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"A Thrilling Ride with intense heat and three dimensional characters that will come alive and grab you into their world."
Dan Krotz
The Huffington Post When you order from the link, your order will be processed by
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Gives Ozarts Center for the Arts a higher royalty. | | The Four Trials of Satan is a physiological thriller that takes you from the depths of hell to the chance for enlightenment. Nothing is what it seems. Everything including life on earth is up for grabs. The story revolves around battles of will between the son of Satan and four devout mortals he must manipulate into doing his bidding to bring about the direct rule of Satan on Earth.
Alexander Virden has worked a number of careers including the Navy, Real Estate, building sets for movies in Hollywood, acting in films, writing and directing commercials and music videos, and as a commercial diver in the Gulf of Mexico and in Nuclear Power Plants as far as Japan. Currently he is restoring a historic hotel in Berryville Arkansas while cooking in and running a restaurant on the ground floor to raise money for the restoration. Profits from the sale of this book will go towards the restoration of the Grand View Hotel and towards the multiple surgeries Alexander needs. For more information go to Ozarts.org.
| | Excerpt “He’s going to come for you.” She said aloud as if she was warning somebody else. She did not fully understand how the engine of her destruction would manifest itself, but she knew her clock had run out and she had nothing left to lose. She was going to die and all she could think about is how lonely she had felt all her life. She wanted to feel wanted. To see desire in a man’s eyes. Desire for her. She hadn’t had a man really want her since she’d been seduced by the devil himself, a lifetime ago. She wanted a young man, who was still capable of unbridled desire. To make her feel like she was alive, before storm came and took her life away. |
Read the first three chapters.
The Four Trials of Satan
by Alexander Virden
Ozarts Center for the Arts Novels for Charity
The Four Trials of Satan Copyright © 2010 Ozarts Center for the Arts – Novels for Charity All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, print, electronic, or by any other format, without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, incidents, businesses, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination, or are used fictionally. Author Photograph by Grav Weldon Cover Design by Alexander Virden For information on ordering books go to Ozarts.org.
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ISBN-13:978-0615514642 (Ozarts Center for the Arts - Novels for Charity)
Printed in the United States of America
Ozarts Center for the Arts Novels for Charity
Funds raised from the sale of this book go toward charitable programs. Currently funds will be used for:
The restoration of the Grand View Hotel on the town square in Berryville Arkansas. The hotel was built in 1902 and was left to decay for over thirty years before the present restoration project began. It is vital to the economy of this rural community that this historical building be restored and brought back to life.
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DEDICATION
I dedicate this book to hope.
If your god has cheated you of light, Come to me, the devil say. If your god does not allow your animal passions, Come to me, the devil say. If your god does not shield you, Come to me, the devil say. If your god gives you more than you can bare, For any injustice he throws upon you, Come to me, the devil say, And I will promise you everything If you will be mine. CHAPTER 1
Lisa dropped the wooden spoon she had been using to stir the mashed potatoes. The spoon landed on the Linoleum with a thud and stuck straight up like a culinary arrow. Lisa’s eyes flashed repeatedly to the door, she brushed aside the curtain of stale blonde hair that protected her eye movements, feeling safe she dropped to one knee with a dish towel to clean up the mess. She stared into the pot as she stood. Her lips bucking into a frown. There’s a lump. No lumps in the potatoes. No lumps in the potatoes! A lump in the potatoes is a lump on you.
“Ha! Ha!” She covered her face to stifle the laugh. Her eyes carved a look in the direction of the kitchen door. The hinge was silent. Glancing at the potato paste, clinging to the spoon, she studied it’s geography for signs of contamination. She smirked and flicked off a random particle, studied it briefly, then stabbed the spoon back in the pot and attacked the last lump.
Setting the spoon in the sink, she picked up a hot pad and opened the gas oven. The heat made her face flush with a new crop of sweat and she could feel it coming out from under her hair line like little animals running out of the woods. Her breasts were soaked against the fabric of her bra and its hard edges rubbed her raw with every move. If only Jim would get one of those new window air conditioners, he’d started selling down at the hardware store, for the kitchen. Everybody else on the block was getting them. It sounded like an airport out there when everyone got home on a hot summer night. Yeah, Jim was going to spend money on her comfort. He never came in the kitchen, why would they need air conditioning in there. Hot juice and melted fat spilled over the pad and onto her thumb when she put the roast on the counter. She was careful to insure the pan was stable before sucking her thumb. Without registering a whimper of pain, she looked in the direction of the living room, her thumb still in her mouth, nothing. The roast was darker brown than can be painted without looking black. It had been simmering in its dripping and gravy for seven hours. The fat was blacken and crispy and when she touched it with a fork the flesh pealed away like rose petals. ‘Almost ready. Almost.’
Jim Reeve sat in the living room. The phonograph was wearing out the repeat groove at the end of the LP and Elvis had left the building. His eyes were fixed on the all-state track medal hanging around the neck of his, senior high school, football trophy. His lips were like little Chinese fighting fish: mounds of battling flesh, relenting in their combat only long enough to swallow bourbon.
He had a whole case of cups, plates, plaques. His laurels including Valor Victorian for the high school class of 1948. There was a picture of him with Lisa sitting on the thrown at the senior prom and letters offering scholarships. A picture from Life magazine of him at the Olympic trials. His thick black hair brushed back with sweat and his shoulders glistening. But there were no gold medals and there wasn’t a diploma from any of those universities that had offered a free ride to the golden boy. They were the prelude to a life that never was to be, because the Jim Reeve photographed so majestically against the back drop of accomplishment no longer existed. The eyes that had shown so brightly were now dim with hatred. There was none of that zealous young man, because in 1950, he did the right thing; as his mother would say.
When his father got sick and couldn’t handle the hardware business, he came home to help out. Only his father didn’t get better, nor did he check out in a expeditious manner; as any polite person would have done. He loitered like an Amway rep at the bottom of his pyramid. So by the time the old pinhead finally kicked off, Jim had gained twenty pounds and become the full time manager of his father’s hardware store.
Then Lisa, his girlfriend of two years before college and the two years since, announced, If he didn’t want to buy the car, he didn’t need to check the oil. That maybe it was time to put herself back on the lot. Lisa’s father had sold cars and she had gotten this lecture from him the night before. While Jim didn’t doubt he could find a new car to drive, Lisa was a sporty little roadster with perfect headlights, in a land of big fat Buicks. She was well lubricated and fast to shift gears. He’d never admit it, but there were times she scared him limp with her self indulgence. He was more than a little nervous about her being with some one else and having a little chuckle over that. So, content in the idea of having a son to take up where he left off, he signed the title and they bought their own little piece of heaven, two miles from the Reeve And Son Hardware Store.
In the beginning Lisa was the perfect drug to fight off Jim’s frustrations. He tangled his lust in her long blond hair. He sank into her flesh staring into the ocean depths of her green eyes and groped his fingers around firm breast that wouldn’t loose their shape if she stood on her head. Which she did at times, though Jim couldn’t quite figure out what to do with her when she did.
Then time had its way. Years of cooking, cleaning, and big Sunday dinners had their way and washed out the edges of her youth while putting new ones on her eyes. Her little tricks chased his peewee into hiding more often than not. He noticed her smiling once when he’d tried especially hard. That was the first time he’d hit her and that had started an erection. She shook off the punch and looked down at his crotch and said.
“So, are you at least going to fuck me now?”
He slapped her again and got throbbing hard, but he lost control the second it touched her sweat nectarine. If he had seen her roll her eyes he probably would have killed her. When she saw the expression on his face, as he rose up from where he’d flopped down on her, she swallowed the sarcasm her lips had almost dripped and shielded her face. She laid still, taking shallow breaths. He called her a worthless wore, but he didn’t hit her again. Her fear was enough to satisfy him.
That was the first night he drank until he passed out on the couch. The first night Lisa slept curled up like a hamster hiding from a big cat.
Jim transferred some of his energy to the store and more to one of his young cashiers, who was much more docile in her acceptance of his penetration. Lisa became docile as well, but Jim still believed she was laughing at him and there was only one way for him to mount a flag pole with her. He learned to hit her in the ribs and drive thumbs into the nerves in her thighs and joints so her bruises wouldn’t show in public.
His transference of hostility to work actually caused the store to do well. He opened stores in other towns and took new mistresses. But no amount of stepping out could make up for his fear of Lisa’s wet humiliation. And who cared about all that anyway. Who cared about anything when you were married to a barren woman who couldn’t give you a son. He suspected Lisa of somehow avoiding a child. The candle never lit that none of the women he’d sowed upon, had popped a bud.
He swallowed off his bourbon and looked toward the kitchen. His fists clinching like trash compactors. Nine years.
Lisa stood in the hall holding her breath. Her fingers were touching the frame of the archway to the living room. She closed her eyes and stepped out into the arch, keeping her eyes down, and twisting her hands into her apron.
“Supper’s on the table, Jim.”
Jim sat in silence, not moving.
“Would you like a beer, or water?” Lisa wiped the sweat off her palms and shuffled, edging away from Jim. Jim’s head barely moved as his eyes came around to scrutinize her and call her an idiot.
“Did I have a fucking beer last night?”
“Yes.”
“Did I have a fucking beer on Tuesday.”
“Yes.”
“Did I have a fucking beer every night this week?”
“Yes.”
“So what the fuck do you think I want?”
“I guess you want a fucking beer.”
“What?” Jim threw his glass against the wall and Lisa jumped back. “Are you being smart with me?”
“No... sorry.”
“You’re right, you’re sorry.”
“Jim, please not tonight. I fixed your roast just the way you like it . . .”
Jim stepped forward and slapped Lisa. “Shut up! I hate it when you whine. I hate that more than anything.” Jim picked up the open bottle of Jack and took a deep swallow. Lisa stood her ground, wanting to run, but knowing he would catch her. He always did and the chase just made him more excited. She thought, ‘Roll with it. Don’t fight. Don’t fight.’
“Fucking freak. Do you know any of the other women from our class that can’t make a fucking baby. You got one purpose in life, all you have to do is lie on your back and you can’t even fucking do what every stray bitch and cat on this street can do.”
“Please, Jim, not tonight.” Lisa’s voice crackled down to a whisper. “I fixed your favorite dinner.”
“I fixed you favorite dinner.” Jim whined the words through pinched lips and shook his head with contempt. Then spat words at her like they were raw sewage, soaking in his mouth. “Stupid bitch. I can hire an old colored woman to cook for me. One that wouldn’t make a pig turn away like they would from the slop you make.” He took another drink, spilling half the swallow over his lips. “Probably out sex you too.”
Lisa noticed the course black hair sticking out through the tightly pulled button holes at the belly of Jim’s shirt. She looked at his dull animal eyes and his swaying stance and she was truly afraid. It would be bad tonight. So bad she thought of running, but she was afraid he might kill her if she did. There was hate in him. Hate that terrified just by its existence, great 190 proof sour mash hate.
Lisa was trembling. She had fixed her eye with fascination on the tear drops rolling off her shoes. She could not bring her voice above a faint whisper. “Please, Jim, my mama’s coming tomorrow. You know how you two fight, when . . .”
“You’re mama is coming tomorrow! La de fucking da! Who gives a shit? Wait a minute, maybe I should have married her. She’s an ugly old scow, but at least I know her plumbing works.” Jim grabbed Lisa by the hair, clinching his fingers as if he were pulling crabgrass from the lawn. He threw her body into the wall, never letting go of his grip, then spun her into the hall and smashed her face into the mirror. Rolling it back and forth until her nose bled over her mouth and chin.
“What do you see?” He slammed her face against the mirror, breaking her nose. “What do you see?”
“I don’t know, Jim. Please . . . stop.” Lisa’s vision blurred like truth in Congress, as she tried to make her gelatin legs set up.
“I’ll tell you what you see. One man and one woman thing.” Jim gave her three quick and brutal blows to the ribs, threw her against the opposite wall and let her drop. She spilled on the floor like turned over garbage, choking on her own blood until she convulsed into a hacking fit. Jim straddled over her. He waited until she stopped coughing long enough to look at him, then he spit in her face.
“There’s you’re dinner. Mothers milk.” Jim stepping on her hand as he walked out of the house. Lisa saw him leave and then blacked out.
By the time Lisa awoke midnight had come and gone. She half crawled, half limped, to the kitchen sink. Turning on the cold water, she hung over the basin splashing her face until she was able to stand. Then shut off the water and went to look at herself in the bathroom mirror.
This time it had cost her a front tooth. Her gum was bloody and purple where the tooth had broken off. She was marked up worse than ever. Her eyes, and now disfigured nose, had swollen to such a degree she made pigs ass look pretty. She knew her mother, with her self-serving need to dominate, would shove a bitch-witch sandwich down Jim’s throat. Jim would stop for a while, then when all the commotion was over he’d go back into training for the heavy weight asshole championship of the world, but the first one... his come back round, would be punishing.
Tenderly, Lisa explored her ribs. The light touch made her eyes water. She walked slowly down the hall and stopped and the mirror. It was smeared with her blood. She stared at her battered reflection, she thought of going to the police. ‘Yeah wouldn’t that be great,’ She mused. ‘Sheriff Baker, co-captain of Jim’s senior football team.’
She could leave, go to another city. Sure that was it, unskilled, no education, and at the wrong side of her youth. She looked at her image for another moment, then turned into the living room. Going to the display case she picked up a large silver cup, capped with a running back, stiff arming his way down a never ending field. She carried it back to the hall way and smashed the mirror. Not bothering to move her hand to avoid the falling glass. She dropped the trophy and stared at the fresh cuts on her forearm and smiled. Bending down she selected a piece of the broken mirror.
Calmly she walked over to the couch and made herself comfortable. There was an open Whitman’s Sampler on the coffee table.
‘That’s a no-no. Must watch my figure or no one else will.’ Lisa smiled again as the programed response flashed through her mind. Examining the box closely, she picked the piece of candy appearing to offer the most bountiful supply of succulent calories and popped it into her mouth. The chocolate had a chewy center. It stuck on Lisa’s teeth and started her gums bleeding. She felt and tasted the warm burst of salty fluid, and release of pressure, as a release of her fear. Her nose was useless and it took quite a bit of effort to chew and breathe through her mouth. She giggled and made sucking sounds as chocolatey spittle bubbled over her fat bottom lip.
The sweet finally consumed, she took a fortifying swallow from the, half empty, bottle of bourbon, on the end table. The liquor gave her a warm, confident, feeling. Sort of like locking a full clip into Colt 45. She took the glass shard from the mirror, careful not to look at her reflection, and made two diagonal cuts across her left wrist. She watched them bleed for a moment then did the same to the right. She drank bourbon for a while, staring out past the walls as she did, then popped another chocolate in her mouth.
Before long the blood began to clot and turned into a dark red sludge. Lisa frowned at her wrists. She twisted her fists, but the blood flow remained coagulated. Though, she herself, would never have used that word to describe it. With a deep sigh she picked up the broken mirror and sliced the length of her left forearm. Blood began to spray out like promises out of a politician. She barely had the strength to slash the other arm. She fell forward and was out of it before her head cracked against the coffee table.
Lisa danced with a thousand images. Raced through a thousand years. She cork screwed up and she felt guided by a powerful hand and somewhere in there she had the first and best orgasm she’d had in years. Her whole body felt like a bundle of nerves wrapped up in a hungry tongue.
“Lisa.”
The voice came from behind her and she did not care to listen. She was trying to figure out how she’d had that shock wave so she could have another.
“Lisa.”
Lisa ignored the voice and searched the air with phantasmic hands.
“Lisa.”
“Leave me alone.” Lisa pouted her ghost lips and tried to touch herself.
“Lisa!” The voice got angry.
Lisa ignored the voice.
“Lisa! I did it. I’m the one who did that for you!”
Lisa arrested her fruitless groping and listened to the voice.
“Lisa, it’s not too late.”
“You can do that again?”
Lisa felt pain from her body and twitched to look back.
“You can still fix your life.”
“Fix it?” Lisa felt herself slowing. “Fix it how?”
“Come back and see.”
Lisa tried to ignore the calling, but she looked down and saw herself, lying on the floor at the bottom of a plasmic vortex swirling below her. Lisa felt her pain rushing up and consuming her. She screamed as she reentered the life she would have been gang raped by mountain gorillas to leave. It was like waking from the freedom of her dreams, to find herself once more beside Jim. The thought made her pause and think of a life of cruelty and harsh reality, where dreams are best forgotten in the morning, lest they drive you mad by day.
Lisa opened her eyes. It took her a moment to focus on the broad shouldered man standing over her. He had crimson hair, a manicured beard, and looked as if he were on the way to the theater. He reached down and seemingly took her arm without pressure and pulled her up on the couch. She looked at his hands, then her arm where he had touched her, then at his hands and realized blood did not stick to this man.
“Your not my husband.” Her voice was hackish and fluid. She cleared her throat and tried to swallow. Nothing.
“No. No, dear, I’m not.” His words were relaxed with a hint of vinegar and boredom, without sounding smug or whiny. He took a gold watch from the appointed pocket on his vest. His movements came to a precise halt as he checked the time.
“You haven’t got long.” The man became animated as he slipped the watch back into its pocket. “So I’ll have to speak quickly. Do you have any idea who I am?”
Lisa stared at the man, her mind totally blazed out. She could have been knocked over with a stretched condom. She just raised her arms in confusion.
“I didn’t think so. You haven’t exactly been a Rhodes Scholar this life time. Well I get a lot of bad press, but I’ve got a nice personality.”
“You’re Satan?”
“Bada bing. You’re catching gears, as your papa used to say. But I prefer you call me by my first name, Jesus.” He paused while Lisa’s eyes bugged out like headlights and her brain skidded into a big empty lot. “Just kidding. A little God humor there. Anyway, why I’m here is to ask you, do you really want to die?”
“What are my options?”
Satan raised his index finger. “Okay, let’s review. Your life is hell. Why? Because you got no son for Buba. And Buba is three strikes short of being at bat, but that’s beside the point. The thing is, that there is one little ingredient missing from the cake batter and I could supply that ingredient in exchange for a small favor.”
“You want my soul?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ, no. What am I going to do with a half wit housewife that would rather slit her wrists than just fucking leave her husband. Yeah, pile me up with those souls. Please sir may I have another. I could probably toast a marshmallow with that flame. You know he didn’t just wake up one morning and become an asshole. You’re the one that let this thing grow out of control.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to talk to the son you will bare.”
“Son? You want my son?”
“No. I don’t want your son. I want to speak to him on his twenty first birthday. He’s under no further obligation and neither are you.”
“You sound like an insurance salesman.”
“Who do you think trains them?”
“You, just to talk to him?”
“That’s it. I need your permission.”
“And that’s all.”
“That’s all.”
“All right.”
“Fine. Dip your right index finger in some of that blood, you spewed everywhere, and touch it to the palm of my left hand.”
Lisa stared at Satan, her jaw hanging open like the glove box of a wrecked mini van, sucking the life out of her face like a sitcom. Satan checked his watch again.
“You’re going to have to decide quickly. If you bleed to death before you choose that’s a whole new deal package and I’m not in the market to deal with all that.”
“Okay.” Lisa answered, but remained still. Satan held out his left palm urging her into action. Lisa looked down and the gore of her wounds and dipped her finger into the long gash on her left forearm.
“That’s it. Now all I need is the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval and were on our way to the baby factory.”
Lisa slowly reached up and touched her finger against Satan’s palm.
“Good girl.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Now, sleep.” Satan waved his hand over Lisa and she instantly winked on the sofa. Satan sat beside her and patted her on the ass.
“Can you hear me, Lisa?”
“Yes.” Lisa’s eyes remained shut.
“Do you know why I picked you? Why I nudged things in my direction?”
“No.”
“Because you’re the naughtiest girl I ever met and that’s something you can’t fake. You’re going to be my little whore tonight aren’t you?”
“Yes.” Lisa began to run her hands over her thighs.
“Going to do anything I want, before I even ask you.”
“Yes.” Lisa cringed with desire.
“Dance for me.”
Lisa came alive in fluid motion as she stood. She tore open her dress and sliced the front of her bra with broken glass. Her breast, while fattish compared to her youth, were still firm. Her nipples hardened, as she licked her fingers, and made circles around them. She looked up from them to Satan.
“I’m a mess. I can be much prettier than this.” Lisa pouted her bruised, swollen, bottom lip.
“I like you this way.”
Lisa smiled. She slipped out of her dress and panties. “Do you like what you see?”
“Yes.”
“I’m a good girl.”
“Yes, yes you are.”
Lisa was lying in her bed when she woke up. She blinked up at the ceiling, trying to decipher the strangest dream she’d ever had. She ran her tongue over her full set of teeth, expecting an empty slot that wasn’t there. She sat up and looked in the mirror. Her skin was the same peach complexion it had been when she was eighteen years old and her hair seemed weightless. ‘What was that dream about? I think . . . ‘ Lisa could remember nothing, but felt the nagging tug, of a hidden file, buried deep in a drawer that had just slammed shut. Now there was a wall of drawers and she couldn’t even figure which one to look in. She hadn’t realized, deep down in the present, that she was naked yet, but she absently looked at her breasts and thought they now looked more like peaches than pears. The phone rang and she looked at it like it had stood, tap danced up the side of the wall, and started speaking Spanish. Which was a language she didn’t understand. Thus you can imagine her confusion. She picked up the Spaniard.
“Hello?”
“Lisa.”
“Jim. You’re not at home?” Lisa looked around as if he’d been located, somewhere around there, just a minute ago.
“Lisa, are you all right.”
Lisa looked down at herself and her brain said. ‘Oh my goodness, I’m naked.’ Her mouth said. “Yes, I’m fine. How are you?”
Jim didn’t answer right away. He looked around his office, where he’d crashed when they threw him out of The Truck Stop Bar and Grille. “I can’t remember leaving the house.”
Lisa sat up with a little jolt. “That’s funny; neither can I.”
“But, you’re all right?”
“Yes.” she said, but thought. ‘Naked and glowing like a school girl, but fine.’ Her brain added and she rekindled her attempts to remember the dream; satisfaction came from in there somewhere.
“I must have gotten into a fight at the bar then.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ve got blood on my shirt and it’s not mine.”
“You’re sure you’re not hurt.”
“My head feels like the inside of a batting cage, but I’m okay.”
“Well, hurry home.” Lisa squeezed her thighs together and felt warmth spread through her body.
“I’m going to get cleaned up and open the store.” Jim’s voice lacked all the confidence and bravado corn mash normally put in his throat.
“Don’t take too long.” Lisa ran her hands down her body. “I got something for you and I don’t want it to spoil.” Lisa hung up the phone and let her fingers slide over the inside of her thigh.
“Oh, God. . .”
No, not god . . . She didn’t hear the whisper, but froze as if she’d been dripped in liquid nitrogen. Her fear of something unknown lasted a long moment, before she relaxed and allowed her hand to move again.
Jim stared at the phone without recradling it. He had the distinct feeling he was missing something, but had no idea where to look for it. He set the receiver down and sat in his chair, looking at the wall with no more recognition than he would if he looked in the mirror and saw himself looking back from a single eye in the middle of his butt. Even if he did recognize his own ass he wouldn’t have been bright enough to understand the innuendo, which would be the whole point of such a bizarre reflection. He stayed just like that until the phone rang, thirty minutes later. He looked at it and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Jim.” Lisa was breathless. “Aren’t you coming home?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Good, hurry.”
“Okay.”
“And Jim.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll be in the bedroom.”
The passion Satan had reawakened in Lisa soon fumbled away through Jim’s clumsy fingers, but by then the pregnancy had been declared and of course it was the last year of the fifties so, after conception, there was no further need of sex. Jim walked around like the big stud handing out cigars and Lisa left her shoes off when she mopped the kitchen. So everything was just, well, peachy.
When Michael was born, Jim and Lisa made the Cleavers look like the worlds most dysfunctional family. Which, when they turned off the stage lights, they were. But the lights were always on for the Reeves. They were the Stepford Reeves and everyone hated to be around them because they’d just make you gag. Michael had pounds of straight black hair and a good nose for a newborn. He was strong and had a real affection for the tit. He gained weight at a rate that made the doctor want to call Guinness. Jim was all for it. He also wanted to stop and see the worlds biggest ball of string, the one time they went down route 66. Lisa wasn’t going to have anything to do with it. No one was going to put her boy in a freak show. Though Jim noticed a certain sort of eerie glare come over her eyes whenever he broached a subject dealing with Michael. He learned to concede to her rearing opinions, because she always seemed to be holding a large carving knife when he disagreed with her, even when they weren’t in the kitchen.
Jim laid off the Corn Lightening and gave up the cashier. She wasn’t happy about it, but a promotion to assistant manager at a store in another town, moving expenses included, shut her up. Michael learned to walk almost as fast as he ate. He could read and write before he entered the first grade. Had they ever heard of accelerated classes in 1966, he’d have been in them. But beings as schools weren’t as progressive back then and were bent on upchucking non-thinking, predestined, Ike clone consumers, to buy Fords and cigarettes, sort of like city universities of our present day, he had to muddle through. The need to conquer poor, starving, nations, with fascist dictators, who’s hungry masses dared to whisper communism, kept the countries attention while he sat through each grade. Waiting.
Bored with everything else, Michael tried out for sports in junior high. He did well. Which, of course, you would expect of someone with such an extraordinary beginning. And still he waited. He didn’t know for what, but he knew it was big, and by god he was going to be waiting for it when it got there.
So the old man was happy, if not a little jealous when his son’s awards began to shadow over his in the trophy case, like a Xeon 3.6 against a Commodore 64. Lisa, aside from being a little lonely and unfulfilled since Jim had lost interest in her feminine side, was happy to be allowed to live peacefully. And Michael, aside from being fourteen and feeling awkward from being that age, was content waiting for the big thing he was sure was coming. So everything was still, well, pretty much, peachy.
Michael went off to study business law and become a lawyer. Jim got fat and actually had a Beer Miester, beer tap and cooler, installed in the living room to amaze and impress his intellectual colleagues. And Lisa, well Lisa took care of herself, because Jim wasn’t doing it. And everything was just . . . well you know.
May sixth, nineteen-eighty-one, at four PM, Michael was busy running around the campus getting ready to leave school. Trying to stay one step ahead of the two girls he’d been dating all semester. Jim was drinking beer. He had given up active management of his stores and had bought the bowling alley. It was his way of retiring to Mecca. He spent most of his afternoons there. All his trophies lined up on the shelf behind the bar and cash register. Lisa was fumbling with her keys, while balancing two bags of groceries. And Satan placed a call.
Lisa, breathless from racing through the house, moved both bags to one arm, picked up the phone and held it to her ear.
“Hello, Lisa.”
Lisa’s groceries hit the floor and she knew, right away, that things were no longer peachy.
“Oh Jesus, it’s you . . .”
“My beloved. How is that sweet pussy of yours. I couldn’t help but stop by from time to time and slipping into your dreams.”
Lisa blushed. “I don’t remember my dreams.”
“Yes you do.” Lisa flushed deeper crimson. Satan cleared his throat. “I just wanted to give you a courtesy call. I’ll be seeing our son later . . .”
“Our son?”
“Oh please don’t try to convince me you thought that beer vacuuming, pin setter, fathered Michael.”
“No . . . “
”Oh, yes. I’ll tell him you said hi.”
The phone clicked off. Lisa let out a deep sigh and lowered the phone. She let the phone rest on her hip and stared at the wall. She hung up the receiver and walked into the living room. She poured herself a vodka, splashed some tonic in it and slugged it down her throat.
“Hi, Jim.” Lisa smiled. “I just wanted to tell you, you have no sperm and by the way, the devil himself sired the baby you think is your son.” Lisa mixed and downed another drink. “Yeah. I think that will work. He can deal with that.”
Jim smacked Lisa so hard her lips bobbed like a fucking cartoon. Having finished a bottle of vodka while trying out different dialogues, Lisa just spat blood and giggled. He came for her, grabbing her around the throat and lifting her off the floor. Which stopped her from giggling, but the pressure on her neck caused her grin to go ridiculously wide. Jim’s eyes, well you can imagine your eyes if some one told you about the devil and supernatural conception. As you can imagine the man was slightly unnerved.
“Lisa, if you don’t tell me who it is, I swear to god I’ll rip your throat out!”
“It was Satan.”
“What are you? The fucking Church lady? I want to know who fucked you and I want to know in the next five seconds”
“All right it was Andy Verilli.”
“Andy Verilli’s dead.”
“Not in my mind. I fucked him every day of the week this month. I got him powered up by the Energizer fucking Bunny. He gives it to me like you never could!”
That’s when Jim knocked the peaches out of the tree.
She felt motion and was pretty sure she was alive. Lots of gibberish overhead. Jim saying something. We were in an accident baby. You were thrown from the car, but you’re going to be all right. Going to be all right.
. . . . . . . . feather clouds
And ink black dreams.
come from children’s’ ink blot screams
And all would never be peachy with the world again.
Michael was sitting outside his dorm eating a Philly Steak and Cheese. He really got hot for these sandwiches. The gristle in the marinated steak, the stick cheese, powerful onions and toasty bun. It was decadence in a sandwich and he really dug the taste. Of the two girls he was trying to ditch, one girlfriend had thrown the traditional you bastard I’m going home and sleeping with my old boyfriend break up. He’d been counting on that one. Now if she could get her ass off campus without Elaine running into her. What are the chances? Last day. They’re moving out. They do live on different floors of the dorm.
“Excuse me, Michael, I don’t mean to interfere with your mental ping pong, but I wonder if I couldn’t shave off a little of your time.”
“What?” Michael had never seen the man before, but he looked familiar in a reflective sort of way. Michael had spent a lot of his life examining his perfect features in the mirror and this guy definitely had some like characteristics. “Do I know you?”
“No, not really.”
Michael was immediately impressed. He could tell this guy thought even more of himself Michael’s own ego would allow vanity to stretch and Michael had some super elastic veins. Michael was in awe of the narcissism standing before him.
“I’m a friend of your mother’s.”
‘Please tell me you’re my real father. Please tell me you’re my real father.’
“I knew her before you were born.”
‘Please! Please!’
“And I think it’s time we talked. You see, I’m you’re father.”
‘Yes! Yes! There is a god!’ Michael knew this was the big thing he’d been waiting for.
“But that’s not all. I’m also Satan and that makes you a very unique young man.”
“What?” ‘WHAT?’ Yes, this was a very big thing. His father was a nutter and they’d just let him out off the tree for a visit.
“Are you medicated? I don’t want you freaking on me.” Michael raised one hand as if to shield himself.
“Don’t insult the intelligence I seeded you with.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Okay, let me get this straight. You’re Satan, I’m your son, but my mom’s still my mom.” Michael paced back and forth while Satan sat on the bench.
“Right.”
“Now you want to take over earth, but you can’t do it without my help and if I succeed I get to be supreme human dictator of earth.”
“Your description’s a bit boorish, but essentially correct.”
“And if I fail?”
“Well, you have to do a little time.”
“Do a little time.” Michael stopped pacing. “Are you talking three weeks minimum security or are you talking the hole at San Quinton?”
“You will take the role of the dragon from the brother who preceded you by a thousand years.”
“Okay so we’re talking a thousand years in a dragon suit?” Michael returned to his pacing.
“The role of the dragon is to channel all the pain of the world into my power. You feel everything then pass the clean energy on to me.”
“Does this hurt?”
“A lot.” Satan sneered a little, over-annunciating the words.
“Sounds like fun. And no one has ever succeeded.”
“No one.”
“Okay and if I turn down facing these. . . ”
“Four trials.”
“What happens?”
“First you will forget this meeting.” Satan began examining his nails. “Then gradually things, school, athletics, etc., will become increasingly difficult. You will slow down.” Satan rubbed his finger tips together, then locked them together and looked at Michael. “You will become normal. You will become Jim Reeve’s real son.”
“Ah! Just to think about makes me gag like someone shoved a broom stick down my throat. I’m going to end up like him?”
“Since his actual blood does not flow in you, I will have to model you in his image.”
Michael sat on the bench, hunched over, stared at the sidewalk. “I am very depressed.” Michael took a deep sigh and sat up. “Okay, what do I have to do? Slaughter a few lambs? blaspheme? Tell me what I got to do not to end up like that asshole in the boweling alley.”
“I’m impressed. It’s very courageous of you to so readily accept this challenge, knowing that none have ever succeeded, and the suffering you will endure if you fail.”
“Well, you’ve never met my father.”
“Stepfather and I get your point. Right, you must face four trials of manipulation. The tuck and split games you play with your girlfriends have been warm up practice for the Olympics of emotional exploitation.”
“I have to seduce a bunch of women?”
“No. You will have to face four humans, each devout in some way and you will have to turn that way to me.”
“Sounds great, when do I start?”
“When the time comes, I will return and lead you to the first trial. If you succeed, I will lead you to the next. If you complete each of the four trials, I will gain direct control of the earth and you Michael, will be my governor over the human race.” Michael smiled.
“Master of the fools.”
“I assume that you approve.”
“Yes, yes, the idea is definitely growing on me. Let’s roll.”
“There is still much for you to learn before the end of the millennium, Michael. Continue the path you have set for yourself. If your ever in doubt, pray.”
“Pray?”
“To me idiot. I will come to you when the stars and planets are where ever it is they’re suppose to be.” Satan had never gone for all the astrology garbage. “They’ll send me a memo.”
“They?”
Satan pointed up. “There is one more thing.” Satan paused. “Your mother, she knows about us and she’s trying to convince your stepfather. It’s a long shot, but they could be trouble. If nothing else, they’re going to be a pain in the ass.”
“What? You want me to kill my mother and stepfather? I mean my stepfather, I was planning on doing that anyway, but mom?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her after you do. She’ll finally have an eternity of what she really wants. I plan on giving her my personal attention.”
Michael thought about that. “Okay, if she’s going to be happier, I guess it will be all right.”
“Good, then we have nothing further to discuss.” Satan stood up.
“What? you’re leaving?”
“Yes, I have business to attend to.”
“Wait a minute. You show up after twenty one years. Tell me you’re my father. Ask me to risk my soul and you’re not even going to have a beer with me or something.”
“Michael, what the hell, are you talking about?”
“Well, you know.” Michael looked at the ground. “Have a few beers, get to know each other.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, every man wants to know his father.”
“I’m the supreme evil being. There’s lots of literature on the subject. Read the bible. No they reversed everything in that.”
Michael stuck his hands in his pockets and kicked the gravel.
“Michael, I am the extreme evil guy in the universe. I’ve got some serious demands on my time.”
“Sure whatever.”
Satan stared at Michael, his jaw slack. Which you can imagine is not something that happens to Satan very often. Finally he looked at his watch and let out a deep huff. “Oh, okay fine. Where do you want to go?”
“There’s a place around the corner.”
“All right, two beers and I got to go.”
“Great, so when some one burns in hell does their flesh really burn?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s more of that Christian nonsense.”
Michael walked off to the bar, asking his father questions as fast as Satan could answer them. And as far as Michael was concerned, things were just . . . well . . . peachy. CHAPTER 2 At forty, Bill had figured out he was never going to keep a wife. It’s not that he was unfaithful, or mean, or a bad drunk, he just had too much fun being a kid. He was a big man who like to rough house, be impulsive, and drive his motorcycle on cross country trips. He looked more like a Hells Angel than a college professor. The physique served him well when he was cutting his way through a rain forest, searching for lost cities and forgotten tribes, but the attitude that came with it turned women into popsicles once they realized Bill’s roller coaster had no stops, it only had exits. His last wife had left for Europe the day after he left for the jungle. He came back at the end of the summer. She did not. She took up residence with a broom stick of a professor she met at a brick of a party, on a fashionably snobby estate, outside of London. No one would ever be rude to her again. Not at a party of peers and not when she was shedding tears. No one would ever pull up her blouse or scare her with a mouse. She would never again have to put up with that louse. And when she cried about that, her new man would ask no questions, he would not hold any interrogation, nor will he stair at the ceiling as if he wished it would fall and kill us all. He instead will stroke her gently and tell her over and over again, everything was going to be all right and that she was safe in his house. She did not send for her things. She sent him his marriage pink slip and he signed it and moved on. All the things that had made him popular with women as a young college professor, were now repulsing women his own age like concussion grenades launched from third world Russian RPGs. He tried dating younger women, but all his time in the sun, and on his bike, was not kind to him. His skin looked like it had been on the bad side of a knife fight with some serious ultra violets. Even women ten years younger, looked too young for him. He was hansom in a lumber jack sort of way, which may sell paper towels, but his looks combined with six four frame made women look like children next to him. He still indulged in the occasional co-ed crush, but he would soon feel uncomfortable, or she would be ready for the next experience in her young highly motivated life and they would move on without too much in the way of hysterics. And she would call him when she broke up with her boyfriends and they would go out for dinner and a night of gratuitous fornication. It was a arrangement that left Bill feeling a little more than empty at times. If it had been too long since his last fling, or he hadn’t found anything new to excite him in his research, he could enter long bouts of depression. These events never really got solved. The next love affair would happen, because he’d be out more, brooding at some party, or bar. If he brooded long enough, in enough places, one of the women who saw him would find his self indulgence mysterious, then she would fill his mind and he would forget what was wrong. It was a young girl, probably not the twenty one required to be in the bar, that added a permanent addition to his life. She did this without Bill ever knowing her name, or touching her, though she did occasionally touch him, on his shoulder, or tracing the lines on his face, with her slender fingers, as they talked. Bill had never wanted a woman more, but he could tell there was none of it there. She almost seemed like his adult. The last thing she said was, “Find the purpose for the child in you.” Then she kissed him on the forehead and walked away. It puzzled him for days. He had a hard time remembering her features. Every time he would try to remember her she would sort of dissolve to a blur. As if he were looking at her through the bottom of a glass. The need to answer this riddle had led him to a state home for children. After trying to read her words a thousand different ways, he took the literal interpretation and joined the big brothers program. He would never make a very good father, but he felt loaded with big brother qualities and was very confident he would be a success. That is until he saw Jacob for the first time. He sat in the office of the headmistress’ of the orphanage. Bill had already privately nicknamed her the warden. She appeared very suspicious of Bill, since their first meeting, as he suspected she was toward men as a rule. Jacob was in the day room. Bill could see him through the glass window that separated the office from the general populace. “What’s wrong with him?” Jacob did not move. He sat straight and stared straight. The other children played around him as if he were not there. “Medically, nothing.” “Does he speak?” “If you press him. More often, he’ll comply with whatever you ask him. Sometimes he’ll look at you. Sometimes not.” The warden was very flat in her description. She had several children’s cases filed in her all business mind. “Was he always like that?” “Since he’s been here, yes. I’m told that he was perfectly normal before the fire.” “Fire?” Bill turned away from the window to look at the woman. “He was in a fire. . .” The woman showed her first hesitation. “His father got him out, but died going in to save the boy’s mother. Nether of them came out.” The woman looked at her hands and pushed her lips into a mushroom. “His mother was screaming loud enough to be heard over the fire. Then part of the roof collapsed and the screaming stopped.” The woman looked up at Bill. He was looking through the window again. “Perhaps you could try. . . a less difficult case. All the children need care.” “No.” Bill faced the woman. “I have a feeling this is what she was talking about.” “Excuse me?” The warden returned to her guarded, cross, self. “Some one told me. . . Nothing. It’s nothing.” Bill took a deep breath. “So, can I meet him?” “That’s why you’re here.” Used to spending time alone pouring over chips of ancient crockery and bones, Bill felt no need to fill the silence with inane pointing and descriptions of things the child would not care about. He took Jacob to the movies the first day. The highlight of their conversation came at the concession stand. Do you want pop corn? Eye contact. Head turns to the popcorn, returns to Bill with a slow nod. Cola? Not much interest. Root beer? A faster repeat of the earlier procedure as Jacob scanned the bright sign for conformation of root beer. The movie had a title that involved a lot of fingers and death. Kung Fu movies had just started penetrating America, so were still a novelty. The voice over sounded as if they’d picked up two drunken British sailors from the docks of Hong Kong. It was very exciting and very silly and Bill saw Jacob’s expression change for the first time when he smiled. Though they saw each other at least twice a week, their conversations did not lengthen much. Nodding was still the most common response. Some days Jacob would just walk around the huge work rooms where Bill spread the artifacts of his current studies. Jacob would carefully handle many of the objects, but never leave them out of place. His wandering among the tables would often bare fruit in the form of matched pots and bones. Eventually he placed things together without consulting Bill. People thought they were like two ghosts. You could go into the room and leave without being sure either of them had been there. So it did not distract Bill in the least when Jacob came up and placed a missing piece into the Aztec water jug he had been trying to assemble all morning. “That’s good, Jacob. If we’re lucky, maybe we can finish off this pot by lunch time.” Bill did not look up at Jacob immediately. He felt the familiar warmth on the side of his face and set down his magnifying glass and looked at Jacob. “What is it?” Jacob studied Bill’s face. He looked down, then looked and Bill again.“What hurt you?” Bill stared at Jacob. His eyes blinked a few times, but registered no new information. “What do you mean, Jacob?” “You’re the quietest adult I’ve ever met.” Bill’s mouth fell open, but his vocal cords weren’t on duty. Jacob continued.“I know why I’m quiet.” Tears began to seep from Jacob’s eyes. “I was just wondered what had hurt you that bad.” Bill stared at Jacob. “I don’t know. I know that it’s there, but I don’t know what it is.” “I saw, heard... my mama die.” Jacob began to sniffle. Bill felt as if his heart would implode looking into the child’s eyes. “She... burned... alive.” Jacob began to sob. Bill carefully picked up the boy sat in a chair and rocked him in his massive arms. Jacob just kept repeating, “She was screaming... My papa... he... went in... he didn’t come out.” Bill kept rocking him and comforting him and he learned not only could he be a big brother, but he could be a father as well. Jacob fell asleep cradled in Bill’s arms. Bill took him home and put him on the bed in the guest room. He left the light on and the door open, then went into the kitchen and called the warden, who he now knew as Betsy. He told her what had happened and heard her quiet tears on the other end of the phone. It broke his heart again to hear the warden melt. Her ramrod posturing gave him comfort. It was reliable and dependable. He said, he thought it was time that he became Jacob’s foster parent and arrange for adoption if it was possible. She said, she believed that quite possible. He thanked her and said he would be in to see her the next day. CHAPTER 3 Lisa stared at the ceiling and slammed her fists onto the mattress. Then twisted, coiled, and grabbed at the blanket and tugged on it as if she could rip it from under her. She was trying unsuccessfully to relieve her stress. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She rolled over on her belly. Her hair was tangle mass of unkempt fury and she drove her fingers into the jungle of her mane, to rest her forehead against her palms. She looked at the clock through the blonde web that hung over her eyes. Jim had been gone for two hours. He’d be hammered by now. Why couldn’t he just drive off the road and kill himself like other drunks? Lisa rolled onto her back and began to search the ceiling for answers again. Michael cursed as he walked quickly down the side of the interstate trying to put some distance between himself and the Ford Escort he’d stolen to get home. He let it be known, to as many people as he could in two hours, he was going to hang out for a few days and not answer the phone. As he was getting ready to take off when the wimpy guy from across the hall came barging into his room. “So you’re hanging out for a while. Yeah, me too. I got an incomplete. I got to finish a fucking ball buster term paper. I guess we can hang out.” Michael stood staring as if he had been given a sudden rectal exam and hadn’t known his pants were down. The geek lingered for almost a week until Michael just did his fucking paper for him. He did stay true and not answer his phone. He had a kazillion messages from his mother and three from his stepfather. Three from his stepfather was more surprising than all the messages from his mother. At first he thought his mother was hammered and then he put it together with his stepfather’s messages and realized she had been hammered, but not by alcohol. As soon as the geek left he parked his car in the middle of campus and went looking for the most nondescript car he could find. The Escort had been the ticket, he couldn’t imagine the cops getting too excited about this car being reported stolen. Owner: My Escort was stolen! Cops: And you want us to get it back? What he hadn’t counted on was the transmission in a three year old car locking up at seventy miles per hour. The car had almost flipped when the wheels decided to stop turning. If his surprise hadn’t caused his knee to jerk, pushing in his foot that was resting on the clutch, the car would have gone over for sure. He should have known better. His father had always driven Fords and well, we all know what a loser he was. Now the car was sitting a mile behind Michael. Where the first state trooper to happen by would have to do something about it, when he ran the plates and found out it was stolen, he was going to be looking for somebody on foot. It was at least three miles to the next exit and even Barney Five could put a man walking down the side of the road and a broken down car in the same picture. Michael started to jog backwards and hold out his thumb. It was a dangerous move. He was only thirty miles from Riverdale and well known there. The chances of being picked up by someone who might recognize him were better than he cared to think about. That would tie a real knot in his plan and he already had to find another car. A two tone-primer and red-Camaro pulled of the road fifty yards up and Michael hurried to meet it. The door opened and the girl was still leaning across the seat. He recognized her right away. “I thought that was you Michael Reeve.” ‘Think. Think. Think. Janet, no. Alice, no. Tina, maybe.’ “Tina.” She said and smiled. “How are you doing?” The girl was pretty in a hillbilly sort of way. Long, wavy, chestnut hair that hung down over her shoulders without being forced into shape. Dark brown eyes, that bespoke a mystical sort of intelligence. Michael could see her small firm breasts, where her flannel shirt hung open from her leaning. She looked at the direction of his eyes and smiled again, but didn’t hurry sitting up to correct the exposure. She waved her hand. “Get in.” Michael got in and closed the door. “I didn’t think you’d remember me. You always dating those cheerleaders.” She threw it in first and punched it as soon the door closed. “What are you doing walking down the road. That fancy sports car leave you hanging?” “Ah, yeah.” “Fix it again Tony.” After finishing a quick trip through the four speed-the crystal hanging from the review mirror tapping the glass with every shift-she started fishing in her shirt pocket. Michael realized he was looking at her full, unpainted, lips as she put the joint to her mouth. “I got a job at the mill and, my own trailer, now.” She lit the joint with a pink Bic and passed it to Michael. He was hooked in her eyes and was startled by the sudden presence of the joint. “Want to see it?” Michael blinked. “What?” “My trailer.” She smiled. “Yeah, sure.” Michael looked at the doobie and brought it to his lips. Tina glanced at Michael without turning her head. The left side of her face snuck up into a grin as she noticed Michael shift in his seat to make room in his jeans for Mr. Happy. Lisa laid on the bed hyperventilating. She gulped air and slowed her breathing, then glanced at the clock for the tenth time in half as many minutes. “Damn!” she said grimacing. One more hour before Jim came home. “I can’t do this, if he kills me for leaving at least I won’t be here anymore.” Jumping off the bed she got in the shower. When she got out she stood at the mirror and examined her face and decided a little foundation would take care of what was left of her bruises. With no time to dry her hair, she fluffed it with the towel, tied it back, and put on a purple silk blouse. Lisa thought, ‘I’m not bad for an old broad.’ “He’s going to come for you.” She said aloud as if she was warning somebody else. She did not fully understand how the engine of her destruction would manifest itself, but she knew her clock had run out and she had nothing left to lose. She was going to die and all she could think about is how lonely she had felt all her life. She desperately needed to feel wanted. To see desire in a man’s eyes. Desire for her. She hadn’t had a man really want her since she’d been seduced by the devil himself, a lifetime ago. She wanted a young man, who was still capable of unbridled desire. To make her feel like she was alive, before storm came and took her life away. Michael walked around Tina's trailer wearing his boxers. Tina was still in the one bed room at the back of the trailer where she had given him more than any girl ever had. Crystals hung everywhere. There were pewter bats and dragons and a makeshift plywood bookcase that went to the ceiling and was piled with references on numerology, astrology, and the occult. For the fist time he noticed the black pentagon hanging on the door. A creak, in the floor, turned Michael toward the back of the trailer. Tina was standing there naked. Her long hair hanging in waves over her shoulders, nipples poking out where the hair caressed her breasts. Her right thigh was shiny and wet. He noticed there was some blood as well. “You like my place?” She smiled a paw on tail smile. “Interesting. You a witch?” Michael tried to make it sound like a joke, failing and his voice all but crackling. He was most aware that his body was responding to seeing her standing there in her raw state. “You could call me that if you didn’t know any better.” She smiled her predator smile. “Which I would guess you don’t.” She walked over to him and he couldn’t help backing against the wall. “Did you know we had the same birthday?” “No, I didn’t.” Michael was leaning against the wall now. “You wouldn’t. You haven’t been as aware of me as I have been of you.” Michael’s eyes puzzled. He didn’t have a chance to think about what she had said. She slipped her hand inside his boxers. “I’ve got to take care of something.” This time his voice did crack. “You’ve got time.” She toyed with him. “You need to use my car.” “Yes.” Michael tried to be cool “Then you need me to drive you back to school and you were never here.” “Yes.” “Good. Now shut up. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.” Michael grabbed her around the waist and picked her up. She felt his was nervous and smiled. “What’s the matter cowboy? Chick got your dick?” He held her hips thrust into her determined to fuck that smile off Tina’s face. Which is, of course, exactly what she wanted. Lisa jumped into the car and was already turning the ignition key before she closed the door. Pulling out quickly, she failed to notice the old Camaro, parked across the street, or it's occupant. Had she seen the car she wouldn't have recognized it anyway. Had she come out a minute earlier and seen her son rummaging through the trash, the day might have gone differently. She didn’t though and it continued on as it was going. Michael started the Chevy and followed his mother. He was cautious at first until he noticed something erratic in her driving. Realizing she was hardly paying attention to where she was going and even less to where she'd been, he relaxed, following reasonably close so he wouldn't loose her. This was good, because Tina had left him barely able to keep his eyes open. He took another swallow from his third coffee and settled in for the ride. Lisa drove for two hours, on the mountain highway instead of the interstate. When she saw the green sign flashing Kelly’s she pulled into the parking lot. There were five pickup trucks and three beater muscle cars that were all in some, never to see the end, stage of restoration. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lisa pulled in and parked. “If I can’t get fucked in here, I might as well cut off my tits and use them for softballs.” Lisa smiled in spite of herself. The tavern was built on an outside curve and Lisa stopped to look down in the valley for a few minutes. ‘It was so pretty down there,’ Lisa thought it hard to believe anything could be wrong in the world. She shook her head and entered quickly into the tavern; she was past being ready for another drink. When she came in everyone in the bar turned and looked at the bright flash created by the swinging door. It wasn’t a brass and fern kind of place and there wasn’t a single window. She was the only woman in the place. She quickly met every set of peepers around the room and they all dropped down as she rested on them. Then she saw what she was looking for: Levis jacket, 501 Jeans, long blond hair. He was leaning against the jukebox doing his best James Dean. His car would be the project vehicle farthest from factory condition. He would be buying his beer with an unemployment check, since this was the time of year the plants didn’t hire freelance laborers, but would still offer to buy hers. She would let him buy it, but she’d pay for the room instead of going to whatever hovel he called home. If she was lucky it had been a while since he’d talked some high-school girl’s skirt down to her ankles and he’d be ready to go. “Come to mama, little boy.” Lisa said to herself as she walked over to ask him if she could pick a song from his play list. Michael drove past the bar, pulled into the Quicky Gas station next to the bar and parked. He watched his mother go in then got out of his car. He walked over and around the bar. He cursed when he couldn’t find a window to look through. He went to the door. It was still pretty bright outside he could risk a quick glance. If he ducked his head in and out, eyes adjusted to the inside wouldn’t be able to focus on him with the back light and he'd have the light from the door to look around. He needn’t have worried, his mother had her back to the door and her hand on some young guys shoulder. The boy’s hand was on her ass and he was grinning like someone who had just made four the hard way. Michael pulled his head back and smiled to the point of almost chuckling. ‘Get it mom, I didn’t know you had it in you.’ Michael took a good look at all the vehicles in the parking lot, until he was sure he’d recognize them again, then he went Quick Gas to see where the nearest hotel was. Where the Mountain Highway joined the interstate was a Factory Outlet center that offered incredible savings. Michael perused a while, most of the stuff looked more like Taiwan copyright free stuff or left over stock, ratty from being in boxes too long. It served as a mall for the surrounding counties since the population was not great enough to support such a venture without the infusion of impulse buying interstate travelers. Mostly Senior Citizens who traveled in shinny aluminum potato’s crisscrossing the country, to insure that all KO campgrounds were identical, and spent fortunes in order to save forty percent off hotel bills, with an additional ten percent in senior discounts. Since the center did serve normal people, as well at the interstate variety, along beside Bla Bla Coat Factory, Bla Bla Shoes, and Bla Bla porcelain treasures, mass produced by slave labor in third world countries, was a Radio Shack. In the Double O Nitwit, Geek Bond, section was a voice modulator. Michael had tried to make up his own female voice, but it kept coming out southern and sounding hokey, sort of like Tootsie, plus he didn’t want to take any chances on slipping out of character. The thought of calling Tina and asking her to do it had played heavily on his mind. There was a strong gut twisting feeling she would do it and maybe even put in a personal appearance at the front door. The fact he was so sure she would do it somehow made him as nervous as her ferocious sexual appetite. It had made him feel like a scared little boy. He’d always been the clear dominant in sexual transactions. Unless he wasn’t really interested in the woman, then it didn’t matter to him. It had taken all he had just to get in the car after the third time and he’d stopped for coffee twice to stay awake. Now that things were being dealt like a fixed hand, the excitement of the game was stimulation enough to keep him dancing on needles. After following his mother to the 6 and getting her room number, he crossed the overpass and checked into the low dollar competition under his father’s name, using Jim’s driver’s license number and license plates on the register. He didn’t look anything like his father, but it was dark. He wore a hat and glasses and checked in through the window. He had wanted to check his father’s truck, the glove box in particular, before he made the call, just to be sure. There wasn’t really any need. If there was one thing Jim Reeve was, he was a creature of habit. That big old, military issue, Forty Five automatic had not been out of his glove box since the night he got mugged making the bank drop in seventy five. Up to then he had depended on his deteriorated brawn, which turned out to be completely ineffectual, and somewhat embarrassing, against a young, eager, assailant. One who unfortunately had a peculiar taste for insipid humor. After knocking Jim unconscious, he took the time to strip him and hog tie him to the iron fence that ran around the bank, his caboose to main street. Of course had someone discovered and freed him before rush-hour the whole thing might have slipped by the pages of Riverdale folklore. A lawsuit was short lived when the Riverdale Press agreed not to run the picture. The editor stating: the painted eyes and the carrot were in bad taste, or at least way over the top. It didn’t matter, everyone had a copy anyway. This incident earned Jim a nickname that alluded to the vegetable and could cause immediate thunderous hysterics, no matter how many times invoked in a single day. Use of this reference, at least publicly, ended rather abruptly one afternoon, two months later. Jim killed three automobiles, of various makes, after a burst of laughter from three of his Beer Miester Regulars, with his newly acquired surplus 45. After the incident, it was generally agreed that Jim had had a sufficient amount of ribbing. Michael knew he took the sidearm to the BBQ, beer bash, and shoot out, the local NRA sponsored every third Saturday, to keep the ammunition fresh. There was also the need to justify the fortune he spent on top of the line reloading equipment, to save money. Then of course there was the more obvious chance to stand around getting absurdly drunk, before noon, telling dirty and ethnic jokes with a group of compatriots, who’s opinions had been formed in stone sometime before the discovery of fire, all while discharging high caliber weapons. Need I say more. As Michael climbed into his chair he let loose a hideous laugh. He wasn’t sure why, but was reasonably sure, his present course of action, dictated such a response. With this accomplished he tested the voice modulator and found that he couldn’t help doing a southern accent even though the box was changing his voice. For a moment he wonder if he’d been a southern woman in a previous lifetime. The image of his hairy legs and five o’clock shadow in a Bo Peep outfit shut down the thought very quickly. He was haunted by the fact Tina had quickly showed up in the image and hadn’t been very nice, but had gotten a reaction. Had he thought about it, he would have realized that many actors, from Gilligan to Jethro playing his own cousin, suffered from this unconscious creative decision. While it may not have given him the ability to do otherwise, it might have made him feel better about himself and isn’t that what it’s all about? Giving into the southern accent Michael called his father. “Hello?”His father’s voice had a definite blob sort of resonance to it when he answered. Michael smiled and entered his character. “Hello?” Jim repeated. “Hello. Mr. Reeve?” Michael bit his lower lip to feel his character’s pain. “Yes, this is Jim Reeve.” Jim switched to his more alert drunken business voice, which was more of a slur than a blob. “Mr. Reeve . . . You’re . . .” Michael allowed himself a moment for tears and felt he was doing rather nicely with his character, even factoring in the annoying southern drawl. “What is it?” Jim was actually gaining an edge to his words. He didn’t know what was happening, but he sensed action was on the horizon. “Your wife is with my Billy . . . (tears) again.” Michael heard a primal grunt after again. “They’re at the motel. She gives him what I can’t, cause I promised my daddy I’d wait.” “What are you talking about?” “You know, wait till I got married.” “What?” “Your slut wife has taken my Billy to that hotel again.” Again the grunt. “What hotel?” “The Motel 6, south of Riverdale . . .” “What?” “The one by the Factory Outlet Center. Where you can get Gucci shoes and Louis Vuitton handbags from those nice oriental people.” “What?” “At the mountain highway overpass, room 236.” “Room 236?” “I just couldn’t stand to see it go on any longer. Three years is enough.” “Three years?” “I’m sorry, Mr. Reeve, I just can’t talk any longer.” Michael hung up the phone. He let out a gasp as if he’d done the whole thing on one breath. Assuming Jim took the interstate instead of the mountain highway, he should be just over an hour. Michael felt good about the way things were going and cracked his knuckles for the finale. First he unwrapped the empty bottle of Jim’s Old Crow. They wouldn’t have to even dust that bottle to see the greasy finger prints. Michael set it on the night stand and knocked it off. Satisfied with the bottles lay, he sprinkled whiskey, on the carpet, from a pint he’d purchased at the Quicky Gas. He put the voice modulator in his bag and left the room without locking the door. He parked at the bottom of the back step to the second level of the Motel 6. At the top of the stairs he knocked out the light bulb and waited in the shadows for someone to respond. No one did and he walked down to 236. He took out his second spy-geek device. This was a battery operated amplifier with a suction cup lead and an earphone. Checking to see if anyone was paying attention, he leaned against the wall and stuck the suction cup to the blue steel door. In the next couple of moments Michael got quite an education about his mother, while he made sure the door was unlocked with the third item from his geek spy kit. Michael knew left to his own abilities, Jim would break his collar bone, trying to knock down the steel door. Though the tapping came from his own fingers on the dash, Michael’s brain denied his body was causing the annoyance. He had been rapt with excitement, but waiting for his father to show up had eclipsed his enthusiasm. When the F-150 did pull up, he jerked his hand so hard, he smacked it painfully against the review mirror. He winced and sucked the back of his hand watching his father. They had taken the boys car. Jim parked next to it only because to the corresponding 136 on the first level. He sat there for a moment. “That’s it pops. Take a moment to get angry now the your sure a room 236 does exist at the Motel 6.” Michael rubbed the back of his hand without feeling it. He watched Jim get out of the truck and take a couple of steps. “Come on Dad, that’s not just mom in there. Remember how the last young guy you went up against beat the crap out of you.” Though the words never left the car, they seem to strike Jim. He halted, stared dumbly, and turned back to the truck. “There you go, pops.” Michael smiled as his father removed the forty five from the glove box. He waited until Jim was at the top of the stairs to put on the hat and exit Tina’s car. The light at the top of the stairs was still out and Michael hung out there to watch. When Jim got to the door he stood for second. He had planned to put his ear to the door but a woman inside the room was in the embrace of a passion that escaped it’s seal. He tried to raise his leg to kick the door, but even in his boiling teakettle state he was painfully aware this would only warn the inhabitants of his intentions. Putting his hand on the knob, he braced to throw his shoulder against the door. Then his eyes stumbled with surprise and Michael knew he’d just discovered the door was unlocked. As soon as Jim went through the door, Michael hurried down to peek in on the action. Lisa was on top of her affair, riding him like a rag-doll with an erection, in the midst of a volcanic eruption. To Jim’s credit, he did wait until she finished and turned, giving positive identification, before blasting her entrails against the headboard. His arms went limp at the sight of her and he probably wouldn’t have shot her then if she’d had a little more composure. Giddy with satisfaction and looking at his, drawn and quartered, face, her reaction was to giggle insanely. That still left him helpless until she said. “Look, it’s Carrot Face!” That’s when he shot her six times. The young object of her sex started screaming obscenities. At some point repeating the Carrot Face invoked by his departed lover, she had told him the story during their last sex break. Jim calmly dropped out the empty clip, stuck in a fresh one, and shot Billy twice. Knowing this was a lot of action, even for a Motel 6, Michael stepped into the room quickly. He closed his hand over Jim’s keeping him from dropping the automatic. Jim looked at him. “Michael . . .” “Yeah, pop.” Michael was raising Jim’s hand toward his mouth. “She said you weren’t mine.” “That would be correct. Even the part about Satan, if she told you that.” Jim’s jaw dropped. Michael stuck the barrel in and pulled down on Jim’s finger. He managed to avoid the blossom spray from the back of Jim’s head as he dropped him. There was a woman on the landing as he stepped outside. “He’s crazy call the police! Call the police!” She didn’t wait for further explanation, but bolted back into her room. Michael got back to Tina’s car unseen. He waited until there was a lot of commotion on the balcony then he started the car and drove around the back way with his parking lights on. When Michael’s heart slowed from Rap to easy listening, he smiled and pushed back in the seat. Satan materialized beside him as he turned onto the interstate. “That's a good trick dad, can you teach me how to do it?” Michael was feeling delightfully full of himself. He leaned back, one hand on top of the wheel. “Pretty swift the way I tied that one, huh?” “Get over yourself Michael.” Satan was perturbed by Michael's brashness. “It's been the downfall of all those who have come before you!” “Chill dad, I didn't mean to wrinkle your suit. It’s not like I’ve got a lot of experience at wasting people.” Michael let silence hang in the air like a pendulum but it stayed over him. “So who are these others your talking about?” “Your brothers. I am allowed one son, such as you, every one thousand years.” “Such as me?” Michael kept glancing at Satan trying to catch his eye. Satan remained stoically bored, examining the car, his suit, scanning the passing highway. “You’re not the standard one night bastard, Michael. I hope you will succeed where the others have failed.” “I'll try to do my best. When do I start these trials?” “Not for a few more years, maybe a decade or even two. I won't know myself, until the time comes.” “But you do know what the trials will be.” “Yes.” “Well, why don't you let me in on it?” “I am not allowed.” Satan tapped his finger on the dash. “So, where did you get the car?” “A girl.” Michael shot a nervous glance to the passenger seat. “Her name’s Tina. Nothing to worry about though, if she gives me any trouble, I’ll take care of her.” Satan smirked. Michael thought he could hear him chuckling, but his lips remained sealed. “I must go now, Michael, when you see me again, you'll know the time is at hand.” Satan had already started to fade while he was speaking. The last word came out of thin air. Michael shrugged his shoulders and took the exit for Tina’s trailer. Michael opened the door to his dorm apartment. He was a little nervous Tina hadn’t said goodbye to him at the car, no matter how heavy his hints got. “Well, here it is. Isn’t much.” Tina stepped past him. “Where’s the bathroom?” “There.” Michael pointed. Tina went into the bathroom without closing the door. Michael closed the door to his room and set down his key. The toilet flushed. Tina was naked when she stepped out of the bathroom. “Ah, Tina, I . . .” “It’ll help your alibi to have me here.” “Why should I need and alibi?” Tina smirked. “Maybe you won’t.” She stepped toward the sliding door on the opposite wall. “The bedroom?” Michael nodded. Tina reached up to open the door. “Coming?” Michael nodded and followed her. A knock was not enough to wake Michael up. Tina got up and answered the door. She came back and shook him until he looked up. “The Dean is at the door.” Tina whispered and winked. “Dean is at the door?” Michael was trying to focus his eyes. “The Dean is at the door.” Tina made a scolding face, Michael’s eyes came into focus. “Oh, the Dean.” Michael jumped up and Tina helped him into his robe. The Dean had trouble meeting Michael’s eyes as he came up to the door tying his robe. “Dean Stockwell?” “Yes, ah, housing reported you hadn’t checked out yet.” He still couldn’t meet Michael’s open gaze. “I paid for the extra two weeks.” Michael said, trying to keep from falling to the floor and crying with laughter as he watched the Dean struggle. “No, Michael, there’s no problem with that. It’s . . . Michael, I think you better sit down.” The Dean said grimly. Michael sat slowly in one of the desk chairs, affecting his best bewildered face. Tina watched from the bedroom and smiled her cat with a mouse smile.
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