Orphan of God

By T.R. Bauer

Gregg Rush was a factory worker, a gifted but unpublished writer, living and working near a small city in the Midwest.
Gregg believed he had landed upon a concept, beautiful yet monstrous, sacred but corrupt, an antinomy, deeply buried within the core fabric of human nature. His journey led him into intriguing and mysterious corners, places that would steal his faith, his sanity, and ultimately, his life.
This dark, contemporary novel explores the minds and experiences of broken women, born beautiful, but then corrupted by childhood incest. Gregg calls this species, daughters of Venus, dazzling and irresistible, but voracious and lethal to their prey.
This chronicle exposes elements of the soul hidden from most by nature, and for good reason. In the end, the reader will be left spinning, caught in the web of the narrative, wondering if the concepts are fictional or not. Use discernment. Fact and fantasy walk a razors edge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469155852

T.R. Bauer

Author, T R Bauer, wears many hats, writer, activist, liberal, Christian, half-ass mechanic; essentially, an all around “rabble-rouser”. His antagonists have often assaulted his unorthodox assertions. Rather than answer questions, Mr. Bauer is more inclined to question answers. Mr. Bauer has drawn the attention of all who have picked up his stories and essays. His rebellious fixation upon primitive Christianity infects his work with spiritual undertones that are not always agreeable, but honest. Orphan of God, is Mr. Bauer’s first published novel, and as with all of his work, it reflects his edgy slant toward life. Currently, T R Bauer and his wife, Lynda, reside near Greensboro, North Carolina.

Book preview

Orphan

Of

GOD

T.R. Bauer

Copyright © 2012 by T.R. Bauer.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2012901165

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4691-5584-5

                Softcover        978-1-4691-5583-8

                Ebook              978-1-4691-5585-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

109706

Contents

-One -

-Two -

-Three -

-Four -

-Five -

-Six -

-Seven -

-Eight -

-Nine -

-Ten -

-Eleven -

-Twelve -

-Thirteen -

-Fourteen -

-Fifteen -

-Sixteen -

-Seventeen -

-Eighteen -

-Nineteen -

-Twenty -

-Twenty-one -

-Twenty-two -

-Twenty-three -

-Twenty-four -

-Twenty-five -

-Twenty-six -

-Twenty-seven -

-Twenty-eight -

-Twenty-nine -

-Thirty -

-Thirty-one -

-Thirty-two -

-Thirty-three -

-Thirty-four -

-Thirty-five -

-Thirty-six -

-Thirty-seven -

-Thirty-eight -

-Thirty-nine -

-Forty -

To David Weeks

As this planet falls around the sun, trapping us in its orbit

Creation groans in unison, like a race of frightened orphans

The darkness of this raging storm is covering up our portals

But a yearning for the light is bourne

In the heart of every mortal

—Mark Heard

-One -

Monday, November 2, 2009 (3:30 PM)

Peoria, Illinois

" I may be wrong, but I’m not," Brad mumbled, trying to steer his Cherokee in the onslaught. The rain was pounding against Brad’s windshield so violently he could barely make out the centerline. Straining to see, his round face pressed against the steering wheel, and his dark wire-rimmed glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. The vehicle was hydroplaning badly. The call he had just received from Gregg, his dear friend since long ago, had him in an absolute panic. He’d gone over the edge this time, Brad knew it, and he had to get to him as quickly as possible. Brad’s pal was a brilliant thinker and writer. He was as intense as could be, as others of like kind, but his genius came with a price. Sanity is fragile, and Brad was aware that Gregg’s mind could snap at a moment’s notice. And it just did.

Brad’s thoughts were frantically racing as visibility waned. Even with the windows rolled up, the stink from the old factory hung thick just below his nostrils, surrounding his senses with the same shit he had endured for over twenty years.

I never get used to it, Brad muttered in frustration. He gagged, desperately trying to maneuver through the downpour. The plant smelled like dead fish, and on a breezy day, the stench rolled with the wind for nearly ten miles across the rural countryside. Sometimes, in the heat of summer, the aroma could be enjoyed as far as the south side of the city of Peoria.

There were constant odor complaints from the small community across the road from the plant. The EPA had told the unfortunate neighbors that a certain number had to be logged before they could do anything about it. It was more of a nuisance than anything, but it was awful at times. At a neighborhood meeting, the new plant manager assured the town it was his number one priority. He never gave it another thought after that day. It was his way.

So many random thoughts sped in and out of Brad’s mind, as if trying to distract him from the reality of what might lie ahead of him that afternoon.

Instantly, the familiar lights from the factory came into view, cutting through the haze of fog and rain, but there were other lights, flashing ones. Pulse racing, Brad pulled up to the guard shack. Otis, the security officer, stepped out in front of Brad’s Jeep, as if the gate was not enough to stop him.

What’s up, Otis? Brad’s voice trembled. He tried to assume something other than the worst. Stretching out the window, Brad’s head was getting soaked. He wondered if Otis recognized him in the torrential deluge.

We’ve got a real mess up there, Brad! Otis shouted. His tone was stone-cold and earnest.

Come on, Oat. Let me through! Brad yelled.

One hand was on the guard’s wide hip, the other rested with authority on his holstered flashlight as if it could offer protection. Glancing nervously up at the tall east building and then back at Brad, Otis relaxed a bit and then stepped to the side, rain pouring off the rim of his glasses, cocked sideways on his nose.

Brad, you ain’t gonna like this. I guarantee you that. You ain’t gonna like this at all. Otis shook his head and hit the button.

Brad didn’t ask. He was afraid to. The gate had always opened too slowly. Nervously, he tapped his finger on the steering wheel. Goddamned terrorists, Brad thought. There had been no gate or fence before that fateful September 11. It had always been a pet peeve of Brad and Gregg. They weren’t so sure if it was to keep bin Laden out as much as it was to keep them in. Contract negotiations had not gone well. Everyone was on edge, had been since the fucking Nazis took over the company! That is what Gregg called them. It was 2009, and the German owners still had a chip on their shoulders. Gregg called them arrogant bastards. During labor negotiations, the company CEO made an offhand comment that he did not like to think that Germany lost WWII. He preferred to think of them as coming in second place. Idiotic remarks like that always threw Gregg into a rage.

Only the first responders were there. Otherwise, Brad would never have been allowed into the plant under these circumstances. Instinctively, he entered the locker room, quickly changed into his steel toes, threw on his hard hat, and headed for the Derivatives Building. The routine had been the same for over twenty years; 5,200 times he had followed this pattern—only today he wasn’t on the clock. This one was on him.

Crossing the expansive yard, Brad subconsciously pulled out his shirt tail. He had always been self-conscious of his weight. Gregg always thought of it as odd. Brad was a handsome man. After about three minutes, he reached the massive freight elevator. It sat on the ground level, mouth agape, as if waiting for him. The damn thing was never down when you needed it, Brad thought. It was this time. Stepping in, he hit 3, felt it jerk, and ascend with a growl into the bowels of the forty-year-old chemical plant. As the doors slowly opened, Brad anxiously searched his mind for Gregg’s last instructions.

Which locker did Gregg say the flash drive would be in?

Stepping out, Brad took an immediate sharp right and then another right, knowing what had to be done. The flash drive contained the record, the only record of all that had transpired. Bottom row, last locker on the right. Brad would soon learn that a normally active lifetime of experiences could not fill as much space on this little hard drive as did Gregg’s accounting of the last three months. Gregg was meticulous that way, never wanting to lose anything he had written, especially this, he had revealed to Brad. If anything ever happens, he told Brad a dozen times, find the flash drive before anyone else does. Nothing of this record can be lost! Make sure Vivian gets it. Let no one else see.

Having secured the device, Brad looked down the dimly lit aisle and realized he could not reach the control room that way. It was cordoned off with yellow caution tape, ordinarily used to warn of chemical spills. This was not a spill, at least not one of a chemical nature. The place was buzzing with hurried activity as if something could actually be done.

He knew a back way into the area. Dipping down onto a lower-level mezzanine, Brad passed underneath the room and came up on the back side, climbed a brief flight of steel stairs, and suddenly stood in front of the control room door. He leaned against it, taking a deep breath, afraid to enter. What the hell had happened! Brad’s mind tried to focus. How could things go so badly, so fast?

Mustering the courage, he slowly brought his face up to the portlike, explosion-proof circular window, face level on the door. It was covered with oil, grime, and chemicals that came from years of neglect. Production was always the priority above all else. Safety was loudly touted as coming first, but those on the front lines knew better. Brad figured it was all a matter of statistics, as it is with most corporations. They hired actuaries to track this kind of thing. Which was more cost-effective? A heavy investment into safety or the cost of an occasional lawsuit? Many times, safety came up on the short end. It just wasn’t cost-effective. It slowed things down.

Hesitating for a moment, Brad took a step backward and ran both hands through his short brown hair. A mixture of sweat and rain dripped down the back of his neck. Reluctantly, he again stepped up to the door, trying to see into the window. Looking through the glass wasn’t working. Rubbing it just smeared the grime around. There was a nauseating stench coming up from beneath the door. It was similar to that of burning hair but not quite. Brad was reluctant to see what Otis said he was not going to like. Brad reached into his pocket again and squeezed the plastic object that held everything that had mattered to Gregg. He had what mattered most for the moment. Brad knew the answers would be in there somewhere. He thought that he knew everything about his dear friend, but over the last few months, Brad had suspicions. He was soon to learn just how little he had known about Gregg during those last days.

Slowly, pushing the heavy explosion-proof door, Brad discovered the source of the stench. Through the small crack, he saw a hot plate used for heating up chemical samples for analysis. It was always plugged in, hot and ready to go. There was blood splattered all over the shield, and smoke was rising from the burner. Brad lost it! Flinging the door wide open, he saw the ghastly horror. His knees buckled beneath him. His dear friend and work associate was sitting upright somehow on his short-backed swivel office chair, head flung backward, eyes wide, mouth gaping, and arms dangling straight down from his shoulders. His cold eyes seemed to be staring hard at something on the ceiling behind him.

Sweat dripping from Brad’s nose and chin, he looked up. Blood, pieces of skull, and brain matter were sprayed all over the ceiling! Looking down, he saw a 9 mm lying on the floor beneath Gregg’s dangling hand. Brad stumbled backward. How could this have possibly happened? Gregg’s laptop was open, displaying his personal e-mail. Only Brad had noticed. He tried to focus, stomach rolling, knees again trying to buckle. What do I need to do? His mind raced.

While everyone else was scurrying around, Brad quickly moved forward, reached for the mouse and X’ed it out, and then hit the off button. The rest was safe for now.

-Two -

S omeone has said, Truth can be stranger than fiction. In this instance, there was no question about it. The story remains trapped in Brad’s head, like bees in a bottle, frenzied but ensnared, banging against the walls of his mind. It has been several years since his death, and the people in Gregg’s life are still attempting to rid themselves of this thing. Those who had been closest to Gregg are still trying to sift through the rubble of his psyche. God help them.

How did Brad come to know these things? Gregg brought him into his confidence, and why not? They had known each other for over twenty years. As kids and in their early twenties, they delved into the deeper things of life. Their minds functioned on separate plains, but their hearts followed the same linear line. When Brad wasn’t feeding tokens into machines at the local arcade, many late nights were spent in quiet conversation with Gregg across a greasy table at a truck stop called EAT. You know the kind. An early bond was formed, and it was only natural for Gregg to pull Brad into the knowledge of recent events.

Like Brad, Gregg was an unpublished writer. They wrote for the pure joy of it, collaborating on some stories. Gregg had issues, but who doesn’t? Over the years, Brad came to learn of these things through intimate moments of conversation. He knew most of what was going on but was not prepared for the end. He did not see it coming. Perhaps he could have done something, but who knows these things?

In your hands you hold a story, revealing parts of the soul, hidden by nature from most. You will be drawn to understand some of its secrets. Use discernment. Fact and fantasy walk on a razor’s edge.

-Three -

Saturday, August 1, 2009 (11:00 PM)

I t was late Friday night as a lone figure quietly slipped out of his Jeep, checked his shirt pocket for smokes, and slowly made his way down the dark street. The sound of Gregg’s boots meeting pavement echoed against the vacated buildings, his long black coat dragging slightly along the pavement behind him. Each step was deliberate.

This must be what it feels like to be the vampire Lestat, Gregg mumbled, referring to his favorite Ann Rice character. He laughed as he rounded the corner, looking for the tavern where he would meet Brad for late-night pizza and beer. Gregg was out of his element, especially those days, but it had a very familiar feel to it. The past isn’t that far past, he thought to himself. Not tonight.

Shit! What’s it been? Twenty years? Gregg’s voice fell flat.

It was awfully quiet for a Friday night, he pondered, but then he heard a faint sound coming from the bar as he approached what had become a dive. He stopped dead in his tracks, unable to move. The tune surprised him. It wasn’t a typical song for a club, never had been, never will be, but this was not to be a typical night.

The magic hands of Hornsby pounded the keyboards for about two seconds, immediately followed by the abrupt rhythmic blend of drum, bass, and mandolin, slowly receding in consent to his rich tone. Gregg could not advance, a memory holding him firmly within its spell.

The song came and went

Like the time that we spent

Hiding out from the rain

Under the carnival tent

I laughed and she’d smile

It would last for a while

You don’t know what you got

Till you lose it all again

It was faint, at first, with rhythmic pounding, the wailing voice; and then it was suddenly upon him as Gregg stepped forward—neon lights, music, and rowdy laughter. Again, he stopped, lost inside.

Listen to the mandolin rain

Listen to the music on the lake

Oh, listen to my heart break

Every time that she runs away

Rounding the final corner, he turned for the door but couldn’t enter. He leaned against the brick wall and slid to the ground, pulled his legs up, and laid his head on his knees.

The cool evening dance

Listening to the bluegrass band take the chill

From the air

Till they play the last song

He stood, pulled on the grimy handle, and stepped into a dissimilar world. The music blared.

The little bitch hadn’t even heard of Bruce Hornsby. She was more into Hank Jr. Gregg grimaced. He remembered a girl of long ago.

The ill-bred tramp! Gregg grumbled.

Gregg’s heart began to quickly pound, as if in rhythm with the song. He could barely see as he scanned the smoke-filled room for his buddy. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung in the air. A familiar surge of electricity ran through him. He had almost forgotten this world, a world that was, at one time, an intricate part of his life. Briefly, sadness came over him as he remembered a life twenty years previous and its ominous connection to this fateful night, and then adrenaline pushed the memory back where it belonged.

Over here! he heard Brad’s voice over the rest. Suddenly, Gregg’s mood took a dive as the strange atmosphere and the song thrust the past upon him. The blend of the two was a contradiction.

Fucking shit! Gregg groaned as he pushed through the crowd. There was no stepping sideways for him. He walked straight through. Everyone else turned to let him pass, as if they knew of him. Of course, they did not.

Brad noticed his friend’s countenance as Gregg slid onto the high-backed barstool across from his friend. He tilted his head a little toward the source of the music.

Odd music for this dump, isn’t it, dude? Brad laughed.

A totally disinterested barmaid stopped in front of her new customers. Gregg glanced down, tanned cleavage staring up at him. As his eyes rose and met her flirty smile, Gregg wondered why a woman would prostitute herself for a two-dollar tip. A cold shiver went up his spine.

What’s up with that song, dude?

What do you mean, ‘What’s up,’ man? Gregg glanced sideways at his friend, hair slipping from behind his ear, falling across his face.

What’ll it be, boys?

Gregg didn’t miss a beat. Give me five shots and put ’em in one glass! he yelled over the noise of the crowd and the changing of songs.

Thank God! he mumbled.

What’d you say, honey?

I said give me five goddamned shots! He hated to be called honey by a total stranger.

I’m not sure we can do that. Her voice was trembling.

Listen, sweetie, he mocked, put them in a tall glass, add a squirt of coke and call it a fucking Long Island Iced Tea! There was fire in his eyes.

She looked like she was about ready to cry as she nodded and slipped away.

Settle down, Gregg, Brad’s voice cut in. What’s up, man?

I don’t know. His friend took a deep breath, trying to relax. Elbows on the table, he lowered his head into his hands.

Another headache?

Yeah, just give me a minute here.

Are you sure you want to do this tonight? You don’t even know what she looks like.

I’ll know. Gregg’s reply was terse.

She might not even be here. Let’s go. Brad really didn’t want to be part of this, not tonight anyway, really not ever.

We can just get up and walk outta here, dude.

You really think so, Brad? You really fucking think so? Free will is the ignorance of destiny. The words just slipped off his tongue. Gregg wondered where he had heard them.

Geez, man. You are hopeless. Come on. Let’s go, Brad insisted.

No. Just wait,

A minute passed. Brad was concerned. Having seen this before, he decided to breach the silence.

The new medicine. It’s not working, is it?

Slowly, Gregg lifted his head, eyes glaring and then softening.

Bro, I hate it when you go straight to that. I hate it when people put us in little boxes. Gregg’s mind was clicking that night.

Tell me about it. Brad knew Gregg needed to talk. I’m all ears.

Gregg scanned the bar. Two young girls sat together, obviously dressed for the night. The younger of the two immediately turned, her gaze hitting Gregg’s square on as if some kind of radar had pulled her out of her world. He lingered just a moment and then returned his full attention to his friend, leaving her gaze without an object and alone. He knew sooner or later she would come over. Usually, the game irritated him, but tonight it was different. There was a method to his madness.

Aren’t we all ill on one level or another?

Brad kept his mouth shut. He knew it was not really a question.

I mean, some of us are just different, and because of that we are put in a different box, various boxes for various types of misfits. Before that, we were condemned because we didn’t fit. Society is not comfortable with differences, so rather than just accepting us, they call us ill. Suddenly, there is understanding, acceptance, and compassion, but then we have to live by their rules because they are superior. The consequence if we do not submit? They lock us up. One of those rules is that we accept our ‘sickness’ and medicate in order to become normal like them.

Brad could hold back no longer. He knew where this was going, and he didn’t like it.

Hang on there, Gregg. You aren’t suggesting that—

Gregg cut him off.

Shut up and listen! We cannot accept people who think differently and have dissimilar behavior. Just look back through history, man. Religion is a great example. Look at all the religious wars and the bloodshed over nothing but different thinking. Protestants had their army. Calvin had his gallows in Geneva. The Catholic Church had their military. They slaughtered each other, all in the name of Christ, and we celebrate them today. The hostility over ‘thinking differently’ has been passed down to each of us.

I know where that’s coming from, bro. Brad raised an eyebrow.

Damn right you do, Brad. Gregg bit down hard on his lower lip.

We were hot with passion back then, man. You remember those times. I trusted them enough to share anything on my heart, and what happened? They orphaned me. I lost every friend I had except for you, every goddamned one. I’ve never pressed you on the issue, but I can only imagine why you eventually became an atheist.

Brad was anxious about Gregg’s verbal onslaught. He shook his head, thinking Gregg was slipping into a dangerous place. For most people it would have just been good conversation, with no side effects, except philosophical amusement. Gregg could go overboard with an idea; there was little barrier between hypothesis and reality.

It was difficult for Brad to retain eye contact with Gregg, knowing there was a larger picture here and knowing there was little he could do to divert the conversation.

"Think about it, man. Differences of conviction block compassion. If we put someone in the mentally ‘ill’ category, we are then free to ‘feel’ for them. We are too far out there to be a threat to the established way of thinking, their way. We are ill, they are not. All is well in their little world except for the fact that they have to control us, try to change us, try to make us more like them, less threatening. That’s where the drugs come in. The dope they shove down our throats is legal because it serves their purpose, and there’s money to be made. It matters little what that shit might do to us! Ever seen the commercials for their junk, the side effects? Damn! If it wasn’t for federal regulations they wouldn’t even tell us. And now there is a powerful political party that wants to eliminate federal regs."

Gregg was on fire, but two separate things were simultaneously racing in his head: general obsession with concepts and the purpose of that night.

Brad wanted to accept Gregg’s argument, but he had real concern about his friend’s behavior.

The barmaid set Gregg’s drink down and turned to leave, resisting eye contact. Gregg grabbed her by the hand. His touch was warm. She stopped and looked back. Their eyes met. He touched her cheek.

I’m sorry, hon, he said. It’s just been a bad day.

She smiled, returning the touch, and went on.

As the evening passed, Brad sensed an eerie air. It was not so much in Gregg. It surrounded the whole tavern but seemed to have a center around him. The music, right down to each song, was pertinent in some way, pregnant with meaning. Brad knew many of the circumstances in Gregg’s life; few others did, and tonight this place fed into it in some odd way. He noticed Gregg drifting in and out of conversation, absorbed and sharp, but then looking away for a time, closing his eyes as he tilted his head slightly as if taking it all in and then back to conversing as if he was never away.

Brad studied Gregg’s face and movements. He was drawn to his friend, as was anyone who Gregg allowed to come close.

Gregg was intense as he spoke. His long brown hair would fall across his face, slowing briefly as it hung up on the stubble of his tight beard. It was beginning to gray. His jaw was slightly squared, and he would set it after making a point, and then he would casually push his hair back into place behind his ear.

Gregg was tapping the blunt edge of his fingernail on the table. Brad could tell the tenor of something was about to change.

So long ago I don’t remember when,

That’s when they say I lost my only friend.

They say she died easy of a broken heart disease,

As I listen through the cemetery trees.

Dylan’s kid, Gregg sliced through the odd tension at the table. The steady beat of a new tune rocked the room.

Say what? Brad didn’t get it.

Jacob.

Damn it, Gregg. What’s going on here? This was getting too weird for Brad. It’s a country bar.

It always seemed such a waste

She had such a pretty face.

I wondered why she hung around this place.

Gregg looked at him and smiled.

A chill went straight up Brad’s spine! He remembered a little stripper girl named Brianna, how she had walked into this very bar years and years ago. Brad reflected on Gregg’s comments that fateful night, remarks almost identical to the lyrics that were now piercing his ears and threatening to obliterate natural law.

Brad remembered how taken Gregg had been with her and how that involvement changed his life forever. Something broke inside his friend, and then Brad remembered finding Gregg wandering through the cemetery after having killed the monster who had desecrated the innocence of his only son.

Brad was reeling. He yelled above the crowd, What’s up with these damn songs, Gregg? These aren’t dance songs. This is a freaking country bar, man. You didn’t acknowledge me. Brad was uneasy as hell. It was all he could think to say.

Gregg smiled, looking toward the bar. The doll was playfully talking to a friend, head turned the other direction, cowboy boots hooked on the rail beneath her stool.

Watch this, Gregg demanded of his friend.

He was still looking at the girl. As if on cue, she slid off her stool, turned, looked toward Gregg, smiled shyly, and started his way. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, maybe younger, five foot two, five feet maybe, short, black leather skirt, tight around her bottom, low cut, black lace-up halter top, ending with a V at her midriff, pointing to a piercing, a small silver chain dangling from her belly button. At the end of the chain was a crucifix. Slowly, Gregg took it all in as she moved his way. Dirty blond hair fell from beneath a blue bandana onto her bare tanned shoulders.

As she approached, Gregg turned to talk to Brad, ignoring her.

What’s this about, bro? She doesn’t even know who you are. Brad was earnest, bewildered.

Fucking blue bandana. Geez!

Don’t mess with her, dude, Brad whispered loudly while kicking Gregg’s leg beneath the table.

It’s the nature of the beast. Gregg gazed deeply into Brad’s eyes. It was an intense soul-searching kind of look. Brad turned away.

Gregg continued to ignore her, even though he knew she was standing at their tall bar table. Brad stared at her and then back at him, knowing there was a game underway but not really understanding it—though he had a very bad feeling.

Got a smoke, mister? Flirtingly, the young girl leaned against the table.

Gregg appeared disinterested, turning his head just a bit, eyes staring at her boots and then scanning up from there, thin calves, muscles straining from the angle of the boot heel. His gaze continued the slow rise—thighs lightly sun kissed and shapely. Her knees were slightly buckling, one at a time, nervously back and forth. She knew she was being judged. She was used to it, but this was different. It was almost as if she felt his eyes on her skin, and it sent a shiver straight through her.

Her skirt was scant and barely covered the goods as her upper legs disappeared beneath it. The top of the skirt was hanging low, so low that the ridges of her hip bones could be seen, beginning their descent, and the bottom of the dangling cross pointed to that which was barely concealed.

She physically shook under the scrutiny. The petite girl leaned a little forward, against him as if trying some way to hide from his eyes. It had the opposite effect, and she suddenly knew it. Her leaning had caused her head to touch his chest as he continued the awkward process.

She said, It’s cold, feels like Independence Day,

And I can’t break away from this parade,

Somewhere here in front of me,

Through this maze of ugliness and greed.

The music hammered forward.

Nervously, she fumbled for something to say.

My name is Kari. What’s yours?

Gregg pressed his hand against her bare waist, thumb resting on the ring in her navel. He pushed her back about six inches. With the other hand, he lifted his index finger to her lips, as if to say be quiet. Once again, he lost himself in the music.

I seen the sun up ahead at the county line bridge,

Says all is good and nothing else is dead.

We’ll run until we are out of breath.

She ran until there’s nothing left.

She hit the end

It’s just her window ledge.

He wiped the lipstick from his finger onto his black jeans and reached into his shirt pocket for his Camels. With wide eyes, Kari watched his every move.

Oh my god! I can’t smoke one of those things.

He licked one end of the filterless smoke, as was his way, and lit the tip. Gregg put the lit end into his mouth and touched the flame of the Zippo to the other end. Taking it out of his mouth, he broke it into half and handed one to her.

Okay, can you make it through half of one? Intentionally, he avoided using her name.

Gregg glanced over at Brad. His friend had that out-of-place look, trying to seem occupied by looking here and there around the room. Gregg motioned for Kari to come close. She lowered her head, ear against his lips.

Would your goth friend like to join us? Gregg asked Kari.

Who? was her reply.

Ms. Lucifer over there. Gregg nodded toward the bar. Brad here could use some company while we talk.

No, that’s okay, Brad stammered.

Giggling, Kari turned and waved, trying to get her friend’s attention. It didn’t work. She was occupied with another chap. Kari gave Gregg a look and nodded her head, signaling that she would be right back. His eyes remained steadfast upon her. His hair had fallen from behind his ear, and he just left it there, partly covering his right eye. Sitting on the stool, his knee was touching her thigh. She tried to turn but could not move. Gregg had trapped her thigh between his two knees, but he wouldn’t have had to. She would not have pulled away from him by her own volition anyway. Gregg’s eyes were deep, and she was stuck there somewhere. He was playing her and she was no match.

Brad looked on in disbelief as the jukebox continued to pump out those songs. It was Sheryl Crow’s turn to haunt.

You lay down with angels to feel yourself again

You’ve got everything you need under your thick skin

I know where you’re going. I know where you’ve been

And when it comes to playing games, you will always win.

Gregg finally turned to look at Brad, releasing her. Brad’s mouth was gapping.

Kari remained for a few seconds, just staring, and then, with reluctance, turned to retrieve her friend. Gregg looked as she walked away. Perfect form, he thought—back nearly bare, giving up only to leather lacing and hair. Black cowhide stretched tightly across her small bottom, perfectly proportionate with the spread of her shoulders and the swoop of her waist. Her thin naked legs set it all off. Though the music was pounding, the sound of her boots could be heard on the floor. It was like some kind of instinctive mating call. Heads turned.

It’s all about this, isn’t it, Brad?

All about what? Brad was almost afraid to ask. Gregg was on one of his rolls, and all Brad could do was to hang on for the ride. He had been here before. Gregg’s rants always took unexpected turns.

The world hinges on power, and sexuality is the strongest power on Earth. Gregg glanced across the room as if to make his point.

Think about it, brother. It’s like the hub upon which everything turns, every goddamned thing.

Kari was leaning against her friend, whispering into her ear, glancing Gregg’s way. Her friend was hesitant to leave her current pursuit.

Everything revolves like a wheel, all spokes pointing down to the axel upon which it endlessly turns.

I don’t buy it. Brad felt the need to counter, though he knew Gregg’s logic was damn near impossible to penetrate, even if it was flawed.

Just look around this room.

Okay, sure. This place is a mating ground, but—

Gregg interrupted, "But nothing. Fashion is geared toward sexuality. Just look at the stuff. It’s all about eye candy. Girls wear skirts up to their asses. And if she is a more sophisticated lady, she is also accentuating her figure, only in a more subtle way to catch a different kind of guy. Success is about power. Power is about control, and sex is the ultimate control.

Where do the out-of-town execs go in the evening when the board meeting is over? Oh yes, you know. It’s not the conference they are looking forward to when they come into town. Look at advertising. Tell me sex doesn’t sell. Why? Because it’s all about sex. Sex is power. It strikes at our most basic instinct. What goes on in the office? How many managers are not advancing upon a co-worker? It’s about leverage and power for sex, even if it doesn’t end in the actual act—same freaking thing. How are promotions achieved? That’s right. Why did they find twelve illegal brothels peddling underage foreign girls within a two-mile radius of the White House?

Brad remembered the Oprah show Gregg had told him about.

"Why has the sexuality of women overthrown kingdoms? Why do men like sports cars and towering condos overlooking the water? What is a nice haircut all about or an expensive suit or high heels?

"Just like these girls tonight, they feel powerless, so they use their sexuality to execute control over a man. It works. Even the sound of boot heels on the floor is an intentional call. They wiggle their asses, and men drool and slobber all over themselves. The attention gives the girls in here what they lack most—fragments of self-esteem.

Did you notice what I just did?

Brad tried to follow him but was having difficulty. There was too much racket. Gregg continued.

At age forty-five, I walk in here, push a few buttons, and a teenager is all over my ass, a gorgeous one at that. I know what to say, when to say it, and, most importantly, how to say it. Gregg pulled his hair behind his ear and glanced again toward the bar, toward Kari.

But she’s not just any teenager, Gregg.

Brad’s voice was barely a whisper, but Gregg heard and reacted. Long strands of hair fell from behind his right ear when he jerked his head toward Brad.

So why are you playing this game, Gregg? Brad thought he had cornered him.

"I’ll show