Gone with yesteryear were the cobbled paths and narrow brick lanes that once made the small town so quaint and attractive, replaced by wide asphalt streets and sidewalks. The lush landscaping and handsome architecture of the traditional private home gave way more and more to concrete parking lots and condominium complexes. Here and there small pockets of resistance flung out petitions and injunctions to stop the onslaught of commercial housing and modernization, but to no avail. The quaint old town rapidly vanished into the dehumanizing embrace of the big city. With the town also departed many of the gardens, the courtyards, the secret paths and the personality.
The quiet darkness of the night held against progress longer than many other things, but eventually streetlights and headlights drove even the shadows into retreat. People feared the night no longer. Instead of hiding behind closed doors and shutters in order to pass the gloom safely, they boldly strode forth into the dimly illuminated city to conduct business and pass the hours without care. Modern life tightened its stranglehold on the world until even the night acquiesced. The silence of the sleeping world gave way to the sound of car horns and revelers, and the day continued on between the setting and rising of the sun.
The great river that flowed through the heart of the nation witnessed the evolution of men's lives. When the first Europeans settled on its banks the river was free to wander about in its course, free to shape the land as the years passed by. Man eventually corrected that freedom, constructing stronger and stronger levees to keep the river captive. By the time the second millennium ticked by on the clock, the river no longer had any choice about course, nor the power to sculpt the earth. Great concrete barriers restrained the flow of the water as it passed through the capitol of Louisiana, nearing the end of its long trek to the Gulf.
High rise apartments looked down upon the river traffic from the east side, on the natural uplift created by thousands of years of sediment. Since the construction of the massive new Army Corps of Engineers embankment, natural levees existed only as geological curiosities in the lower Mississippi River valley. Sometimes people mistook the formation in Baton Rouge for a hill, which was an honest mistake. It provided a small measure of elevation to the area closest to the river, and made for attractive real estate. Anything built above sea level came with a healthy price tag in the land of hurricanes and floods.
The historic River Road provided an address for all that riverfront real estate, and marked the westernmost edge of the urban sprawl. It originated on the northern edge of the city and clung tightly to the twists and turns of the Mississippi as it plunged to the south, to New Orleans and the devastated regions beyond. The River Road whisked cars past the ruined shells of abandoned inner city businesses and the burned out hulls of nearly forgotten plantations. Long ago wagons and horses on the road passed those plantations in their heyday, and classic cars passed those establishments when business was still good. The road, like the flowing water beside it, mutely observed the ebb and flow of humanity's actions, if only for a much shorter time.
Between the urban quagmire and the old plantations a small slice of the cosmopolitan world straddled the River Road, at exactly the point where the city gave way to farmland. The local university bridged the gap between the two environments culturally as well as physically, owing in large part to its designation as an agricultural and mechanical college. The pastures closest to the downtown area had nothing to do with a commercial farm, but were instead holdings of the College of Agriculture and the College of Veterinary Medicine. The school used the cows, fields and crops as learning tools, which catapulted farming straight into the modern educational system. Inside the closest classroom buildings, would-be farmers used computer imagery to diagnose bovine diseases and databases to project future crop incomes. Though not an engineered structure, the bridge was something very tangible.
The turn east off of River Road at the vet school led into the heart of the university, a place like no other in South Louisiana. The buildings and grounds of L.S.U. presented a slice of dignified beauty in an urban landscape that, with the exception of some of the wealthier neighborhoods, had very little of that. The campus looked like an oasis of sanity, education and stability in a world filled with crumbling madhouses. The dilapidated hovels of the surrounding community suddenly transitioned into intelligently designed and well maintained dormitories and classroom complexes. The difference was quite dramatic.
In a testament to the progressive nature of the institution the major structures mutely championed the use of Italian Renaissance architecture. The lawns and gardens between the halls were perpetually watered and pampered, and filled with the best examples of landscaping plants the South had to offer. Giant live oaks accentuated the entire arrangement, with branches drooped to the ground and Spanish moss hanging from their limbs. On top of that the campus covered several square kilometers inside the city of Baton Rouge. The place looked marvelous. There had never been any dispute about that.
Curiously only one street connected the university to the Mississippi River, and River Road. It was called South Stadium, because it curved around the south side of Tiger Stadium. Students, fans, alumni and sportscasters called the stadium Death Valley. On Saturday's during football games the stadium contained almost a third of the population of the entire city.
The stadium changed many times since it's original construction, as thousands of seats were added over the decades. Originally the stadium held only 12,000 people. By 2005, 93,000 people could pack themselves into bleachers that stretched hundreds of feet into the air. The small, inviting sports arena got swallowed by a concrete leviathan that shook the ground during games, registering like an earthquake on the seismograph in the Geology Department. Death Valley suffered the same fate as the delightful college town around it; it grew up and transformed into a monster.
South Stadium Drive continued east past the monstrosity to eventually become West Lakeshore Drive, home to some of the prettiest scenery in Baton Rouge, but long before that it intersected with South Campus. South Campus Drive, along with Field House Drive, Tower Drive and Dalrymple Drive ringed the part of the campus that contained the quadrangle. The quad, as it was affectionately called, could only be described as the physical and ideological heart of Louisiana State University.
The quad was originally cruciform, with two long rows of halls making up the base and top. The Hill Memorial Library and the Memorial Tower formed the ends of the cross piece. In 1958 LSU constructed the Troy H. Middleton Library in the center of the layout, which transformed the longer, bottom end of the cruciform into a quadrangle bounded by nine different halls. The architects intended for the quad to represent knowledge, and they succeeded in a very practical sense. That particular place also witnessed the beginning of a great and secret story, hitherto unknown and all the more important for that.
The remnants of a thin haze lingered around the Spanish tile rooftops of the buildings surrounding the voluminous courtyard. The vaporous morning air curling along the ground between the benches and through the azaleas gave the campus an otherworldly air. Those illusions would vanish when the sun reclaimed control of the world. The southern heat had only started to burn its way through the humidity, so the temperature hovered in the almost pleasant range. The sun would do away with any illusion of mildness as well, later on in the day. In the morning air it was almost possible to pretend that wasn't true, as long as it was very early.
Unlike the heart of the city, campus life still slowed to a standstill at nightfall. A couple of hours after daybreak that reality changed. People appeared in small numbers at first, and then in growing crowds as class times drew near. Cars also materialized in ever increasing numbers on the streets hidden behind the great halls. The volume of cars reached a series of peaks around nine o'clock, then traffic died back down until lunch, and again until the end of the business day. The streets never went back to being quiet while the sun was up, though, nor did the sidewalks, squares and halls return to that peaceful state of emptiness. Daytime affairs involved nothing if not a lot of people moving around.
The act of traveling hither and yon wasn't all that complicated, but sociology devoted a lot of time to explaining why people did it. A few religions sought to still all the motion, and to deny the desires that called it into existence. To the detached mind and unquestioning eye the scene looked mundane and uninteresting, but the same scene viewed from a focused philosophical perspective stimulated a lot of thought. The eye of the beholder sometimes shaped the subjects of observation, and at other times blurred distinctions between them. It was very much a matter of perspective.
The benches in front of Coates Hall provided a perch to somebody with quite a unique perspective on the scene. A young man sat on top of one bench's back, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. His facial structure and his diminutive frame, along with his blond hair and green eyes, suggested that he was at least partially or Northern European descent, possibly with some Scottish thrown in. The hair in question was short and nicely cut, and blended i perfectly in any crowd. He looked to be in his twenties and in great shape, but at a distance his small size could mislead people into thinking he was weak. His Teva sandals looked a little new for a college student's, but only a very close inspection would reveal something like that. He was wearing Docker style shorts, if a bit baggy, and a blue and white Polo shirt. He blended into his surroundings almost perfectly.
The young man's name was William Patrick, but he never responded to William unless he knew the person addressing him. That name never came up unless his parents wanted him to do something. William's friends and family usually referred to him as Scooter.
Scooter died eight months after the morning in question, but his spirit stayed behind. Scooter appreciated dying only partially. He liked the arrangement a lot. After he accident he knew exactly what had happened to him to make him that way.
Scooter didn't talk to himself about it, because he got the feeling it wouldn't change anything. He prayed a lot after his death, which was the most defining moment of his existence. He constantly tried to talk to God. He didn't really miss human contact, but he had a great desire for more knowledge about what was going on. His cognitive and spiritual needs seemed to only grow stronger after death.
Scooter could effortlessly recall every detail of the night he passed away. He found himself thinking about it even when he didn't want to. The first real cold front of autumn had pushed into South Louisiana, in the second week of October during the previous year. The temperature dropped into the upper fifties, which felt like a real luxury after the summer months. Scooter opened all of the windows of his apartment and put on a '95 Phish concert when the sun went down. He cleaned up the place, turned up the music and got down to the business of feeling on top of the world.
It was Saturday night, and the phone rang around seven o'clock. Scooter's best friend needed his input to plan the evening's festivities. The person calling on the phone, Jeffrey Simmons, met Scooter in middle school, and they remained friends from that point on. They decided to take in a late movie, hit a fast food restaurant around midnight and then go out to a club in Lafayette. Also along for the ride would be Meyer Reid, and of course they would all have their girlfriends along.
After Scooter hung up the phone he wondered why he and Jeffrey always made the weekend plans. Only after that did they let everyone else know what they were doing. That also led him to wonder why his girlfriend, Christie, put up with him. But maybe the story should start a wee bit further in the past...
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My kingdom for an editor!
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Note: Yes, I know it's very similar. That's intentional. It becomes more distracting as the story advances, guaranteed.
Bullshit Institute of Technology
"I read the news today, oh boy. The U.S. Army had not won the war. Crowds of people unaware. I could not make them care. I could not make them care."
- Day
“According to some sources the most beautiful university grounds in the United States belonged to BIT. The Bayou Institute of Technology was located in picturesque downtown Burton Rouge, the last bastion of the old south. Many people thought of the campus when they thought of BIT. Others knew the university only for its beloved football team, the BIT Moccasins. Those people who knew the college for its landscape and athleticism represented the mainstream, but a select number of students, alumni, locals and screw-ups thought of something quite different when they thought of BIT. They thought about Times Street.”
Meyer Reid stopped reading the stack of paper and put it down. He stared incredulously across the table at his friend, the author of the piece. Meyer took a deep breath and attempted to put his feelings into words. Finally he groaned, “Jeffrey, what is this shit?”
“That’s my novel, Meyer,” Jeffrey Simmons explained simply, as if those few words captured the essence of everything that lay on the table before Mr. Reid.
“That’s not what I mean, Jeff. I mean what the hell are you talking about? There’s no such thing as Burton Rouge or BIT or Times Street. Were you talking about Chimes Street? Were you trying to hide Baton Rouge behind a veil of bullshit?”
“You understood. I was worried it would be too cryptic,” Jeff sighed with relief.
“Are you listening to me? This is not good. This is not a good idea.”
“What do you mean, Meyer? You’ve only read the first paragraph.”
“That’s because I’m not a masochist, Jeff.”
“Wow. I never expected you to get personal, Meyer. You’ve got a lot of pent up hostility, don’t you? I mean, where else could this be coming from? I can see I made a mistake bringing you my work. Let me just collect my things and I’ll go,” Jeff said as he reached across the table for the stack of paper.
Meyer stopped him before he could pick it up. “You can’t leave. You said you would buy me lunch.”
“Oh, I see how it’s going to be. First you tear my heart out and then you go after my wallet,” Jeffrey complained, his consternation increasing by the second. He didn’t handle criticism well.
“Stop it, Jeff. How long have we known each other?” Meyer asked sweetly.
“I don’t know. Give me back my novel.”
“Look at me, Jeff. How long have we known each other?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Have I ever done anything to hurt you? Have I ever betrayed you? Have I ever done a single thing to make you think that I am anything less than a fantastic friend?”
“No,” Jeffrey Simmons admitted reluctantly. Meyer Reid was his best friend, and he would never have denied that. When it came to discussions of his writing, however, Jeff became childlike at times.
“That’s right. I never have. And I’m telling you that you shouldn’t make up names for real places, especially when everyone will know the names are fictional. All you’ve done is needlessly complicate the storyline.”
“That’s just your opinion, Meyer,” Jeff spat out hotly.
“Think about it, man. That’s all I’m asking. Bayou Institute of Technology?” Meyer started laughing. “BIT? How many times did you spell bit in this new novel, Jeff?”
Before Jeff could answer Meyer lost all control. He kept trying to stop laughing, but the mirth would burst forth with renewed vigor. Mr. Reid attempted to end the fit by covering his mouth, but the giggles just spilled out around the edges. The hilarity proved to be infectious, and before long Jeff was laughing right along with him. People at other tables turned to stare at the two as if they were a pair of unruly children, which is essentially what they were, with a couple of decades tacked on for good measure.
Meyer picked up the stack of paper and began reading again, “Burton Rouge provided a home to the leaders of the Confederate Army in the last days of the Civil War, but the shattering of the Confederacy somehow cursed Burton Rouge to the role of a college town for all time.”
“Okay, man, that’s enough. I get it. It stinks.”
“No, wait, there’s more. It looks like a couple hundred pages more. How much time did you spend on this, Jeff?"
“I wrote it last week.”
Meyer stopped smiling and looked at his friend with appreciation. He asked, “You wrote this whole thing in a week?”
“Well, nine days to be more precise.”
“That’s amazing. Now, first of all, I didn’t mean to imply that all of your writing stinks. I’m sure the plot, style and characterization all contain redemptive qualities that make this novel something worth saving. I just became slightly nauseous when I read your opening paragraph. It was so obvious to me that you came up with tacky, imaginary names for all of the places in your life. I mean, do you think there’s something wrong with Baton Rouge? Are you ashamed of LSU? Are you scared people will identify you with Chimes Street?”
“The answer to all of those questions would be an emphatic no, Meyer. I changed the names of all the places to remove any factual limitations that might be associated with said locations. In Burton Rouge the university is downtown, because it was easier for me to place it there. Nobody knows that’s not true, because there is no Burton Rouge. If I had said LSU was in downtown Baton Rouge, then everybody who’s ever been to Baton Rouge would know it wasn’t true.”
“But that’s why it’s called fiction, Jeff.”
“That was exactly what I was thinking when I got mad a minute ago. What difference does it make if I rename everything? It is merely fiction, after all.”
“You may have a point there, buddy boy,” Meyer said with a grin.
“I don’t think any jury, anywhere would convict me if I killed you right now,” Jeff laughed lightheartedly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t realize I was messing with you. Nobody cares what you call this toilet we grew up in. A toilet by any other name still smells like shit. Have you ever noticed how bad this city smells? Does Burton Rouge smell bad?”
“No, Burton Rouge smells like roses and fucking potpourri,” Jeff said with a slight edge to his voice.
“Easy now, big fella. Watch the language. Besides, I thought you were all calmed down.”
“Oh, I am calm, and my irritation has little to do with the subject matter at hand. It’s Josephine. She dumped me again,” Jeff explained.
“Did twenty-eight days go by that fast?” Meyer quipped with a snicker.
“That’s very funny. You are such a funny guy. Did I mention that you are very much on your game today?” Meyer just smiled until Jeff continued, “No, the lunar cycle isn’t until next week. She told me that she needed somebody with more direction in his life. She told me my writing is never going to go anywhere, and she’s tired of worrying about the future.”
“I warned you about dating Josephine. You could never match up to Napoleon,” Meyer paused as he noticed the murderous look return to Jeff’s face, but then he plunged onward. “Forget about her, man. She was bad for you. Besides, you haven’t even gotten rid of her yet. She knows you’ll always have sex with her, so you can expect to see her again when she wants to get some.”
“What if she’s getting some from someone else?”
“That won’t matter, and she probably, no definitely is. If you have to think about it, they are. If that’s the case, then you’ll be her guilty little pleasure. She’ll still show up to have sex with you again, only she’ll be doing it because of how wrong and dirty it is. Chicks love that shit, Jeff.”
“You think so? So I can expect to have sex with her at least one more time. Well, that makes me feel better at least.”
“I’m not telling you to turn down the sex when the time comes, but you might consider finding something else to live for. Have you thought about looking for another girlfriend?”
“Look who’s talking. You and Miranda have been breaking up and getting back together for like five years. So, Meyer, are you two together or separated this week?”
“Like you said, the lunar cycle doesn’t come until next week, so I think we’re still together right now.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are shallow, chauvinistic, insensitive and male?”
“My God! Are you a gay psychic? That’s exactly what Miranda said to me the last time she dumped me. How did you know that, Jeff?”
“It’s a gift from god. Sometimes it’s a blessing, but at other times it’s a terrible curse. People are frightened of what they do not understand, and that’s what I have to live with. Just be glad that it’s not you who can read minds and see into the future. It’s no bed of roses, my friend.”
“Two points for the Jeffster. I knew you had it in you. So what’s this book about?”
“Two assholes who spend all of their time talking about stupid shit in a coffee shop on Chimes Street, uh, I mean Times Street.”
“I knew you would eventually confuse yourself. I warned you about changing place names.”
“That you did, Meyer Reid, or should I call you Mire Reed?”
“I suppose I deserve this abuse, but I still have to wonder if what I did to you was as horrible as what you are doing to me.”
“I haven’t really started in on you yet. So, Meyer, how’s the painting coming?”
“You unbelievable prick. I trusted you. I considered you my friend.”
“Dead in the water?”
“Pulled from the water, but as yet not resuscitated,” Meyer confessed.
“That good?”
“Worse. I thought I might have a sale on one of my larger paintings, but the buyer turned out to be a fag. He pretended to scope out my painting, but he was actually checking out my other goods.”
“Ah, the perils of the art world. Did you do it with him?” Jeff asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Do you have something else to do right now, because you’re obviously trying to get rid of me, forever. My response is: Do what with him? Anyway, the fag didn’t buy the painting, just like the last seven or eight fags --
"You sure throw that word around a lot. You know gay people don't like that." Meyer didn't miss a beat.
"-- who didn’t buy any of my paintings. I kind of decided to quit producing more paintings until I can clear some of the overstock so attractively donning the walls of my studio even as we speak.”
“What does that mean? Are you out of canvases or are you out of paint?”
Meyer sighed before admitting, “Both. And I’m out of money. My tips at the restaurant sucked this week. I must be getting too old to be a waiter.”
“You’re twenty-nine years old, man. You’re in the prime of your life,” said Jeff with the most serious of expressions on his face. “It’s the perfect age to be a waiter. All of the best male waiters are twenty-nine. Seriously, Meyer, why don’t you get out of the restaurant business and get a real job?”
“Did Miranda give you cue cards? Is this some sort of sick joke? You sound exactly like her.”
“Then our girlfriends –“
“Ex-girlfriend in your case.”
“—Sound exactly like each other.”
“Maybe they’re one person with two bodies. Two women separated at birth, but joined at the mind by a freak nuclear waste accident, destined to go through life destroying the egos of men they have sex with,” Meyer rattled off in his best impression of a movie preview announcer.
“There’s a more frightening edge to that line of reasoning,” Jeff pointed out uneasily. “Our girlfriends say the same things to us not because they are the same person, but because we are. In fact, you are just a figment of my tormented, schizophrenic mind. I bet in a couple of days I’m going to wake up wondering where the hell you went. And there will be a dozen guys sleeping in my living room, all telling me about the rules of fight club.”
“There could be a third, more simple explanation. Our girlfriends are right. They keep dumping us because we are barely worth a fuck, in the literal sense, and we need to get our shit together.” Meyer sighed after he stated the fact.
“Speak for yourself. I don’t feel I need to get anything together. Sure, I’m working in a dead end job that doesn’t pay very well, but that isn’t my fault. It’s not like this city is bursting with high paying lifelong careers. I’m doing what I have to do to get by, until such time as I don’t have to worry about doing that anymore. If that’s not up to her standards, or your standards, then that’s your problem.
“The novel I wrote last week may not be the best novel ever written, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wrote it. I plan to write another one, and if that one isn’t good enough then another one after that. And I’m not going to stop until I make it work, or until I’m dead. Really, either way is fine with me. There are worse things than being dead,” Jeff finished and drew in a deep breath.
“What’s worse than being dead, Jeff?”
“This conversation.”
“You know, I think you’re right about that. I don’t think either one of us was in a good mood to start with, and this isn’t helping. Let’s put up our coffee cups and take a walk,” Meyer suggested.
“I’ll pay for your coffee. You can say what you want about my job at the bookstore, but at least I always have a little spending money,” Jeff put in, still slightly defensive.
“You know we think alike when it comes to the financial situation of struggling artists, so you can’t think I was putting down on where you work. Besides, that job treats you like royalty compared to my job at the restaurant,” Meyer offered in a conciliatory tone.
The two guys carried their coffee cups up to the front counter of the café and gave them to the girl behind the counter. It wasn’t something customers had to do, or were even encouraged to do, but it was a nice gesture. It decreased the work volume of the café employees, thereby making the lives of the workers slightly less miserable. Only working class people did such things at the café. Nobody else ever considered it.
- Day
“According to some sources the most beautiful university grounds in the United States belonged to BIT. The Bayou Institute of Technology was located in picturesque downtown Burton Rouge, the last bastion of the old south. Many people thought of the campus when they thought of BIT. Others knew the university only for its beloved football team, the BIT Moccasins. Those people who knew the college for its landscape and athleticism represented the mainstream, but a select number of students, alumni, locals and screw-ups thought of something quite different when they thought of BIT. They thought about Times Street.”
Meyer Reid stopped reading the stack of paper and put it down. He stared incredulously across the table at his friend, the author of the piece. Meyer took a deep breath and attempted to put his feelings into words. Finally he groaned, “Jeffrey, what is this shit?”
“That’s my novel, Meyer,” Jeffrey Simmons explained simply, as if those few words captured the essence of everything that lay on the table before Mr. Reid.
“That’s not what I mean, Jeff. I mean what the hell are you talking about? There’s no such thing as Burton Rouge or BIT or Times Street. Were you talking about Chimes Street? Were you trying to hide Baton Rouge behind a veil of bullshit?”
“You understood. I was worried it would be too cryptic,” Jeff sighed with relief.
“Are you listening to me? This is not good. This is not a good idea.”
“What do you mean, Meyer? You’ve only read the first paragraph.”
“That’s because I’m not a masochist, Jeff.”
“Wow. I never expected you to get personal, Meyer. You’ve got a lot of pent up hostility, don’t you? I mean, where else could this be coming from? I can see I made a mistake bringing you my work. Let me just collect my things and I’ll go,” Jeff said as he reached across the table for the stack of paper.
Meyer stopped him before he could pick it up. “You can’t leave. You said you would buy me lunch.”
“Oh, I see how it’s going to be. First you tear my heart out and then you go after my wallet,” Jeffrey complained, his consternation increasing by the second. He didn’t handle criticism well.
“Stop it, Jeff. How long have we known each other?” Meyer asked sweetly.
“I don’t know. Give me back my novel.”
“Look at me, Jeff. How long have we known each other?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Have I ever done anything to hurt you? Have I ever betrayed you? Have I ever done a single thing to make you think that I am anything less than a fantastic friend?”
“No,” Jeffrey Simmons admitted reluctantly. Meyer Reid was his best friend, and he would never have denied that. When it came to discussions of his writing, however, Jeff became childlike at times.
“That’s right. I never have. And I’m telling you that you shouldn’t make up names for real places, especially when everyone will know the names are fictional. All you’ve done is needlessly complicate the storyline.”
“That’s just your opinion, Meyer,” Jeff spat out hotly.
“Think about it, man. That’s all I’m asking. Bayou Institute of Technology?” Meyer started laughing. “BIT? How many times did you spell bit in this new novel, Jeff?”
Before Jeff could answer Meyer lost all control. He kept trying to stop laughing, but the mirth would burst forth with renewed vigor. Mr. Reid attempted to end the fit by covering his mouth, but the giggles just spilled out around the edges. The hilarity proved to be infectious, and before long Jeff was laughing right along with him. People at other tables turned to stare at the two as if they were a pair of unruly children, which is essentially what they were, with a couple of decades tacked on for good measure.
Meyer picked up the stack of paper and began reading again, “Burton Rouge provided a home to the leaders of the Confederate Army in the last days of the Civil War, but the shattering of the Confederacy somehow cursed Burton Rouge to the role of a college town for all time.”
“Okay, man, that’s enough. I get it. It stinks.”
“No, wait, there’s more. It looks like a couple hundred pages more. How much time did you spend on this, Jeff?"
“I wrote it last week.”
Meyer stopped smiling and looked at his friend with appreciation. He asked, “You wrote this whole thing in a week?”
“Well, nine days to be more precise.”
“That’s amazing. Now, first of all, I didn’t mean to imply that all of your writing stinks. I’m sure the plot, style and characterization all contain redemptive qualities that make this novel something worth saving. I just became slightly nauseous when I read your opening paragraph. It was so obvious to me that you came up with tacky, imaginary names for all of the places in your life. I mean, do you think there’s something wrong with Baton Rouge? Are you ashamed of LSU? Are you scared people will identify you with Chimes Street?”
“The answer to all of those questions would be an emphatic no, Meyer. I changed the names of all the places to remove any factual limitations that might be associated with said locations. In Burton Rouge the university is downtown, because it was easier for me to place it there. Nobody knows that’s not true, because there is no Burton Rouge. If I had said LSU was in downtown Baton Rouge, then everybody who’s ever been to Baton Rouge would know it wasn’t true.”
“But that’s why it’s called fiction, Jeff.”
“That was exactly what I was thinking when I got mad a minute ago. What difference does it make if I rename everything? It is merely fiction, after all.”
“You may have a point there, buddy boy,” Meyer said with a grin.
“I don’t think any jury, anywhere would convict me if I killed you right now,” Jeff laughed lightheartedly.
“I can’t believe you didn’t realize I was messing with you. Nobody cares what you call this toilet we grew up in. A toilet by any other name still smells like shit. Have you ever noticed how bad this city smells? Does Burton Rouge smell bad?”
“No, Burton Rouge smells like roses and fucking potpourri,” Jeff said with a slight edge to his voice.
“Easy now, big fella. Watch the language. Besides, I thought you were all calmed down.”
“Oh, I am calm, and my irritation has little to do with the subject matter at hand. It’s Josephine. She dumped me again,” Jeff explained.
“Did twenty-eight days go by that fast?” Meyer quipped with a snicker.
“That’s very funny. You are such a funny guy. Did I mention that you are very much on your game today?” Meyer just smiled until Jeff continued, “No, the lunar cycle isn’t until next week. She told me that she needed somebody with more direction in his life. She told me my writing is never going to go anywhere, and she’s tired of worrying about the future.”
“I warned you about dating Josephine. You could never match up to Napoleon,” Meyer paused as he noticed the murderous look return to Jeff’s face, but then he plunged onward. “Forget about her, man. She was bad for you. Besides, you haven’t even gotten rid of her yet. She knows you’ll always have sex with her, so you can expect to see her again when she wants to get some.”
“What if she’s getting some from someone else?”
“That won’t matter, and she probably, no definitely is. If you have to think about it, they are. If that’s the case, then you’ll be her guilty little pleasure. She’ll still show up to have sex with you again, only she’ll be doing it because of how wrong and dirty it is. Chicks love that shit, Jeff.”
“You think so? So I can expect to have sex with her at least one more time. Well, that makes me feel better at least.”
“I’m not telling you to turn down the sex when the time comes, but you might consider finding something else to live for. Have you thought about looking for another girlfriend?”
“Look who’s talking. You and Miranda have been breaking up and getting back together for like five years. So, Meyer, are you two together or separated this week?”
“Like you said, the lunar cycle doesn’t come until next week, so I think we’re still together right now.”
“Has anyone ever told you that you are shallow, chauvinistic, insensitive and male?”
“My God! Are you a gay psychic? That’s exactly what Miranda said to me the last time she dumped me. How did you know that, Jeff?”
“It’s a gift from god. Sometimes it’s a blessing, but at other times it’s a terrible curse. People are frightened of what they do not understand, and that’s what I have to live with. Just be glad that it’s not you who can read minds and see into the future. It’s no bed of roses, my friend.”
“Two points for the Jeffster. I knew you had it in you. So what’s this book about?”
“Two assholes who spend all of their time talking about stupid shit in a coffee shop on Chimes Street, uh, I mean Times Street.”
“I knew you would eventually confuse yourself. I warned you about changing place names.”
“That you did, Meyer Reid, or should I call you Mire Reed?”
“I suppose I deserve this abuse, but I still have to wonder if what I did to you was as horrible as what you are doing to me.”
“I haven’t really started in on you yet. So, Meyer, how’s the painting coming?”
“You unbelievable prick. I trusted you. I considered you my friend.”
“Dead in the water?”
“Pulled from the water, but as yet not resuscitated,” Meyer confessed.
“That good?”
“Worse. I thought I might have a sale on one of my larger paintings, but the buyer turned out to be a fag. He pretended to scope out my painting, but he was actually checking out my other goods.”
“Ah, the perils of the art world. Did you do it with him?” Jeff asked with a twinkle in his eye.
“Do you have something else to do right now, because you’re obviously trying to get rid of me, forever. My response is: Do what with him? Anyway, the fag didn’t buy the painting, just like the last seven or eight fags --
"You sure throw that word around a lot. You know gay people don't like that." Meyer didn't miss a beat.
"-- who didn’t buy any of my paintings. I kind of decided to quit producing more paintings until I can clear some of the overstock so attractively donning the walls of my studio even as we speak.”
“What does that mean? Are you out of canvases or are you out of paint?”
Meyer sighed before admitting, “Both. And I’m out of money. My tips at the restaurant sucked this week. I must be getting too old to be a waiter.”
“You’re twenty-nine years old, man. You’re in the prime of your life,” said Jeff with the most serious of expressions on his face. “It’s the perfect age to be a waiter. All of the best male waiters are twenty-nine. Seriously, Meyer, why don’t you get out of the restaurant business and get a real job?”
“Did Miranda give you cue cards? Is this some sort of sick joke? You sound exactly like her.”
“Then our girlfriends –“
“Ex-girlfriend in your case.”
“—Sound exactly like each other.”
“Maybe they’re one person with two bodies. Two women separated at birth, but joined at the mind by a freak nuclear waste accident, destined to go through life destroying the egos of men they have sex with,” Meyer rattled off in his best impression of a movie preview announcer.
“There’s a more frightening edge to that line of reasoning,” Jeff pointed out uneasily. “Our girlfriends say the same things to us not because they are the same person, but because we are. In fact, you are just a figment of my tormented, schizophrenic mind. I bet in a couple of days I’m going to wake up wondering where the hell you went. And there will be a dozen guys sleeping in my living room, all telling me about the rules of fight club.”
“There could be a third, more simple explanation. Our girlfriends are right. They keep dumping us because we are barely worth a fuck, in the literal sense, and we need to get our shit together.” Meyer sighed after he stated the fact.
“Speak for yourself. I don’t feel I need to get anything together. Sure, I’m working in a dead end job that doesn’t pay very well, but that isn’t my fault. It’s not like this city is bursting with high paying lifelong careers. I’m doing what I have to do to get by, until such time as I don’t have to worry about doing that anymore. If that’s not up to her standards, or your standards, then that’s your problem.
“The novel I wrote last week may not be the best novel ever written, but that doesn’t change the fact that I wrote it. I plan to write another one, and if that one isn’t good enough then another one after that. And I’m not going to stop until I make it work, or until I’m dead. Really, either way is fine with me. There are worse things than being dead,” Jeff finished and drew in a deep breath.
“What’s worse than being dead, Jeff?”
“This conversation.”
“You know, I think you’re right about that. I don’t think either one of us was in a good mood to start with, and this isn’t helping. Let’s put up our coffee cups and take a walk,” Meyer suggested.
“I’ll pay for your coffee. You can say what you want about my job at the bookstore, but at least I always have a little spending money,” Jeff put in, still slightly defensive.
“You know we think alike when it comes to the financial situation of struggling artists, so you can’t think I was putting down on where you work. Besides, that job treats you like royalty compared to my job at the restaurant,” Meyer offered in a conciliatory tone.
The two guys carried their coffee cups up to the front counter of the café and gave them to the girl behind the counter. It wasn’t something customers had to do, or were even encouraged to do, but it was a nice gesture. It decreased the work volume of the café employees, thereby making the lives of the workers slightly less miserable. Only working class people did such things at the café. Nobody else ever considered it.
[NeOPulP] Sondra
Paint flakes floated down from the ceiling in the dying light of the early evening. They coated the furniture in a fine gray layer of decay. The effect went well with the musty drapes hung over the windows, drapes that seemed on the verge of disintegration. Mold in all the corners of the room spread noiselessly and invisibly out toward a more encompassing embrace of the surroundings, mutely testifying to the living nature of entropy, if such a thing could be possible. The air, so still and humid, might as well have been congealed… a solid, spongy substance. Visible banks of tiny drifting particles never seemed to reach the ground, but they disappeared with the light as darkness reclaimed the world for the night.
The last glimmer of light illuminated a young woman propped motionlessly against the wall. She was barely breathing, and the slits through her nearly closed eyelids betrayed a hint of heavy glaze behind them. The young woman remained in that exact position for a couple of hours, and then the drug began to wear off. She slowly stirred, leaned forward and worked the muscles in her legs and arms. She brought her hands up to her face and massaged her eye sockets. Then she pulled back her hair and pulled herself together.
The young woman groped about on the floor for her worn old purse. It was a brightly colored, shoulder bag hand-woven by Indians in the Guatemalan highlands. From a pocket in the bag the young woman pulled a small cellophane packet containing two pills, one blue and one yellow. She produced a small bottle of water from the bag and took the pills. Her purse had a lot of room inside.
Hidden behind a thick inner lining inside the purse was a Mississippi Driver’s License that belonged to her. It gave her name as Sondra Jenkins, and accurately described her as a white female with brown hair and hazel eyes who stood 5’8” tall and weighed one hundred twenty pounds. Her home address was listed as 1202 Ocean Breeze Avenue, Gulfport, Mississippi. That address was not accurate. There was no longer any such thing as Ocean Breeze Avenue in Gulfport, Mississippi. Her social security card was hidden behind the driver’s license, and behind that was a useless apartment key. It fit the lock on Sondra’s front door on Ocean Breeze Avenue, a door that was probably halfway to Cuba, along with everything else she owned.
Sondra stood up and felt her way out of the decaying living room and into the house’s foyer. She had squatted in the abandoned house for three months, so she knew her way around in the dark. She turned right and took five short steps, then reached out her hand, unlocked and opened the front door. The door creaked on its rusting hinges. Sondra imagined the sound could be heard from a mile away. She stepped out into the world and shut the door behind her.
It was an overcast night outside and there was no moon, so outdoors it was almost as dark as the inside of the house. Sondra made her way out into the middle of the street, the only place she was certain all of the debris had been cleared away, and started walking for the French Quarter. After a few minutes her eyes adjusted to the minimal starlight filtering down through the partial cloud cover, and she relaxed a little. Sondra reasoned that as long as she could see she could hide, and being able to hide made her a lot safer.
Six blocks from the abandoned house the sound of an approaching car penetrated the darkness, long before the headlights could be seen. Sondra darted off of the street and crawled through the shattered windshield of an upside down car protruding from under the second story of a two-story house, both of which straddled what used to be a sidewalk. From the dark recesses of the wreckage she watched as the headlights approached the nearby street corner and turned in her direction. She could tell from the configuration of the lights that it was the New Orleans Police.
In Sondra’s mind the police were more dangerous to encounter than gang members or other criminals. The police would undoubtedly arrest her for breaking the area’s curfew, and depending on the arresting officers she might be robbed or raped as well. In that case the cops might even kill her “in self defense,” in order to cover their tracks. Nobody knew how many people the police had murdered during and after Katrina, but a lot of the bodies discovered were victims of police violence. The NOPD contained within its ranks the most secret and dangerous criminal gang of all. The police terrified Sondra in a way that street thugs could not, no matter how brutal the street element might be.
The car passed by without incident, but it left Sondra breathing heavily and with blood pounding in her ears. She recalled a line she heard somewhere about the police watching the people instead of watching over the people. She stayed in place long enough to make sure the car wasn’t going to double back, despite her concerns about rats and bugs residing inside the overturned car. A few minutes later she crawled back out into the street and resumed her trek. As she walked she thought unhappily about the chain of events that led her to that place.
The weather forecaster at KLOX in Biloxi cheerfully reported the progress of Hurricane Katrina to residents along the Mississippi Gulf Coast for days, before it became apparent the gigantic storm would directly threaten the region. After that a mandatory evacuation order went out for people living anywhere near the coast. Sondra left, like everyone else who had good sense. In retrospect she wished she had met the storm surge on the beach.
For the first few days of her evacuation Sondra stayed in a Holiday Inn Express in Hattiesburg. She didn’t know her evacuation would be permanent until news reports included aerial photographs of the Gulf Coast. The first footage she saw showed the total devastation in the area. Later she found out that not only had her residence vanished into the Gulf, but so had her friends’ residences, her job, and everything else in the area.
Sondra left Hattiesburg as soon as it became obvious her stay there would not be a short one. She didn’t have any reason to stay there. Indeed, she had only gone there because it was the easiest thing for her to do at the time. When she left she traveled south, seeking to be closer to the only home she had ever known. She was not allowed to return because the conditions were too horrific, so she drove to Slidell, Louisiana.
Slidell always provided a home to a wide variety of criminal enterprises, not the least of which was illegal drug trafficking. After Hurricane Katrina the small city swelled to ten times its original size, and the drug trafficking exploded. Sondra fell into drinking at bars in the area because of her depression, and it was there she met the crowd that used heavy drugs. She didn’t feel that she had anything to live for, and drugs helped ease her sense of emptiness.
Sondra Jenkins came into the world in August of 1980. She was only twenty-five years old when Hurricane Katrina destroyed her home, but that was far from the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Four years earlier her parents died in a car accident on Highway 90 in Pass Christian, Mississippi. Sondra’s grandparents died a few years before that, and her only aunt died when she was still a little girl. Her parents’ passage left her without any family at all. The darkness that engulfed Sondra threatened to never let her out.
Sondra stumbled through her life in a daze in 2001. She only survived because of her friends. After Katrina not only was her home and her job gone, so were all her friends. The ones who survived were scattered to the four winds. Sondra managed to get in touch with a few of them in other states, but everybody was completely devastated by the event. There was nobody left to look out for Sondra Jenkins. That was when the bottomless pit formed inside her.
In just four months Sondra went through her entire life savings. It was only a few thousand dollars, but it was all she had in the world. Sondra didn’t care at all. She discovered the wonders of opiates and benzo’s, and never looked back. She sold her car to stay high and pay rent on a dilapidated trailer. When the money was gone she got evicted from the trailer she had rented.
Sondra didn’t try to salvage her dignity by getting cleaned up and finding a job. Instead she set out to ruin herself the rest of the way. She posed as a prostitute to con men she saw as marks. She managed to rob almost a dozen unsuspecting johns before her plan fell to pieces. She found herself pinned down on the back of a Buick, taken from behind for the cost of a tank of gas. She felt dirty for about two minutes of the experience, but then she closed her eyes and pretended she was with a man who cared.
Sondra decided she had found her new calling. She stayed high, and that made it easy to pretend there was nothing wrong. In fact, as long as Sondra was loaded she remained happy. She experienced an artificial happiness that wore off every few hours, but happiness nonetheless. She medicated all the self-loathing and emptiness right out of herself. Turning tricks allowed her to do that, so she set out to make a career of it.
Sondra found it increasingly difficult to dodge retribution for her earlier actions in Slidell. Several times she almost ran into men she had robbed. She knew she couldn’t turn tricks while looking constantly looking over her shoulder, so when New Orleans reopened she decided to relocate. Her drug associates in Slidell told her how to score in the big city. That was all the information Sondra needed. She caught a ride with the first person she found going south.
That morning Sondra stepped out of a stranger’s car, onto Decatur Street and into a different world. All she had to her name was the old purse and a backpack full of clothes. She didn’t take much time to look at the French Quarter. Instead she set out walking north and east, looking for a place to squat. When she got to Gentilly the vibe struck her as appropriate. The old neighborhood appeared to be completely deserted, yet some of the houses looked almost habitable. A few blocks from Elysian Fields Sondra found exactly what she had been looking for.
The two-story house had big windows and an airy front porch, but it wasn’t architectural features that drew Sondra to the house. The house didn’t seem damaged at all. The front door appeared to be sturdy. All of the windows she could see had burglar bars over them and drapes behind the glass. Most importantly, the place gave every indication of having been abandoned for years, probably since long before the hurricane. Looking at the house gave Sondra a feeling of security. She felt even safer after she had to spend two hours to break into a window at the rear of the house in order to make camp inside.
Every now and then Sondra stopped to think about the long path that led her to the place where she was. On rare occasions she couldn’t score. Then the dope sickness and the memories would ravage her awareness. Self-hatred and depression gripped her in an inescapable fist in those times, and she prayed for death. At times she wished for more than death; she wished that she didn’t exist at all. She wished that she had never existed and that none of her life had ever happened. Such yearnings helped pass the time it took for her to find the medicine she needed to make everything go away.
As Sondra walked out onto Elysian Fields she could see the light of the recovering districts in the distance. Sometimes crashing in a house that had no lights or water got to her. She made certain to always keep a bottle of drinking water, but months without a proper bath had taken their toll. She washed up and made herself presentable in the bathroom of a convenience store near the interstate. All of the cashiers knew Sondra. Sondra was hardly the only person staying in a part of the city that still had no utilities. She wasn’t even the only person who used that convenience store to get cleaned up every day.
The young Hispanic clerk nodded to Sondra in greeting when she entered. Sondra attempted to smile at him, but he had already buried his face in a magazine. Sondra sighed and made her way into the bathroom. Inside the broad mirror and the bright fluorescent light combined to show her exactly what she looked like. Sondra’s face was dirty from sleeping in the dirty old house, but the dirt didn’t hide her true beauty. She had French and Spanish ancestry on her mother’s side, and that gave her an almond shaped face with delicate features. Sondra’s shoulder length sandy blonde hair looked matted, and her hazel eyes looked tired. She hoped to fix all that with hot water.
While the hot water ran Sondra stripped off her blouse and splashed water all over her self. She took a small towel from her purse and dried off. She put on deodorant and perfume before exchanging the blouse for a skimpy halter-top. She frowned when she saw how much space the blouse took up in her bag, but then shrugged. Her only other alternative to a full purse was carrying a backpack around, and she wasn’t about to do that. She worried enough about getting robbed as it was.
The hot water made Sondra feel almost human when she stuck her head under it. She savored the feeling for a moment, then shampooed her hair quickly and rinsed it out. She towel dried her hair furiously and haphazardly worked some leave in conditioner into it. Sondra did not want to wear out her welcome at the convenience store bathroom, so she always went as fast as possible. She dropped her pants and panties to her knees and splashed hot water onto her crotch. She sprayed a little perfume into her underwear, pulled up her pants, stuffed the wet towel back into her purse and prepared to leave the gas station. The whole ritual took less than five minutes.
When Sondra exited the bathroom she looked like a different person. She didn’t look homeless. The person that came out of the bathroom was a 5’6”, twenty-six year old knockout. Whatever problems Sondra had, being unattractive wasn’t one of them. The cashier looked up from his magazine, but he was unable to go back to reading after he saw her. The halter-top accented her perfect breasts in a way that drives men crazy. She smiled at the clerk, and this time he gave a great big smile in return. He almost managed to get his tongue working before she walked out into the night, but he was a second too late.
By the time Sondra made it to Claiborne Avenue three cars had pulled over to offer her a ride. She turned them all down. Women disappeared from New Orleans all the time, and nobody ever saw them again. Sondra already lived a dangerous life playing the barfly on Bourbon Street. She refused to tempt fate by getting into cars with strangers, and besides that she enjoyed walking at night.
The alprozolam and oxycontin Sondra swallowed before leaving the house took full effect as she walked. Sondra felt great physically, and mentally she felt prepared to take on the world. When she was high she never worried about reality. Deep down she desperately wanted to change her situation, and she often daydreamed about ways to do that. Unfortunately Sondra had discovered it was easier to hustle and stay loaded than to change her life. Thinking about her life was the last thing she wanted to do. Instead she looked forward to the night. She hoped she would meet someone who would really care about her, but she would settle for someone who really wanted her.
Sondra turned right on Rampart, and fifteen minutes later the balconies of the French Quarter silently welcomed her back to the New Orleans nightlife. An exuberant crowd jammed Bourbon Street, which was an unusual occurrence for a Wednesday night, at least since the hurricane. Sondra decided to skip the tourist bars. She sashayed the few blocks down to Decatur Street with a spring in her step, heading for her favorite local hangout, The Monastery.
The doors of The Monastery were wide open to the world. Until Hurricane Katrina they had stood open for thirty years. The hurricane only closed the bar down for twelve hours, but in the days following the city government declared a curfew. Once New Orleans never closed and never went to sleep, but the police changed all that. Now The Monastery, and all the other bars, shut their doors at two o’clock in the morning. The worst storm in Gulf Coast history reduced New Orleans nightlife to a shadow of its original glory.
Sondra didn’t care how late the bars stayed open. She didn’t need more than a few minutes to pick up a man. As she slunk into the dark, cozy recesses of The Monastery she surveyed her options. She noticed three couples sat in the back end of the room, and a gaggle of college guys, most likely fraternity brothers from Baton Rouge, congregated in the middle of the room. At the end of the bar closest to the door sat a handsome, well-dressed man. He appeared to be in his early forties. A sly smile crossed Sondra’s face.
Sondra took a seat as far from the well-dressed man as possible, on the opposite side of the room and directly in his line of sight. She ordered a Tom Collins from the old bartender, and then sat back and passively observed the establishment. The first thing she noticed was that the well-built gentleman had turned his attention to her. She smirked inwardly, and pretended to be uninterested.
At times like those she almost wished that she smoked, because it would give her something to do and make her appear all the more nonchalant. She considered it a nasty habit, ironic as that might be, so she sipped her drink meekly and hummed. A hymn from her childhood tromped through her head unbidden, and she gave it just enough attention for a little sound to escape through her lips now and then. It was “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Sondra only knew part of the tune, and none of the words. Before she knew it the good looking man sat down right next to her.
When viewed at close range the man did not appear normal at all. Sondra could see that his suit cost a fortune, but she wasn't sure how she knew that. She thought it might be because it fit the man perfectly, and definitely radiated the well-tailored look. Beyond that, Sondra had to blink her eyes a few times because the man's face cast off a dark glow. Blinking did not dissipate the aura, which she noticed also emanated from the exposed skin of his hands and wrists.
At that point Sondra looked directly into the man's eyes, and lost herself for what felt like a very long time. He had beautiful bright green eyes, but they contained within them several patterns that shifted slightly as the light caught them from different angles. The cunning intelligence Sondra saw inside them reminded her of a large predatory cat. Sondra knew the little pills she took wouldn't cause her to hallucinate, and for a brief instant she was frightened.
“My name is Saul. Can I buy you a drink?” the man asked in a tone that betrayed none of his internal workings.
Sondra, with curiosity winning out over fear, responded, “Be my guest. I was hoping to find someone to talk to anyway.” She appraised the man's haircut as she spoke. She decided she imagined the glow and the patterns in his eyes, probably because of his intoxicating presence.
Saul held up his right hand to beckon the bartender. As he did so his shirt sleeve pulled back slightly to reveal a gold Rolex, a detail Sondra did not miss. She subconsciously twirled a lock of her hair around the pointer finger of her right hand as she studied the man next to her. She existed totally in the moment, a state she spent a lot of time and money attempting to achieve. When Saul turned his head and smiled at her a thrill ran through her stomach, disturbing a bunch of little butterflies she didn't know lived there anymore.
“What's your name, young lady?” Saul inquired pleasantly.
Sondra tried to pull herself together, but when she said, “My name is Sally,” her voice sounded like it belonged to a giddy school girl. She also hesitated before she told him. She noticed Saul caught the tiny pause. The outside corner of his eyes tightened ever so slightly.
“I mean, what's your real name?” he inquired again, and the second time his voice sounded somewhat less playful.
“It's Sondra,” she blurted out, “and I'm sorry. It's just not always a good thing to tell people your real name. There's all sorts of characters loose in the city.”
Saul pulled back his upper lip and showed his teeth in an odd sort of half smile. Sondra saw the outside edge of his iris flash upward ninety degrees in relation to a center ring that did not move. It happened so quickly she didn't know what to make of it, but his eyes looked perfectly normal again afterwards. She suddenly realized he had done something with his eyes on purpose, in order to gauge her reaction.
“All sorts of characters are loose in the city, Sondra. You are absolutely correct,” Saul said with a wink, as if they had just shared a private joke.
“I'm sorry, but who... or rather, what are you?” Sondra questioned with a genuine desire to know, and without alarm.
“I'm not a what, I am a who, though I'm not exactly from the same gene pool as most of today's people. I've been around a very, very long time. People have changed a great deal since I was born. My own kind generally do not exist anymore, and my name is Saul, as I've already said,” he told her without any hint of impatience or unkindness.
“This has got to be some sort of practical joke. You're another creep who likes messing with people's minds, right?” Sondra asked, but she didn't believe that was the answer. The way he looked, the way he moved and the way he felt told her that Saul was genuinely different from everybody else. Her mind raced with the excitement of stumbling onto something new and out of the ordinary.
“I came to meet with you, Sondra. I felt your presence here in this place... this ruined city. If only you could see and feel what I do, you would appreciate what I'm talking about,” Saul attempted to explain, “As it is, I'm afraid it's going to take quite some time before I can make you understand.”
“Who the hell are you? Don't just tell me your name again either. What exactly is going on?” Sondra demanded firmly but politely.
“I'm something you wouldn't understand, Sondra. People think different things when they think of my kind. I can't explain it to you in words. I came here to find you, because you're special. You're like me, which makes you the first of my kind born in over two thousand years. I'd like to take you somewhere more comfortable. I have a great many things to share with you, and you need to learn these things.”
Sondra burst out laughing. Her mirth was genuine. For a moment nothing intruded upon her awareness but the idea that what she had just learned was very, very funny. When she opened her eyes she saw Saul looking at her with a completely detached expression, and no amusement in his eyes. She rapidly regained control of herself.
“I'm nothing special, Saul, or whatever your name is. I'm not even close,” the words came out laced with bitterness, and tears appeared in the corners of Sondra's eyes.
“I'm telling you the truth, and I can make you believe it faster than you could ever imagine. Come with me, Sondra,” Saul told her. He stood up and started walking for the door. Sondra shook her head and weighed the situation for just a moment before she stood up and likewise went out the front door.
Outside the early autumn night felt refreshing and invigorating on the heels of the first cool front of the year. It was quite a change after months of extreme heat and humidity, and the myriad of human discomforts that come with those things. Sondra only had a moment to appreciate the wonderful weather. After stepping into the street she realized Saul hadn't waited for her just outside.
Sondra had to break into a sprint to catch up to Saul, who was already close to a block away. Saul moved toward St. Louis Cathedral with the speed of an Olympic runner, yet somehow still projected the air of someone out for a leisurely evening stroll. He stood just outside the front doors of the church when Sondra caught up to him three blocks later.
With her chest heaving for air and her heart pounding from the sudden exertion Sondra couldn't do anything but place her arms on top of her head and breathe. Saul didn't appear to have exerted himself at all. He just stood there patiently waiting for her to catch her breath. It didn't take her very long. Sondra once more felt grateful that she had never liked smoking, and also that they hadn't gone very far. She thought humorously to herself, “Thank God the cathedral isn't far from The Monastery.”
The time it took to regain control of her respiration allowed Sondra to take another look at Saul, which she had been doing constantly ever since she first saw him. She got the feeling she could look at him forever and never want for anything else. The almost imperceptible glow she glimpsed in the bar had grown far stronger and noticeable now that they were outside in the night. Sondra had time to study it, and she believed it actually leaked out from inside his perfect suit. She decided that the glow wasn't just in the visual realm either. She believed she could feel his aura in the tips of her fingers, and smell his essence beyond the range of cataloged odors. She mischievously wondered what he tasted like, but the way he looked at her right then derailed her train of thought.
“Come here and place your right hand on the door knob,” Saul instructed her without any fanfare.
Taking two steps forward, Sondra placed her hand on the knob of the massive oak door of the ancient cathedral. Heat emanating from the knob surprised her. She almost pulled her hand away before Saul placed his right hand on top of hers. Warmth exploded inside her flesh, and visions raced to the forefront of her awareness.
The last glimmer of light illuminated a young woman propped motionlessly against the wall. She was barely breathing, and the slits through her nearly closed eyelids betrayed a hint of heavy glaze behind them. The young woman remained in that exact position for a couple of hours, and then the drug began to wear off. She slowly stirred, leaned forward and worked the muscles in her legs and arms. She brought her hands up to her face and massaged her eye sockets. Then she pulled back her hair and pulled herself together.
The young woman groped about on the floor for her worn old purse. It was a brightly colored, shoulder bag hand-woven by Indians in the Guatemalan highlands. From a pocket in the bag the young woman pulled a small cellophane packet containing two pills, one blue and one yellow. She produced a small bottle of water from the bag and took the pills. Her purse had a lot of room inside.
Hidden behind a thick inner lining inside the purse was a Mississippi Driver’s License that belonged to her. It gave her name as Sondra Jenkins, and accurately described her as a white female with brown hair and hazel eyes who stood 5’8” tall and weighed one hundred twenty pounds. Her home address was listed as 1202 Ocean Breeze Avenue, Gulfport, Mississippi. That address was not accurate. There was no longer any such thing as Ocean Breeze Avenue in Gulfport, Mississippi. Her social security card was hidden behind the driver’s license, and behind that was a useless apartment key. It fit the lock on Sondra’s front door on Ocean Breeze Avenue, a door that was probably halfway to Cuba, along with everything else she owned.
Sondra stood up and felt her way out of the decaying living room and into the house’s foyer. She had squatted in the abandoned house for three months, so she knew her way around in the dark. She turned right and took five short steps, then reached out her hand, unlocked and opened the front door. The door creaked on its rusting hinges. Sondra imagined the sound could be heard from a mile away. She stepped out into the world and shut the door behind her.
It was an overcast night outside and there was no moon, so outdoors it was almost as dark as the inside of the house. Sondra made her way out into the middle of the street, the only place she was certain all of the debris had been cleared away, and started walking for the French Quarter. After a few minutes her eyes adjusted to the minimal starlight filtering down through the partial cloud cover, and she relaxed a little. Sondra reasoned that as long as she could see she could hide, and being able to hide made her a lot safer.
Six blocks from the abandoned house the sound of an approaching car penetrated the darkness, long before the headlights could be seen. Sondra darted off of the street and crawled through the shattered windshield of an upside down car protruding from under the second story of a two-story house, both of which straddled what used to be a sidewalk. From the dark recesses of the wreckage she watched as the headlights approached the nearby street corner and turned in her direction. She could tell from the configuration of the lights that it was the New Orleans Police.
In Sondra’s mind the police were more dangerous to encounter than gang members or other criminals. The police would undoubtedly arrest her for breaking the area’s curfew, and depending on the arresting officers she might be robbed or raped as well. In that case the cops might even kill her “in self defense,” in order to cover their tracks. Nobody knew how many people the police had murdered during and after Katrina, but a lot of the bodies discovered were victims of police violence. The NOPD contained within its ranks the most secret and dangerous criminal gang of all. The police terrified Sondra in a way that street thugs could not, no matter how brutal the street element might be.
The car passed by without incident, but it left Sondra breathing heavily and with blood pounding in her ears. She recalled a line she heard somewhere about the police watching the people instead of watching over the people. She stayed in place long enough to make sure the car wasn’t going to double back, despite her concerns about rats and bugs residing inside the overturned car. A few minutes later she crawled back out into the street and resumed her trek. As she walked she thought unhappily about the chain of events that led her to that place.
The weather forecaster at KLOX in Biloxi cheerfully reported the progress of Hurricane Katrina to residents along the Mississippi Gulf Coast for days, before it became apparent the gigantic storm would directly threaten the region. After that a mandatory evacuation order went out for people living anywhere near the coast. Sondra left, like everyone else who had good sense. In retrospect she wished she had met the storm surge on the beach.
For the first few days of her evacuation Sondra stayed in a Holiday Inn Express in Hattiesburg. She didn’t know her evacuation would be permanent until news reports included aerial photographs of the Gulf Coast. The first footage she saw showed the total devastation in the area. Later she found out that not only had her residence vanished into the Gulf, but so had her friends’ residences, her job, and everything else in the area.
Sondra left Hattiesburg as soon as it became obvious her stay there would not be a short one. She didn’t have any reason to stay there. Indeed, she had only gone there because it was the easiest thing for her to do at the time. When she left she traveled south, seeking to be closer to the only home she had ever known. She was not allowed to return because the conditions were too horrific, so she drove to Slidell, Louisiana.
Slidell always provided a home to a wide variety of criminal enterprises, not the least of which was illegal drug trafficking. After Hurricane Katrina the small city swelled to ten times its original size, and the drug trafficking exploded. Sondra fell into drinking at bars in the area because of her depression, and it was there she met the crowd that used heavy drugs. She didn’t feel that she had anything to live for, and drugs helped ease her sense of emptiness.
Sondra Jenkins came into the world in August of 1980. She was only twenty-five years old when Hurricane Katrina destroyed her home, but that was far from the worst thing that had ever happened to her. Four years earlier her parents died in a car accident on Highway 90 in Pass Christian, Mississippi. Sondra’s grandparents died a few years before that, and her only aunt died when she was still a little girl. Her parents’ passage left her without any family at all. The darkness that engulfed Sondra threatened to never let her out.
Sondra stumbled through her life in a daze in 2001. She only survived because of her friends. After Katrina not only was her home and her job gone, so were all her friends. The ones who survived were scattered to the four winds. Sondra managed to get in touch with a few of them in other states, but everybody was completely devastated by the event. There was nobody left to look out for Sondra Jenkins. That was when the bottomless pit formed inside her.
In just four months Sondra went through her entire life savings. It was only a few thousand dollars, but it was all she had in the world. Sondra didn’t care at all. She discovered the wonders of opiates and benzo’s, and never looked back. She sold her car to stay high and pay rent on a dilapidated trailer. When the money was gone she got evicted from the trailer she had rented.
Sondra didn’t try to salvage her dignity by getting cleaned up and finding a job. Instead she set out to ruin herself the rest of the way. She posed as a prostitute to con men she saw as marks. She managed to rob almost a dozen unsuspecting johns before her plan fell to pieces. She found herself pinned down on the back of a Buick, taken from behind for the cost of a tank of gas. She felt dirty for about two minutes of the experience, but then she closed her eyes and pretended she was with a man who cared.
Sondra decided she had found her new calling. She stayed high, and that made it easy to pretend there was nothing wrong. In fact, as long as Sondra was loaded she remained happy. She experienced an artificial happiness that wore off every few hours, but happiness nonetheless. She medicated all the self-loathing and emptiness right out of herself. Turning tricks allowed her to do that, so she set out to make a career of it.
Sondra found it increasingly difficult to dodge retribution for her earlier actions in Slidell. Several times she almost ran into men she had robbed. She knew she couldn’t turn tricks while looking constantly looking over her shoulder, so when New Orleans reopened she decided to relocate. Her drug associates in Slidell told her how to score in the big city. That was all the information Sondra needed. She caught a ride with the first person she found going south.
That morning Sondra stepped out of a stranger’s car, onto Decatur Street and into a different world. All she had to her name was the old purse and a backpack full of clothes. She didn’t take much time to look at the French Quarter. Instead she set out walking north and east, looking for a place to squat. When she got to Gentilly the vibe struck her as appropriate. The old neighborhood appeared to be completely deserted, yet some of the houses looked almost habitable. A few blocks from Elysian Fields Sondra found exactly what she had been looking for.
The two-story house had big windows and an airy front porch, but it wasn’t architectural features that drew Sondra to the house. The house didn’t seem damaged at all. The front door appeared to be sturdy. All of the windows she could see had burglar bars over them and drapes behind the glass. Most importantly, the place gave every indication of having been abandoned for years, probably since long before the hurricane. Looking at the house gave Sondra a feeling of security. She felt even safer after she had to spend two hours to break into a window at the rear of the house in order to make camp inside.
Every now and then Sondra stopped to think about the long path that led her to the place where she was. On rare occasions she couldn’t score. Then the dope sickness and the memories would ravage her awareness. Self-hatred and depression gripped her in an inescapable fist in those times, and she prayed for death. At times she wished for more than death; she wished that she didn’t exist at all. She wished that she had never existed and that none of her life had ever happened. Such yearnings helped pass the time it took for her to find the medicine she needed to make everything go away.
As Sondra walked out onto Elysian Fields she could see the light of the recovering districts in the distance. Sometimes crashing in a house that had no lights or water got to her. She made certain to always keep a bottle of drinking water, but months without a proper bath had taken their toll. She washed up and made herself presentable in the bathroom of a convenience store near the interstate. All of the cashiers knew Sondra. Sondra was hardly the only person staying in a part of the city that still had no utilities. She wasn’t even the only person who used that convenience store to get cleaned up every day.
The young Hispanic clerk nodded to Sondra in greeting when she entered. Sondra attempted to smile at him, but he had already buried his face in a magazine. Sondra sighed and made her way into the bathroom. Inside the broad mirror and the bright fluorescent light combined to show her exactly what she looked like. Sondra’s face was dirty from sleeping in the dirty old house, but the dirt didn’t hide her true beauty. She had French and Spanish ancestry on her mother’s side, and that gave her an almond shaped face with delicate features. Sondra’s shoulder length sandy blonde hair looked matted, and her hazel eyes looked tired. She hoped to fix all that with hot water.
While the hot water ran Sondra stripped off her blouse and splashed water all over her self. She took a small towel from her purse and dried off. She put on deodorant and perfume before exchanging the blouse for a skimpy halter-top. She frowned when she saw how much space the blouse took up in her bag, but then shrugged. Her only other alternative to a full purse was carrying a backpack around, and she wasn’t about to do that. She worried enough about getting robbed as it was.
The hot water made Sondra feel almost human when she stuck her head under it. She savored the feeling for a moment, then shampooed her hair quickly and rinsed it out. She towel dried her hair furiously and haphazardly worked some leave in conditioner into it. Sondra did not want to wear out her welcome at the convenience store bathroom, so she always went as fast as possible. She dropped her pants and panties to her knees and splashed hot water onto her crotch. She sprayed a little perfume into her underwear, pulled up her pants, stuffed the wet towel back into her purse and prepared to leave the gas station. The whole ritual took less than five minutes.
When Sondra exited the bathroom she looked like a different person. She didn’t look homeless. The person that came out of the bathroom was a 5’6”, twenty-six year old knockout. Whatever problems Sondra had, being unattractive wasn’t one of them. The cashier looked up from his magazine, but he was unable to go back to reading after he saw her. The halter-top accented her perfect breasts in a way that drives men crazy. She smiled at the clerk, and this time he gave a great big smile in return. He almost managed to get his tongue working before she walked out into the night, but he was a second too late.
By the time Sondra made it to Claiborne Avenue three cars had pulled over to offer her a ride. She turned them all down. Women disappeared from New Orleans all the time, and nobody ever saw them again. Sondra already lived a dangerous life playing the barfly on Bourbon Street. She refused to tempt fate by getting into cars with strangers, and besides that she enjoyed walking at night.
The alprozolam and oxycontin Sondra swallowed before leaving the house took full effect as she walked. Sondra felt great physically, and mentally she felt prepared to take on the world. When she was high she never worried about reality. Deep down she desperately wanted to change her situation, and she often daydreamed about ways to do that. Unfortunately Sondra had discovered it was easier to hustle and stay loaded than to change her life. Thinking about her life was the last thing she wanted to do. Instead she looked forward to the night. She hoped she would meet someone who would really care about her, but she would settle for someone who really wanted her.
Sondra turned right on Rampart, and fifteen minutes later the balconies of the French Quarter silently welcomed her back to the New Orleans nightlife. An exuberant crowd jammed Bourbon Street, which was an unusual occurrence for a Wednesday night, at least since the hurricane. Sondra decided to skip the tourist bars. She sashayed the few blocks down to Decatur Street with a spring in her step, heading for her favorite local hangout, The Monastery.
The doors of The Monastery were wide open to the world. Until Hurricane Katrina they had stood open for thirty years. The hurricane only closed the bar down for twelve hours, but in the days following the city government declared a curfew. Once New Orleans never closed and never went to sleep, but the police changed all that. Now The Monastery, and all the other bars, shut their doors at two o’clock in the morning. The worst storm in Gulf Coast history reduced New Orleans nightlife to a shadow of its original glory.
Sondra didn’t care how late the bars stayed open. She didn’t need more than a few minutes to pick up a man. As she slunk into the dark, cozy recesses of The Monastery she surveyed her options. She noticed three couples sat in the back end of the room, and a gaggle of college guys, most likely fraternity brothers from Baton Rouge, congregated in the middle of the room. At the end of the bar closest to the door sat a handsome, well-dressed man. He appeared to be in his early forties. A sly smile crossed Sondra’s face.
Sondra took a seat as far from the well-dressed man as possible, on the opposite side of the room and directly in his line of sight. She ordered a Tom Collins from the old bartender, and then sat back and passively observed the establishment. The first thing she noticed was that the well-built gentleman had turned his attention to her. She smirked inwardly, and pretended to be uninterested.
At times like those she almost wished that she smoked, because it would give her something to do and make her appear all the more nonchalant. She considered it a nasty habit, ironic as that might be, so she sipped her drink meekly and hummed. A hymn from her childhood tromped through her head unbidden, and she gave it just enough attention for a little sound to escape through her lips now and then. It was “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Sondra only knew part of the tune, and none of the words. Before she knew it the good looking man sat down right next to her.
When viewed at close range the man did not appear normal at all. Sondra could see that his suit cost a fortune, but she wasn't sure how she knew that. She thought it might be because it fit the man perfectly, and definitely radiated the well-tailored look. Beyond that, Sondra had to blink her eyes a few times because the man's face cast off a dark glow. Blinking did not dissipate the aura, which she noticed also emanated from the exposed skin of his hands and wrists.
At that point Sondra looked directly into the man's eyes, and lost herself for what felt like a very long time. He had beautiful bright green eyes, but they contained within them several patterns that shifted slightly as the light caught them from different angles. The cunning intelligence Sondra saw inside them reminded her of a large predatory cat. Sondra knew the little pills she took wouldn't cause her to hallucinate, and for a brief instant she was frightened.
“My name is Saul. Can I buy you a drink?” the man asked in a tone that betrayed none of his internal workings.
Sondra, with curiosity winning out over fear, responded, “Be my guest. I was hoping to find someone to talk to anyway.” She appraised the man's haircut as she spoke. She decided she imagined the glow and the patterns in his eyes, probably because of his intoxicating presence.
Saul held up his right hand to beckon the bartender. As he did so his shirt sleeve pulled back slightly to reveal a gold Rolex, a detail Sondra did not miss. She subconsciously twirled a lock of her hair around the pointer finger of her right hand as she studied the man next to her. She existed totally in the moment, a state she spent a lot of time and money attempting to achieve. When Saul turned his head and smiled at her a thrill ran through her stomach, disturbing a bunch of little butterflies she didn't know lived there anymore.
“What's your name, young lady?” Saul inquired pleasantly.
Sondra tried to pull herself together, but when she said, “My name is Sally,” her voice sounded like it belonged to a giddy school girl. She also hesitated before she told him. She noticed Saul caught the tiny pause. The outside corner of his eyes tightened ever so slightly.
“I mean, what's your real name?” he inquired again, and the second time his voice sounded somewhat less playful.
“It's Sondra,” she blurted out, “and I'm sorry. It's just not always a good thing to tell people your real name. There's all sorts of characters loose in the city.”
Saul pulled back his upper lip and showed his teeth in an odd sort of half smile. Sondra saw the outside edge of his iris flash upward ninety degrees in relation to a center ring that did not move. It happened so quickly she didn't know what to make of it, but his eyes looked perfectly normal again afterwards. She suddenly realized he had done something with his eyes on purpose, in order to gauge her reaction.
“All sorts of characters are loose in the city, Sondra. You are absolutely correct,” Saul said with a wink, as if they had just shared a private joke.
“I'm sorry, but who... or rather, what are you?” Sondra questioned with a genuine desire to know, and without alarm.
“I'm not a what, I am a who, though I'm not exactly from the same gene pool as most of today's people. I've been around a very, very long time. People have changed a great deal since I was born. My own kind generally do not exist anymore, and my name is Saul, as I've already said,” he told her without any hint of impatience or unkindness.
“This has got to be some sort of practical joke. You're another creep who likes messing with people's minds, right?” Sondra asked, but she didn't believe that was the answer. The way he looked, the way he moved and the way he felt told her that Saul was genuinely different from everybody else. Her mind raced with the excitement of stumbling onto something new and out of the ordinary.
“I came to meet with you, Sondra. I felt your presence here in this place... this ruined city. If only you could see and feel what I do, you would appreciate what I'm talking about,” Saul attempted to explain, “As it is, I'm afraid it's going to take quite some time before I can make you understand.”
“Who the hell are you? Don't just tell me your name again either. What exactly is going on?” Sondra demanded firmly but politely.
“I'm something you wouldn't understand, Sondra. People think different things when they think of my kind. I can't explain it to you in words. I came here to find you, because you're special. You're like me, which makes you the first of my kind born in over two thousand years. I'd like to take you somewhere more comfortable. I have a great many things to share with you, and you need to learn these things.”
Sondra burst out laughing. Her mirth was genuine. For a moment nothing intruded upon her awareness but the idea that what she had just learned was very, very funny. When she opened her eyes she saw Saul looking at her with a completely detached expression, and no amusement in his eyes. She rapidly regained control of herself.
“I'm nothing special, Saul, or whatever your name is. I'm not even close,” the words came out laced with bitterness, and tears appeared in the corners of Sondra's eyes.
“I'm telling you the truth, and I can make you believe it faster than you could ever imagine. Come with me, Sondra,” Saul told her. He stood up and started walking for the door. Sondra shook her head and weighed the situation for just a moment before she stood up and likewise went out the front door.
Outside the early autumn night felt refreshing and invigorating on the heels of the first cool front of the year. It was quite a change after months of extreme heat and humidity, and the myriad of human discomforts that come with those things. Sondra only had a moment to appreciate the wonderful weather. After stepping into the street she realized Saul hadn't waited for her just outside.
Sondra had to break into a sprint to catch up to Saul, who was already close to a block away. Saul moved toward St. Louis Cathedral with the speed of an Olympic runner, yet somehow still projected the air of someone out for a leisurely evening stroll. He stood just outside the front doors of the church when Sondra caught up to him three blocks later.
With her chest heaving for air and her heart pounding from the sudden exertion Sondra couldn't do anything but place her arms on top of her head and breathe. Saul didn't appear to have exerted himself at all. He just stood there patiently waiting for her to catch her breath. It didn't take her very long. Sondra once more felt grateful that she had never liked smoking, and also that they hadn't gone very far. She thought humorously to herself, “Thank God the cathedral isn't far from The Monastery.”
The time it took to regain control of her respiration allowed Sondra to take another look at Saul, which she had been doing constantly ever since she first saw him. She got the feeling she could look at him forever and never want for anything else. The almost imperceptible glow she glimpsed in the bar had grown far stronger and noticeable now that they were outside in the night. Sondra had time to study it, and she believed it actually leaked out from inside his perfect suit. She decided that the glow wasn't just in the visual realm either. She believed she could feel his aura in the tips of her fingers, and smell his essence beyond the range of cataloged odors. She mischievously wondered what he tasted like, but the way he looked at her right then derailed her train of thought.
“Come here and place your right hand on the door knob,” Saul instructed her without any fanfare.
Taking two steps forward, Sondra placed her hand on the knob of the massive oak door of the ancient cathedral. Heat emanating from the knob surprised her. She almost pulled her hand away before Saul placed his right hand on top of hers. Warmth exploded inside her flesh, and visions raced to the forefront of her awareness.
Roll Call of the Lesser Devils 60-65
Revamping the poetry hit a snag a couple of weeks ago when a vicious Teacup Pomeranian ate the usb cord to the external hard drives. The cord doesn't cost very much money, but taking the time to go get one kept being put off. Without further whimpering, Roll Call of the Lesser Devils continues:
60.
The orbit of the planet:
A twenty-four hour cyclic effect.
The vehicle travels in opposition
The rotation of the earth
Lending just a fraction of extra speed,
Too little to gauge.
It strikes the engineer
That he has fallen from the planet.
Gravity departed at escape velocity.
Mediocre reactions crumble
And fall away pathetically
In the face of the knowledge
That somewhere has distinctly become nowhere.
The carrot dangles before his eyes,
Three feet before, like a guiding voice.
Someone has a dossier on this,
The perils of free falling
After waiving freedom of choice.
A day late and a dollar short
Post mens rea no redress
In the hoity coitus toity court
Cosmic tort reform aside.
Personal wants ascribed to the negatives
Left undeveloped in the dark room.
The carrot trick won't work if they hate carrots.
Hunger must be the key.
Something must fuel the animal drive.
God having abandoned the world
To the tender mercies of law and chaos
Sees humor in people drifting off into space.
Proof for the skeptics will come.
The haloed civilization will at length embrace fuckery,
And realize the time.
Its time to make up for lost time.
It has been prophesied that such things happen,
Because if it feels good do it,
Stop waiting and suck up to it.
The automobile
Automatic
Static line of crap will begin to wear thin
A coating of flattery, a glass of gin
Until nature decides to just win.
Bestial reality,
Hunger and lust,
So powerful the feeling itself
Clocks in with gruff profanity
And Will pounds through the veins of all humans,
Reinstated to its original beauty.
It is hungry to take out any obstacles
Between wherever is is
And where I need to be to get it.
Somehow it all changed.
The sustenance didn't take care of itself.
The food tried to escape.
Hungry.
The shaking hands on the wheel
Are my own, or so they tell me.
It has been days since sleep was possible.
Driven by the pit of my stomach
I feel as though I am floating.
Hope remains for one last chance
To catch the sun before it comes up,
Catch it unaware and kill it.
Then all the loot can be had.
The dossier couldn’t know the plan.
Escape will be had before any government knows.
Not that they could catch me
Unless the car exploded.
Pedestrians scatter with barely enough time to reach safety.
I mow down as many as possible.
This was all they could muster?
Send a bunch of guys out on foot?
Up ahead a road block,
Nicely arranged cute striped cars.
I bash through.
Road God lives!
Worshipped among teen-agers
Who listen to ancient rock and roll
Who think heaven is a 454,
I drink, nay, guzzle the fuel.
Less than a God could never even afford to start this baby
Since the gas shortage.
On the short twelve mile horizon
I can be at the top
Before even seeing the curvature I left behind.
Eyesight becomes estranged so
Trajectory for orbit must be calculated only with the mind.
The future outlaws will worship me
After I become one with the stars.
Road God!
Who took emptiness
And turned it into gasoline to fly away.
61. Broken Bricklay
The concrete steps engulf my gaze
Rising to capture my eyes before a foot falls...
Traverses the man made stone’s testimonial glaze.
Vision escapes not from the waves of toil unto death.
Strong tissue rips under the strain
Of the effort of laying a hard bed by grip
Tightly, with the hand of sure mixed endurance.
Stone work will be found in the future.
Generations later someone will wonder
Just who did the work.
Nonchalantly the decades will pass over the walks and patios
Where labor was spent so that
Leisure could be enjoyed.
The green earth came to be covered by effort.
The sweat could have made the oceans
But instead became steam and rained.
Morning comes
Bringing a feeling of newness
And past accomplishment,
The nervous energy that surrounds all work.
The heat bears down like a ritual pain.
The mixture can never go dry,
Must be stirred until breaking ache comes to the body.
The sun takes many to a dream suddenly,
The swoon, it is dangerous
But educational if one lives.
The fever sometimes shows the plans of God,
The warmth of the endeavor
Marking those separately from those who do nothing,
Who do not brave the heat.
There must be some promise of another world
And the delerium of the afternoon shows
That if there is no heaven
Rest assured there definitely is a hell,
Because the bricklayer comes very close to it,
Almost breaking but insurmountably strong of spirit,
Refusing to stop until finished,
No waste allowed, no room for error.
With the children at home to feed, there lies
Purpose for the concentrated quest to be as strong
As the brick in the sweltering sun.
The haze burns away
Until sight is blinded, all too clearly.
The victory of the moment is measured
By the hours spent to get there.
Tissue of the body is nothing,
It will pass away.
What must last must be created.
The spirit is not gauged by the flesh.
If dissenting discuss not
This matter with real men,
Or maybe suffer being told
To stoop a little and open your eyes,
Perhaps dirty the silken hands by feeling
A little of that with which the nation was built so quickly.
When the day is done
Beyond the heat of the sun
The children rejoice at daddy’s return,
The treats that were so hard earned.
My eyes cross the walkway in admiration.
All who pass here will know.
62.
complex hazing
a stationary invasion
tear, raze, rend the union
rape the nation
young and old killed by love
under justice blind direction
never believe in resurrection
only in hate.
from dismay come justice’ decay.
pleasure’s way
leads to pain, leads astray
tries to make sick,
trick time into unwinding,
but it won’t work.
It strews the sickly
webs of vain, wanton waste,
gloom’s decor,
silken threads of yore.
avoid the true
painful to trap the self
tomorrow the sun
will burn away this black yule.
from this
can only come misconstrual
Here, critics, have some fuel.
63.
Beyond Language Barrier
Never try to shake off the truth.
You are
Guilty of plenty even so young,
And you cry
Because you can find no path
Out of the heart of the moon.
No one leaves so soon.
Delay your thinking,
Relearn and then return.
There is no game,
No way,
Only black smoke from the burned.
Too unlearned,
Two turned the one card,
The Devil,
Then went for the one door
But only one could go through at once.
The Other One never left.
The image showed
A self centered prick looking back.
Don't covet that knowledge,
Or the fact that you were right,
Because you really are no better.
Mistake not,
No song,
No card,
No lock on the door,
A lock on the mind,
So importune me no more,
I want a divorce from your ideas,
I want to forget them forever,
And I ask this not be retold.
‘Tis shown to be all too hellish,
The world
That set this pen gliding,
Across the page,
A plea to the aether to crush me,
Please,
And then no more favors.
64.
The reduction of the spirit
Makes a dangerous saute,
And misery a pitiful sound.
Deus ex fashionista,
The deuce you say, it's just deserts
For such treachery,
Envious blasphemy,
Lost and carried down.
Amid the tiers and altars,
Somewhere a voice,
Weeping, falters,
And the wind is a hollow howl.
It’s the church of infection,
Of sin and consumption,
Uplifted by followers foul.
They dine on porridge
Made from strong men’s courage,
After defiling their graves
And their bones,
Digested by unforgiving tomes,
It's not only bodies that rot in the ground.
Nowhere can be found a worse stench
Than the smell of the priests
As they quench their unholy thirsts,
From out of the mouths of lambs and the innocent,
The perversion makes even the hardened flinch,
Because children should never know at all.
Inside the damned clergy all look the same
All rust colored, gangrenous, leprous flesh,
And the church they hold holy
Is to the core rotten, wholly,
As a dead dear days old.
On them do not dwell,
In their footsteps do not dawdle,
For they are lost.
And the path only leads down,
Where the stench becomes an entity,
And fire the only cure to be found.
65.
Since I have seen Narcissus' true self
We can no longer be friends.
60.
The orbit of the planet:
A twenty-four hour cyclic effect.
The vehicle travels in opposition
The rotation of the earth
Lending just a fraction of extra speed,
Too little to gauge.
It strikes the engineer
That he has fallen from the planet.
Gravity departed at escape velocity.
Mediocre reactions crumble
And fall away pathetically
In the face of the knowledge
That somewhere has distinctly become nowhere.
The carrot dangles before his eyes,
Three feet before, like a guiding voice.
Someone has a dossier on this,
The perils of free falling
After waiving freedom of choice.
A day late and a dollar short
Post mens rea no redress
In the hoity coitus toity court
Cosmic tort reform aside.
Personal wants ascribed to the negatives
Left undeveloped in the dark room.
The carrot trick won't work if they hate carrots.
Hunger must be the key.
Something must fuel the animal drive.
God having abandoned the world
To the tender mercies of law and chaos
Sees humor in people drifting off into space.
Proof for the skeptics will come.
The haloed civilization will at length embrace fuckery,
And realize the time.
Its time to make up for lost time.
It has been prophesied that such things happen,
Because if it feels good do it,
Stop waiting and suck up to it.
The automobile
Automatic
Static line of crap will begin to wear thin
A coating of flattery, a glass of gin
Until nature decides to just win.
Bestial reality,
Hunger and lust,
So powerful the feeling itself
Clocks in with gruff profanity
And Will pounds through the veins of all humans,
Reinstated to its original beauty.
It is hungry to take out any obstacles
Between wherever is is
And where I need to be to get it.
Somehow it all changed.
The sustenance didn't take care of itself.
The food tried to escape.
Hungry.
The shaking hands on the wheel
Are my own, or so they tell me.
It has been days since sleep was possible.
Driven by the pit of my stomach
I feel as though I am floating.
Hope remains for one last chance
To catch the sun before it comes up,
Catch it unaware and kill it.
Then all the loot can be had.
The dossier couldn’t know the plan.
Escape will be had before any government knows.
Not that they could catch me
Unless the car exploded.
Pedestrians scatter with barely enough time to reach safety.
I mow down as many as possible.
This was all they could muster?
Send a bunch of guys out on foot?
Up ahead a road block,
Nicely arranged cute striped cars.
I bash through.
Road God lives!
Worshipped among teen-agers
Who listen to ancient rock and roll
Who think heaven is a 454,
I drink, nay, guzzle the fuel.
Less than a God could never even afford to start this baby
Since the gas shortage.
On the short twelve mile horizon
I can be at the top
Before even seeing the curvature I left behind.
Eyesight becomes estranged so
Trajectory for orbit must be calculated only with the mind.
The future outlaws will worship me
After I become one with the stars.
Road God!
Who took emptiness
And turned it into gasoline to fly away.
61. Broken Bricklay
The concrete steps engulf my gaze
Rising to capture my eyes before a foot falls...
Traverses the man made stone’s testimonial glaze.
Vision escapes not from the waves of toil unto death.
Strong tissue rips under the strain
Of the effort of laying a hard bed by grip
Tightly, with the hand of sure mixed endurance.
Stone work will be found in the future.
Generations later someone will wonder
Just who did the work.
Nonchalantly the decades will pass over the walks and patios
Where labor was spent so that
Leisure could be enjoyed.
The green earth came to be covered by effort.
The sweat could have made the oceans
But instead became steam and rained.
Morning comes
Bringing a feeling of newness
And past accomplishment,
The nervous energy that surrounds all work.
The heat bears down like a ritual pain.
The mixture can never go dry,
Must be stirred until breaking ache comes to the body.
The sun takes many to a dream suddenly,
The swoon, it is dangerous
But educational if one lives.
The fever sometimes shows the plans of God,
The warmth of the endeavor
Marking those separately from those who do nothing,
Who do not brave the heat.
There must be some promise of another world
And the delerium of the afternoon shows
That if there is no heaven
Rest assured there definitely is a hell,
Because the bricklayer comes very close to it,
Almost breaking but insurmountably strong of spirit,
Refusing to stop until finished,
No waste allowed, no room for error.
With the children at home to feed, there lies
Purpose for the concentrated quest to be as strong
As the brick in the sweltering sun.
The haze burns away
Until sight is blinded, all too clearly.
The victory of the moment is measured
By the hours spent to get there.
Tissue of the body is nothing,
It will pass away.
What must last must be created.
The spirit is not gauged by the flesh.
If dissenting discuss not
This matter with real men,
Or maybe suffer being told
To stoop a little and open your eyes,
Perhaps dirty the silken hands by feeling
A little of that with which the nation was built so quickly.
When the day is done
Beyond the heat of the sun
The children rejoice at daddy’s return,
The treats that were so hard earned.
My eyes cross the walkway in admiration.
All who pass here will know.
62.
complex hazing
a stationary invasion
tear, raze, rend the union
rape the nation
young and old killed by love
under justice blind direction
never believe in resurrection
only in hate.
from dismay come justice’ decay.
pleasure’s way
leads to pain, leads astray
tries to make sick,
trick time into unwinding,
but it won’t work.
It strews the sickly
webs of vain, wanton waste,
gloom’s decor,
silken threads of yore.
avoid the true
painful to trap the self
tomorrow the sun
will burn away this black yule.
from this
can only come misconstrual
Here, critics, have some fuel.
63.
Beyond Language Barrier
Never try to shake off the truth.
You are
Guilty of plenty even so young,
And you cry
Because you can find no path
Out of the heart of the moon.
No one leaves so soon.
Delay your thinking,
Relearn and then return.
There is no game,
No way,
Only black smoke from the burned.
Too unlearned,
Two turned the one card,
The Devil,
Then went for the one door
But only one could go through at once.
The Other One never left.
The image showed
A self centered prick looking back.
Don't covet that knowledge,
Or the fact that you were right,
Because you really are no better.
Mistake not,
No song,
No card,
No lock on the door,
A lock on the mind,
So importune me no more,
I want a divorce from your ideas,
I want to forget them forever,
And I ask this not be retold.
‘Tis shown to be all too hellish,
The world
That set this pen gliding,
Across the page,
A plea to the aether to crush me,
Please,
And then no more favors.
64.
The reduction of the spirit
Makes a dangerous saute,
And misery a pitiful sound.
Deus ex fashionista,
The deuce you say, it's just deserts
For such treachery,
Envious blasphemy,
Lost and carried down.
Amid the tiers and altars,
Somewhere a voice,
Weeping, falters,
And the wind is a hollow howl.
It’s the church of infection,
Of sin and consumption,
Uplifted by followers foul.
They dine on porridge
Made from strong men’s courage,
After defiling their graves
And their bones,
Digested by unforgiving tomes,
It's not only bodies that rot in the ground.
Nowhere can be found a worse stench
Than the smell of the priests
As they quench their unholy thirsts,
From out of the mouths of lambs and the innocent,
The perversion makes even the hardened flinch,
Because children should never know at all.
Inside the damned clergy all look the same
All rust colored, gangrenous, leprous flesh,
And the church they hold holy
Is to the core rotten, wholly,
As a dead dear days old.
On them do not dwell,
In their footsteps do not dawdle,
For they are lost.
And the path only leads down,
Where the stench becomes an entity,
And fire the only cure to be found.
65.
Since I have seen Narcissus' true self
We can no longer be friends.
[NeOPulP] Discordia: Installment Eleven
Chapter Nine:
Pretty Lies
The word spread through the neighborhoods and subdivisions of Baton Rouge like a rampant strain of mutant influenza: the one named Louis had arrived in Discordia. Everyone wanted a piece of the action. The bounty for his head ranged from a small island off the Mississippi gulf coast, to a spell to control minds, one of the more difficult and forbidden forms of magic. All the gods and devils from human mythology, and a number of deities that had nothing to do with people, gathered in the divine dimension to watch the unfolding scenario. It was like Super Bowl Sunday, and there was only one minute to kickoff. The forces of evil converged on the fortress known as the Pentacle from every direction.
Most of the city’s neighborhoods provided a safe and peaceful environment to live in, back on Earth. In Discordia most of the neighborhoods belonged to bands of evil warmongers, and every crew was named after the place they called home. Street gangs on Earth were similar, but on Discordia the gangs were everywhere. The notable exceptions were downtown, where the Pentacle stood as a bastion for the light, and the university area, where another fortress called the Quad had kept evil at bay for ten thousand years.
The South Side Wrecking Crew rolled up from McKinley Street in Cadillacs and Lincolns with boom boxes beating out earthquake bass. It was an extravagant show of their power; not that seven hundred athletic black men armed with machetes and shotguns needed cars to show their strength. The Garden District Black Guard brought human sacrifices along for the trip, hoping to boost their chances at capturing Louis Comeaux with a few burnt offerings. The Hundred Oaks Hundred boasted closer to five hundred members. The veterans of the group rode up on their signature motorcycles, and took a position between the fortress and the river. They tightened the gears on their compound bows, and waited for targets to turn into pincushions.
Every major mob turned out: the Bocage Bandits, the Highland Road Hellhounds, and the Valley Villains. They all wanted the reward, but more than that they anxiously awaited the celebration that would follow the fall of the Pentacle. The fortress had frustrated the progress of wickedness for far too long. At last the time had arrived when a united front of evil would smash the place into a million pieces, and bathe in the blood of its defenders. It was going to be quite a party.
An incredible number of warriors arrived almost simultaneously under the cover of nightfall. The fortress sentries were caught off guard. Nobody inside had a chance to escape. The siege forces waited in the tree line surrounding the fortress, well out of range of guns and bows. The forces of evil never before coordinated their attacks or showed discipline. After thousands of years of chaos, their tactics had changed overnight. Something finally quieted the infighting among the tribes of the wicked.
For their part the defenders lined the top of the wall surrounding the fortress. They were outnumbered almost ten to one, and everyone knew it. The night grew black as the pit. Neither the moon nor the stars shone down upon the scene of the upcoming battle. The defenders made peace with their creator, uncertain if they would live through another day.
The Order of True Love gathered in a large circle on the roof of the small fortress. The thirty acolytes had begun work on a long and complicated spell. They would meditate and chant silently through the night, building the energy necessary to cast the enchantment. The air was filled with positively charged ions, and the bystanders sensed the energy crackling within the confines of the circle of magicians.
Jesus and Michael stood off to one side with Uri, engaged in a heated conversation. Cara showed up to escort them to the roof just as the pair exited Michael’s room. The woman didn’t want to be involved in their discussion with the high priest, so she joined the circle and aided in the stockpiling of magical energy. The reason for her desire to remain aloof was apparent. Jesus was angry, and his mood wasn’t improving.
“Everyone knew that Louis’ presence would bring an unparalleled response from the bad guys. I assumed that someone would have the common sense to send out scouts to alert the fortress to troop movements. On top of that, nobody woke me up until we were completely surrounded. I expected this assignment to be difficult, but I didn’t think it would be made more so by our allies,” the Colombian ranted as he paced back and forth.
The blistering reprimand didn’t ruffle Uri in the slightest. The old man waited for Jesus to run out of steam. Uri’s parents were Russian emigrants, but the inscrutable expression on his face made him look like a wizened Chinese seer. Jesus finally finished the tirade. Uri conjured a small sphere of encryption, so that no enemy sorcerer listening from a distance could understand what he was about to say.
“I understand and share your concerns, Señor Mendoza, but please allow me to answer your accusations. Scouts were sent out to the north, south and east. We can only assume that they were detected and killed before being able to report back. I should add that the encircling forces arrived en masse. We were surrounded before we knew what was happening, no more than fifteen minutes ago. Nobody dawdled in waking you up. However, none of those facts are of any benefit to us now that we are surrounded. That’s all water under the bridge, as some would say.
“I do have information that will be of immeasurable value. As I told you, we escorted Louis to a safe room underneath the fortress when trouble started. I understand your anxiousness to join with your ward, but I asked for your presence up here for a very good reason. Do you see that stand of trees far down the river to the south?”
Uri did not point, but instead gazed in the direction of the copse. Jesus nodded affirmatively. It was too dark to see naturally. Uri planted a vision of the trees in Jesus mind, so that Jesus saw the scene as if it were daylight.
Uri continued, “There is a tunnel under the fortress that runs three miles to the south and comes out in those trees. The exit has a permanent ward on it that prevents its discovery. You will be leaving through that tunnel, and shortly after that everyone else here will follow.
“I discussed the situation with Moira, and the fortress will be abandoned. A small group of volunteers will remain behind to draw the fire of the attackers, and everyone else will flee for the Quad. The Pentacle was not designed to withstand an attack of this magnitude, and it would mean certain death to stay. The Quad stood through a much more determined siege eight thousand years ago, and we believe that it will stand again easily.
“You, Michael and Louis should precede the wholesale evacuation. The ploy won’t last for long, and our flight is bound to turn into a running firefight. It would be safest if you weren’t with the group,” Uri finished.
“Oh, it will be much safer for you, that’s for sure. As soon as they realize Louis isn’t with you, they’ll break off the attack and look for us,” Jesus noted bitterly. “I know that you are right, though. If we hole up in the Quad, then sooner or later they will take us down. Evil has a world full of reinforcements, and we won’t have any. We have no choice.”
“We took the liberty of bringing your car into the stockade while you were sleeping. You didn’t have anything with you, so we assumed your belongings were in the vehicle,” Uri changed the subject. The old magician didn’t want any part of their troubles. He was a good guy, but he hadn’t been a good guy for very long. He still looked out for number one.
“That’s a good thing, at least. There’s a rocket launcher in the trunk. Give it to the volunteers who stay behind. I’m taking the M16 with me, but I can’t carry all the ammo. If anybody here needs 5.56, then dole out what I leave behind. It’s the least I can do. Now point me in the right direction. I’m tired of talking,” Jesus poured out all of the statements in one big breath. The promise of battle affected him like amphetamines. He was wired for sound.
“Cara will escort you to Louis. I will send someone for the rifle and the ammo you mentioned, to save time,” Uri provided helpfully. Uri was relieved that Jesus hadn’t asked for acolytes to accompany him, or insisted on traveling to the Quad.
Jesus marched over to Cara and pulled her out of the circle by the fabric of one of her robes. Irritation spread over her features, but she didn’t make an issue out of the assassin’s behavior. They headed for the stairs.
Uri said his farewell to the priest, “Father Michael, I wish we could have spent time together under more pleasant circumstances. You have all of my prayers, for whatever they’re worth.”
“Prayer is worth more than any human knows. Hope that we will meet again one day, Uri,” Michael called over his shoulder as he rushed off to keep up with Jesus and Cara.
The three entered the stairwell to descend to the basement when they bumped into Lena and Rosie. Michael had forgotten all about them. The look on Jesus’ face indicated the Colombian hadn’t included them in his planning either. Lena saw the look, and set her jaw in grim determination.
“Where are you going, Jesus?” Lena demanded without the slightest concern for politeness.
“We’re, uh, leaving. Everybody’s leaving. These people will take good care of you, though, Lena. You’ll be safe with them,” Jesus told her. She was blocking his path, and he attempted to move past her.
Lena stepped directly in front of him and said, “No. Absolutely not. No.”
Jesus found himself looking directly at her latex covered breasts, and almost forgot what they were talking about. He looked up into her face and asked, “No? No what? What do you mean no?”
“We’re coming with you, Jesus. What did you think? That you could just leave us behind?”
“You really will be safer with the soldiers, Lena,” Cara put in.
“All of those evil people out there will be coming after Jesus and Louis and I,” Michael added.
“Your objections are duly noted. You brought me here, Jesus Mendoza, and I’m staying with you,” Lena informed them adamantly.
“And I’m staying with both of you,” Rosie spoke up from the stairs. She sounded about as certain as a bride with cold feet, but she had made up her mind. “You’re the closest thing to friends I have in this dimension.”
“Do as you like, girls, but I can’t promise that I can protect you. Meanwhile, please get out of the way. We are in a very big hurry. Every second we stand here helps our enemies,” Jesus said angrily. Lena got out of his way, but she kept up as he bounded down the stairs.
The five of them hurdled down the fourteen flights of stairs to come out in the basement of the fortress. The basement was a massive affair that stretched out like a section of Carlsbad Caverns, as far as the eye could see. The lighting ended long before the rock walls did. Everybody knew that there weren’t any caves in the muddy Louisiana ground, which was why the designers of the fortress thought the caverns were such a good idea. Nobody would storm the fortress with the intent of checking the caverns. Cara was the only one of the group who appreciated their surroundings. None of the others gave the caverns much thought.
Louis was with two female soldiers not far from the stairs, and further inside the cavern there were five horses tethered in a line. The horses were anxious, because they could sense the apprehension of the people. The women were the same two who rode out to meet Jesus and the girls. The one with the scar introduced herself as Dorothy, and she introduced her fair companion as Elizabeth. The two were heavily armed, but compound bows were still their ready weapons.
While introductions were made all around, two runners arrived with Jesus’ M16 and five cases of ammo. They put the goods down. One of them told the assassin, “Nobody here has .223, sir. You may as well take it all.” Jesus nodded, and they hurried back up the stairs.
“We weren’t expecting this many people,” Dorothy admitted, “so there are only five horses. We can send for more horses, but it will take time. We have sleeping gear and basic essentials for five people.”
“I’m not going with you,” Cara announced. She hugged Louis and told him, “Take care of yourself, Louis Comeaux. I want you to have gained twenty pounds by the next time I see you.”
The two female warriors exchanged glances. They knew that Cara never displayed affection openly. What they saw convinced them she must be attracted to extremely frail younger men. Dorothy whispered to Elizabeth, “I knew she was the domineering type.” Elizabeth giggled.
Jesus wasn’t paying any attention to the little drama. He busted open one of the cases of 5.56, and removed the two hundred round blister packs from the wooden box. He threw a couple of the blister packs to the idle priest, and instructed him to help load them into the saddlebags. Louis saw what they were doing and rushed over to help.
“You never answered my question about the horses,” Dorothy reminded Jesus.
“I didn’t realize you asked a question. Even if there was time to get more horses, I don’t think most of these people can ride. Louis, have you ever ridden a horse?”
“No,” the young man admitted.
“That means you’re riding behind me,” Jesus told him. “I assume your presence indicates that you two ladies are coming with us. Dorothy, would you mind if Rosie rides behind you?”
“I am an excellent rider, thank you very much,” Rosie spoke up. “Do you think all women are incapable, Jesus? I’ll have you know I won many awards for my equestrian skills.”
“That’s great, Rosie. Whatever. How about you Lena? Were you bareback rider of the month as well?” Jesus grunted the questions as he broke open another case of ammo.
Lena got a brief mental image of Jesus riding her bare back, and she focused to make it disappear. She tried to keep her sexuality at bay, but it had always been a big part of her life. That was why she hated to say no to the Colombian. She told the truth anyway, “No, Jesus, I don’t know how to ride a horse.”
“I can handle you,” Dorothy volunteered. Lena blushed, because as disgusting as she found her own thoughts, her mind never stopped working.
Michael spoke up, “I’ve never ridden a horse before. What do I do?”
Jesus rolled his eyes and said cynically, “Christ, help your servant. Elizabeth, do you think you can ride with the good father? We are leaving right now. Which horse do Louis and I get?”
They all mounted, and Dorothy led the way into the caverns. She was chosen to escort them because she knew the way to the surface, and very few people in the fortress did. Dorothy was also a fierce fighter, as anyone who looked at her might have guessed. Elizabeth was along because she and Dorothy were lovers. Elizabeth wasn’t just another pretty face, though. She was highly skilled at archery, and she had a gift for communicating with horses. Elizabeth followed right behind Dorothy.
Jesus and Louis were next in line, with Rosie right behind them. Dorothy and Elizabeth insisted they bring the extra horse, because they hated to leave the steed behind. They tethered the unburdened horse to Rosie’s mount, pointing out that it wasn’t difficult to learn how to ride. They also pointed out that having a fresh horse could mean the difference between life and death in a cross-country chase.
They traveled down an increasingly narrow passage beneath the earth in near absolute darkness. Louis’ flashlight he brought from home provided the only light, but Dorothy didn’t need it to find her way. The rode in silence for about thirty minutes before the ground rumbled. The battle at the Pentacle was underway.
“Damn. I hoped we would have more time,” Jesus complained loudly.
“We have more time than you may think. Moira let me in on the battle plan,” Dorothy spoke from the lead. “The sound you heard was probably the Order’s spell taking effect. The spell is the key to everyone’s survival. The attackers will see a full host of soldiers defending the fortress; in reality there will be fewer than twenty. Right now the majority of the Pentacle’s forces are following through the caves behind us. It will take hundreds of people a lot longer to traverse this tunnel than it will us, but that’s not why we have more time.”
Jesus thought she had a real flair for the dramatic as he waited for her to reveal the secret. Dorothy intoned gravely, “When the last defender falls, a countdown will begin. Sixty seconds after the Pentacle belongs to evil, the entire place is going to implode. The rear of this tunnel will be sealed. There will be no significant underground pursuit.”
“God have mercy on the men that stayed behind,” Michael said reverently.
“Moira stayed behind. She wouldn’t abandon her post, and most of her honor guard stayed with her. Our lives are being saved by eighteen women,” Elizabeth revealed sorrowfully. “She saved my life once before. I should have stayed with her, but Moira ordered Dorothy and I to lead you through the caverns. She wanted me to live.” Tears ran down Elizabeth’s cheeks, but the darkness hid the sight.
Louis spoke up in a voice that sounded alien to his body. “I promise you that she will not have sacrificed her life in vain. When I have the stone, everything is going to change.”
The sound of Louis’ voice sent chill bumps down Jesus’ spine. He knew that it was not the young man speaking. The powerful being inside of Louis was slowly rising to the surface. Jesus hoped for the best, but feared for the worst. He wondered what it would mean to his mission if Louis disappeared altogether.
Michael heard the difference too. The priest still didn’t know how to approach his God appointed task. He spent the day talking to Louis about God and salvation, while Jesus slept. Louis had a flippant attitude about religion, and only listened to things he wanted to hear. Michael felt no closer to saving the young man than he had before he started. The sound of Louis’ voice in the dark tunnel worried the priest.
Rosie rode behind them in silence. She hoped she made the right decision accompanying the small group. Lena and Jesus had saved her life once already, and she hated to lose the only friends she had in such a harsh place. She felt discouraged by the men’s aloofness, however, and began to experience acute loneliness at the back of the line. She was thoroughly depressed when they reached the tunnel’s exit.
When Dorothy passed a point in the tunnel, a power circle lit up on a large metal plate blocking the exit. It contained the symbols that hid the exit and allowed the giant plate to be opened and closed. Dorothy dismounted from her horse and approached the power circle. She touched several of the symbols in a rapid sequence, and the plate rolled out of the way. They all rode forward into the fresh air.
It was midnight, but there was moonlight outside the tunnel. The darkness over the fortress was the result of sorcery, and it did not extend that far down the river. They were all relieved that there would be some light by which to ride the horses. The disconcerting blackness of the tunnel had taken a toll on their morale.
“I know where we are. Everyone try to keep up. We must make haste down the river,” Jesus called out as he kicked his horse into a gallop.
The others followed as Jesus set an insane pace for the swamps to the south. Nobody looked back at the light show cast into the night sky by the fighting at the Pentacle. Nobody wanted to dwell on the death and the suffering that was the inevitable product of such battles. The small group was three miles south of Baton Rouge and riding hard when the night sky turned a brilliant white. The sound of a thousand claps of thunder rolled down the river and washed over them. It sounded like the heavens had burst. The Pentacle had fallen, and the spell had taken effect.
“Moira is lost!” Elizabeth cried out to the sky and the earth and the river. Her grief was inconsolable.
As the small, ragtag band of adventurers set off through the caverns beneath the fortress, the army of the Pentacle prepared to make a dash for the older, more secure fortress a few miles away. Moira gave a direct order for all regular troops to abandon their posts. Several hundred men and women marched hastily down the stairs and into the caverns. All of the members of the Order of True Love accompanied the soldiers. The powerful spell cast by Uri and his acolytes covered their escape, so that the forces of evil would not know they were leaving.
Moira kept it a secret that she intended to remain behind when the other forces fled through the tunnels. Moira’s second in command, a warlord known as Scorn, caught wind of what was really taking place. He disobeyed his orders to lead the escape. Instead he left that in the capable hands of Uri and the Order. He spread the word to a few of his best fighters that he was staying behind with Moira.
Scorn and twenty of his men joined Moira and her ladies on the walls. Moira showered Scorn with curses and insults, but she was gladdened at the sight of her closest friend. She had known that he would never leave her. Scorn, for his part, accused her of trying to steal the glory, and denounced her plan to exclude him. His words didn’t hide his meaning. He would be at her side when the end came, no matter the numbers they faced.
To the enemy the defenders looked like hundreds of warriors. That was little consolation to the defenders. Twenty feet of space separated each soldier from the next closest ally. The defenders didn’t intend to hold the walls for long. Their presence was merely a ruse anyway, a ruse that they would buy with their lives.
The forces of evil received the order to attack, and sorcery glowed among their ranks as they charged. Fireballs and lightning bolts crossed the distance between the forces on the ground and the wall. Magic spells lit up the night sky. Gunfire erupted when thousands of evil men drew within range of the walls. Bodies littered the ground before the fortress walls, but the charge never faltered.
The men who reached the stockade hurled grappling hooks over the top and began to climb. One woman shot a rocket into the attackers, and forty or more twisted men felt the agony of their demise. Bullets and arrows filled the air around the defenders, and the men and women on the walls were failing fast. The attackers paid dearly for their success, but Moira was forced to sound a retreat. She had hoped to hold the wall a little longer, but she knew it was no use. Her only choice was to retreat.
Half of Moira’s people got isolated on the far side of the fortress, and were cut down like dogs. Only Moira and Scorn, and a few men and women, reached the interior of the fortress. They quickly barred the giant doors. Within seconds the enemy could be heard on the other side. Moira ordered her small force back, away from the door and onto the stairs. The door exploded inward with a deafening boom, and smoke filled the air.
Hundreds of bloodthirsty warriors ran through the shattered frame, only to meet death and injury at the hands of the few remaining defenders. The attackers were jubilant about how easily they breached the walls of the fortress. They never even noticed that the fortress was practically empty. Bloodlust took control of the mob of evil men. They charged up the stairs at the last guardians of the Pentacle again and again, and each time there were fewer defenders left standing.
There was so much gunfire that many of the attackers in the front ran out of ammunition. Unable to turn back because of the press of people behind them, they flung themselves at Moira and her people armed only with knives and sticks. The number of attackers pushing up the stairs could not be measured. Though they climbed over piles of dead bodies, they never faltered in their effort to exterminate the defenders of the Pentacle. Within a few minutes the only defenders left were Moira and Scorn.
Moira had been shot at least thirty times. Blood streamed out of her from wounds that would have been fatal to any ordinary human being. Moira was a warlord. She would not die easily. She used guns early on, but eventually ran out of ammo. After that, every man who came within her reach went down. She swung her great mace Nutcracker with such force that men’s bodies were hurled right and left like rag dolls, but the terrible advance continued unabated.
Scorn stood by her side as they backed up the stairs. Bullet wounds decorated his chest and his abdomen, and it seemed there was no end to the blood the man contained. He wielded a great sword called Judgment, and none that were cut by the blade survived. Scorn hacked clean through men’s torsos, legs and arms, and he never seemed to tire.
Scorn and Moira backed halfway up to the third floor when the crowd came to its senses. Loaded guns were passed to the front. The two champions didn’t stand a chance, so they charged into the gunfire. Scorn skewered four people with Judgment as he flung himself down the stairs. A bullet to his brain took all the fight out of him.
Moira fought on with fifty or more bullets inside her, taking another fifteen men down to hell after Scorn fell. She finally slumped to the ground with her giant mace still clutched tightly in her fists. The men who killed her were awed to silence. They had never seen such courage.
Their reverence was cut short. The fortress turned into a giant ball of energy, and imploded with the power of a sun gone supernova. The power involved to destroy the fortress was so great that it had to be directed inward. If it had been directed outward, then most of the city would have been vaporized. The fortress was too important to give to the power of evil, however, so it had to be destroyed. The hundreds of evil attackers who survived the blast felt lucky indeed, and set about the task of finding out what happened. It was hours before their sorcerers learned that the fortress had been abandoned. The Order’s magic had worked beyond all expectations.
Years later, songs would be sung of Moira and Scorn and how they faced an army alone. Their heroism was never forgotten. Instead it grew with every telling. Within a thousand years, songs told of the victory won that day. Songs told of how Moira and Scorn won the battle, and walked out of the fortress hand in hand to live happily ever after.
Nobody ever liked the ugly truth. People have always preferred pretty lies. Where once stood a glorious fortress beside the Mississippi River, there was only a gigantic crater six hundred feet in diameter and two hundred feet deep. The crater testified to the true story of what happened to Moira the Red and her loyal friend Scorn. They died a bloody death at the hands of mindless, evil people, but they gave their lives so that others could live. The truth meant more than any fairy tale, in a savage place where no fairy would ever fly.
Pretty Lies
The word spread through the neighborhoods and subdivisions of Baton Rouge like a rampant strain of mutant influenza: the one named Louis had arrived in Discordia. Everyone wanted a piece of the action. The bounty for his head ranged from a small island off the Mississippi gulf coast, to a spell to control minds, one of the more difficult and forbidden forms of magic. All the gods and devils from human mythology, and a number of deities that had nothing to do with people, gathered in the divine dimension to watch the unfolding scenario. It was like Super Bowl Sunday, and there was only one minute to kickoff. The forces of evil converged on the fortress known as the Pentacle from every direction.
Most of the city’s neighborhoods provided a safe and peaceful environment to live in, back on Earth. In Discordia most of the neighborhoods belonged to bands of evil warmongers, and every crew was named after the place they called home. Street gangs on Earth were similar, but on Discordia the gangs were everywhere. The notable exceptions were downtown, where the Pentacle stood as a bastion for the light, and the university area, where another fortress called the Quad had kept evil at bay for ten thousand years.
The South Side Wrecking Crew rolled up from McKinley Street in Cadillacs and Lincolns with boom boxes beating out earthquake bass. It was an extravagant show of their power; not that seven hundred athletic black men armed with machetes and shotguns needed cars to show their strength. The Garden District Black Guard brought human sacrifices along for the trip, hoping to boost their chances at capturing Louis Comeaux with a few burnt offerings. The Hundred Oaks Hundred boasted closer to five hundred members. The veterans of the group rode up on their signature motorcycles, and took a position between the fortress and the river. They tightened the gears on their compound bows, and waited for targets to turn into pincushions.
Every major mob turned out: the Bocage Bandits, the Highland Road Hellhounds, and the Valley Villains. They all wanted the reward, but more than that they anxiously awaited the celebration that would follow the fall of the Pentacle. The fortress had frustrated the progress of wickedness for far too long. At last the time had arrived when a united front of evil would smash the place into a million pieces, and bathe in the blood of its defenders. It was going to be quite a party.
An incredible number of warriors arrived almost simultaneously under the cover of nightfall. The fortress sentries were caught off guard. Nobody inside had a chance to escape. The siege forces waited in the tree line surrounding the fortress, well out of range of guns and bows. The forces of evil never before coordinated their attacks or showed discipline. After thousands of years of chaos, their tactics had changed overnight. Something finally quieted the infighting among the tribes of the wicked.
For their part the defenders lined the top of the wall surrounding the fortress. They were outnumbered almost ten to one, and everyone knew it. The night grew black as the pit. Neither the moon nor the stars shone down upon the scene of the upcoming battle. The defenders made peace with their creator, uncertain if they would live through another day.
The Order of True Love gathered in a large circle on the roof of the small fortress. The thirty acolytes had begun work on a long and complicated spell. They would meditate and chant silently through the night, building the energy necessary to cast the enchantment. The air was filled with positively charged ions, and the bystanders sensed the energy crackling within the confines of the circle of magicians.
Jesus and Michael stood off to one side with Uri, engaged in a heated conversation. Cara showed up to escort them to the roof just as the pair exited Michael’s room. The woman didn’t want to be involved in their discussion with the high priest, so she joined the circle and aided in the stockpiling of magical energy. The reason for her desire to remain aloof was apparent. Jesus was angry, and his mood wasn’t improving.
“Everyone knew that Louis’ presence would bring an unparalleled response from the bad guys. I assumed that someone would have the common sense to send out scouts to alert the fortress to troop movements. On top of that, nobody woke me up until we were completely surrounded. I expected this assignment to be difficult, but I didn’t think it would be made more so by our allies,” the Colombian ranted as he paced back and forth.
The blistering reprimand didn’t ruffle Uri in the slightest. The old man waited for Jesus to run out of steam. Uri’s parents were Russian emigrants, but the inscrutable expression on his face made him look like a wizened Chinese seer. Jesus finally finished the tirade. Uri conjured a small sphere of encryption, so that no enemy sorcerer listening from a distance could understand what he was about to say.
“I understand and share your concerns, Señor Mendoza, but please allow me to answer your accusations. Scouts were sent out to the north, south and east. We can only assume that they were detected and killed before being able to report back. I should add that the encircling forces arrived en masse. We were surrounded before we knew what was happening, no more than fifteen minutes ago. Nobody dawdled in waking you up. However, none of those facts are of any benefit to us now that we are surrounded. That’s all water under the bridge, as some would say.
“I do have information that will be of immeasurable value. As I told you, we escorted Louis to a safe room underneath the fortress when trouble started. I understand your anxiousness to join with your ward, but I asked for your presence up here for a very good reason. Do you see that stand of trees far down the river to the south?”
Uri did not point, but instead gazed in the direction of the copse. Jesus nodded affirmatively. It was too dark to see naturally. Uri planted a vision of the trees in Jesus mind, so that Jesus saw the scene as if it were daylight.
Uri continued, “There is a tunnel under the fortress that runs three miles to the south and comes out in those trees. The exit has a permanent ward on it that prevents its discovery. You will be leaving through that tunnel, and shortly after that everyone else here will follow.
“I discussed the situation with Moira, and the fortress will be abandoned. A small group of volunteers will remain behind to draw the fire of the attackers, and everyone else will flee for the Quad. The Pentacle was not designed to withstand an attack of this magnitude, and it would mean certain death to stay. The Quad stood through a much more determined siege eight thousand years ago, and we believe that it will stand again easily.
“You, Michael and Louis should precede the wholesale evacuation. The ploy won’t last for long, and our flight is bound to turn into a running firefight. It would be safest if you weren’t with the group,” Uri finished.
“Oh, it will be much safer for you, that’s for sure. As soon as they realize Louis isn’t with you, they’ll break off the attack and look for us,” Jesus noted bitterly. “I know that you are right, though. If we hole up in the Quad, then sooner or later they will take us down. Evil has a world full of reinforcements, and we won’t have any. We have no choice.”
“We took the liberty of bringing your car into the stockade while you were sleeping. You didn’t have anything with you, so we assumed your belongings were in the vehicle,” Uri changed the subject. The old magician didn’t want any part of their troubles. He was a good guy, but he hadn’t been a good guy for very long. He still looked out for number one.
“That’s a good thing, at least. There’s a rocket launcher in the trunk. Give it to the volunteers who stay behind. I’m taking the M16 with me, but I can’t carry all the ammo. If anybody here needs 5.56, then dole out what I leave behind. It’s the least I can do. Now point me in the right direction. I’m tired of talking,” Jesus poured out all of the statements in one big breath. The promise of battle affected him like amphetamines. He was wired for sound.
“Cara will escort you to Louis. I will send someone for the rifle and the ammo you mentioned, to save time,” Uri provided helpfully. Uri was relieved that Jesus hadn’t asked for acolytes to accompany him, or insisted on traveling to the Quad.
Jesus marched over to Cara and pulled her out of the circle by the fabric of one of her robes. Irritation spread over her features, but she didn’t make an issue out of the assassin’s behavior. They headed for the stairs.
Uri said his farewell to the priest, “Father Michael, I wish we could have spent time together under more pleasant circumstances. You have all of my prayers, for whatever they’re worth.”
“Prayer is worth more than any human knows. Hope that we will meet again one day, Uri,” Michael called over his shoulder as he rushed off to keep up with Jesus and Cara.
The three entered the stairwell to descend to the basement when they bumped into Lena and Rosie. Michael had forgotten all about them. The look on Jesus’ face indicated the Colombian hadn’t included them in his planning either. Lena saw the look, and set her jaw in grim determination.
“Where are you going, Jesus?” Lena demanded without the slightest concern for politeness.
“We’re, uh, leaving. Everybody’s leaving. These people will take good care of you, though, Lena. You’ll be safe with them,” Jesus told her. She was blocking his path, and he attempted to move past her.
Lena stepped directly in front of him and said, “No. Absolutely not. No.”
Jesus found himself looking directly at her latex covered breasts, and almost forgot what they were talking about. He looked up into her face and asked, “No? No what? What do you mean no?”
“We’re coming with you, Jesus. What did you think? That you could just leave us behind?”
“You really will be safer with the soldiers, Lena,” Cara put in.
“All of those evil people out there will be coming after Jesus and Louis and I,” Michael added.
“Your objections are duly noted. You brought me here, Jesus Mendoza, and I’m staying with you,” Lena informed them adamantly.
“And I’m staying with both of you,” Rosie spoke up from the stairs. She sounded about as certain as a bride with cold feet, but she had made up her mind. “You’re the closest thing to friends I have in this dimension.”
“Do as you like, girls, but I can’t promise that I can protect you. Meanwhile, please get out of the way. We are in a very big hurry. Every second we stand here helps our enemies,” Jesus said angrily. Lena got out of his way, but she kept up as he bounded down the stairs.
The five of them hurdled down the fourteen flights of stairs to come out in the basement of the fortress. The basement was a massive affair that stretched out like a section of Carlsbad Caverns, as far as the eye could see. The lighting ended long before the rock walls did. Everybody knew that there weren’t any caves in the muddy Louisiana ground, which was why the designers of the fortress thought the caverns were such a good idea. Nobody would storm the fortress with the intent of checking the caverns. Cara was the only one of the group who appreciated their surroundings. None of the others gave the caverns much thought.
Louis was with two female soldiers not far from the stairs, and further inside the cavern there were five horses tethered in a line. The horses were anxious, because they could sense the apprehension of the people. The women were the same two who rode out to meet Jesus and the girls. The one with the scar introduced herself as Dorothy, and she introduced her fair companion as Elizabeth. The two were heavily armed, but compound bows were still their ready weapons.
While introductions were made all around, two runners arrived with Jesus’ M16 and five cases of ammo. They put the goods down. One of them told the assassin, “Nobody here has .223, sir. You may as well take it all.” Jesus nodded, and they hurried back up the stairs.
“We weren’t expecting this many people,” Dorothy admitted, “so there are only five horses. We can send for more horses, but it will take time. We have sleeping gear and basic essentials for five people.”
“I’m not going with you,” Cara announced. She hugged Louis and told him, “Take care of yourself, Louis Comeaux. I want you to have gained twenty pounds by the next time I see you.”
The two female warriors exchanged glances. They knew that Cara never displayed affection openly. What they saw convinced them she must be attracted to extremely frail younger men. Dorothy whispered to Elizabeth, “I knew she was the domineering type.” Elizabeth giggled.
Jesus wasn’t paying any attention to the little drama. He busted open one of the cases of 5.56, and removed the two hundred round blister packs from the wooden box. He threw a couple of the blister packs to the idle priest, and instructed him to help load them into the saddlebags. Louis saw what they were doing and rushed over to help.
“You never answered my question about the horses,” Dorothy reminded Jesus.
“I didn’t realize you asked a question. Even if there was time to get more horses, I don’t think most of these people can ride. Louis, have you ever ridden a horse?”
“No,” the young man admitted.
“That means you’re riding behind me,” Jesus told him. “I assume your presence indicates that you two ladies are coming with us. Dorothy, would you mind if Rosie rides behind you?”
“I am an excellent rider, thank you very much,” Rosie spoke up. “Do you think all women are incapable, Jesus? I’ll have you know I won many awards for my equestrian skills.”
“That’s great, Rosie. Whatever. How about you Lena? Were you bareback rider of the month as well?” Jesus grunted the questions as he broke open another case of ammo.
Lena got a brief mental image of Jesus riding her bare back, and she focused to make it disappear. She tried to keep her sexuality at bay, but it had always been a big part of her life. That was why she hated to say no to the Colombian. She told the truth anyway, “No, Jesus, I don’t know how to ride a horse.”
“I can handle you,” Dorothy volunteered. Lena blushed, because as disgusting as she found her own thoughts, her mind never stopped working.
Michael spoke up, “I’ve never ridden a horse before. What do I do?”
Jesus rolled his eyes and said cynically, “Christ, help your servant. Elizabeth, do you think you can ride with the good father? We are leaving right now. Which horse do Louis and I get?”
They all mounted, and Dorothy led the way into the caverns. She was chosen to escort them because she knew the way to the surface, and very few people in the fortress did. Dorothy was also a fierce fighter, as anyone who looked at her might have guessed. Elizabeth was along because she and Dorothy were lovers. Elizabeth wasn’t just another pretty face, though. She was highly skilled at archery, and she had a gift for communicating with horses. Elizabeth followed right behind Dorothy.
Jesus and Louis were next in line, with Rosie right behind them. Dorothy and Elizabeth insisted they bring the extra horse, because they hated to leave the steed behind. They tethered the unburdened horse to Rosie’s mount, pointing out that it wasn’t difficult to learn how to ride. They also pointed out that having a fresh horse could mean the difference between life and death in a cross-country chase.
They traveled down an increasingly narrow passage beneath the earth in near absolute darkness. Louis’ flashlight he brought from home provided the only light, but Dorothy didn’t need it to find her way. The rode in silence for about thirty minutes before the ground rumbled. The battle at the Pentacle was underway.
“Damn. I hoped we would have more time,” Jesus complained loudly.
“We have more time than you may think. Moira let me in on the battle plan,” Dorothy spoke from the lead. “The sound you heard was probably the Order’s spell taking effect. The spell is the key to everyone’s survival. The attackers will see a full host of soldiers defending the fortress; in reality there will be fewer than twenty. Right now the majority of the Pentacle’s forces are following through the caves behind us. It will take hundreds of people a lot longer to traverse this tunnel than it will us, but that’s not why we have more time.”
Jesus thought she had a real flair for the dramatic as he waited for her to reveal the secret. Dorothy intoned gravely, “When the last defender falls, a countdown will begin. Sixty seconds after the Pentacle belongs to evil, the entire place is going to implode. The rear of this tunnel will be sealed. There will be no significant underground pursuit.”
“God have mercy on the men that stayed behind,” Michael said reverently.
“Moira stayed behind. She wouldn’t abandon her post, and most of her honor guard stayed with her. Our lives are being saved by eighteen women,” Elizabeth revealed sorrowfully. “She saved my life once before. I should have stayed with her, but Moira ordered Dorothy and I to lead you through the caverns. She wanted me to live.” Tears ran down Elizabeth’s cheeks, but the darkness hid the sight.
Louis spoke up in a voice that sounded alien to his body. “I promise you that she will not have sacrificed her life in vain. When I have the stone, everything is going to change.”
The sound of Louis’ voice sent chill bumps down Jesus’ spine. He knew that it was not the young man speaking. The powerful being inside of Louis was slowly rising to the surface. Jesus hoped for the best, but feared for the worst. He wondered what it would mean to his mission if Louis disappeared altogether.
Michael heard the difference too. The priest still didn’t know how to approach his God appointed task. He spent the day talking to Louis about God and salvation, while Jesus slept. Louis had a flippant attitude about religion, and only listened to things he wanted to hear. Michael felt no closer to saving the young man than he had before he started. The sound of Louis’ voice in the dark tunnel worried the priest.
Rosie rode behind them in silence. She hoped she made the right decision accompanying the small group. Lena and Jesus had saved her life once already, and she hated to lose the only friends she had in such a harsh place. She felt discouraged by the men’s aloofness, however, and began to experience acute loneliness at the back of the line. She was thoroughly depressed when they reached the tunnel’s exit.
When Dorothy passed a point in the tunnel, a power circle lit up on a large metal plate blocking the exit. It contained the symbols that hid the exit and allowed the giant plate to be opened and closed. Dorothy dismounted from her horse and approached the power circle. She touched several of the symbols in a rapid sequence, and the plate rolled out of the way. They all rode forward into the fresh air.
It was midnight, but there was moonlight outside the tunnel. The darkness over the fortress was the result of sorcery, and it did not extend that far down the river. They were all relieved that there would be some light by which to ride the horses. The disconcerting blackness of the tunnel had taken a toll on their morale.
“I know where we are. Everyone try to keep up. We must make haste down the river,” Jesus called out as he kicked his horse into a gallop.
The others followed as Jesus set an insane pace for the swamps to the south. Nobody looked back at the light show cast into the night sky by the fighting at the Pentacle. Nobody wanted to dwell on the death and the suffering that was the inevitable product of such battles. The small group was three miles south of Baton Rouge and riding hard when the night sky turned a brilliant white. The sound of a thousand claps of thunder rolled down the river and washed over them. It sounded like the heavens had burst. The Pentacle had fallen, and the spell had taken effect.
“Moira is lost!” Elizabeth cried out to the sky and the earth and the river. Her grief was inconsolable.
As the small, ragtag band of adventurers set off through the caverns beneath the fortress, the army of the Pentacle prepared to make a dash for the older, more secure fortress a few miles away. Moira gave a direct order for all regular troops to abandon their posts. Several hundred men and women marched hastily down the stairs and into the caverns. All of the members of the Order of True Love accompanied the soldiers. The powerful spell cast by Uri and his acolytes covered their escape, so that the forces of evil would not know they were leaving.
Moira kept it a secret that she intended to remain behind when the other forces fled through the tunnels. Moira’s second in command, a warlord known as Scorn, caught wind of what was really taking place. He disobeyed his orders to lead the escape. Instead he left that in the capable hands of Uri and the Order. He spread the word to a few of his best fighters that he was staying behind with Moira.
Scorn and twenty of his men joined Moira and her ladies on the walls. Moira showered Scorn with curses and insults, but she was gladdened at the sight of her closest friend. She had known that he would never leave her. Scorn, for his part, accused her of trying to steal the glory, and denounced her plan to exclude him. His words didn’t hide his meaning. He would be at her side when the end came, no matter the numbers they faced.
To the enemy the defenders looked like hundreds of warriors. That was little consolation to the defenders. Twenty feet of space separated each soldier from the next closest ally. The defenders didn’t intend to hold the walls for long. Their presence was merely a ruse anyway, a ruse that they would buy with their lives.
The forces of evil received the order to attack, and sorcery glowed among their ranks as they charged. Fireballs and lightning bolts crossed the distance between the forces on the ground and the wall. Magic spells lit up the night sky. Gunfire erupted when thousands of evil men drew within range of the walls. Bodies littered the ground before the fortress walls, but the charge never faltered.
The men who reached the stockade hurled grappling hooks over the top and began to climb. One woman shot a rocket into the attackers, and forty or more twisted men felt the agony of their demise. Bullets and arrows filled the air around the defenders, and the men and women on the walls were failing fast. The attackers paid dearly for their success, but Moira was forced to sound a retreat. She had hoped to hold the wall a little longer, but she knew it was no use. Her only choice was to retreat.
Half of Moira’s people got isolated on the far side of the fortress, and were cut down like dogs. Only Moira and Scorn, and a few men and women, reached the interior of the fortress. They quickly barred the giant doors. Within seconds the enemy could be heard on the other side. Moira ordered her small force back, away from the door and onto the stairs. The door exploded inward with a deafening boom, and smoke filled the air.
Hundreds of bloodthirsty warriors ran through the shattered frame, only to meet death and injury at the hands of the few remaining defenders. The attackers were jubilant about how easily they breached the walls of the fortress. They never even noticed that the fortress was practically empty. Bloodlust took control of the mob of evil men. They charged up the stairs at the last guardians of the Pentacle again and again, and each time there were fewer defenders left standing.
There was so much gunfire that many of the attackers in the front ran out of ammunition. Unable to turn back because of the press of people behind them, they flung themselves at Moira and her people armed only with knives and sticks. The number of attackers pushing up the stairs could not be measured. Though they climbed over piles of dead bodies, they never faltered in their effort to exterminate the defenders of the Pentacle. Within a few minutes the only defenders left were Moira and Scorn.
Moira had been shot at least thirty times. Blood streamed out of her from wounds that would have been fatal to any ordinary human being. Moira was a warlord. She would not die easily. She used guns early on, but eventually ran out of ammo. After that, every man who came within her reach went down. She swung her great mace Nutcracker with such force that men’s bodies were hurled right and left like rag dolls, but the terrible advance continued unabated.
Scorn stood by her side as they backed up the stairs. Bullet wounds decorated his chest and his abdomen, and it seemed there was no end to the blood the man contained. He wielded a great sword called Judgment, and none that were cut by the blade survived. Scorn hacked clean through men’s torsos, legs and arms, and he never seemed to tire.
Scorn and Moira backed halfway up to the third floor when the crowd came to its senses. Loaded guns were passed to the front. The two champions didn’t stand a chance, so they charged into the gunfire. Scorn skewered four people with Judgment as he flung himself down the stairs. A bullet to his brain took all the fight out of him.
Moira fought on with fifty or more bullets inside her, taking another fifteen men down to hell after Scorn fell. She finally slumped to the ground with her giant mace still clutched tightly in her fists. The men who killed her were awed to silence. They had never seen such courage.
Their reverence was cut short. The fortress turned into a giant ball of energy, and imploded with the power of a sun gone supernova. The power involved to destroy the fortress was so great that it had to be directed inward. If it had been directed outward, then most of the city would have been vaporized. The fortress was too important to give to the power of evil, however, so it had to be destroyed. The hundreds of evil attackers who survived the blast felt lucky indeed, and set about the task of finding out what happened. It was hours before their sorcerers learned that the fortress had been abandoned. The Order’s magic had worked beyond all expectations.
Years later, songs would be sung of Moira and Scorn and how they faced an army alone. Their heroism was never forgotten. Instead it grew with every telling. Within a thousand years, songs told of the victory won that day. Songs told of how Moira and Scorn won the battle, and walked out of the fortress hand in hand to live happily ever after.
Nobody ever liked the ugly truth. People have always preferred pretty lies. Where once stood a glorious fortress beside the Mississippi River, there was only a gigantic crater six hundred feet in diameter and two hundred feet deep. The crater testified to the true story of what happened to Moira the Red and her loyal friend Scorn. They died a bloody death at the hands of mindless, evil people, but they gave their lives so that others could live. The truth meant more than any fairy tale, in a savage place where no fairy would ever fly.
[NeOPulP] Blasphemers Gone Wild
Frightened easily
Like having first-hand knowledge
Of all the rapes and murders
That took place in public places
In front of large crowds
Every single time for nothing.
Nobody will ever have
No doubts
About people's basic goodness,
Yeah, about that.
Yeah, hmm.
Entertain the masses.
On the fast track to becoming a millionaire.
Think like the crowd.
It's all about the money.
Sell your soul.
It's sexy.
Another reason
For another starving artist,
To make another pathetic excuse.
About why they failed.
Painful childhood
Disturbed memories
Traumatic experiences
Cry me a river
All you poor fucking babies.
Now is now and not yesterday
So what are you going to do?
Weep and weep and slobber
Your excuses on someone else.
Once I was exactly like you
Which is why I hate you,
And will be glad when you die.
We can party where the lights are blinding
Inside a pin striped box
Where small animals hide
During thunderstorms.
When did it become okay to be like me?
When did it become fashionable
To be a freak in the sunlight?
Changed the hair
Changed the clothes
Shaved, showered, spiffed up
Still a freak beyond all hope.
Of all the sights most detested,
The posers with sadomasochistic flair
Sicken me the most.
I can only imagine,
They have happy happy homes
Full of credit card debt
And mom is drinking because
It hurts more that way.
Dad is a loser
Because all he ever did
Was try to do the right thing.
The world cut off his balls
And erased his identity.
It's all about money.
We were all fucked from the beginning,
Aside from the occasional lightning strike.
Give me fifteen minutes
And they would be ashamed of their existence.
Give me an hour and they would never be free
Again.
I take boys.
I'll take good care of them.
C'est la vie.
Aurevoir.
Next lifetime learn how to float,
The undertow... just don't even tell jokes about that.
I also have a religion I'd like to sell you.
Have you checked out
My latest piercing?
A dumbbell
Straight through my heart.
Top that
teenie-boppers.
I finally got that Gothic chick
With all the shit in her face,
And the smile that lit up
When I talked about hurting her.
It was quite fine.
She loved every second of the pain,
As did I.
"This will hurt me more..."
I could not love her.
She was too pure for me.
Another half-assed lie.
The truth was that the big man got scared
When everything fit too well.
It fit perfectly.
My personal favorite:
The devil made me do it.
"That's great, sir or ma'am.
Tell us where this devil is
So we can go arrest him."
or
"Mr. Lucifer, you are under arrest
For contributing to the delinquency
Of every minor,
236 trillion counts of temptation
(it was a big number),
one gazillion counts of encouraging
lewd and lascivious behavior,
and one moving violation
from that year you stole Santa's sleigh."
Never trust categories.
This is not an excuse.
This is a boast.
In honesty
I am quite for sale.
Wealthy people totally
Deserve my subservience,
for a price.
I am very confident
Such a thing could never take place.
I have nothing to offer
But demonic ridicule,
A ridiculous collection of Hot Wheels from 1973,
And one bulging
Egg sac
From which the queen's babies will hatch.
Well,
Master or Mistress,
What would you have me do?
Be careful,
This thing before you bites,
And always draws blood.
Infection will set in,
And amputation will be
Inevitable.
You boys out there wouldn't want that,
Now would you?
You ladies need never fear.
That which you possess
Is the finest treasure
The world has ever known.
Bite?
Never.
Worship would be more likely.
(metaphorically speaking of...
uh, yep, its sex)
The subtlety award goes to
Not that guy with the keyboard,
No, that other guy,
Yeah, him.
[ish hard to lie]
The finest things
Can only be described
Through sensation.
If you got the cold fish
You had a lapse in judgment.
I think warm honey
Better describes the experience.
Pick more carefully
The next time a chance presents itself.
Even my close friends tell me
That I am too public.
I have no other explanation for that
Than my fondness for humiliation.
I love to get caught,
When catching up
On all the beautiful ways
The beautiful people left me behind.
Friends will come
And laugh in your face
To watch you suffer.
You're left with what you had.
What's your excuse?
The devil made you do it?
Or was it a lesser devil?
Formidable linguistic adversary
That I am
(glottal stop),
Surely there are better excuses than that.
Psycopathia sexualis
Algolagnia
Dear me...
Did I stake that claim,
Make satyriasis my personal game?
So come better than that.
Come with paraphilia,
Amphieroticism,
The love that dare not speak its name,
Or something else of substance,
Like a lifelike rubber ducky
or an onion ring drizzled in caramel.
Come with fricatrice,
Or boondagger,
Or scotophiliac, or...
Do you think I have a problem?
Higgledy har.
I like this game.
The best toys
Are the ones that are
The most difficult to kill.
Thank you, Senor Frog,
For your insight and genius.
Yet an afternoon
In the company of Mr. Davis
And Mr. Coltrane
Relieve me of all concerns;
This is the finest exhibition
Of the human spirit.
My entire life is baddable.
Take that away
And suicide is the only option.
In the wake of all this examined discourse
Impotent, perverted neuter,
Salacious imp with the gnomish gimp,
[It's hard to determine the sex just from looking]
Would probably be the diagnosis
With the mostest voteses.
If only that were true.
The wind blows and the sails furl,
Never at half mast.
It is a curse,
Not a blessing.
It's like living the staged Iwo Jima photograph
Over and over
Except there's nobody there but the flag,
Which, curiously enough,
Bears the coat of arms of Zaphod Beeblebrox,
Long may his name endure.
Imagine hunting with a lance
That never breaks.
The beast of venery dies,
But the lance keeps poking,
Over and over,
Like a mindless necrophiliac.
-philia, my favorite additive.
It's all about love, I tell you.
This should be
About a thousand pages longer
and contain
something besides vulgarity.
I'm still working on caring
What you think.
I don't reckon I'll ever get it.
Is this microphone on?
**____**
Like having first-hand knowledge
Of all the rapes and murders
That took place in public places
In front of large crowds
Every single time for nothing.
Nobody will ever have
No doubts
About people's basic goodness,
Yeah, about that.
Yeah, hmm.
Entertain the masses.
On the fast track to becoming a millionaire.
Think like the crowd.
It's all about the money.
Sell your soul.
It's sexy.
Another reason
For another starving artist,
To make another pathetic excuse.
About why they failed.
Painful childhood
Disturbed memories
Traumatic experiences
Cry me a river
All you poor fucking babies.
Now is now and not yesterday
So what are you going to do?
Weep and weep and slobber
Your excuses on someone else.
Once I was exactly like you
Which is why I hate you,
And will be glad when you die.
We can party where the lights are blinding
Inside a pin striped box
Where small animals hide
During thunderstorms.
When did it become okay to be like me?
When did it become fashionable
To be a freak in the sunlight?
Changed the hair
Changed the clothes
Shaved, showered, spiffed up
Still a freak beyond all hope.
Of all the sights most detested,
The posers with sadomasochistic flair
Sicken me the most.
I can only imagine,
They have happy happy homes
Full of credit card debt
And mom is drinking because
It hurts more that way.
Dad is a loser
Because all he ever did
Was try to do the right thing.
The world cut off his balls
And erased his identity.
It's all about money.
We were all fucked from the beginning,
Aside from the occasional lightning strike.
Give me fifteen minutes
And they would be ashamed of their existence.
Give me an hour and they would never be free
Again.
I take boys.
I'll take good care of them.
C'est la vie.
Aurevoir.
Next lifetime learn how to float,
The undertow... just don't even tell jokes about that.
I also have a religion I'd like to sell you.
Have you checked out
My latest piercing?
A dumbbell
Straight through my heart.
Top that
teenie-boppers.
I finally got that Gothic chick
With all the shit in her face,
And the smile that lit up
When I talked about hurting her.
It was quite fine.
She loved every second of the pain,
As did I.
"This will hurt me more..."
I could not love her.
She was too pure for me.
Another half-assed lie.
The truth was that the big man got scared
When everything fit too well.
It fit perfectly.
My personal favorite:
The devil made me do it.
"That's great, sir or ma'am.
Tell us where this devil is
So we can go arrest him."
or
"Mr. Lucifer, you are under arrest
For contributing to the delinquency
Of every minor,
236 trillion counts of temptation
(it was a big number),
one gazillion counts of encouraging
lewd and lascivious behavior,
and one moving violation
from that year you stole Santa's sleigh."
Never trust categories.
This is not an excuse.
This is a boast.
In honesty
I am quite for sale.
Wealthy people totally
Deserve my subservience,
for a price.
I am very confident
Such a thing could never take place.
I have nothing to offer
But demonic ridicule,
A ridiculous collection of Hot Wheels from 1973,
And one bulging
Egg sac
From which the queen's babies will hatch.
Well,
Master or Mistress,
What would you have me do?
Be careful,
This thing before you bites,
And always draws blood.
Infection will set in,
And amputation will be
Inevitable.
You boys out there wouldn't want that,
Now would you?
You ladies need never fear.
That which you possess
Is the finest treasure
The world has ever known.
Bite?
Never.
Worship would be more likely.
(metaphorically speaking of...
uh, yep, its sex)
The subtlety award goes to
Not that guy with the keyboard,
No, that other guy,
Yeah, him.
[ish hard to lie]
The finest things
Can only be described
Through sensation.
If you got the cold fish
You had a lapse in judgment.
I think warm honey
Better describes the experience.
Pick more carefully
The next time a chance presents itself.
Even my close friends tell me
That I am too public.
I have no other explanation for that
Than my fondness for humiliation.
I love to get caught,
When catching up
On all the beautiful ways
The beautiful people left me behind.
Friends will come
And laugh in your face
To watch you suffer.
You're left with what you had.
What's your excuse?
The devil made you do it?
Or was it a lesser devil?
Formidable linguistic adversary
That I am
(glottal stop),
Surely there are better excuses than that.
Psycopathia sexualis
Algolagnia
Dear me...
Did I stake that claim,
Make satyriasis my personal game?
So come better than that.
Come with paraphilia,
Amphieroticism,
The love that dare not speak its name,
Or something else of substance,
Like a lifelike rubber ducky
or an onion ring drizzled in caramel.
Come with fricatrice,
Or boondagger,
Or scotophiliac, or...
Do you think I have a problem?
Higgledy har.
I like this game.
The best toys
Are the ones that are
The most difficult to kill.
Thank you, Senor Frog,
For your insight and genius.
Yet an afternoon
In the company of Mr. Davis
And Mr. Coltrane
Relieve me of all concerns;
This is the finest exhibition
Of the human spirit.
My entire life is baddable.
Take that away
And suicide is the only option.
In the wake of all this examined discourse
Impotent, perverted neuter,
Salacious imp with the gnomish gimp,
[It's hard to determine the sex just from looking]
Would probably be the diagnosis
With the mostest voteses.
If only that were true.
The wind blows and the sails furl,
Never at half mast.
It is a curse,
Not a blessing.
It's like living the staged Iwo Jima photograph
Over and over
Except there's nobody there but the flag,
Which, curiously enough,
Bears the coat of arms of Zaphod Beeblebrox,
Long may his name endure.
Imagine hunting with a lance
That never breaks.
The beast of venery dies,
But the lance keeps poking,
Over and over,
Like a mindless necrophiliac.
-philia, my favorite additive.
It's all about love, I tell you.
This should be
About a thousand pages longer
and contain
something besides vulgarity.
I'm still working on caring
What you think.
I don't reckon I'll ever get it.
Is this microphone on?
{{{Interestingly enough, though this version is less censored than my previously released version, I still can't bring myself to post this in its entirety. It turns out I'm sick. Very, very sick.}}}
**____**
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