Earth: the Salvage Game: Lunacy and Lobotomy in the Leadbelt

By Leo Heller

When Charles, a 72 year old retired truck driver arrives in Farmington to try to find his son, who had been committed to the local mental institution 40 years ago, he runs into a strange meth addict who promises to help him find his son, dead or alive.
He finds himself in graveyards late at night and in abandoned lead mines, but the truth emerges when he enters a log cabin inhabited by an old man with no tongue, an old man who despises his new-found friend. When he discovers a strange group of people living in an abandoned mine, his life will never be the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477245224

Leo Heller

Mr. Heller has a very unusual perspective on life on this planet. As a business owner, he studied the actions and motives of his associates, in a never-ending effort to understand and improve human relations. His unique views are the result of 50 years of study of the human race. He currently resides on a small farm in St. Francois county Missouri, with his wife and a small menagerie.

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© 2012 by Leo Heller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/20/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4521-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4522-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913025

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introduction 

Preamble 

Preamble-Part II 

PROLOGUE 

Chapter One 

Chapter Two 

Chapter Three 

Chapter Four 

Chapter Five 

Chapter Six 

Chapter Seven 

Chapter Eight 

Chapter Nine 

Chapter Ten 

Chapter Eleven 

Chapter Twelve 

Chapter Thirteen 

Chapter Fourteen 

Chapter Fifteen 

Chapter Sixteen 

Chapter Seventeen 

Chapter Eighteen 

Chapter Nineteen 

Author/Editor Interlude 

Chapter Twenty 

Chapter Twenty-One 

Chapter Twenty-Two 

Chapter Twenty-Three 

Chapter Twenty-Four 

Chapter Twenty-Five 

Chapter Twenty-Six 

Chapter Twenty-Seven 

Chapter Twenty-Eight 

Chapter Twenty-Nine 

Part II

Author/Editor Interlude 

Chapter Thirty 

Chapter Thirty-One 

Chapter Thirty-Two 

Chapter Thirty-Three 

Chapter Thirty-Four 

Chapter Thirty-Five 

Chapter Thirty-Six 

Chapter Thirty-Seven 

Chapter Thirty-Eight 

Chapter Thirty-Nine 

Chapter Forty 

Chapter Forty-One 

Chapter Forty-Two 

Chapter Forty-Three 

Chapter Forty-Four 

Chapter Forty-Five 

Chapter Forty-Six 

Chapter Forty-Seven 

Chapter Forty-Eight 

Chapter Forty-Nine 

Chapter Fifty 

Chapter Fifty-One 

Chapter Fifty-Two 

Chapter Fifty-Three 

Chapter Fifty-Four 

Chapter Fifty-Five 

Chapter Fifty-Six 

Chapter Fifty-Seven 

Chapter Fifty-Eight 

Chapter Fifty-Nine 

Chapter Sixty 

Chapter Sixty-One 

Chapter Sixty-Two 

Chapter Sixty-Three 

Chapter Sixty-Four 

Chapter Sixty-Five 

Chapter Sixty-Six 

Chapter Sixty-Seven 

Chapter Sixty-Eight 

Chapter Sixty-Nine 

Chapter Seventy 

Chapter Seventy-One 

Chapter Seventy-Two 

Chapter Seventy-Three 

Chapter Seventy-Four 

Chapter Seventy-Five 

Chapter Seventy-Six 

Chapter Seventy-Seven 

Chapter Seventy-Eight 

Chapter Seventy-Nine 

Chapter Eighty 

Chapter Eighty-One 

Chapter Eighty-Two 

Chapter Eighty-Three 

Chapter Eighty-Four 

Chapter Eighty-Four 

Chapter Eighty-Five 

Chapter Eighty-Six 

Chapter Eighty-Seven 

Chapter Eighty-Eight 

Chapter Eighty-Nine 

Chapter Ninety 

Chapter Ninety-One 

Chapter Ninety-Two 

Chapter Ninety-Three 

Chapter Ninety-Four 

Chapter Ninety-Five 

Chapter Ninety-Six 

Introduction 

Doe Run, Missouri, is an actual place. It was settled in the early eighteen hundreds, in Missouri’s statehood infancy, and was named for the deer that visited numerous salt licks in the area. First it was the name given a creek, and was later chosen by the first settlers to christen their new town.

Lead was discovered just on the outskirts of the community and St. Joseph Lead Company began mining operations in the middle part of the nineteenth century, which continued until shortly after World War II.

The town began to die, bit by bit after cessation of the mining operations, but even as recently as the 1960’s, it still showed evidence of its former expansion and affluence with a grocery store, hardware store, gas station and working garage, public school, two taverns, and about ten churches, not to mention an opera house, complete with balcony, constructed out of cut granite stones.

By the late 1970’s the hardware store, gas station, garage, and taverns were gone. The opera house, converted decades earlier into a funeral parlor, had been sold to a junk dealer. The stately structure was eventually torn down and a one-story wood frame building was erected in its place.

The school district was merged with the Farmington district, which first closed the high school, and eventually the elementary school. The gymnasium today sits empty, with its windows shot out by the locals. The classrooms were once taken over by an offshoot of the local Baptist Church, but as the town dwindled and many churches fought over few residents, it closed, and a lingering animosity reigns over the town.

In the 1990’s a local entrepreneur bought several acres and installed a new gas station and four-wheel-drive shop. During the boom times of the 90’s he built many custom 4x4 trucks, and received nationwide recognition. As the economy went from bad to worse, fewer custom trucks were built, but a thriving repair business continues to operate, and is the identifying landmark of the area. (Except for the front yards of those citizens who continue to use them as a public garbage dump.)

Many of the community’s homes had no working septic systems and much of the raw sewage ran out on the ground, which contaminated many of the wells. After decades of discussion, a public water system was installed in most areas of the community, a fact that will have significant importance later in the story.

Many of today’s newer residents have made a significant effort to improve the appearance and general morale of the area, but a lingering unwillingness to cooperate with organized improvement seems to keep the town in its depressed condition on a permanent basis. The fierce, independent pioneer spirit that once built the town, however, today is ironically tempered with a large portion of those ‘independents’ relying solely on government assistance for their livelihood.

The Pendleton Church, which appears later in the story, was the earliest established Christian outpost in the area, and many of the author’s relatives, from both sides of his family, attended church there and are buried in the cemetery behind the church.

Preamble 

They say the old man invited the President-elect to his office. The view of the skyline and the elegance of the décor left the newly-elected politician awestruck. By definition, however, he wasn’t invited. He was ordered. He had yet to take the oath of office, as it was only early December, so he wasn’t officially the President yet. But this invitation and subsequent visitation carried far more substance than the oath of office. This is where the real policy was made. Each President was allowed a certain margin of leniency, which further obscured the old man’s true power. If each of them had had exactly the same policies, even the gullible American people would have eventually caught on that someone besides the President was truly running the country.

When the Commander-in-Chief first met the old man, he immediately recognized his own second-in-command status. The absolute authority with which the old man carried himself left the nation’s figurehead slightly uncomfortable, and suddenly disillusioned with his own pre-supposed importance.

Obie, the wrinkled ancient began. You don’t mind if I call you Obie, do you? Without waiting for a reply, he answered himself, Of course you don’t. This time he paused for a few seconds as he let his last statement register in the President’s brain. Do you know why I called you here alone?

No, sir, I don’t. Though he didn’t feel anything but revulsion for this dinosaur, an unexpected fear of the consequences, if he didn’t at least feign respect, began to overtake him.

Obie, I’m sure some of the members of your future cabinet and advisors have at least given you some hint of the role I play in this government and on this planet.

Your name did come up in conversation….

Good. Now as a bit of an ice breaker, I want you to know that you will be allowed a certain degree of autonomy . . . .

The President did his best to read between the lines and grasp the hidden meaning in the statement, but there was too much ambiguity in the phrasing for him to comprehend the direction this conversation was about to take.

I, however, the superannuated character continued, have the last say.

The newly-elected President was slowly discovering that he was the nation’s leader in name only. The wizened figure in front of him was evasively informing him that it was his job to take the heat and flack from the press and public, while the true leader would remain in comfortable anonymity.

I won’t say that I am the planet’s emperor. I won’t go so far as to say that. I don’t want the title. I don’t want the press. I don’t want the recognition. That is your job. You are and will be handsomely rewarded for executing my few commands. Even after you are out of office, whether you serve one or two terms, you will be unbelievably remunerated for your time as my representative, and I will personally see to it that you never have any money worries for the rest of your life.

The President-elect looked closely at the wrinkled visage of the old man, and wondered privately how the old geezer expected to live long enough to carry out his promise.

My age throws you, doesn’t it, Obie?

Uh . . . uh . . .

"Don’t worry about that. You see, I am far older than I look. My doctors and I . . . . how do I say this delicately. We have, for all practical purposes, conquered death. I suppose that this body can’t stay alive forever, but it appears as though I may be able to make it to 200 or 250 years.

This technology is available to me, and a few others only. No public official is, or will ever be allowed access to it. All of you must actually be granted only an ordinary life span. There can be no slightest hint of immortality provided to the public. For your cooperation in this matter, as I previously stated, you will be handsomely rewarded . . . .

But if someone were to perhaps not be so cooperative? the President chose his words as carefully as possible.

"There are many brave men in this world; men who are not so concerned about their personal safety. You will notice, however, that the last twenty presidents have all been family men."

Obie understood immediately.

You see, the old man explained, "The bulk of humanity is a quivering mass of evolutionary meat. They appear to have a certain degree of sentience, but it is a very small degree. You are aware, I imagine, that humanity shares 98% of its DNA with chimpanzees. There are a few of us, however, who have evolved beyond the pale, and it is our duty to manage that quivering mass. It is also our duty to live well, to maintain the status quo, and to pretend to have an interest in education, while in fact, maintaining a substantial level of ignorance.

You know, I am sure, that our previous hundred years of growth have been a direct result of petroleum. Without oil, we would be living much the same as we had for the previous 30,000 years. Oil has created this civilization, and we must maintain control of oil to maintain control of the world.

But we all know that the world’s reserves are dwindling and we’re well past the peak of oil production. It’s going to be harder and harder to access, and more and more expensive to do so.

I’m well aware of that. You’ll soon find out that there is little that I am not well-aware of. There was a slight tone of reprimand in his voice.

What happens when it runs out? the President asked, slowly becoming aware he had no control over the direction of the conversation.

It doesn’t matter.

Obie didn’t voice his confusion but it must have been obvious.

Nations evolve. Empires and governments wax and wane. Borders shift. Wars are fought. We, however, are immune to these evolutionary tribulations.

The future President didn’t know how to respond.

"We have the technologies to survive . . . . and I do mean survive well! All the great money in this world is made by the trials and tribulations of the masses. My grandfather made his millions by controlling oil. He made his billions by controlling taxes. He made his trillions by crashing the stock market in 1929. His wealth was only compounded by the suffering of the common man . . . ."

Was he really saying what Obie thought he was saying? Was he really that greedy and selfish? He already had more money than anyone could possibly imagine. He had almost total control of all the agencies of power. What more did he want?

"You see, the battery that will run an electric car for two hundred miles has existed for twenty years. How do we profit from that? Our only hope would be to raise electric rates by 1000%. However, that creates a problem for residential and commercial operations. A problem that is currently un-resolvable. We’d have to be able to charge different rates for charging auto batteries than for other uses. That could create a public backlash, as we have the advantage of mystery for oil. We don’t have that for electricity."

"But aren’t you concerned that the collapse of oil, without a subsequent alternative fuel source will throw the planet into such a state of chaos that we (he chose that word carefully) could become victims of that chaos?" He was finally beginning to grasp that old oil giant cared not a whit for humanity, only himself and his cronies . . . .one of which our future President was about to become.

"You must have missed my earlier comment. We are immune to the suffering of the populace. When a society is thrown into a great turmoil, we make unfathomable sums of money! We’ve bought up the alternative technologies and have them safely under lock and key in Switzerland. When I decide, and only when I decide, will we make these technologies available for development, and subsequently available to the public.

They can be put to use in a matter of a few months or at most, a few years. But the profit will be astronomical!"

Obie wondered what he was trying to buy with all that profit….another planet?

What about the collapse of the society in the meanwhile?

"Like I said earlier, it doesn’t matter. If you have piss ants getting inside your kitchen, do you care how many you kill? Of course not! Stop looking at them like they are your equals; they’re not!! Never will be! They may be slightly better than piss ants, because they do serve us, but they’re not much better! So if a few hundred thousand or a few hundred million, for that matter, die off, what do we care? They’re expendable. Not only that, they’re GREATLY expendable!" He was becoming agitated with his new protégé.

Don’t be another Reagan, Obie. He never knew which side his bread was buttered on. If you want to emulate one of your predecessors, it should be Clinton. But keep your pecker in your pants. His indiscretions nearly cost me a great employee!

So that’s what he was . . . Donald Rasputin’s employee. His heart sank like a lead ingot dropped off the continental shelf. His hopes of reversing the dwindling spiral of our society were smashed. He was nothing more than puppet; a mouthpiece for a madman. No wonder most presidents aged 20 years during their time in office. The veiled threat of his family loomed large in his mind, as he struggled in vain to try to find an exit.

You see, Obie. Now the intimidation was obvious. "I sit on the board of every publicly traded oil company in the world. That’s right . . . . .in the world. I’m also on the board of the AMA, and the APA. That doesn’t even hint at my power. I’m also on the board of directors of every auto manufacturer in the world . . . . again, every one in the world. Also on the board of every drug company, every publicly traded power company. Every publicly traded communications company, every bank. I have input on everything that happens on this planet.

"Why do you think the jobs all went to China? You think the horn dog figured that out all by himself? Oh, and by the way, I’m moving there shortly after your inauguration. When they invade, I want to be out of harm’s way in the event you’re stupid enough to try to stop them.

Your orders, if you and your family want to live, are to stand-down. Air-force One will be standing by at that time to transport you and your family and cabinet to China or Switzerland, depending on the conditions at the time.

Does this invasion have a scheduled date? Obie forced himself to ask.

Not yet. You’ll be given ample notice. Follow orders and all will be fine. Disobey and suffer the consequences. When Obie didn’t respond, with a raised, hirsute eyebrow, he asked, Did I make myself clear?

Abundantly sir, abundantly.

Preamble-Part II 

Northern Mexico, 98,000 BC

I was eight years old when we landed in what you call the Chihuahuan desert. My Grandfather had been here many times before, dumping his trash here for years. In fact, he wasn’t alone. Many of our people had been dumping here. No one could remember for how long, or why we even made this our dump.

Grandfather? I asked, Is it like this everywhere? I paid close attention to the flora, particularly the ocotillo and agave. We have plants like that back home, don’t we Grandfather?

Yes, Solan. He always seemed to be too busy to talk to me unless I was in trouble. I wanted to tell him that I would be in trouble less often if he spoke to me more often, but I didn’t think it would do any good. He was always so preoccupied that I felt like I was mostly in the way. I didn’t know the word or the emotion at the time, but he was patronizing me. Many, many years later I understood his impatience as adult responsibilities overtook my life, and I too, became a patronizer of children.

Why do we dump our trash here and not just kick it out through the hatch? I asked, failing to grasp his annoyance with me.

What? Why? Huh? What did you say? Can’t you see I’m busy, Solan? Our lives depend on me right now, and I can’t be answering your annoying questions all the time! Of course, by the time I realized I was getting on his nerves again, it was too late. I’d made him mad again, something I seemed to do more and more these days.

I left the bridge and went back to my cabin, burying my head under my blankets, sulking. After about an hour of feeling sorry for myself, I dug my little body out of the quilts and walked down to the mess hall. Dobber, the first mate, and only mate, was sitting alone, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a sweet roll.

What’s up, Solly? he asked, always seemingly glad to see me.

Grandfather’s mad at me again, I moaned, trying to gain his sympathy.

Oh, he’s not mad at you. He’s got a lot on his mind lately now that we can’t go home…. He cut himself off in mid-sentence.

Whaddya mean, can’t go home? Now I was worried.

Oh, uh, I mean not for a couple weeks, maybe even a month, he lied. Till things settle down at home. I knew he was lying but didn’t have the skills to draw him out and make him tell me the truth. C’mon, kid. I’ve got about 20 minutes before I have to be back on the bridge. Let’s go play some Deathstar. Maybe that’ll cheer you up.

O.K., I pouted. I never understood why adults always tried to bribe you to take your mind off the fact that they were the reason you were so unhappy in the first place. I moped my way to the arcade to make Dobber a little more uncomfortable, hiding the fact that I’d much rather be playing Deathstar than burying my head under my blankets.

Even though he was adept at masking it, Dobber let me win three games in a row. I confess it did cheer me up and alleviated my self-pity. But by my third consecutive win, I knew he was sandbagging and I grew bored with the game.

I gotta get back to the bridge, Solly. Good games. You’re getting’ better all the time. As he walked away, he turned back to me and said, Go find Cleo. Maybe she’s good enough to beat you.

Yeah, yeah, I patronized him back. Cleo was my teacher and I had a secret crush on her. She was beautiful, but I was just a dumb kid, and she was Dobber’s girlfriend.

Why don’t you go find Princess, then? Maybe she wants to play.

Oh, I don’t want to play with her. Stupid girls just wanna play with stupid dolls and have stupid tea parties. My moroseness was quickly returning. I wish Grandfather would talk to me. I wanna know when we can go home. I wanna see my friends, and maybe even Mom and Dad.

Well, he hesitated. I’ll talk to him. See what he says. He tousled my hair, and I quickly brushed him off. My ennui was getting the best of me. Go read a book or watch a movie. I gotta get back to work.

Yeah, yeah, I mumbled. I’d read enough books and seen enough movies to last me for another year. I wanted to know what was going on and why everyone was keeping me in the dark.

As Dobber disappeared down the corridor, I thought to myself, To Hell with books and movies, I’m gonna be a spy! and followed him surreptitiously down the hallway. As he opened the door to the bridge, I ducked in an alcove and hid until he was securely inside. I then tiptoed down to the bridge door and pressed my ear against it. There was a window high in the door, but I wasn’t tall enough to see through it.

Caesar, I heard Dobber say. You’ve got to talk to Solly. This mystery is driving him crazy. He wants to go home, and I don’t know what to tell him.

Don’t tell him anything. He’s too young to understand. He hesitated for a moment, then added, "I’ll tell him when I think he’s old enough!"

"Well, with the questions he’s asking; the questions you haven’t been listening to, I think he’s old enough to understand. Just make it comprehensible to him." I knew I needed to see through the window, so I ran down to the storage room to look for a stool.

When I returned with the stool and stepped carefully upon it, I heard Grandfather say, That’s MY decision, not yours. Is that clear?

Yeah, I got it that YOU think so, but these aren’t ordinary circumstances, and you’re not really in a position to pull rank. I have no desire to cause trouble, but if you think you can put me in the brig for insubordination, you’re doing nothing but pissing in the wind. We need each other now more than ever. I could tell by the change in Dobber’s voice that he was getting hot under the collar. He never talked to my Grandfather like that. He turned around and I quickly ducked out of sight, but only for a second.

What happened next, I never expected. Would my Grandfather punch Dobber in the nose? Put him in the brig? Maybe just give him a good cussing?

I incautiously raised my head to peer through the window. Nope. None of the above. My Grandfather plopped down on the floor and began sobbing. I couldn’t believe my ears. I pressed my face closer to the window to make sure it wasn’t Dobber crying . . . . it wasn’t.

He tried to speak, but the sobs jerked his body and words came out as gibberish. I couldn’t understand anything he said. Suddenly, I felt sympathy for him, when before I felt mostly fear, and tears began to well from my eyes as well. When he could finally speak, I was still only getting a few words between the sobs. No radio……contact . . . . for . . . . weeks. Been sending . . . . a . . . . signal . . . . but . . . . nothing . . . .

Dobber solemnly replied, I know, Caesar. I’ve known all along. We need every man jack we can muster if we plan to survive. It doesn’t matter if he IS only eight years old. He needs to know the truth. And the sooner we can train him to help, the better off we’ll all be.

Sixty . . . . billion . . . . people. And . . . . five . . . . survivors? It simply cannot be! my grandfather wailed.

C’mon, Caesar. Get a grip. You’ve been through hundreds of tough battles. Commanded thousands of men. This is just another battle. The future depends on us. Pull your shit together, old man. The rest of us need you. Dobber smiled at my Grandfather, and he mustered a weak smile in return.

You’re right . . . . I know. I’m just . . . . overwhelmed, he managed to get out between the sobs.

Start by facing reality. Not what you wish it was, but what it REALLY is. We’re all alone. No one is going to come rescue us.

Go get Solly, my Grandfather acquiesced. And Dobber?

Yes.

Thank you.

If Dobber hadn’t convinced my Grandfather to make me part of the team, perhaps none of us would have survived. In less than three weeks, the two of them would be dead, and it would only be me, my baby sister and Cleo. The three of us alone on a strange planet.

EARTH:

THE SALVAGE GAME

VOLUME I

LUNACY AND LOBOTOMY IN THE LEADBELT

PROLOGUE

 

You know they’ll have you murdered for publishing this, Hank said to me as he tossed the yet-to-be-finished manuscript down on the mute old man’s table. If I thought you’d actually write this and try to get it published, I’d never have set you on this course.

I have to publish it, Hank and I don’t think it’s an issue of dying. It’s an issue of living. We’re all guaranteed one thing from the moment of conception, and THAT is death. We knew that the minute we decided to have humanoid bodies.

Well, I can’t actually say I decided to have a human body. His normally disguised hostility was boiling to the surface. "I think it was decided for me. And if you don’t help me, I’m not going to be able to make the decision to keep it! As for you, maybe you DID get to decide. You always were the nut job in this family.

And, besides, I really don’t get what you mean by ‘it’s an issue of living’ if we all know we’re going to die from the moment of conception.

I contemplated my brother’s confusion and tried to find a way to clarify myself, as I hadn’t yet completely given up on him. I guess the best way to say this is that when a man lives his life on his own terms and by his own personal code of ethics, he really LIVES. When he kowtows to what is acceptable: get a job, be a moderate plugging success—he has a pulse all right, but he sacrifices the things that are really important to him so that he can get along with a bunch of people he really couldn’t tolerate if he didn’t absolutely HAVE to; so he can go home to a woman who believes she has to apply the vaginal wrench" (forgive me Tom Robbins) to keep him in line and keep him bringing home the money so she can live her life in competition with her friends so she can buy a new car every three years, raise ungrateful kids, just to grow old, live in a nursing home, shit his pants three times a week, take 47 different kinds of medicine in the hopes that he can squeeze one more day or one more week or maybe if he’s lucky, one more year of life because he’s so afraid of the big void of death?

There was an extensive pause as the words tried to penetrate his mind. At least I thought that was what was happening.

You sure are a long-winded son of a bitch, Hank almost smiled, the hostility once again being pushed out of view. Hell, look at the way I’ve lived my life. I tried to live like the rest of you, but I just couldn’t do it. It’s not in me! He had convinced himself he was following his own dreams.

Well I’m glad you’re aware of who you are. Every day it’s harder for me to tolerate the un-self-aware. They can murder you without even knowing it. My ex murdered a lot of me, but at some point, even I, dumbass that I am, figured out that I was contributing to my own misery because I was agreeing to be a participant in her ridiculous game. The true irony of it is that she never had any idea what the consequences of her actions were. Even after all this time and all the apologies and the dissolution of the property, she did not know the game that she was playing. And a GAME, it definitely is.

So, Leo, what the hell is the GAME you are playing?

I’m going to publish the damn thing, even if I have to do it myself, and let the chips fall where they may. I’m well enough insured that the kids will be able to keep the property if they want to, or sell it if they want. Unfortunately, the bad thing about death is that when you come back, somebody else has all your damn property.

You really believe that don’t you. It was a statement more than a question.

You mean the part about somebody else getting your property? I tried to grin, not yet realizing that in a few years it wouldn’t be important to me anymore.

No, Goddamnit. the part about coming back!

You know I do.

Well I wish I could be that sure.

Well, I don’t know what to tell you. At some point something will happen to you for which you will have no logical explanation. Of course you will find hundreds of explanations which you know don’t really add up, but since that’s what the whole world believes, you will make up the logical" explanations because ‘everybody knows there’s no such thing as ghosts’, so believe what you want to believe, but do me this favor: When YOU die, don’t go toward the light. It’s a trap. The warm wonderful feeling is the trap to lure you in.

When you die, find a fetus about to be born and take control of it. It probably will be waiting for a new soul to take it anyway. And then see what you can remember. I’d wager my upcoming funeral that you’ll be able to remember everything since the last time your memory was erased! I didn’t know at the time that this morsel of advice would come back and bite me in the ass. I believe that people should be entitled to the truth—most people that is. And unfortunately for both of us, my brother was not in that category.

Fetus, hmm. Wasn’t he Matt Dillon’s sidekick? He was trying to relieve the tension.

No, you moron, that was FESTUS!

All right, Leo, publish the damn thing. But don’t come running to me when they splatter your brains on the concrete! Hank tried to fake a smile, but feared that I detected his chicanery.

I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. If I’m still running after my brains are splattered on the concrete, you won’t be able to see me anyway.

You sure are a cheerful son of a bitch for a guy whose about to have a contract on his head.

So are you, Hank. So are you.

I didn’t realize at the time that I had given him license to write his own death sentence, or that he had already written mine.

Chapter One 

It was a cold, rainy, day two weeks before Thanksgiving, 1954 when Charles and Naomi Dietzburg loaded their nine year old son, Charles, Jr. in the back seat of their 49 Ford Sedan. It was one of those days that the chill and the humidity penetrated your flesh and seeped into your bones.

Loaded was the right term for the struggle of putting their son in the car. Dr. Shulte had given him a shot earlier that morning to calm him down. He was calm all right. Calm as a lump of the coal that Charles Sr. had shoveled into the furnace that morning. He had loaded it extra full so that the house would still be warm when he and Naomi returned.

Charles often pondered that as the years progressed….how he had wanted the house to be warm that evening