Weekend At Willies Walkin Killings Pt 14 Drown In The Desert

I Know What I Am, by Band Of Skulls

I wandered around outside in the night, lost in the black emptiness of eternity.

The oil lamp flickering through the busted-out kitchen window was my only beacon. 

This stumbling about took a while, and there is nothing I can tell you about it, because it would cheapen it to use mere words.  Sorry about that, my friend.  Ya know.

Something in the desert dust grabbed my foot and I fell to the ground.  I rolled over and dug mud from my eyes. Somehow, the desert dust had become wet on my face.

In my fury, I grabbed it and tugged and tugged.  I wanted to kill this thing that had brought me down.  Everything was all fucked up.

I had lost my Star.  I kept telling myself that it wasn’t true.

This thing buried in the desert had brought me down to the ground, and I fucking hated it.

I pulled and pulled, from each of the four directions, circling about it, and it began to release.

It came up, and I ran towards the cottage with it, hollering at the top of my lungs in my rage.

I headed to the pool.

I was going to baptize the fucking thing by drowning it.

The thing was, it belonged to someone who had drowned in the desert.  I just didn’t know it yet.

It belonged to one of the kids at the explosions of the ranch, when Fat Jerry had destroyed that place.  The young man had pulled it off because it was on fire, and he ran off into the night, and the police found him half buried face down in the silt of the desert dust, drowned in a flood from an arroyo.

An arroyo is a desert river that only appears when there is a heavy rain, and you can indeed drown in the desert, if it courses over you while you are in a panicked state in the blackness of night. An Arroyo river is water filled with liquid sand.  How horrible, to die in such a manner.

You may not find your way back to where you should be.

Then again, odd things were beginning to happen in the high desert river valley.

The door opened and Joey and Tellesco ran out when they heard me screaming so loud it hurt my throat.

Joey spotted me with his flashlight and shined it on me as I ran towards the pool.

I misjudged my speed and destination. I went into the pool with the fucking thing I’d dug out of the desert.  I didn’t care.  I wrestled with the thing under the surface of the water, and it was now quite heavy.  

An angel at the bottom of the sea would welcome it and show it to hell.  I wasn't in my right mind.

Just as I ran out of air, a pair of strong hands grabbed me by my leather and pulled me up, and pushed me to the edge of the pool.

Tellesco had saved me.

How many times had Tellesco saved me? 

He stood on the roof of the drowned hearse with which I’d tried to drown us both, and he pushed me up onto the concrete.

I coughed out water and algae, and Joey yanked the sodden thing I’d dug out of the desert from my grasping hands.

He shined his flashlight on it.

He said, “Leather.  Always mind your leather.”

It was a leather jacket.

It was a leather jacket that belonged to someone who had died at Tellesco’s home.

It seemed fitting that Tellesco should wear it.  Hell, he didn't have anything else to wear but that knitted afghan.


Tellesco would have to wear a knitted skirt around his bottom half, and a leather jacket with charred spots here and there, and a cloth flag that had been sewn onto the back, but it was all burned away.

He looked like a Scottish punk, with his kilt and leather.


He was barefoot.


We didn't quite know what to make of his new look, but neither Joey nor I laughed at him.


At least, on the outside.



.

Weekend At Willies Walkin Killings Pt. 13 Requiem For A Friend

Bryan wanted his first taste of freedom outside of his tomb to be the best ever.  He would have it.  Gawdamn it he would.

Now, he had seen the ads for Fucky Chucky’s on the television while he was all locked up in prison for having been found guilty of “Depraved Vandalism” upon a poor Messican family’s Once Lovingly Adorned Home.

He served his time, and he was clean.  He was squeaky clean.  He was so clean that his butt cheeks squeaked with each step he took towards the bus stop to head north to the best burger joint evah.

He was still a virgin back there, in his butt cheeks.  He had spent his time building up muscle mass, because that is what prison time is for, isn’t it?  He had fought off possible butt-violators and put them in the prison infirmary.

He had joined no gangs inside, but instead of going it alone, he had made friends.  That is another chapter, a side sort of thing that I will tell you someday, because he had a hell of a tale to tell.  He had become a bit of a guide to others.  That bit matters in this arming of the sides for the start of the Fuckno War we are nearing.

SIDE NOTE

There is something else you should know, my friend.   I cannot tell you the Pt. 11 of these Walkin Killings series until after I tell you the part where I learned about the Death of Katheena in the Hostibal. 

The Pt. 11 is about Joey driving north to Tellesco’s burned-out ranch, when he began to absorb the fact that his best friend, a chick called “Katheena” had died.  He was blamed for it.   It’s pretty rough.

You see, I was about to find out from him about it, and it would not be fair to subject you to this thing twice, from his shit and then my own.  So there is only one, but it matters in this series, as character motivation for what occurs next, and the evil path we would choose.

+   +   +       +   +   +

So here we go, to see Bryan enjoy some solid sustenance; his first bite of freedom.  He deserved it, right?  The only thing that Fuckno ever had to offer was its sunshine.  And even that was something to which it had no contribution.  It is actually one of the dirtiest, smoggiest places to live in sunny Califucknia.

What Makes A Good Man, by The Heavy

The city bus pulled up to the curb in front of a burger restaurant in the offskirts of  Fuckno.  The place was called Fucky Chucky’s.   It had the best burgers you could buy, back in the eighties.  There was a salad bar meant for toppings.  There was a cauldron of hot cheese sauce.  You get the idea.

Big Bryan stepped down and out into the sunshine.  He smiled.  The cool air from the nearby town of Clovis smelled like fresh-cut grass.  He breathed in deep down to the bottom of his lungs.  Now he truly felt free.  He vowed that he would someday leave Fuckno, once and for good.  

Cash money in his pocket, a bag of his worldly possessions on his back, and the whole deep, wide future in front of him.

He didn’t care that no one had come to meet him upon his release.  He was a bigger man than that.  He knew that something had happened.  He had seen it on the news, and he had a clue.

Before he would dive into the mess, he would take care of himself.  Always fill up on a good meal before you have to do some heavy lifting.

That is what a good man does.


He gets ready to help you out.

A good man will not let you down.

THE LION MAN 

TALKS

Joey shined his flashlight light into our faces and said, “What the hell you been doing, Weeee-ill?” 

I said, “Joseph!  How’s Katheena?  Boy do have we a tale to tell you!  But how’s she doing?”

Tellesco brought out an oil lamp from the pantry, and he set it on the counter.  He lit it.  The remnant of the sun cast its red ember light across the face of black eternity overhead.  Out here, in the north-west off-skirts of Fuckno, there was little light pollution.  Soon, the stars and galaxies would be displaying their slow waltz across the face of the desert night sky.

Joey nodded at Tellesco.  “Why you wearing that poncho, dude?”

Tellesco frowned and opened it up.  “I ain’t got no clothes.”

Joey put his hands up and said, “Whoa dude!  Don’t be showing me your junk!  What the fuck?”

I said, “You must be hungry.  Do you want something to eat?  We got cans of beans.”

Joey said, “Weeee-ill.  You making a crack at a poor Messican?  You calling me a beaner!”   He chuckled at his own joke.  Then he said, “Hold on.  I stopped at a little place and got some stock for myself.  Be right back.”

Tellesco said, “I’m sorry about that Mr. Will.  I didn’t mean to show off my junk.”

I said, “Don’t worry about that.  I just wonder where the hell he spent last night and today.  I wonder how he knew to find us here?”

Tellesco shrugged.

We watched Joey’s flashlight bob along the backyard, past the swimming pool, and then further off, past Tellesco’s destroyed ranch.  That thing had once been almost half a city block long, and skinny.  To air out a ranch in the desert, it is necessary to build a ranch in such a manner.  It affords the air to blow across, and through the open windows on each side.

There had once been a wine cellar dug out of the desert hand pan, and that was now filled with the fallen down debris of the burnt timbers.  It had also held the bones of a young fellow named Tommy Hewitt. God rest his soul.

He would be back.  

Shake A Bone, by Son Of Dave

Joey returned with two bags.  One had food, and the other held bottles of wine.  The Little Lion Man loved wine. 

We arranged the food on the counter.  Joey opened a bottle with a cheap cork screw with the price sticker still on the handle.  He had bought only reds, and these are best tasted when not refrigerated, which worked out well in this pool house/guest cottage.

He had bought hard salami, which needs no refrigeration, and also bags of chips and almonds and cans of potted meat and such.

Amen/tahoo.   Food.

He'd also bought some ointment and Band Aids for his cuts.  These he gave to Tellesco for his foot.

We took swigs from the wine bottle each in turn, and we ate well.   We ate like desert kings, from the perspective of prairie travelers on the Conestoga trails of a century ago.

The food tasted pretty fucking good, after canned beans.

Joey guzzled the end of the first bottle and got another one going.  While he did, he said, “I spent the last twenty four hours hiding.  But I got all this shit from a place that don’t have some poor bastard watching the television all the time.”

I said, “Why you been hiding?  What did you do?”

Joey set the opened bottle of Trebbiano on the counter his shoulders slumped.  He was silent for a few minutes.  What the hell?

The arm of his leather jacket went up to his face with his back to me, and he coughed.  He set the cork in his other hand down on the counter and he breathed in deep.

Then he turned around.

He whispered, “Weeee-ill. You better sit down.”   He motioned to the counter on the other side of the sink.  “I’ll catch you if you fall.”

What the hell did he mean by that?   I shrugged.  “Joseph, why you all pale now?  You look like you just seen a ghost!”

Tellesco backed away from us and turned and went into the bedroom.  He was giving us some private time.  Hell, did he know something as well?  How would he know anything?  Who would have told him?

Joey shrugged.  He said, “She didn’t make it.”

I said, “Joseph, I told you to take her directly there.  What you talking about?  Did you leave her at a bus stop?”

His eyes clamped shut.  His arm went back up to his eyes.  He said, “I brought her to the medical center as fast as I could drive.  They took her in.  They took her right away.  Then I passed out.”

I smiled.  “Good.  Whew!  Thank you for getting her there. I was all worried about her lungs full of mud from her car crash in the rain. Thank Gawd she coughed it out on my back when I carried her out of there---  Joseph, why you crying?”

He couldn’t say anything at all.    His shoulders began to heave, and then he began to make some strange whimpering noises, and then he was fucking crying like a fucking baby.

I felt shivers in my chest.  What the fuck was going on?  Why was he bawling like a brat?

I felt my legs get weak in the knees.  Why was Joey crying?

“JOSEPH!  WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO KATHEENA?”

He could not say a thing.   He bit his lip and came forth and grabbed me by my arms and he looked up into my face and he shook his head back and forth while he looked right straight up into my eyes.

He shook his head over and over again, tears streaming down his fucking cheeks.

My knees began to crumple, but I stood back up.  I shrugged his hands off me and stepped back.  I said, “You better tell me that Katheena is OK.  You better fucking tell me here and now that she is going to make it.  Don’t fuck around, Joseph.  Don’t fuck with me.  I will fucking break your spine over my knee for fucking with me like this you little bastard!”

The Little Lion Man coughed and wiped his eyes off with the arm of his leather jacket.

He said, “Weeeee-ill.”  

He just stood there.

“She didn’t make it.”

He shook his head again, looking into my eyes.

“Katheena is dead.  She didn't make it.”

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

The Walkin Killings Pt. 12 Lion

The Man Outside Of His Tomb sought a burger.

The Walkin we know as Seen was busy with the No Eyed Man.

In the midst of all these separate but soon to be united threads that occurred in the space of thirty-six hours, well…

You may want know a bit about the imminent threat…

Trust: it is coming together, baby.

THE PURPLE ROBES 






OF FUCKNO

Old Devils, by William Elliot Whitmore.. 

A large enclave of immigrants from what was once known as the country of Armedmenia had infiltrated the megalopolis of Fuckno back in the fifties, in order to escape their persecution by the invading armies of Russkia.

They brought along with them their religious beliefs, because here is the only country that accepts them all.

Or, supposedly so.

The Armedmenia were not evil in their own right, but they had survived centuries of such hardship upon them, and this made them hardened.  It also made them wary of others. It is awfully dismissive to judge a people by the evil actions of a small sect.  But it is perhaps correct to judge those who create havoc to be, indeed, evil.

These were the Wearers of the Purple Robes.  This is the start of this part, how it begins.

The Purple Robes had led to the Death of Katheena.

My Star.

I just didn’t know it yet. 

When I found out from Joey what had happened to her, it changed everything.

THE RETURN 

OF 

THE LITTLE LION MAN

The young man adorned with only a knitted afghan bed cover pulled me away from the smashed window and whispered, “Mr. Will.  We don’t have any weapons!”

That was true, but there were two of us, me and him, Tellesco.  However, we had no idea what this individual might carry as weapons.  All we had were cans of food from the pantry, and knives from a kitchen drawer.

But you know, you should always fight for your life.  Solid cans can be flung from a near distance, or course.  And if that fails, then knives can be used in close company.

The thing about using a knife is that you will know your enemy at a very personal level.  You will smell his sweat, and even his fear.  You will find out many things about your enemy from such close contact.

So, we two would have to arm ourselves with projectiles and sharp instruments of pain and death.

At least, if things turned out well.

So to speak.

One was naked under an afghan blanket knitted by someone dear to him, and me, I was in a leather jacket and boots.  Always mind your leather.

I crept up close to the sink and peeked over the edge of the window that still held shards in it from the blast of the liquid propane gas tank from Fat Jerry’s destruction of the once-stately ranch.

The figure paused at the burned structure out there, close to the dirt road, across the algae-ridden swimming pool from us in the small guest cottage.

You know, there was a drowned hearse in the pool now.

The figure swung his light about the charred wooden studs that pointed at the sky in the night like accusing fingers at the forsaking god above them.

I could see him shake his head in the glow of his flashlight.

Perhaps he would go away?

I turned back to Tellesco and said, “Get those cans of food, as many as you can, and bring them back here.  I’m going to get the knives out.”

Tellesco snuck back to the pantry door and disappeared.

I took another peak over the top of the window sill and the figure swung his light around.  The light swung slowly about, examining the back yard, and came back over to where we hid.

The light flashed in my eyes, and I dipped down.

I heard this:  “What the fuck?”

It was time for war.  I felt a burp of puke coming up, and I swallowed it back down.

Tellesco crept back out with cans in his knitted afghan that he wore, and he shouted, “OW!”

He dropped all of the cans and they tumbled onto the floor.  He screamed, “Mr Will!  I got a cut on my foot!”

Evidently, he had not swept up all of the broken shards of window panes well enough.


The light steadied at the kitchen window, and I heard this:

"Ow, Mr. Will?      Is That You Tellesco?  Is that you, Weeeeeee-ill?   Holy Fuck!"

It was the Little Lion Man.

He had returned, indeed, to the beginning of the destruction of Fuckno, where this all had started.

I could have cried.

You know, I would, when I found out what Joey had to tell me about my Star.

Katheena.

And then there would be hell to fucking pay.

See you on the weekend, my friend.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

Start Wearing Purple, by Gogol Bordello. 

.

Weekend At Willies Walkin Killings Pt 10 Ghost Girl

Old Number 7, by The Devil Makes Three.

The Walkin saw images in his head from the No Eyed Man, and it educated him.  Their connection caused this to happen.  For some strange reason, he now not only learned through this connection, but also felt.

How odd for a Walkin to feel anything at all?

Well, it had something to do with the dead flesh he had swallowed only thirty minutes before meeting up with this addicted man who was now missing both of his eyeballs.   If you recall from here, one of Sven's toes in a teacup had gone missing.

The Walkin removed another one from poor old Sven's body after he'd snapped his neck.

Never eat the flesh of the dead.  It serves no one well.

So,

The images were these, from the view of the One Eyed Man:

A young man’s face with his mouth hung open in surprise whispered, “I ain’t got nothing!  I promise!”

Then the young man’s face swept to the left with the clang of metal against skull, and he disappeared.  The One Eyed Man looked down, and he dropped the tire iron.   He rummaged through the young man’s pockets and pulled out a tiny plastic bag with a white rock inside, holding it up to his nose to sniff it.

A dirty glass tube gleamed in the crevice between bricks where the desert dried out the mortar between them which was long gone.  It was a perfect hiding place, because you couldn’t see the glass pipe unless you knew where to look for it.

The rock busted into fragments with dirty fingers and one got pushed in and held in place by the stinky, sticky black residue of the previously torched rock of crack.

The flame from the lighter went up to the rock, and then the rock glowed.

The One Eyed man inhaled,

held it,

and he




felt.

He felt something he did not know could exist.   He saw stars and planets in his head, hunger in his belly, and desire in his heart.

He felt a hunger for the ghost girl who had been there moments ago.


Odd, indeed.

One toke of crack was all this took.

Crack is a pathway to to Hell, but The Walkin was not ready to go to Hell.

The Walkin became addicted to crack. It is a pathway to a destination of which there is only one:

Death.

From the One Eyed Man, The Walkin found addiction to drugs.

And yet, from The Walkin, the One Eyed Man found addiction to pleasure from pain of torture.

The Two had met.

Never the twain should meet.

Gone To Jericho, by the Peculiar Pretzelmen.

THE GHOST GIRL

While this connection happened, the air became quite cold in the shitty apartment.  Seen shivered.  He shook his head, but the sights in his head from the stomach full of lager and a dying man’s eye would not be denied.

He felt a soft, icy hand upon his shoulder, and he whipped about with the stiletto dagger, and he thrust in forward.

It stung nothing.

But before him, he could now see the Ghost.

What he had in his belly afforded him the ability to see her now.

It was a girl.

She screamed so loud that the bottles of beer in his bag burst.

“WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?”

Seen shivered from the cold heat of the dead fury.

He dropped the knife and covered his ears.  The Walkin had never felt fear before.

He whispered, “I am Seen.  One who was, One who is, and One who shall be.”

The ghost screeched with such a piercing note that the brown bottles of poison in the bag split into shards.   The bag began to foam with the strange concoction of lager and poison and metal kill toys.

“I WILL SEND YOU BACK.”

The Walkin faltered, and he stumbled back from her anger.  His heel slipped upon the dropped knife, and he fell onto the table.

The table skidded away from the No Eyed Man and into the dead man.  The punch of the table into the stomach of the dead man caused the stomach to release.

The dead man vomited onto the Walkin’s face, frothy with lager and stomach acid.  This mixture got into the Walkin’s eyes, and it burned.

He rolled over and scrambled to the sink, to run water into his eyes, as he had seen the dead man do when once alive.

His eyes burned.

He shouted back to her, “Leave me alone or I will bring you back with me.”

But she was already gone.

For a bit.

Now listen, my friend, just stick with this tale here.  It will all make sense.  








Promise.

THE MEN IN THE BURNED HOUSE

Tellesco said, “Someone is coming!”

I finished tying up my boots and pulling my leather jacket on, and I went to see what the hell he was talking about.

I said, “Where?”

Tellesco said, “The headlights turned off down over there, on the road.  It’s near where my driveway used to be.”

I looked out of this kitchen window, over the swimming pool, past the burned out house, and could not see anything.

The setting sun slid down to the west, dripping blood in its path.  Soon, it would be a black sky that  greeted our search for help.

Again.

Then a flashlight shined on the ground.

Indeed, someone was coming.

We were supposed to be in hiding, but now it appeared that we were caught.

I said, “Tellesco, you need to find us some weapons.  Knives, forks, hell.  Even a spoon can be used as a weapon.”

Tellesco began to cry.

Fuck.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

A smooth song about what we were going to do.

Chase The Devil, by Max Romeo and The Upsetters.

A great video of a very creative young band that gets you up on your feet and hopping about the room.

Houdini, by Foster The People.

.

The Walkin Killings Pt 9 No Eyes Man

Jump Into The Fog, by The Wombats.

Seen set the One Eyed Man next to the table, across from Sven.

Sven was missing several toes, and also the skin of each hand, all the way around and over them both.

He was also missing something else.

His life.

Seen considered that he had used too much powder from one of Sven’s curious brown bottles.  He yanked the tiny ampoule of smelling salts out from the singed eyelid of the poor fellow before him and he sniffed it.

It made his eyes water. 

That was good, so to speak.

He shook it a little bit, and stuffed it up into the One Eyed Man’s left nostril.  Then he punched the man in the nose.

“Wake The Fuck Up!”

The street-person woke up.


He began to scream.

Seen grabbed him by his stinky hair and hissed at him, “Mind the neighbors.  You need to be a bit more considerate of them.  They have jobs and they need to work to eat.”

The One Eyed Man looked down at his arms, bound to the arms of the chair that held him.   He was quite groggy, which is an old Scottish term that means, “Too much Grog.” You know, Grog is another word for becoming overly intoxicated from lager, ale, or other intoxicants.  The One Eyed Man was overly intoxicated from a full bottle of green bottle lager laced with a bit of powder from one of the brown bottles.

He was slipping away again.

Seen smacked him in the head with the lovely metal eyeball-extractor and pressed it into his remaining eye.  The poor fellow howled in pain.

He set the pistol down away from the man, near the dead man's skinless hands, and he picked up the stiletto knife.

Seen said, “I am going to take this other eyeball of your head out and swallow it, so I can see what you have been doing here all this time.”

The One Eyed Man woke up and he screamed. 

Seen said, “I told you to not wake the neighbors.”   Then he grabbed the man by his stinky hair and inserted the knife into his eye socket.  "Hold still."

The poor fellow howled and passed out from the white hot pain.

The nerves of the eye can feel pain, but the optic nerve at the back of the eyeball cannot.  It senses pain only in light, for that is its purpose, and when it is cut, pain is a blinding, white hot explosion in your brain.

Seen pulled the eyeball out of the poor man’s skull and considered it.  The sliced muscles all about it spurted blood, and this small fragment of sight looked like a tiny creature escaped from the depths of Hell.

Indeed, it appeared somehow comforting to Seen.

He filled his mouth with green-bottle lager and tilted his head back, and then he stuffed the eyeball down his throat, swallowed it along with the mouthful of beer.

It stuck in his esophagus, and this took some mindfulness to not panic, but instead, to allow the contractive muscles of the throat relax, let it pass, and then do their work.

Best for you, when you are choking, is to not try to swallow. It is best to cough.


You know when you are about to choke, we all do.


Pay attention here.


Stop being "cool" and worrying about causing a scene.


You must always fight for your life.


Fuck "manners."



When you are about to choke: pause, no more swallow, and softly intake air, if you can.


Get a lung-full.



Then cough, and it should come back out.  Is there anything you can grab to pull back out?



That's the first step, baby.


Second step is the Heimlich procedure, which involves the embrace of the arms of someone else, across the belly, below the ribs, or the back of a chair, to help you puke it out.


If that doesn't work, find someone who can perform an emergency tracheotomy. It may be You.



If you want to live, you can breathe though a hole in your throat, below the Adam's Apple, where the ribs of cartilage can be felt.


Feel for it now.


This can save you, my friend.



Just keep the air-hole in your throat open.






Ahem (cough)...




So,

Seen didn’t care if he died, and such a posture will make a man quite dangerous, but he had already invested quite a bit of time and effort into this short window of opportunity for his agenda.


If the Walkin "died," well, he would simply bide his time for the next visit here.



Such a posture as this will make a Walkin eternal.



Seen poured more lager into his mouth, and he forced the eyeball further down.

The eyeball went down into his gullet, whole.

Then he began to experience what the No Eyed Man had been up to doing.

He began to see, in his head.

It connected him to this living man before him.

And now, the Walkin was addicted to two things, which were these.

One:  Torture.

Two: Crack.

Never the two should meet.

It makes for a very horrible sort of experience.

It will become a horrible thing to "see."

"See" you on the weekend, my friend.

God Help You.

God Help



Us All.

---willies out.

.

Walkin Killings Pt 8 Man In The Tomb

Odd Soul, by Mutemath.

“A man does not weave this web of Life.  He is merely a strand of it.  Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.”   --- Quote from the Mighty Chief Seattle, from the early 1800's.

The unforgiving sun rose over the Sans Joking Mountain Range to the east.  The rain left behind a washed city, but it was not clean.

Yet.

The Man In The Tomb

She had whispered this, “There is something you should know.”

He’d shivered under his wool blanket.

She went on, in her silky sibilance.  “Sven is deceased.  Someone is next to come over to this side.”

Bryan whipped the wool blanket away.  He had enough of this.

“Leave me alone!”  He stood up and swung around, ready to fight.  He had always been ready to fight at a moment's notice.  His past had cemented such anger into his DNA.

But there was nothing to fight.  

From the back of his mind, like the echo of a memory of a dream that dissipates upon awakening, he heard, “You and I are tied together.”

He shivered.

It cut to the bone.

He grabbed the wool blanket up off the cement floor and pulled it over his shoulders.

The light from the streetlamp outside, down below the barred window, cast long lines upon the ceiling above him, in his cell.   Everything reminded him of his incarceration, his loss of freedom, his life on hold.

He had become addicted to pain killers while in the prison infirmary.

But he had kicked his addiction, and that was an ugly, painful thing to go through.

Alone.

He had promised himself that he would never be addicted to drugs again.

Yet, there are other addictions besides drugs, isn’t that right?

Huh.

There are, indeed, other things.

He saw his breath as he sat back down on the iron bed, and he shivered beneath his wool blanket.


The air was thin, but heavy with ice cold anger.  It was anger from a grave not yet dug.

“Listen.”

There she was again.

Damn.

He nodded.

He said, “Okay, say what you will and then get the fuck out.”

Silence greeted his response, and the air about him became so cold that the window frosted up.  The glass tinkled.


Bryan pulled his bare feet from the floor just as a skin of ice crept across it from the area right in front of him.

The air became a vacuum, and he could not catch his breath.  He could not breathe.

Into this void, a voice as sharp and clear as the clang of a hundred church bells screeched,

“ SEAN   IS   GONE ! ”

The force of her scream slammed Bryan back against the wall.  His head hit the cement and he went to sleep.  Gone.

Sleep, finally, sleep.

The window beyond the bars busted into shards like crystal goblets, and these shards dangled in place by the safety wires between the panes.  The light from the streetlamp below now cast its light through these fractured prisms in odd shapes upon the ceiling. 

The stainless steel mirror above the commode/sink fractured into metallic diagrams of fury.

The walls of the hardened concrete criss-crossed with spidery cracks that looked like maps of travel.

The pipes burst with ice.

The air became so cold that snow fell from it and powdered the floor.

And then,


She was gone.

You know, all of this happened in the prison cells over and beneath his own, and to the left and right, in many cells each way.

Such anger.

The Man Outside Of His Tomb

The air outside had never smelled so sweet, in this high desert river valley.  He had no recollection of what had transpired in the night, and his head throbbed at the back.  He was stunned, but that would not last for very long.

The sunlight gleamed in his eyes, and it felt good.  It felt pretty fucking good to be outside.

Outside.

Free.

Away from the fear and the boredom of prison.

Away.

It was a perfect day.

Perfect Day, by The Constellations.  NSFW

Bryan craved something good to eat.   He wanted a fucking hamburger with bacon strips, grilled onions and hot cheese sauce oozing out from under the bun.  He knew where he would get it.  It was a place called Fucky Chucky’s, up on the edge of the pretty little desert town of Clovis.

The name of the town sounds like clovers, but with hidden cloven hooves beneath, inside, insidious.

His friend worked there, but he had not seen his friend in a couple of weeks.  Any other new release would have been disappointed by not being met upon his release from prison.

But this young man considered two things.

One was this:   His friends were otherwise occupied, and he accepted this fact. Perhaps they needed his help?

The second was this:  A man must fortify himself with solid food before engaging in a war.

A war was about to erupt in Fuckno, and he knew this on a subconscious level below his current state.


He was simply stunned from the blow to his head.

So, he would go and have himself that fucking bacon cheeseburger he had seen on the television in the day-room.  It would make him feel like he was one of the public again.

Small things like that matter, don’t they?

He left the front of the prison with his hand inside his pants pocket over the small wad of cash he’d reclaimed from the check out clerk.  He was leaving the concrete hotel and doing whatever the fuck he wanted to do.

He would die before ever going back inside again.

He would die.

He didn't have change for the bus, and he was thirsty for something good to drink, something he remembered from the days of his youth.  The sunlight called for it.   He wanted to drink a fucking Moxie.  Change and soda.  He could get both across the street; one from the purchase of the other.

When you leave jail, it takes a while to stop covering your money with your hand in your pocket, and just let the valuables stay there.

Enjoyment of your personal Freedom can be re-learned, but it never becomes any less precious in the process.

We must never take our Freedom for granted, my friend.

Bryan was about to discover this noble truth.

God Help You. 

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

.

Walkin Killingsssss Pt. Ssssseven

Sibilance Continues.

Now, I know that a very few, select members of the Mighty TDC continue to follow along this path, and that’s cool.

For the rest of you, we are about to delve into some evil.

Thank you, my friend, for your pursuit, and perhaps, enjoyment of this sordid tale.

You will not be let down.  Redemption is at the end, but we will have to dig our way out of the dirt, so that we will see sunshine once again.  

The ride is the best part, riiiight?.

+   +   +       +   +   +

The One Eyed Man awoke with his arms tied behind his chair.  An ampoule of naphthalene (smelling salts) waved to and fro beneath his nose, as much as he could tell from the use of his one remaining eye.

He smelled burnt flesh.

It smelled like someone had torched a cat in his head.

The ampoule of naphtha went into his empty eyehole socket, between the lids, and he saw again.

He saw white hot pain.

He passed back out.

- - - - - -

Here, we depart from the physical torture of the One Eyed Man, and on to the mental torture of a young man about to be released from prison.

His name was Bryan, and he simply

Could

Not

Sleep.

The air in the prison cell grew cold.

Bryan did not sleep at all, and from under the cover of his wool blanket, he heard a ssssilky sssibilance.

She whissspered, “There isss sssomething that you ssshould know….”

Bryan felt the shivers.   He was done.  He didn’t want to engage with the ghost.

But you know, he would have no choice.

Sssee you on the weekend, for the ressst of thisss ssstory.

The ghost was pissed, you see.

God Help You.

God Help Usss All.

---williesss out.

.