Roman Wolfe 3: the Problem of Evil

By Bill Sheehan

What kind of maniacal deviant preys on young teenage girls and viciously terrorizes a small town in upstate New York? Roman Wolfe, a.k.a. Wolfman, is a Vietnam combat veteran who had specialized in the stealthy, nighttime-stalking and killing of the enemy. After the war Roman gets a college education and becomes an elementary school teacher who is still haunted by his violent war experiences on the killing fields and in the jungles of Vietnam. Roman feels the need to end his teaching career when his schools community is informed about his specialized actions in Vietnam and many parents react negatively. When most parents no longer want their children placed in Romans classroom, he resigns his teaching position and becomes a Private Investigator who prefers to handle cases involving children. Shortly after becoming a PI, his two high-ranking state trooper friends ask him for help as a consultant in solving a serial murders case involving the killing of female children. Now Wolfman must emerge again to hunt a sadistic, but intelligent killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475955484

Bill Sheehan

A filmmaker since 1978 when he joined the crew of Michael Landon in Hollywood, Bill Sheehan has worked as a camera assistant, camera operator, and cinematographer on TV series, movies of the week, music videos, and feature films. He has also worked as a theatrical lighting designer, a pyrotechnic designer, and a production manager; and in local television, he has served as a commercial production manager, avid editor, and a promotions director. At the university level, he has served as a production manager, a filmmaker, and an audio/visual director for the Ohio State University, UCLA, Columbia University, and Harvard University. He wrote his first teleplay in 1981 for Father Murphy, a TV series, and published his first book in 2005, The Tale of Sonny Barlow. Currently he is writing young adult historical fiction and screenplays. Bill lives in New York City.

Book preview

Prologue

The Past

The longest journey, with the most discoveries, that you may ever take is an inward journey of self-discovery to find who you really are … and why you are what you are.

—Liam Anthony

Peter yelled, Christ almighty, to his brother, Dick, then more emphatically growled, We beat the crap out of him and call him all sorts of insulting names, but he keeps coming back at us. Stupid, fucking, shit-head. Why doesn’t he just hide when he sees us coming?

"’Cause he’s a dumb-assed retard. You say the words manual labor to him and he’d think you’re talking about the president of Mexico." Both brothers laughed, then performed a high five hand slap.

Peter added, We’ve been havin’ fun with him since sixth grade. You’d think that after three years he’d wise-up and run away. But, no, — he pronounced the word no, slowly, as if it had several Os in it — he’s gotta act like a stubborn asshole. You know? Like he’s not afraid of us. Not afraid of all our insults. Not afraid of getting beat-up.

Yeah. Must be something wrong with the tall, bean-pole. He’s just stupid. He’s gotten kind of boring, though. Not much fun anymore if he acts like he’s not afraid.

Nah. Don’t think so. Jimmy’s in some of his classes and Jimmy says Roman’s smart, but tries not to show it. Gets good grades, but hardly ever turns in homework, which subtracts from his grades. That makes his report-card grades look average.

Yeah, your right. Now I remember. We started picking on him because we heard he got the best grades on tests.

Doesn’t matter. We got someone to pick on in our neighborhood and in school, plus there’ll be plenty of other dumb wimps to knock around, right, Peter? Dick said enthusiastically.

Sure. Peter paused in thought. He’s a strange bird. But look on the bright side. We got someone to keep us entertained. Peter flicked his eyebrows upward two times, then smiled.

I don’t know about that. Easy to find ‘im in the neighborhood, but might be hard to find ‘im in the big high school. He can hide too easy.

He don’t hide here. Probably won’t hide there. Even if he does, so what. There’ll be a lot of nerds there to entertain us. Roman’s not gonna be the only ass-wipe in high school. There’ll be plenty of ‘em.

* * * * * * *

Fuckin’ assholes. Another fun summer vacation, Roman whispered to himself as he entered the bathroom. There, in private, he could wash the trickle of blood from his nose and place a cold water, washcloth over it to reduce the swelling. I’ve had it, goddammit.

That night Roman, being pensive, peered up at the sky which was covered with thick, battleship-gray storm clouds that no starlight or moon light could penetrate. It was as if the sky had been wiped with a dirty, gray mop. Rain will come soon, he thought as he stood on the porch. He could feel the moisture in the air and see a misty fog. Scary night, he thought, yet he wasn’t scared. He had realized years ago that, though most kids and adults feared the darkness of night, he did not. Of course he did have unusual night vision. He was comfortable in dark, as if he owned part of it or, perhaps, was part of it.

The epiphany came as he cleaned his face, viewing himself in the mirror. The idea was one that would serve him well years later, in Vietnam and again in his teaching and post-teaching career. As he stared into the mirror, he repeated the words to himself … Own the night and you also own the minds of those who fear the night. They’ll fear the darkness and me because the darkness is part of me. He smiled as he finger-combed his hair, having the subtle feeling that it felt more like fur. The thought seemed to flit away on the wing of a raven.

At present, academically, Roman was a studious kid, with an inquisitive nature, who often retreated to his bedroom to get away from people, household noises, smells and chores. It was his sanctuary, a place where imagination and reality co-existed and sometimes cooperated. It was where an open window allowed breezes of new ideas and intriguing curiosities to be inhaled, then waft over, and through his mind.

Bastards. Enough is enough, he thought. He punched his right fist into his left palm, saying, Own the Bonner brothers. Own their fear, own their minds … own them. Time to fight back.

From those simple, but seminal thoughts, arose a vigorous determination, leading Roman to exercise nearly every day, toning and building his muscles.

He visited the library and internet to enlighten his mind concerning self-defense. He already knew that fighting fair wouldn’t deter the brothers’ bullying. Dirty fighting, street fighting, surviving and winning were his necessary goals. He knew, of course, that one summer vacation wouldn’t bring the results he wanted, only continued effort, especially when school started again, would enable him to accomplish his goals. So the remainder of the summer was mostly dedicated to physical and mental improvements related to fighting attitudes and techniques. He didn’t want to be a bully himself, just wanted to think of way to cause fear in the brothers. Most people feared the darkness, so, under cover of darkness, his dark ideas would plant the seed of apprehension, then fear in the heads of the Bonner brothers.

* * * * * * *

What Roman did to the Bonner brothers, what made them fear him, is buried in sealed court records concerning serious, juvenile misbehavior.

Shortly after Roman’s revenge, the Bonner brothers shocked their mother by asking where the dictionary was. Their mother pointed to their father’s desk, saying, What the hell’s come over you two? knowing neither son liked school.

For the first time in their lives, the Bonner brothers voluntarily used a dictionary, though nervously. They looked up two words that were printed on a piece of paper: lupine and lycanthropy. When they were done reading the definitions, they imagined that they heard a growl coming from the dictionary pages, as if the open book was a beast’s open mouth growling in anger. Then the pages fluttered fiercely until Peter slammed the dictionary shut and dropped it like a hot coal onto his father’s desk. They stood in horror as a pool of syrupy blood began to grow around the dictionary. They moved away from the dictionary, but closer to each other. They stared at each other, open-mouthed, and when they looked back at the dictionary, there was no blood, not even a stain.

The Bonner brothers avoided Roman during their remaining high school years and never mentioned to anyone what had happened, or what they thought had happened. They pretended that Roman did nothing because they wanted to believe that Roman amounted to nothing, yet they knew that it wasn’t nothing that they feared as they reinforced each other’s intense denials.

The brothers could have saved other high school bullies much punishment and embarrassment if only they had warned those bullies and punks that tormenting Roman was useless; that beating him only meant beating him over and over again because he kept coming back, not running, hot hiding. Soon Roman wasn’t the hunted but the hunter of bullies. He’d find his tormentors and torment them. Usually there’d be a fight during the lunch hour. Sometimes he’d get beat-up — he had learned through experience that it’s not only how hard you hit, but how hard you can get hit and still dominate that wins fights — but eventually he’d wear the bullies down so they felt more like prey. Only when a bully ignored him in the hallways and classrooms would Roman reciprocate by ignoring him.

Not wanting to be laughed at, the Bonner brothers did not pass on the lesson they had learned during summer vacation. They could have told the high school bullies that constant fear saps courage, drains confidence, creates a mysterious and lasting fatigue that causes physical stamina to retreat like a low tide. But the Bonner brothers didn’t want to be questioned about what they knew about Roman. They kept their mouths shut, which became their self-preservation technique.

* * * * * * *

Through the remainder of high school, Roman still found his best thoughts in the isolation of his bedroom. He could not confide in his parents. Why upset them? So, as far as his parents were concerned, they were all living normal lives and the rumors in the neighborhood were obvious non-sense to them. Sure, reports came home about Roman’s fighting in school, but the reports indicated that Roman seldom started the fights. Mrs. Wolfe didn’t like it one bit, but Mr. Wolfe over-road her feelings, saying, Roman has every right to defend himself. They rarely heard about the time when Roman started a fight with a bully who had beat him up, and when they did it resulted in a reprimand.

This particular night, Roman wrote in his diary — his father often used the phrase, ‘A short pencil is often much better than a long memory, especially if used in a diary’ — inner and private thoughts, such as: "There’s a darkness that I fear, but it’s not the nighttime darkness which is my ally. I fear the darkness within me; a black stain on my shield of goodness. It’s the darkness that lets me know that I can plot revenge and carry it out easily; that I can be violent and cause fear, the exact things that bullies want. It is, I admit, something that I fear and that I have to control, but cannot always control.

It’s a darkness that needs to be and that I think I have concealed well, except from those rare few individuals who have witnessed its explosiveness and the scorching heat behind lupine eyes that announce its presence. It’s as if I have the instincts of a wolf, its cunning, but not yet its strength. That part is still a mystery to me. A wolf? What’s that feeling all about?

Roman lifted his pen and tapped the top of it against his front teeth as he thought, then continued to write: "It’s a darkness lurking in the shadows of some corners of my mind, unseen by relatives and friends. A darkness that begs to be left alone; not agitated, so it can remain safely cloaked behind a friendly smile, a series of jokes and cheerful laughter.

It seems that my darkness is defined by light, rather than the absence of light; perhaps its real meaning is the absence of enlightenment? Yet darkness cannot exist on its own. There must, by definition, be light, the absence of which is darkness. The light is more like enlightenment waiting to be discovered, waiting to be accepted and put to good use. I wish I could find more of it. And what darkness there is, perhaps I can channel it into worthy causes. I hope.

-1-

The Past

The outside entrance to the cellar went through a metal Bilco door, then down five concrete steps which lead to another sturdy, metal door that allowed only meager light to penetrate the cracks.

It was almost the same with the inside-the-house entrance, to the cellar, from the kitchen, though there were ten steps leading down to the cellar. At the bottom step there was another solid, wood-core door. This door had a metal veneer attached to the cellar side of the door.

Very little light passed through the periphery of either door and the four windows were sealed off. It was a dark, dank dungeon and it was, at times, used as a prison.

The cellar floor was packed dirt; a dark, dirty, damp and dismal place to sit. The damp, dirt floor got his pants wet. He could smell the cool air mixed with the odor of dirt and mold. This dark cellar was also the home of spiders, centipedes, silverfish, various other bugs, mice and sometimes snakes. He could feel the bugs crawling on him; he could hear the mice scurrying about in their search for food. His legs were outstretched on the dirt floor as bugs roamed over him. He felt no fear of bugs, or snakes, but as a mouse started crawling up his pant leg, he jerked his knee upward and the frightened mouse ran, leaving the impression of its tiny feet on his pant leg. He didn’t cringe or scream. It was actually a simply a game that he played with the mice. If no food was given to him, then, instead of scaring the mice, he’d catch one and eat it. He had gotten used to this kind of treatment. It occurred regularly, though usually there were weeks between the dark incarcerations. He was content for the present. He enjoyed the darkness because it blended well with the darkness within him.

The reality of his situation was accepted readily, so he quickly adapted to it. A prisoner must adapt to his surroundings, he thought, making fun of himself. But there was an unreal, fantasy part that he often thought of as real and that part made the cellar’s darkness frightening for him. The unknown images appeared and disappeared before his eyes, and the more he stared into the darkness, the more threatening the images appeared to be. But when he squinted, tried hard to focus, they disappeared like ominous specters stalking a graveyard, sometimes appearing with glowing eyes and iridescent teeth, sometimes with claws made to shred flesh. Their bodies appeared to be made of mist that continuously transformed into different shapes, but were still recognizable as ghosts by a boy with a vivid imagination and who was frequently exposed to movies, as well as hearing or reading bloody, tragic ghost stories that the adults liked to watch and read.

This cellar was his temporary prison whenever he had been bad. His punishment — discomfort and fear — was its isolated darkness, its creepy-crawlies and the dampness.

He turned one ear toward the outside door. The rain had started. He enjoyed the rain’s random rhythm of pitter-patter as it knocked on the metal Bilco door, as if asking to gain entrance. It made him feel safe, secure and comfortable, until he realized that the wetness would eventually make its way onto the cellar floor. But that wouldn’t be for about twenty-four hours and he should be out of the cellar by then. He smiled. He was happy, not fearful as was the intent of his tormentors. He felt uncomfortable, sure, but he could live with it since it seldom lasted more than a few days, once in a while for a week. He guarded his secret from them, the secret of not being afraid.

Mingling with the rhythm of the rain was the haunting music coming from the upstairs TV. He knew it was a favorite show of his mother and father, called Twin Peaks. The music at the beginning of the show was sad and ominous. He could not hear any words, but the music penetrated the floorboards easily as he looked upward and listened intently — Angelo Badalamenti’s song, Falling. The song became imprisoned in his brain like a constantly threatening haunted house that he could not escape.

His smile spread as he thought about his punishment in the dark cellar. It was like punishing a boy by sending him to his room where all his valued prizes were: the stereo, TV, computer and books, maybe even a phone. But he couldn’t let that be known, of course To prove that he could be a good boy and, thus, get released from this dungeon-like jail ASAP, he did not protest his dark imprisonment, which was very easy for him to do. To prove to himself that he was a good boy, he allowed the spiders and other creatures of the dark — but not four-legged ones — to climb on the flesh of his arms, leaving scratch marks. And he would readily agree with mommy and daddy that the cellar is where a bad boy belongs. He would not even complain about the fifteen feet of ankle chain that often bloodied his ankle, or the lack of enough food and water which caused him to lose weight. He could always gain that weight back, he thought. The oil furnace gave off enough heat to protect him from any serious nighttime chill, especially in winter.

He knew why he was being punished, but could only stop doing it for short periods of time. After that short period of time he’d obsessively focus on any animal and his mind would project a red aura around its body. He knew that it was his mind and eyes that performed that trick. He could not explain it, nor did he try. It would just place him in the cellar sooner. All he knew about the aura was that it happened and it was helpful by drawing him to the animal, like a wolf to a sacrificial lamb.

The local park became his favorite hang-out. When the aura occurred, he’d watch the dog-walker and obtain his address by simply following him home. If the animal was kept outside, the job was performed easily at night using a piece of meat laced with meat tenderizer which hides the smell and taste of crushed moth balls mixed with the meat — moth balls contain the poison, Naphthalene, and must be ingested to be toxic. It forces the hemoglobin out of the blood causing severe kidney damage. Death will look natural, unless blood testing is done. Anti-freeze was sometimes used because its sweet smell was attractive to animals, but it wasn’t as effective as Naphthalene. If the dog was kept inside the house, then he had to wait for it to be let out to pee. He seldom caught cats, unless they were wild, because pet cats used litter boxes so they were seldom outside. It was mostly dogs that he caught, though occasionally he could snatch a pet rabbit, snake, gerbil, chicken, etc. That was how easy it was for him to maintain his hobby.

Those pets’ bodies were never found. They seemed to vanish — he waited for an hour or two until the animal died, then put a noose around its neck and dragged it away to be buried. Some of the town’s people were angered for a week or two and would form a neighborhood watch, but after a month or so, they’d settle back into their normal routines. He would wait for the neighborhood-watch to relax, then start again; never doing it in his own neighborhood, nor the same neighborhood twice consecutively.

Cat or dog, bird or snake, it didn’t matter to him, though dogs were more readily available. He was an equal opportunity destroyer with his pointed stick — a sharpened stick, like a vampire stake — which was also buried within the chest cavity of the tortured animal.

/../.-/- -/.-../..-/-.-./-.-/-.- -/

-2-

The Present

The patient lay on the hospital bed staring at the ceiling. He was conscious, but looked like he was in a coma. His eyes seldom blinked and the strange impression given was that they looked inward, like a well of water looking inside itself and the outside world, but, at present, having no interest or meaning for him. He was occupied mostly with his own dark thoughts of an inner world that no one else could see or enter, an inner world as private as the inside of a long-buried coffin.

His lips were frozen in a natural frown, bordering on anger, perhaps dormant rage. He lay perfectly still, like a cadaver, while Doctors Rose and Brice chatted casually about surgical procedures. Surgical assistants scurried in and out of the patient’s vision, like foraging mice dashing back and forth across the room.

The patient was about to have an operation to correct his drooping left eyelid, a congenital condition that had physically and mentally plagued him for most of his life; one that had changed his life by sending him down a dark road of life that only got darker as he traveled onward. And then the music started, in his mind, the Twin Peaks theme song.

The two doctors and their assistants gathered around the surgical table, all looking down on the patient who just stared into the globes of brilliant light that seemed to float above the doctors’ heads.

A needle appeared in a latex gloved hand and slowly advanced toward the patient’s left eyelid. The doctors used a local anesthetic so the patient would be conscious of everything that they were doing and saying so he would be able to respond to their questions and commands.

The patient would have been justified in being terrified at a needle aimed at his eye, or the scalpel gleaming as it descended, but he wasn’t … not yet. In fact, he appeared to be unnaturally calm and self-controlled. He peered at the doctors, one on each side of him, wearing surgical green gowns, hats and surgical masks. He thought that this vision looked as if it were something from Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone. Suddenly his mind swirled, floated away and he was talking to Rod Serling about numbers.

"Math is the language of nature. Everything around us can be represented and understood with numbers and formulas which can convert that language into understanding. If you analyze the results of those formulas, systems and patterns reveal themselves; therefore, there are patterns to be discovered everywhere in nature. The evidence, Rod, can easily be seen in patterns that are already being used. For example: the wax and wane of disease epidemics, of animal populations, sunspot cycles, movements of heavenly bodies, the rise and fall of stock market values, the rise and fall of civilizations. This is no surprise to mathematicians, but the average dud, or dude, rarely sees the significance. You see, Rod, patterns control life, so math controls life. You may ask, So what? But do you see the progression of logic here? … Yes, you do see, don’t you. If mathematical patterns control life, then they determine the events that occur in life. You are a life-form, Rod, so your life is being determined by mathematical patterns. I can see the shocking epiphany in your raised eyebrows. Then you now realize that there can be no free-will for any of us. Our actions are all determined and the feeling of free-will that we may feel absolutely sure of, is simply an illusion."

The movements of the surgeons’ heads, under the bright lights, at first appeared to be two planets revolving around the sun in chaotic orbits, but the patient’s mind focused and brought him back to the present where he lay on a metal operating table, only wearing shorts, with a cool, white sheet covering him. He was chilled by the cool room temperature. It made him think of a cold corpse lying in a cold morgue. A brief twitch of a smile touched his lips. A wish?

He noticed that each doctor wore special glasses with miniature binoculars protruding from the lenses, enabling them to get a magnified view of the eye area. Two large dome lights bombarded the patient’s face so that no shadows would hinder the doctors’ vision.

The patient’s eyes watered due to the intensity of the lights as he lay there in his gym shorts — he had adamantly insisted on wearing gym shorts instead of his underwear. At first he felt chilled with only a thin sheet to cover his nearly naked body, but he did not complain — he had adapted to discomfort; accepted it.

Dr. Rose expertly lowered the needle and pricked along the length of the left eyelid several times to numb that area. After a slight delay, waiting for numbness to set in, the patient saw the glistening, silver scalpel descend toward his eye, its stainless steel surface flashing in the light. The doctors told him not to be afraid. Hard not to be, he thought, but I can manage. A change swept over him and now the gleaming, silver blade actually delighted him, as he felt the friction of the first incision. As the knife sliced his eyelid, he felt a surge of pressure in his groin and a perverse grin slashed across his lips.

When the eyelid was cut, Dr. Rose asked, Could you feel the incision?

Yeah, was the patient’s laconic response.

Both doctors were surprised by his answer since they thought, surely, the eyelid would be numb and assumed that it was the pressure or fiction of the scalpel that he felt, not pain.

The patient stared up at the doctors and lay as still as possible, especially with the scalpel being held above his head, which segued his thoughts to The Sword of Damocles. He listened to the voices around him, the nurses, the anesthesiologist and the two surgeons. From the surgeons’ discussions, the patient could tell that Dr. Rose was the experienced surgeon, who was instructing the younger, less experienced, Dr. Brice. But doctor Brice wasn’t just observing. At times he assisted Dr. Rose.

Then the patient heard a chilling statement from Dr. Rose. See? Now I have the eyelid severed all the way between the two corners. When doing this type of operation you never sever the corners or the eyelid will fall onto the eyeball making its retrieval difficult and dangerous due to the extreme sensitivity of the eyeball itself. Damn difficult to repair, too.

At that point the patient’s emotionless bravery crumbled slightly. The vision of the scalpel accidentally slicing into his eyeball made him shiver with trepidation. He thought, Be careful, doctors. You don’t want to die for your mistake.

Dr. Brice continued his instruction. Look. See this exposed muscle. I have to sever it slightly, two millimeters, so that when it heals, the left eyelid will rise up slightly and be even with the right eyelid.

Dr. Brice severed the muscle. OK, now I have to get the lower part of the severed upper eyelid, the part with the eyelashes, out of the way. So this is how you do it.

Dr. Rose carefully slid the severed lid downward, over the patient’s eyeball, until it met the lower eyelid. This left the patient looking through the hole in his own eyelid. It was a psychologically gruesome feeling for him, one which was soon made even worse when the blood slowly washed over his left eyeball, transforming his world to a pink vision, as if he were wearing rose-colored sunglasses.

It was easy for him to cope with pain, though he felt none now, but the sight of his own blood and the mental images he was having while the doctors’ were talking disturbed him. He nearly panicked until he admitted to himself that he was scared, but he had been scared before and could handle this fear as well.

But controlling his fear was not easy as his nerves and brain instinctively rebelled. He second-guessed himself and wondered if he had made a grave mistake having this operation. He had regained his self-control, but he could not control the flow of blood that was still washing over his eye. He continued to see pinkish people in a pinkish room and started to wish that he didn’t have to be conscious for the operation. He berated himself for his unexpected fear.

His mind wandered as everything else retreated into a pink blur. As his mind wandered further, it tripped over an idea that he had believed for decades. The association of pink with female, then the association between female and marriage struck him like a hammer striking a finger. He had never married and considered himself both lucky and smart for having avoided it. He had a very low opinion of marriage, considering it to be a form of legalized prostitution and sanctioned extortion; sanctioned by governments and religions for their own despicable reasons. He had seen too many men being both humiliated and emasculated by obsessive, domineering wives who were desperate to have their husbands better themselves according to the wife’s own goals, standards and outright bullying demands. Fuckin’ bitches, he whispered, then sneered at the abysmal thought of marriage, thinking, Why give the bitch a diamond when you can give her your family jewels … up the ass. A grin, then a grimace flitted across his lips.

He was a self-assured man who thought he knew women and he reasoned that the man who knows women best is also the man who can get along without them. He also had the firm belief that, if anything could travel, knowledgably, through the complex sewer system of a woman’s heart and mind, it would definitely have to be a rat.

He snapped out of his mental segue. Again, he felt his fear and self-doubt growing and weakening the mortar in his once solid wall of self-control. With obsessive determination, it only took him a few seconds to abort those feelings and step away from the edge of panic, as if he were on a ledge, looking downward into Hell. Then thoughts of John Milton’s words describing Satan peering into the abyss, the realm of the eternal eclipse, came to him: "And in the lowest deep, a lower deep, still threatening to devour me opens wide, to which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven."

The patient heard Dr. Rose say the word cauterize. Dr. Brice stepped away from the operating table and returned quickly, handing what looked like, to the patient, a miniature soldering-gun to Dr. Rose.

Then the patient saw a hand lowering the cauterizing instrument toward his eyeball. He could see the red-hot tip, could feel the heat.

Dr. Rose announced, Now watch carefully. You’ll be doing this yourself next month.

Dr. Rose lowered the cauterizing instrument slowly, carefully toward the patient’s eye, letting it hover over the patient’s face. Then Dr. Rose applied the instrument gently to the tiny capillaries. The red-hot tip also sterilized the wound as it melted and sealed the severed capillaries. The flow of blood stopped, then eye-drops were applied to wash the residual blood away. The patient’s clear vision was restored.

However, as this whole process was occurring, the patient noticed fragile wisps of smoke float in front of his face and then the smell of his own burning flesh shocked him, then nauseated him. He mentioned this fact to the doctors who asked him to hold on and try hard to control his nausea.

He did and was successful.

Then Dr. Rose turned to Dr. Brice and said, in a low tone, I’m surprised at how aware he seems to be. The anesthetic usually makes the brain functions sluggish, although they can still follow directions if you need them to blink or move their eyeball in order to check the results.

The patient felt as if he were a cadaver being poked and prodded for a training film. He maintained control over his fear and nausea, but wondered if it was really worth having the operation.

He realized that prior to the operation he had been given a mild sedative and that he was supposed to be conscious though in a dulled, relaxed state. But obviously the sedative had little or no effect, since not only were his senses not dulled, but actually just the opposite seemed to have occurred; his senses were acting in an enhanced, super-sensitive way, enabling him to be aware of almost everything in his immediate environment, even the smallest of details, such as the heartbeats of the people in the room. Even their individual nose hairs appeared magnified. He could smell their collective breaths, even some residual smell of toothpaste and mouth wash.

The operation was only supposed to take one to one-and-a-half-hours, but instead it took a full three hours and five minutes to complete. He remembered the feeling of relief when it was finally over, like someone had relieved him of a great burden.

He was still lying on his back on the surgical table when he felt movement, like he was floating through the air. He was being wheeled to a waiting room by one of the doctors. As he was being wheeled he saw the walls, lights and ceiling appear to rush passed him.

Then he became aware of the wheels crunching on granules of dirt. He was sensitive to all the turns and minor bumps as he was being wheeled down the corridor. The sounds of people breathing, sneezing, coughing sounded like loud gusts of wind. The smell of supposedly cleansed skin assaulted him like bathroom stench. He noticed faces that seemed to flash by him at unreasonable speed, yet he could still see the magnified pores in their skin. The faces looked disinterested, preoccupied.

The recovery room nurse asked him if he was aware of what was happening around him. The patient responded quickly, saying, I’m very aware. That’s when the nurse slipped and informed him that a new sedative was being tried and it appeared to be weaker than the one they had been using.

Perhaps it was cost-effective, the patient whispered, sarcastically.

He remained in the recovery room until he was allowed to rise and give a urine sample, glad that he had the privacy of a bathroom. The sensation of flowing urine gave his groin a sexual tension. He wished that he could masturbate. Tears of rage flooded his eyes as he finished the urine sample, thinking, The great thing about masturbation is that you don’t have to dress up, go out to buy someone dinner, then pay for their entertainment and still not know if you’re going to get some pussy, or at least a blow-job, he said with a snarl.

The patch over his left eye gave him a sinister countenance, like an intimidating pirate. The nurse experienced an unexplained apprehension at the sight of the snarl that had grasped his lips and would not let go. She seemed to think that the light in his right eye flickered like the sun off a glacier. His gelid stare appeared to be projecting icicles from a frozen brain full of frigid thoughts, coming from a frozen soul. She shivered, unable to look away from his eye that now looked like the muted blue color below the surface of an iceberg. But worse yet was the weird feeling she got when she got close to him. She could feel his icy breath on her warm flesh as if his breath was an air-conditioner. But she was kept busy, pulled her eyes away from him, then scolded herself. She was too busy, she thought, to have time for psychological speculations. She settled for looking at his mouth. What a wonderful smile he had, she thought. Such soft, well-formed, colorful lips and his bright, well-cared-for teeth. What a damn contradiction this guy seemed to be. It was easier for her to look at his delightful smile, even though the eyes were often referred to as the windows to the soul. Well, apparently, he’s drawn the curtains on that window, she speculated.

The patient’s thoughts were not as complimentary. "She looks like she wears enough make-up to frost a cake. A mark of the devil, surely. Umm. And way too old for my kind of fun.

He remembered the solace he felt when his psychiatrist told him that everyone has horrible thoughts; that his dark thoughts were not unique. The psychiatrist had said, Think of the worst, most vile and cruel behavior that you can imagine in your darkest, secret thoughts. No matter what it is or how horrible it is, there are millions of people thinking the same thing about someone and hundreds are actually doing it to somebody. It’s OK to think it, but not OK to do it.

After hearing that statement, he was relieved, thinking, If hundreds of people are performing the ugliness that they’re thinking, then, fuck it, I’m not unique at all. I must be normal. He laughed, knowing it was all bullshit.

In a week it would be known that the patient’s eyelid operation had gone badly — the results made the eyelid worse than it was before the operation — and the patient’s mental state quickly transformed into rage, making him temperamentally feverish and feeling as if his blood were boiling as hot acid ate away at his stomach lining. His eyes glowed red, feral-like, as if they were holes in the face of an old-fashioned, black coal stove. As time passed, his attitude worsened. His thoughts followed a vengeful trail with an ever-growing mental deterioration that would lead to violence and sadistic acts of rage growing from what he saw as the further disfigurement of his face. He blinked but kept his eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them his pupils dilated like large, blooming, black roses. Their evil glare was obvious.

One day he thought, The black abyss is always on the prowl for unredeemable, grossly deformed souls, like a crazed monstrous, unbeatable fisherman trolling for sharks.

/-/- - -/…./.-/…-/./.-/

-3-

The Past

Bruno had been born to a cigar-smoking, alcoholic father and a marijuana-smoking, nymphomaniac mother who visited the local bars in search of sex when her husband was not able to perform, which was increasingly frequently due to his bouts of drunkenness. But when it was extra-special, family party time, each would easily cross over and enjoy the other one’s sexual, drug and alcohol preferences.

When the pregnancy occurred, neither parent wanted the child; however, both being Catholics, they believed that abortion was a mortal sin and that they would rather get married than face the fires of Hell.

From birth Bruno Charles Miller was constantly restless, loud and a wild-acting, behavior-problem for his parents, especially for Bruno’s mom who was only in her mid-teens. A small amount of liquor from his father, or a dose of cough medicine from his mother usually assuaged his wildness and noise with sleep. But there were strange times — though his mom and dad liked them — when Bruno would sit perfectly still and mute, staring into space, not seeming to focus on anything.

His dad was twenty-nine and his mom eighteen when they were married, a shotgun wedding as it’s sometimes referred to. Being a housewife at eighteen and a pot-smoking mother, coupled with a booze-loving father, made the prospects for a happy and mature family life with responsible parental behaviors rather gloomy.

As he got older, Bruno’s mood swings became drastic, though no one had ever mentioned the words manic depressive, or the new term bipolar, to his parents. The parental discipline skills were anger, humiliation and sadism.

Bruno was mostly called BC by his parents; BC standing for bastard child. His father neglected him and forced him to stay out of the way; sometimes locking him in his bedroom. Bruno became withdrawn and emotionally crippled by age six. That’s when the physical abuse began in earnest. But Bruno, as young as he was, possessed an inner strength born from thoughts of future revenge. He learned to wait, to grow stronger, developed a convincing façade and adding details to his plans for future revenge. He had time for all sorts of unique ideas.

By the time he reached his mid-teens, he was reading books about medieval and modern forms of torture. The Anarchist’s Cookbook, purchased via the Internet, gave him, not just ideas, but how to transform those ideas into actions. His daydreams became saturated with images of torture and torment … other peoples’. He soon learned to treat his emotional scars like hardened calluses: protectively thick and unfeeling.

Bruno matured physically as a skinny, jittery and nervous teenager with constantly darting eyes; the eyes of a paranoid. Beneath those eyes was a weak chin that appeared as if it had been pushed into his Adam’s Apple, like a dresser drawer that was shoved in too far. His eyes were shark-like, compassionless, black holes that were unusually close together. Any closer and one might think of a dwarfed Cyclops. Bruno’s nose was narrow; his lips just thin lines without plumpness, but they constantly pursed together in a kiss-like pucker, much like the actress, Renee Zellweger. His limp hair was hot-dog brown. But to judge him by his looks alone would be an careless mistake. He was quite intelligent. His favorite author was Edgar Allan Poe with his macabre plots. Bruno once read that Poe had stated: Nothing is more tragic than a beautiful woman’s death. Bruno digressed from that opinion, his own opinion being that Any woman’s death was a beautiful thing.

Surprisingly, it was his mother who was his worst abuser. When Bruno was six, his mother yanked him out of bed at 2:00 AM and washed his hair until his scalp was raw and, in some places, bleeding. In a drunken stupor, she had dreamed about head lice. At the breakfast table, that same morning, she ignored the incident. She didn’t seem to remember the dream or her actions with Bruno; rather, she treated Bruno with unusual affection. Bruno was confused, but he was learning to accept and deal with his mother’s and father’s abusive and contradictory idiosyncrasies.

When Bruno was seven, his mom used a razor-blade to cut his name on her upper arm. She said it was a show of affection; something to prove her love for him. Then a terrified Bruno felt his mother pulling him toward her, saying, Come here, Bruno. Now I need to cut my name in your arm to show that you love me, too. Won’t that be nice?

Seeing the bloody rivulets slowly streaming down his mother’s arm and seeing her holding the bloody razor-blade, Bruno screamed in panic, twisting, then yanking his arm free. He ran to his bedroom and sat on the floor with his back to the door, hoping his weight would stop his mom from entering. But, to his confused surprise, she didn’t come.

Bruno’s father was not his savior. He was constantly yelling for peace and quiet. All he wanted was to enjoy his beer, read the sports page of the newspaper and watch sports on TV, couch-potato style. He only cared about Bruno or his wife when he needed something.

When Bruno was nearly nine his alcoholic father, who was an unemployed carpenter, chased him around the house with a hammer, threatening to treat his head like a nail, as he laughed hysterically and said, It’s the nail that sticks up that gets pounded down. Come here, boy.

For Bruno’s tenth birthday his father, feeling a rare moment of compassion and lucidness, allowed Bruno to keep a stray dog. But that didn’t last long. After a couple months of inconvenience, Bruno’s mom put the dog into a burlap bag, tied the top securely, then drove to a river and threw the bag into the water, drowning the howling, then gurgling dog. Later she explained that the dog’s breath smelled like a fart in a crowded elevator, but even worse, she said, the dog had used foul language toward her and she would not put up with that kind of behavior in her home.

During major portions of his twelfth and thirteenth years, while he was bathing, his soapy body became slick. He discovered that he could masturbate and ejaculate, which brought him the most intense pleasure of his life. From then on, he was the cleanest person in the house, taking baths every day. Not long after that he started looking at his peers much more differently, his imagination soaring.

From fourteen to eighteen life didn’t change much for him. It was still an abusive life, though less so due to his involvement in sports, after school events, nights out with friends. These event all kept him away from his father. And, of course, he never stopped masturbating. He honed his skill as a liar… a good actor. He almost appeared to transform himself in other’s eyes, but it was only a façade, though a very good facade.

His need for revenge for his father’s abuse slowly increased, though his mother protected him more and more from his abusive father. He did not know that she had an ulterior motive for helping him.

Then suddenly, the night of his eighteenth birthday — though he was still only in tenth grade — his mom started sleeping with him Bruno. Her husband was a sound sleeper and liked to sleep late, so after he was asleep, she got up and went to Bruno’s bedroom. She had access to his body nearly every night, telling Bruno, You owe me for all those years of protecting you. She started leaving her bed and sneaking into his bed at night, getting him hard, usually by fellatio and/or her porn magazine pictures. She taught him how to have vaginal and anal intercourse with her, often referring to their sexual encounters as three-course dinners.

Bruno’s father knew nothing of what was going on since it all happened when he was drunk or had smoked one of his wife’s marijuana joints, or both, then passed-out in his chair, or on the couch, or he’d staggered to and fell into bed fully clothed. Most wives would protest their husband’s continuous drunkenness and drug use, but Bruno’s mom encouraged it. She made sure the refrigerator was always stocked with plenty of beer and she had a reliable supplier for purchasing marijuana.

Bruno was eighteen now and he felt that he was old enough to learn his father’s trade as a carpenter, specifically as a roofer. Bruno begged to go with him to learn carpentry. He wanted to earn money to buy things; to feel a sense of independence, to have some power over his own life and, perhaps, getting revenge on his father who secretly thought of him as a drip desperately trying to be a lake. Bruno’s father thought his son was pathetic, a weakling and a damn mommy’s boy.

But Bruno’s need for a job and his constant begging for her to help, pushed his mother into episodes of deep depression. She acted as if someone was taking her source heroin away from her. More appropriately, it was like taking sex away from a nymphomaniac. She frequently felt as empty as a scarecrow’s pockets and her vagina tingled and twitched, lubricating itself as she craved for it to be filled. When Bruno wasn’t home she tried alternatives like vibrators, digital masturbation and a her dildo, but they were only minimally satisfying.

While in tenth grade, something remarkable happened to Bruno, an epiphany that enabled him to get time away from his mother’s constant needs. Instead of hating school with a fiery intensity, he grew to like it. The twisted motivations of a twisted mind became interested in learning. He pretended that it was for his betterment, for a good job, etc., but the real reason was for crime. Crime doesn’t pay was an oxymoron to him. He asked himself, If crime doesn’t pay, then why are there so many rich criminals in politics, government (local, state and federal), in corporations, in drugs, prostitution, white slavery, etc. Of course crime pays, but you have to be smart and he was learning to be smart so that crime does pay, for him, in his future. He started reading on his own and always had at least a half-dozen library books at home. Then, to his, his parents and his teachers’ shocked surprise, he began receiving passing grades. Where the hell did that come from? he asked himself. Oh well, staying in the library after school and sometimes doing homework, actually at home, gives me a sex break. He really did need a sex break due to a raw and sore penis — she wouldn’t allow him to wear a condom. In a few months his grades rose to the level of excellence with hardly any work, though he was still viewed as freakish by most of his peers.

Who’d have fuckin’ figured, he often thought.

Bruno knew that his sexual relationship with his mom was a strong cultural taboo. It simply wasn’t supposed to happen. The word incest was used and elicited repulsive frowns from adults and anger whenever they heard the word or subject mentioned, or read about it, unless it was in the context of a joke. Fuck that taboo, he thought, then mumbled to himself, Damn right I will fuck that taboo. It feels too damn good. I’m a hedonist — he smiled, knowing few of his peers or adults even knew what the word meant. So why not continue with my hedonism?

One night his mom confided to Bruno that she was taking birth control pills and had been taking them ever since his birth, and that they could easily keep their sexual relations a secret. Of course it’ll be a secret, he agreed. She was so happy that Bruno thought she’d have a standing orgasm without even needing him to vibrate her clitoris with his tongue or bump into it with his penis.

An uncharacteristic trait that Bruno gradually developed was humor, though it usually came out in some gross, intimidating or harassing form, like when his mom informed him about her taking birth control pills. Knowing that his mom also loved chocolate, he put his hands gently on each of her shoulders, as if he was getting prepared to hug her, but instead he stated, Momma, the cure for birth control is rather simple. All that needs to be done is to have our scientists think of a way to make penises and semen taste like chocolate.

Her response was to ask for some chocolate, but Bruno gave her a substitute that they both enjoyed thoroughly.

By now, of course, Bruno had experienced various kinds and positions during vaginal, anal and oral sexual intercourse He had learned much since he turned eighteen years of age. He liked what he learned too much to stop. Fuck society and their taboos, he thought, again. Who gives a shit what they think, he continued. He’d also learned some intimate details about sex from more experienced high school braggarts, thought he made sure never to tell anyone of his secret pleasures. His mom regularly emphasized that point and he totally agreed. He wanted her mouth, her pussy and her ass, and he could have it all, but only of it was kept secret. In high school, he heard sexual words like nymphomaniac, cunnilingus and fellatio. It was as if he was learning risqué French. But the other kids never knew that he not only was familiar with those words, but he knew how they felt, smelled, tasted.

In high school, Bruno was starting to enjoy the feeling of independence, developing his social skills so he could spend more time with his peers, be in school sports and take some interest in girls. He needed to be a good actor to be a good liar, so he practiced every day. He was also enjoying his maturing strength. He could now physically overpower his mom. He could control her physically, if he wanted to, but seldom did, simply because he enjoyed the orgasms and because he used sex to control and tease her.

He went to his dad’s boss and manipulated him into giving him a part-time apprentice carpentry job working on school holidays, some week-ends and after school, during summer vacation — his father resented it, but Bruno laughed at his father behind his back.

Now Bruno was home less often. One time his mom was in a frenzy of pent up, sexual energy when he got home. His father was working over-time a to increase the family income — so utility services wouldn’t be cut off, especially the refrigerator for keeping his beer cold. Bruno’s mom grabbed him as he passed through the doorway, hugged and kissed him, saying, I need it. Goddammit, I need it now.

That’s when his intelligent mind kicked out an idea. He thought, She really does need it badly, obsessively. She can’t go too long without fellating me, or pulling me into her pussy, or getting poked up the ass. Why didn’t I think of it before. What a fuckin’ dumb-ass I’ve been. He looked pleasantly at his mom, put his hands on her shoulders and stated, Just how bad do you need it, Mom?"

What? Whaddaya mean? You know I need sex. I need you to be inside me. Christ, we done it enough times. Your eighteen now. Christ, all you have to worry about is a taboo. What’s the matter with you? You feel OK? — She didn’t actually care.

I think you should start paying for it Momma. You got twenty bucks and we can do it any way you want to.

You want me to give you money? Buy sex from you? she said with shock.

With a smile, Bruno said, You only find free cheese in a rat trap.

Pay you for it? Fuck you, ass-wipe. You want to come into some money? Then put a dime in your condom before you fuck me.

Good one, Mom. But plenty of people pay for sex. I know how to make you happy and twenty bucks ain’t much.

Fuck you, shit head. You, all of a sudden, think you’re so goddamn smart, do yuh? I can get sex somewhere else, Sonny boy."

No Momma. You can’t. Not safe sex. And not without delay. We both know we’re clean. No aids, no STDs — He’d learned the terms for sexually transmitted diseases — and I’m readily available. I’m very convenient. I know how to please you; something a surly drunk certainly won’t know or even be able to perform. Hell, you taught me how to please you, so you can’t go wrong paying me for my knowledgeable and skillful services. By the way, why did you wait until I was eighteen to teach me all of your sex knowledge?

The church. Religion, I guess. Thoughts of hell. Stay away from religion, boy. It’ll screw you up big time. You got a lot to learn. And why are we talking about this? You’re still the asshole who wants money for sex.

I know what I need to know and what I don’t I’ll learn quick enough. He grinned arrogantly, then said, But I’m no idiot either, Momma. It’s business now.

Hey. You get pleasure out of it too, you know. I don’t hear you complainin’ while your juice is squirtin’ in my mouth, or elsewhere.

Maybe you should learn to become a contortionist.

Yeah? Why’s that, Dip-shit?

So you can go fuck yourself, of course. Then you won’t need me or have to pay me.

Uncontrolled anger made her blurt, You mother-fuckin’ bastard.

Laughter shrieked through Bruno’s teeth like wind through a wooden fence. That’s pretty obvious now, isn’t it? But, see, I can masturbate and you don’t seem to be able to enjoy that, you know, with your strict Catholic upbringing and all. You need the real thing and I know that. Look Mom, your hands are even trembling. Just go get the twenty bucks and let’s calm you down and satisfy your urges, OK?

In total frustration and fixated, she screamed, I want yur juice now, right here. She grabbed and unhooked his belt buckle, unzipped his pants and pulled his jeans and boxer shorts down around his ankles. His mom was uncontrollably voracious. She grabbed his flaccid cock, thrust it into her mouth and locked her lips around it. Bruno was smart enough not to fight her, not with her grip on him and her teeth so close to his valuables. He had to focus intently on not getting hard. Outwardly he managed to act disinterested, then laughed at her and the thrill of her humiliation caused him to laugh harder … but he controlled himself, staying only half hard with no climax forthcoming. She worked even harder, grunting and breathing heavily through her nose.

I want your juice. I need it, goddamn you. Now give it to me. Your fuckin’ dad’s only got a dried-up twig and a couple of raisins in a sack, so I need the juice from your young plums. It’s like a medicinal elixir and sweet nectar for me.

OK , Mom. But you start paying next time.

Bruno imagined that Glenda’s pretty mom was sucking on him. He got harder, then harder as the flesh on his penis became ridged. When his climax came, his mother controlled him. She kept him in her mouth until his spasms were completely finished. Then she looked up at him and swallowed with a pure look of satisfaction. She still held his penis in her hand. Again, she smiled up at Bruno, then licked the remaining droplets off the head of his penis, feeling him spasm again, shifting his body