The Never Known Darkness Comes: Darkness Comes

By Steven P. Arthur

In these early years of his life he was learning how much he loved to kill...

I wonder, is the hair on the back of their necks tingling right now with my thoughts of their death lingering over them? Do they see my face in their nightmares because they know they can never get away with what they have done? Or are they clueless to their future. Living one drug induced day to the next. Thinking nothing at all of the children whose father was taken from them or the years Ill never get back. If thats the case, when I look down upon them and see only confusion in their eyes then mess or no mess they will beg for death, to no avail. I will make sure the pain will be continuous and be severe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503552128

Steven P. Arthur

Steven Arthur, as some of you may have noticed, is a new writer. He is currently doing time in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice and has three years done on a fifteen-year sentence. His crime record is simple. It consists of burglary of buildings and felony weapons charges. At this time, he is trying to get his shit straight and change his ways, and wants his readers to know that he has been behind bars for too many years of his adult life. If anyone wishes to give him inspiration or comments on his book, they can do so while he is locked up via j.pay.com - TDCJ Steven Arthur TDCJ number 01695931

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Copyright © 2015 by Steven P. Arthur.

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.

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.

Back Cover image by Michael Mac Das Photography

Rev. date: 07/10/2015

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Dedication

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

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

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I have spent most of my adult life behind bars, yet my family continues to support any good decisions I choose to make.

This being my first book, I was very excited to tell my mother my idea of writing a book.

Mom, Dad, and all my children, you guys give me a reason to be a better man. My dad once sat me down and tried to explain to me what insanity truly is. In his eyes, it’s someone who keeps doing something the same way over and over again expecting a different outcome! Dad, you are so right, so with this book, I’m going to try something different; and in doing so, I hope to bring to life the insanity of my life, and the crazy stories that are inside my head.

To the reader, I hope you truly enjoy my story. I hope I can weave together a web of fact and fiction to captivate each and every one of you.

DEDICATION

T here h ave only been a hand ful of deep meaningf ul conversations that transpired between me and my old man.

Shit, in my whole life I can probably count the deepest on one hand.

So when my father came to visit me today unannounced, I was surprised.

I’ve heard it said throughout my life that the apple does not fall far from the tree; but if that is the case, I am not my father’s son.

Now, by blood I am an Arthur through and through, but I don’t think I could be any more different than any man in my family.

I come from a long line of military men serving their country, no questions asked. And here I sit in prison for my sixth time—a black sheep if you will.

Ever since I can remember, my father has always been a straight shooter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do a malicious or crooked thing a day in my life. He is a quiet, reserved man who will give you the shirt off his back. But the truth is, there is a very large chunk of my dad’s life I know nothing about. Shoot, I don’t think anyone does except the people standing next to him at the time he was in the Vietnam War.

My old man never talks about his time in the war, and even if he did, I don’t think I could rate the caliber of man worthy of the conversation in his eyes.

For most of my youthful years and the better part of my adult ones, I’ve probably been a real disappointment.

I’ve always wanted to make my dad proud and wondered many times what I would have to do to do just that, but never walked the walk. Always trying to make the easy dollars or only working the legit job to keep people off my ass.

This changed a little over a week ago. You see, for the last six months, I’ve been working on a book.

My first book actually, if I must say so, I’m pretty sure is a good one, and after six long months I’ve finally finished it.

I’ve been sending it home in pieces getting my mom’s opinion on it, and she has been keeping my dad in the loop.

Well, last week, on my weekly call home, instead of talking to my mom like I always do, I talked to my old man and I felt something different.

He was taking the time to make notes for me on things like getting an agent or opening a savings account for me in case I get published.

It made me feel good to have my dad interested in something I had done.

So, Dad, this book is for you. I love you.

PROLOGUE

T hey say that even befor e you are born, you know already what you are going to be. It ’s embedded in your D NA, so there really is no choice in the matter. A preacher is a preacher at birth , a genius is a genius at birth, and a killer is a killer at birth. It’s a calling. I’ve known from my very first memories that I was different. It’s funny how all the movies portray the killer as the bad guy who lives in a basement or some abandoned warehouse somewhere with all the windows blacked out and rats scurrying about. Let’s face it, when you think of a killer, you imagine some guy wearing dark clothes. Maybe some sort of trench coat or a hoodie. Is the skin pale, or maybe he is unshaven and unclean? Hair greasy from weeks being unwashed. Sitting in some old 1970s recliner with holes in it, maybe with duct tape covering the big patches from years of abuse. Lazily watching some religious evangelist on TV where the station is all static or rolling with the volume down, music in the background. What kind of music is it? Some techno death metal like in that movie about a very intellectual cannibal’s prodigy. Or let’s get even more twisted, perhaps it’s some old-school Johnny Cash walk the line. Old pizza boxes lying half open throughout the place, half-eaten pizza with the occasional fly taking its tasty treat. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there are some drug- induced zombies out there who would love to kill the world, but let’s face it, none is smart enough to do what I have done. They may kill one or two, but then they get caught. I’ve killed and survived. You see, I’ve known from birth just what I’ve wanted to be, and that is a killer. I am a walking, talking oxymoron. I don’t meet up to anyone’s standards of what a serial killer should look like. I find it comical, because throughout all my time in prison, I have acquired the occasional tattoo. To be honest, I’m pretty much covered in them and still they have never stopped me from going where I want to go or being what I want to be. I am not antisocial, yet I do not really like too many people. Oh, I have a few close people in my life, but they come few and far between. You see, nobody really knows exactly what anybody else is thinking. To have someone look you directly in the eye and hold a conversation that piques your interest and not even know that the person is contemplating taking your life. Examining the values of your very existence. Wondering what your screams sound like. How thick or pungent is your blood. Wondering how long you would be able to stand the tortures that you may go through. Everyone has a pain threshold, a tolerance, but everyone has a breaking point where their body and mind can just take no more. It’s funny how one never knows who is sitting right next to them.

I spend most of my free time studying. Nothing specific: business, religion, philosophy, human nature. It helps me with my game face, because contrary to belief I am no longer an outcast. I very much love being the center of attention. I very much like the finer things in life. Flat-screen TVs, Cell phones. Name-brand clothes and nice cars, and therein lies the troubles in my life. I’ve gone in and out of prison more times than I would like to admit for everything from pimping to burglary, because I love money. I’ve always been able to get away with what I do, because being a drug dealer and a thief puts me around some pretty shady characters. I know more people who would never be missed than a person of my nature should. I deal to the rich, the poor, and the middle-class, not only drugs, but flesh. I sport some very beautiful women if I must say so myself, and some would say that their prices may be a little high, but once you meet them there are no complaints stored here. So you see, in my line of work I must be sociable to a major degree. I’ve read a few books on famous serial killers and for the most part we are undetectable. We weave our world intertwined in yours. A web of fictional lies, believable because we are so convincing. Sociopaths have riddled our history, intriguing all of us with the actions they take. Al Capone, Frederick and Rosemary West with their house of horrors. Dr. Harold Shipman, who may have just killed over a hundred and fifty people, and even Ted Bundy, who was involved in the Methodist Youth Church, was well mannered and charming and even managed the 1968 Seattle office of Nelson Rockefeller’s presidential campaign while still killing women. We are a part of society. We serve you your drinks. We sell you your clothes. We teach your children at school and we make your laws. You may even roll over at night and kiss us good night. We are the poor, the middle-class, and the upper elite. Even Jack the Ripper was thought to be a nobleman.

The general consensus is that there are two types of sociopaths, unsuccessful and successful. The unsuccessful spends most his time in prison for being irresponsible lawbreakers and killers. The successful is a con man. Someone who is not a social loser. They are clever, with no morals; they are smart and could be anything, but choose to swindle and take by illegal means. There is yet a third category that I find myself in. My addictions have placed me in prison several times, yet when I’m out, I integrate sociably quite well. I float somewhere commutable, in between the two. There is another I feel I would have liked to have known. The gentleman known as The Ripper. It’s thought that he was a nobleman, possibly even a Mason. Now I’m no Mason. With my lifestyle some would say I’m not even middle-class. But I aspire for greatness in everything I do. I’m that guy next door, I’ve got children who love me and I love them. Yes, yes, yes. I’m no full-time father. Being who I am and what I do, that just would not do. I go to the movies, I date women on a very regular basis. I am not prone to long-term relationships. As a matter of fact I’m pretty up front and blunt when I meet women and let them know I’m only good for six or seven months, tops. But we can have one hell of a ride ’till it’s over. So you see I’m a regular guy, someone you see every day, and you may think that I’m far from legal. But you would never in a million years think that in the flick of an eye I would slit your throat, tattoo your dead corpse, skin you, sun-dry your hide, clean your bones, and frame my art in my special place.

You never know who is standing right in front of you. Your best friend, your boyfriend, your husband, even the father of your children.

You just never know.

The unexamined life is not worth living.

—Socrates

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CHAPTER ONE

Present day

S o, I jus t got back from the reck yard and it is the latest that they have called reck sin ce I’ve been here. A nd if you ignore the fact that it’s nothin g but men either in their boxer shorts o r their orange jumps uit pants, it might be mistaken for a tin-covered basketball court from any neighborhood around the country.

Underneath the razor wire is a concrete track. One that if you put enough miles on you will lose weight, but gain definite knee damage. There is a volleyball court that has no sand, yet people still play a friendly game to pass the time. At one end there is a twenty-foot cement wall where the Mexicans play handball in doubles on either side, occasionally chasing the blue ball across the yard from a stray hit. If you look to your right or left you will see a white man here or there lying out, working on his tan in the near Mexican heat, being only twenty minutes from the Mexico border. Three hundred fifty-five days out of the year it is hot as hell. You may be able to fry an egg on the cement, but I would not know for it’s been several years since I’ve seen a real egg or any of the products an egg may become. As you walk to the other side of the yard, you pass a table where you can hear the blacks playing dominos and just a little further over are the two weight benches that keep us prison fit. And you never really notice how fucked up your surroundings are until you step to the side like I did tonight during count time. Since we were on the yard, they had us lined up like cattle and it just seemed odd being in an environment that seems so familiar and having it to be so wrong. The average intelligent person would never have to process a real live situation such as the one I keep putting myself into. And if they only knew—if they really knew—then I would be here a lot longer than the twelve short years the state of Texas has sentenced me to. I feel as though I’ve gotten away with murder—hmm, that’s funny. I’ve placed myself repeatedly in an environment where nothing heard is to be believed and only half of what you see is reality. Most times you just want to move around to the next group of people so you can hear someone else’s lies. Be all you can be in the penitentiary. Nobody is a drug addict or petty thief. Everyone sold big dope and only planned the biggest heists. Nobody drove beat-up twenty-year-old cars with ticks in the engines; only Hummers and big bodies were driven by these ballers. Everyone was surrounded by friends and fine women, yet only one-fourth of the population here regularly has enough money for commissary, and even less than that get mail, phone calls, or visits on a regular basis. One thing you learn real fast is that no one is any different here than they are in the world. No one comes here and decides that just because they are locked up they decide hey, it’s time to stop bathing. If you’re nasty in here then it’s a 95 percent probability you did not bathe on a regular basis in the world. If you don’t clean up after yourself in here, then wherever you stayed in the free world was probably disgusting. It does not matter what comes out of your mouth; actions always speak louder than words. If you lie in here, you lied in the world.

Back when I started doing time in the nineties there was honor among criminals. Now don’t get me wrong, there has always been a pecking order where the strong survive, and if you are not strong, you form cliques. Strength in numbers, but there are or were rules in prison. Like, nothing is worse than a jailhouse thief except maybe a pedophile or sexual offender, and even now the system protects them. This new prison system is something foreign to me. All the old-school convicts feel out of place. Snitches are protected by PRIA, The Prison Rape Elimination Act, and a jailhouse thief may get smashed on, but once the law sees any kind of mark on anyone, they get moved. Oh, in the world I’m a go-getter. If I see someone slipping I’m going to get him. Whether it’s your property or your life, when you come behind the walls there has to be some sort of order established. There may be twenty-five guards at any one time for the 1,069 prisoners here, so in essence we monitor ourselves. If you see someone going in another’s property you let it be known. I know, I know, you may ask yourself, isn’t that snitching. But no, snitching is when you involve the law. If I see someone going in my neighbor’s shit unwelcomely, what’s to stop that individual from going in my shit when I’m not around? That man must get leaned on. We all live together no matter how much I dislike anyone. In truth the only people in here I respect are the hustlers, people who work hard for what they have. Whether it’s washing clothes, cleaning up for someone when it’s not their day, being a mule or a cigarette runner or even a tattoo artist. I have respect for these people. They depend on no one. That’s respectable. You have people who brag all day long about all the dirt they did in the world and how known they were and then hide behind the Bible in here. Like I said you are no different in here than you are in the world. Don’t mistake my statement about the Bible for me being unreligious. I believe in a God, but one must man up for what he truly is. These are the ones I daydream about being alone in my dark little secret place testing the sharpness of my blades or the heaviness of blunt instruments. It’s hard for me to hold anything against any man who hustles for anything he has. Anyone who does is a hater, and this place is full of haters, hating because they will never have what you have in the outside world.

I sit in here today because of a hater. A snitch, in truth not just one but three. But the only one that really gets to me is HER. She is the one I opened up my life to and actually developed some sort of feelings for. Oh, she was a hooker. I looked past that. She was a hustler. Yes, she hustled sex and companionship and she was oh so good. Even so good that she got past my defenses. I am not prone to show compassion to women, let alone a high-priced escort, one of my own, but she was good and I let her in and the first time I do she turns out to be a confidential informant for the Houston Police Department. I never saw it coming. So for her I daydream. I see her in my sleep covered in blood and bruises. Sweet, lovely, bloody dreams.

All things are wearisome, more than one can say. The eye never has enough of seeing, nor its ear full of hearing. What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.

—King Solomon, 1011–931 BC

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CHAPTER TWO

I can’t really say where the perfect place to start would be, because like I said, there were never any traumatic experiences that formed the killer in me. My best friend was never killed in front of me. I was never abused or sexually molested as a child. I had a very loving family. We were not perfect, but I’m proud of my family.

So I’ll just start from the beginning and touch base with my childhood.

I was born on a military base in Hawaii. My father, having survived Vietnam met my mother and her brother on this beautiful island. I don’t remember to much about Hawaii because we left before I was able to establish any real memories. When I was two we moved to Lake Charles, Louisiana. To a little two-bedroom house with different-colored 1970s shag carpet in each room. I remember a very orange carpet in one of the rooms.

A couple of years ago I was looking at pictures taken at this house. Really, at one in particular. It’s of me crawling out the screen door to get to the front porch, and looking at this innocent child, you would not even think of this child as, for lack of a better word, a monster. But monster is not the right word at all; in fact, it does not fit me. I am no monster. God will not condemn me to hell for my ill deeds; I stay on an even playing field with the big man upstairs. I keep my life in balance. This is why I’ve never been to prison for the lives I’ve taken. I came to prison for the drugs, the crimes and the selling of flesh. For these things, it’s extremely hard to find a way to even things out and create a balance. So for these I pay karma with time in prison away from my family and loved ones.

So, anyway, from Louisiana we moved to Arizona. And for those who don’t know, Arizona is a very spiritual state. I’m not sure if it’s some sort of old Indian thing, if it’s the location of some cosmic points meeting or what it is. All I know is that is where I first started seeing them and feeling them. Most of y’all maybe don’t believe in ghosts and whatnots, and this ain’t no ghost tale, but let me assure you that they are real and they are out there. I’ve never really talked about them much to my family, and for good reason. I just don’t want to sound crazy, and as a child who would believe me?

Anyway, I was a sickly child. Suffering with severe bouts of asthma, I was allergic to dust and grass and even had a quarter-sized hole growing in my left ear. I remember the shots I used to get once a day. Those things are awful big to a small child. As I grew into my adolescent years I began to get healthy somehow. I no longer had asthma or allergies, but I used to get sick a lot.

My father being a quiet man coming out of the war, still had a heart of gold. I remember being about five or six and catching lice once. My father is from the country had no idea about lice medicine. Where we come from in Louisiana, if you catch lice, you just shave your head. So he takes me to the backyard of our house in Phoenix, I miss that house, and shaved my head. I was devastated. In the early eighties a buzz cut on a six-year-old kid was not good. I could only imagine what the kids at school were going to say to me. I cried so hard. I was sitting in the kitchen crying to my mother, eyes all red with snot coming out of my nose, wondering where that mean old man calling himself my father was and why he would do this to me. And out of nowhere, the sliding glass backdoor opens up and in walks my father with a freshly shaved head. He was not going to let me go through this alone. This is my strongest memory of my father. I never felt so loved. My father is a very stern man, but has a heart of gold.

My mother at this time was a free spirit, coming out of the 60’s. As a hippie, she spent her time with the drugs of that era. Crystal meth, mescal, weed and alcohol, but I’m pretty sure that after I was born she had stopped doing everything except drinking and occasionally smoking some pot. No, my mother was a drinker. And I’m not even sure she would like me to admit this. But there were times I would wake up for school and go into their bedroom and she would be passed out in front of the toilet. I don’t know what your definition of a heavy drinker is, but to me that’s heavy. I don’t know what happened, but one day she decided enough is enough and stopped drinking. No recovery groups, no hospitalization. Just the strength and desire to stop something that was not good for her life. I love her for that. Not only love, but respect the hell out of her for having the strength to overcome an addiction that millions of people cannot. I even have my own addictions that seem impossible to overcome. I wish I had my mother’s strength.

But I stray. So from five to ten you can maybe imagine the young life I lived. I had a loving family even though we had our difficult moments. At seven years old my mother decided to go out with some bikers who were our neighbors, even after my father had asked her to stay home. My dad being my dad had the maybe not so good idea that he should show her a lesson. Now, I feel that I can say with 100 percent accuracy that my parents have never been unfaithful to each other, which is probably why my dad waited ’till he was pretty sure my mother would be coming home to start flirting with one of my mom’s good friends. When mom came home and caught them two in the bedroom together, well, that just something a pistol packing free spirit such as my mother could not deal with, especially after she had been drinking. Shots were fired. I’ve been brought up around guns my entire life so I know my mom can shoot with the best of them. So I believe her when she said she was not trying to hit him, only scare the shit out of him and have him run for cover. I’m sure the bullet holes riddle the hallway walls of that old house to this day. They laugh and giggle about that story today. I don’t know how they made it, but they did. Their love is awfully strong.

I love my parents more than you can imagine and if they were ever to find out the things I’ve done, well, as disappointed in me as they would be, I’m sure they would still love me.

The question is not, Can they reason? nor, Can they talk? but rather, Can they suffer?

—Jeremy Bentham

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CHAPTER THREE

Early Eighties

B oth of my parents wo rked as I was growin g up. My father owned his air-conditio ning company and my mom was a florist fo r a local grocery sto re, so I used to go to a sitter. That la dy was beautiful. Mo st days of the year it’s not uncommon for you to be able to walk down the street and see chicks sunbathing on their roofs, but my sitter used to bathe nude in the backyard. Those are very vivid memories. She had two sons, Ronny and Bobby. Ronny was my age and Bobby was a few years older, so me and Ronny had maintained a pretty good friendship. We all played soccer. They were better than I ever was. And if I had to put a point in my life where I started acting upon my impulses this is where my story would start.

My first real experience with judging the value of human life started with a bully on my way home from school. I wasn’t the biggest kid growing up and never really had any real problems until this day. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and I’m on my way home taking the usual route when up ahead I see a group of older kids. Have you ever had an experience where even before something happened you knew something was going to go wrong? The hairs on the back of your neck start to stand on end, you get the chill and goose bumps take hold of your entire body. The body’s natural fight-or-flight response kicks in. The neuroreceptors in your brain listen for chemicals that your body is programmed to send when you sense something wrong. Serotonin begins to fluctuate. The serotonin goes directly to the far center of your brain and you then release a surge of adrenaline and cortisol into your bloodstream. Your central nervous system then prepares you for the fight-or-flight response. To some people this response overwhelms them. Some people control it. At this time was too young to control it. I got scared. My eyes dilated and I started taking everything in. Colors, smells, everything. My breathing became rapid, bringing more oxygen to my blood, making my fingers start to tingle. I began to sweat. I guess these guys could smell my fear because they all seemed to notice me at once. The biggest of the bunch in his faded T-shirt and his ripped jeans looked at me and smiled. This was no friendly smile, either. I knew something was wrong. I looked left, I looked right. There was no place to go. Only straight through or turn back and run, but I have come too far. If I turned around, there was no way I could outrun them. So I pedaled on. My BMX bike seemed to weigh a ton. Each turn of the pedal seemed to take all my strength. I mean, I was only seven years old. These guys were easily thirteen to fourteen years old and at least two of them were smoking cigarettes. The biggest stepped right in front of me, forcing me to stop, and his friends flanked both my right and left sides. The big bully in front grabbed my handlebars and asked me, Where you going?

Nowhere.

So how much money you got on you? I replied, I have none.

This fuck’n asshole began to look at my bike like it’s a limo, and he must have it in his collection. He told me, Nice bike, why don’t you just give it to me?

No way, it’s my bike and you can’t have it.

His response was quick and I was unprepared for it. He grabbed my shirt and yanked me off the bike telling me with spittle coming out of his mouth, Fuck it. Why don’t I just take it then, you little pussy? And he threw me to the ground.

Here I was, sprawled on the cement, in the middle of the street. My hands stung and my elbow bloody. I stared up at them, these monsters in my world. I look at my hands, useless to do anything about what was happening to me. I’ve got little pieces of dirt and rock stuck to the palms of both my hands. I slowly got to my feet, never taking my eyes off of them. I backed away.

All his friends were laughing at me and I began to cry. My fists were shaking and I saw red. I wanted nothing more than to hurt these people and make them pay, but there were to many of them. Not that I could do much harm to any one of them in a fair fight. I was forced to tuck tail and walk home with my dignity smashed. As I was leaving, I noticed the piece of shit who just took my bike wheeling it into a garage that I had to presume was his house. Here I was, seven years old, fretting the entire way home. I don’t even remember the walk. I was so preoccupied with visions of his mangled body that I’m surprised I did not walk off a cliff or something. By the time I got home my mother just knew something was wrong. I told her the story and I could tell that not only was she mad, but she was also upset. Upset that I had to have gone through something like that. To have had to feel so helpless. She was running late for work and told me that we would handle this when the whole family was together. We loaded up in the car and took the trip to the sitter’s house. That was probably the quietest car ride of my life. The only comment was when I said, That’s the house and pointed to where I had seen the older boy putting my bike in the garage. I saw my mother look at that house and I just knew. I knew from the look in her eyes that she was thinking the same thing I was thinking. What can I do to get even? To make them