down on that reel can only be described one way—pure butchery. But it’s not shot in an abattoir, Frank. It’s crude shooting; no production values, not even an angle change. This is a cheap record of a live event and I’m not sure I can watch the positive. You know the things I’ve seen, the mangled bodies from freeway pile-ups, the charred victims of fire… none of that compares to this evil. Squeamish doesn’t enter into it. Who in God’s name is so twisted that they need something like this to get off—answer me that, Frank?

Yablonski didn’t