An Axis Oblique - Chapter Eight

Okay kids, gonna try and close out the year on a high note with a little more Axis Oblique, chapter 8 for those of you counting, (and if you are that means you're actually reading, so thanks). This one's a long-ish one, so settle in with some cocoa and prepare to be taken away...



–– Eight ––

It was nearly the new millennium when Perry got first official wind of the Baka Mumfaru; an anciently-old order bent on eradicating all ‘unseen evil’ from the face of the earth. Good luck. In the spring of 1988, he caught a tabloid news program proclaiming the outfit instrumental in the casting of three poltergeists from a farmhouse in rural Kentucky. More luck.
Several years later, while lounging in the dorm room of a U of C co-ed, he came across an article, conspicuously pushed to the back of The New York Times––‘Exorcism: Myth or Magic?’ The Mumfaru was actually cited as one of several ‘underground’ societies specializing in paranormal paranoia––things conventional science had no hope of understanding; still, from what he heard, Perry had no reason to feel threatened. Not that he ever would…
“I’m thinking of writing my memoirs,” Sonny once said to a friend he occasionally had sex with.
“Oh, is that so?” she teased; Meredith Beckonsworth; his first casual romance––smart, rich, idealistic––and crazier than Satan. “Sounds like an awfully quick read to me…” then paused to complete a thought on her computer. “Say, I don’t mean to be critical but, shouldn’t you get through college first?” Sonny scowled from behind her pretentious copy of the New York Times she kept on the nightstand to read before bed, (as though the Campus Chronicle wasn’t quite ‘current’ enough).
She could be a real bitch sometimes.
Sonny didn’t need college. He had shitloads of experience. He’d been around for centuries. Dozens. Hundreds. Drew breath from every conceivable corner of this earth and beyond, and still felt every bit his vivacious eighteen years.
“You don’t think I could?” Quietly, he baited; an underscored anger in his insecure voice, which he struggled to suppress.
“Well, no, it’s not that I don’t––”
“It just so happens I’ve seen quite a bit in my time…”
“Okay, fine. Look, do we have to talk about this right now? I’m sort of in the middle of something…”
“Sorry,” he sulked. “Almost forgot chemistry was your life,” and slunk out of the room.
* * *
Meredith and Sonny first met in a lecture. Something to do with neo-McCarthyism. Or neo-Marxism. Same diff. It could just as well have been neo-Nazism for all the interest he’d paid. She caught his attention straight away. He strolled in late, of course, (by about a week), attracting two hundred-odd eyeballs, each a glare with contempt…
“Um, you might want to sit down before someone throws something at you.” Her saucy voice whispered from the row just behind him. Sonny was no stranger to strange voices, but this one was by far more alluring.
Meredith wasn’t exactly beautiful in a conventional sense. She wasn’t ugly either. More like somewhere in between. He took her suggestion to heart, sitting down in the seat right in front of her. His books remained packed.
“I’m Sonny.” He leaned in, half expecting her to fall at his feet.
“I’m busy,” she replied, eyes down. Saucy…
“Okay, then.” He sat back, hoping to gain a little sympathy. All he got was a leering impatience from behind her red-frames, matching a frock of wild, frizzy hair.
“Would you mind not staring at me?” she eventually said in her typically holier-than-thou tone. “We’re kind of in the middle of a lecture here…”
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realize you were listening,” and went silent.

“Look I’m sorry, okay?” At the mid-break, she loosened her tight screws. “It’s just that this class is a sore spot for me and I didn’t want to miss something important...”
“Not a problem.” He nodded. And after an appropriately dramatic pause… “Does that mean we can study for the mid-term together? I haven’t a clue what the hell’s going on.”
That earned him a laugh––sort of. It was more of a hybrid; half sigh, half snort. But it worked like a charm.
After that it was smooth sailing––more or less. In it’s entirety, their association only lasted about three months, but in all that time, he never forgot how his silence had been key to her conquest; how something inside seemed to snatch the reigns at just the right moment and say shut yer yap, will ya? Let her do all the heavy lifting….
It turned out to be sound advice.
The two went through their ups and downs––and further downs––but generally tended to play rather well off the other’s distinguishing quirks. At the end of the day, they were lovers far more than friends…which made things much simpler, when not needlessly complicated.
It had been a difficult afternoon the night he took comfort in her waiting arms. Sonny was fighting a losing battle with time and doing his best to keep oblivious.
After all, other people had mood swings… Right?
“Is something wrong?” she asked innocently. If she only knew the half of it.
“What?”
“You just seem…you know––distant. Is it your mid term? I could help you with it. You know, after my chem final.” Can’t you see I’m reading, you cunt…?
His thoughts turned violent as he sifted through some lengthy op-ed on the back of her fancy New York Times… Nothing but nonsense in big words… “No, it’s not that.” A long silence followed, save for Meredith clicking away at her keyboard. “Sometimes I’m not sure I belong here…” he mumbled, reaching the part about ‘demonic frequency quotients.’ Is this hard news or X-files fanfic…?
“What’s that?” She barely acknowledged, engrossed in her cyber-tutorial. “Sure you do. You’re just overwhelmed, that’s all...” Ain’t that the truth…
It didn’t matter much, whether she listened. Sonny knew she could never understand; and eventually, he would have to…no––no, this was his battle and he was going to fight it alone. Just look at her, you babbling brook…so ripe...
For a long while he watched her from the bed, typing at improbable speeds. He focused on her right leg. Ooh that thigh… It was swinging hypnotically––rapidly, back and forth, like a pendulum––on crack. Her slender fingers periodically ran through that thick, luxurious red hair to keep it from getting in the way of those beautiful, hazel-nut eyes... She obviously knows you’re watching…
Suddenly, she turned around as if able to feel his heavy stare. “Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I’m just on a bit of a roll here; wanna get this thing finished by midnight…”
“I want you,” he said, kind of out of the blue.
“Okay, but just let me––”
“Now.”
Slowly she turned around again, doing that hair thing, but consciously this time. “Well...someone sure needs a release…” The smell of her filled his panting nostrils and he could barely contain himself.
The sex was incredible; always one of the noted highlights of their special arrangement. But that night, it was especially raw. “And now I must get back to work,” she said after about twenty minutes of afterglow. Didn’t ask for your fucking life story…
Hmm. Sonny got to thinking––about the places he’d been; the people he’d––no wait, those were just fantasies. Except…
“Earth to Sonny. Don’t just lie there, I’ve got work to do…” She rolled off the bed to get back to her computer.
Go ahead. Tell her. Ten to one she laughs in your face…
“I’m thinking about writing my memoirs,” he said––testing…
“Oh, is that so?” she teased. “Sounds like an awfully quick read to me,” and paused to complete an online thought. “Say, I don’t mean to be critical but shouldn’t you get through college first?”
“You don’t think I could?” You just never learn, do you…?
“Well, no, it’s not that I don’t––”
“It just so happens I’ve seen quite a bit in my time.”
“Okay, fine. Look, do we have to talk about this now? I’m sort of in the middle of something...”
“Sorry. Almost forgot chemistry was your life,” he sulked, slinking out of the room.
Looks like you lose…
–––––––––––––––
Let’s get something to eat...
Keith was beginning to feel nagging hunger pains. “You know I could really use a bite. How bout you?”
“I’m not sure how you can think of food at a time like this.” Mitch Barrett stood across the long metal slab cataloguing scores of frozen human tissue. “It’s all I can do to keep from yacking all over the floor...”

It was just the two of them down in that spooky makeshift morgue. Merrimac had practically volunteered the man to stay late after everyone had cleared out; no doubt in punishment for showing him up.
“Guess I’m just not as sensitive,” the detective said, rubbing his own grumbling stomach.
“Can’t believe the guy who did this is the same one who bloodied up the Bluemont mensroom just last week. Talk about karma. Sure as hell didn’t see that one coming…”
Keith let slip a short, half-smile. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling more sure of Hell by the minute.” He took his hand out some kind of fleshy organ, half-thawed. “Pass me another glove, will ya?” Nuff’a this dimestore banter, I say. I’m about hungry enough to eat a goddamed–– “Cheese-steak. You want?”
“Hm? No, Sir, you go ahead.”
“Come on, Lieutenant.” Keith pressed, considerably jovial. “Think we could both use a break. It’s not like the body parts are going anywhere…”
*
Mitch Barrett didn’t care much for Keith Merrimac. That was no secret. Sure, they worked well enough together. He respected the chain of command, after all. But the man behind the rank…was another matter entirely. On some level, he had to admit, he could see an appeal. That casual, scruffy, ‘just-got-out-of-bed’ charm, he’d seen first hand, could crack even the toughest of exteriors but, for some reason, never his own. Perhaps it was because deep down, he knew it was mostly an act; carried over from his more adventurous days in mean old Manhattan.
Barrett grew up in small town Indiana; perhaps not as fancy, but he valued his nuts and bolts perspective. Merrimac just didn’t seem to grasp the simple niceties of close-knit community living. To him, Maplewood must have looked like a modern-day Mayberry. It wasn’t until Richard Pollack put them on the big-city map that he even started to tuck in his wrinkled shirt––and that, he suspected, was more for the TV cameras.
“Nother beautiful night in paradise, eh Lieutenant?”
Barrett looked over at him from his slightly lower vantage point in the passenger’s seat...
“Beg your pardon?”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make light,” he murmured, adding, “Almost forgot who I was talking to…”
“Sir, where exactly are we going?” Barrett was getting impatient, and, for just a split second, witnessed a very subtle, practically imperceptible color shift in the man’s sparkling greenish-blue eyes.
“Bluemont.” The detective answered swiftly.
“Bluemont? But I thought you hated––”
“I told you I wanted a cheese-steak; and unless you wanna drive halfway across town…” He leaned back smugly. “Relax. I’m sure one’a them places is bound to toss you a salad or something…”
Barrett sat hunched in the slightly broken seat, staring out the window. His thoughts drifted from one insignificant observation to another; the ugliness of the car’s upholstery for one, not to mention unsanitary filth. This was going to be a long night.
The silence stretched on into the Bluemont sparse parking lot. They seemed to be playing a game with each other, either consciously or sub––or both…each trying to out-ambigufy the other through a careful regiment of selective non-verbalization.
“Try not to be so chatty, Mitch. You’re talking my ear off.”
The detective blinked first.
Indeed, the tone lightened up some once inside the monstrous shopping complex. No more macho headgames, or childish doses of silent treatment. By the time they sat down in fact, they were almost downright hospitable.
As soon as he got a few bites in him, Merrimac seemed like a different person––again. His trademark charm came rushing back, to the point where even Barrett was taken in––almost… “So tell me something, Mitch.” he asked, near meal’s end. “What made you wanna be a cop, anyway?” The question caught Barrett off guard.
Up until then, the conversation was very impersonal––like he liked it. He took a moment to answer as he swallowed a mouthful of Diet Coke. “Well, I ah…don’t really…s’pose it all started with Starsky and Hutch,” he laughed. “And by the time I was about ten or so, it was more or less in the blood…” He looked up at Merrimac’s almost sinister smile. “I guess as I got older, it came more out of a desire to do some real good in this world.” He stopped, feeling far too exposed. “You probably think that’s a little naïve.”
“Not really,” he replied; sauce streaming down his chin. The cheese-steak was inhaled in not quite sixty seconds and by the look of him, hardly satisfied.
“What about you?” Barrett asked, surprised by his own genuine curiosity.
“Me? Not that complicated really,” he started, sipping on his extra-large ice water. “Mostly, it was for the authority. Plus the chicks.” He chuckled. “You know, that whole man in uniform thing.” Barrett didn’t flinch. “Still, by the end of my training, I think I was more attracted to the power than anything else.” Barrett looked down at his chimichanga. “Guess that kinda shocks you, doesn’t it, Barrett?”
Barrett for his part, wasn’t all that shocked. Intimidated maybe. Disgusted, certainly––but not especially surprised. “Well, no reason it should, Lieutenant. The best way to control a criminal mind is to understand it; even identify a little.” Barrett took another small bite––and swallowed.
“Is that the way they do it in New York?” he asked. And Merrimac looked almost caught off guard…before refashioning a sultry smile…
“The good ones, you could say…” he sneered, finally wiping his mouth. Barrett remained silent. “You really think sickos like ‘mensroom’ give two shits about your code of honor, Barrett? As far as they’re concerned, if you’re stupid enough to live by one, you probably deserve to die by it too. That what you want?”
“Gee, I’m sorry if I hit a nerve, sir.” Barrett backed off. “It was only a question,” and went back to his supper, which tasted better than ever.
“You almost finished?” The detective snapped at him, embittered––then with a forced civility, added: “I’m pretty anxious to get back to it.”
And just like that, in what felt like the blink of an eye, the two were back in the morgue, as though none of it had ever happened. As soon as he caught glimpse of one discarded appendage, Barrett felt every bit as sick as predicted. Merrimac on the other hand, appeared quite at home. By all accounts the food sat well with him; a little too well for the lieutenant’s taste...
“Hey Barrett, you okay over there? You look a little…” But Barrett didn’t want to give his boss the satisfaction, so he swallowed hard––and sucked it up.
“Just fine, sir. You?”
“Actually, I’m still a bit hungry. Feels like I haven’t had a decent meal in ages.” Barrett couldn’t tell whether he was sincere, being a smart-ass, or just trying to keep his subordinate at a continuous unease.
“We could always close up early…”
“I’d much rather get this finished,” the detective said, eyes buried in the rotting forearm on the table before him. “But you can take off, if you like. I mean if you’re really not up to it. I completely understand.” Barrett looked up at him curiously.
“Really? Cuz I thought you said––”
“I know what I said. Just forget it. It’s my fault for dragging you outta here in the first place. You go on. Get some sleep. I’ll be done in a jiffy.”
Several hours later, he was on his imitation-leather couch, sipping noodles from a hot cup of store-bought soup and watching soccer highlights on the Spanish channel, down to his last Nicorette. His appetite seemed to magically return almost as soon as he and Detective Merrimac parted ways––not entirely surprising…
The man had always seemed more or less unstable, but his curious words and actions that evening went far beyond anything he’d personally witnessed. The stress of the Pollack murders, coupled with this latest mess must have been getting to him. Barrett wasn’t exactly sorry to see it––just a little creeped out.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK––
At first, he thought he was hearing things. It was almost four in the morning, what kind of a fool would––? KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK–– Okay, that was definitely a––KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!! Barrett went for his gun.
–––––––––––––––
There were nights he wasn’t proud of, when Sonny would lie awake in his childhood bed––and think of her. She was his first, after all. His most memorable, and she left his life without so much as a word. He longed to look at her even one more time; to smell her sweat as he fucked her. She was such a tease. There was no other way to see it after what she did. Sure, maybe he did get what he wanted––but he wanted more.
“Sonny, what are you––? STOP THAT!”
His thoughts were unintentional; uncontrollable, as bizarre fantasies of a night that never took place flashed in and out of his head. Just fantasies…
“Oh God, PLEASE! No, please, Sonny, DON’T – !”
Nothing more.
–––––––––––––––
Barrett swung the door open, ready for just about anything. Anything except––
“Detective Merrimac. Sir, what are you––?” Looking past him, he could see no sign of his rusty Oldsmobile eyesore. “Did you walk here?”
–––––––––––––––
“I’m not in the mood for the tortured soul bit, Sonny. It’s late. And I’m tired.”
“I know that. I just wanna talk.”
“Talk? Well can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“I promise I’ll be quick.”
“Fine, come in.”
“Not here.”
“What?”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Sonny…”
“A quick one. Come on, Mer, I need you tonight.”
–––––––––––––––
“Saw your light on. Thought I’d see if you were still up.”
“Did you find something?”
“What?”
“At the coroners’, sir. Did you––?”
“Oh. Yeah. I’m not sure…”
“Well which is it?”
“You never liked me much, did you, Barrett?”
“I beg your––”
“It’s okay to admit it. We’re off the record here.”
“Nevertheless, sir, I really don’t think we should––”
“The thing is…after all these years, I still can’t seem to figure out why. Mind if I––?” With brute force, he pushed his way in as Barrett instinctively stopped him––
“Yes, actually. It’s late.” Merrimac ignored him completely. He looked odd; even moreso than before––as though in some kind of a trance...
“So what is it? Why won’t you tell me?”
Barrett realized there would be no way to politely sidestep––
“You’ve got it all wrong, sir.” He conceded. “It’s not that I don’t like you; more like don’t understand you…” By this time, the man was on the couch. “This being an excellent example.”
“Go on...” The man sounded almost like a psychiatrist.
–––––––––––––––
“You’ve been so––distant lately. I don’t get that. Sometimes I don’t get you.”
“So that’s it then. It’s over?”
“What? No. How can something be over when it never properly started to begin with?”
More mind games. Who does this bitch think she is…?
–––––––––––––––
“You know, its people like you that make this world so susceptible to people like me…” he said, purposely taunting him with a drag off his freshly-lit smoke.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re a lamb.” He looked up. “Tell me. Are you at all familiar with the Biblical role of the lamb, Lieutenant?”
–––––––––––––––
“You’re scaring me, Sonny.” For a split second, the words seemed to register. Sonny experienced a mild, dizzy spell and stumbled a few steps backward…
“Sometimes I…scare myself…” he managed. But there would be no more backpedaling. The girl made it easier, of course–– They always do...
“Sonny, are you––?” But she could tell simply by looking it was a wasted question. “Let me help you,” she finished, placing her warm hand on his cold shoulder.
–––––––––––––––
“If I didn’t know better, sir, I’d say you were threatening me.”
“Is that right?” Merrimac snarled, casually standing from the couch... “Well if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried...”
“I am worried, sir. About you. These last few months have obviously been more trying on you than I first thought. Why don’t you just––”
–––––––––––––––
“Tell me what I can do,” she pleaded, caressing his tight shoulder blades. At last, the very words he longed for––and though she couldn’t detect it, his eyes turned a shade even darker...
“Do?” he asked, innocent. “Well for starters, you can try not to fight...”
–––––––––––––––
“Here’s the thing, Mitch.” Merrimac began calmly, all the while slipping on a pair of disposable rubber gloves––just like the ones he’d been wearing most of the night. “I’ve been trying to put this off for a while but––I’m afraid I’m gonna need a warm meal.” Barrett responded with a nervous, though not entirely insincere chuckle.
“What is this? You’re…you’re gonna kill me or something? Because I don’t like you? Jesus, Keith, I knew you were crazy but––”
“You called me Keith,” he blurted, still impeccably rational. “Christ, it’s about time…” Barrett had had enough, bringing his weapon into plain sight. “You shouldn’t play with guns, Mitch,” he said. And it was the last bit of civility he had left to display––before engaging Mitch Barrett in the fight of his life…
–––––––––––––––
“Sonny, what are you––STOP THAT!” But there would be no stopping him.
Sometimes in his nightmares, he would see her face––not with a sparkle in her eyes or roses in her cheeks. Instead, she was…blue…pale…lifeless… Her hazel-nut eyes rolled back in her head; her red, full lips now a bright purple and, along her white, slender neck, the unmistakable mark of pressed fingers.
In those dreams, he had scattered glimpses of a blade slicing into her tender flesh. An axe chopping away at pure bone and hands snapping them apart like spicy Buffalo wings. Sometimes he saw blood…and dirt…and semen, all mixed together under cold erratic breath. These were the images of a deeply troubled mind. One without closure.
For weeks after, he would partake in the grueling searches; even lead his fair share. He spoke to friends, family, casual acquaintances. The police were relentless and, if not for his own true concern, he might well have taken their persistent questioning personally. But Sonny wanted every avenue explored. Meredith didn’t deserve to just disappear without a trace. And Sonny wasn’t about to let it happen without a fight.
–––––––––––––––
The scratch was regrettable. Keith was genuinely surprised when the man dug that sharp fingernail into his cheek, just inches from his right eye. In the end it just made him angrier. As he wiped away tiny beads of blood from the side of his mouth, the pumping adrenaline exhilarated every part of him. Barrett put up a spirited fight, as expected, but he certainly didn’t see that fingernail coming. It’s the surprises that keep things from feeling routine…
Wrapping the body’s left hand in the garbage bag he’d brought from home, he set out to remove all evidence of his having been there. Cops knew all the tricks, after all. And he, being a homicide detective for going on thirteen years, knew exactly what they, (or most likely he), would be looking for. He, of course, left no fingerprints and was even careful to make sure that the murder weapon was an item from Barrett’s own kitchen, rather than something traceable to anyone outside.
The scratch stung like hell, though. Cuts heal… The entire process took about an hour. There were highly-believable signs of forced entry, a fairly heated struggle and finally, a trail of Barrett’s own blood to show his resourcefulness in the face of his surprise attacker.
The final piece came last. Using the victim’s own knife, he preceded to severe the hand he’d come for; the one with his skin cells embedded. It might also serve to inspire a brand new collection…or maybe just a late night snack…
He glanced out the window just long enough to notice the budding daylight and made one final survey to ensure the utmost efficiency. Just before leaving, his eyes inadvertently met Barrett’s and for only the tiniest of split seconds, something inside him seemed to weaken...
Better get going. Big day ahead…
* * *
He slept like a baby that night. It must’ve been that full course meal he had around sixish. It was rare of him to spring out of bed with such zeal and enthusiasm, but something inside seemed to click in a way not seen for some time.
Almost all morning he felt light as a feather––carefree. In an unprecedented maneuver, he even elected to go for a light jog after breakfast in lieu of coffee. The phone call came just as he returned––
“Y’ello!”
And that’s when all Hell broke loose.
* * *
In all his years on the force, he could never manage to get over the jittery feeling that befell him before walking onto a murder scene. He’d seen quite a few in his day; men, women, children––sometimes all three in various gruesome combinations. When all was said and done, he’d pretty well seen it all.
“Keith!” A familiar voice called out as he took his first steps across the threshold. Sergeant Fiorentine was approaching, looking almost apologetic for her forthrightness. “Detective Merrimac,” she self-corrected.
“It’s alright, Sergeant. How you holding up?”
“Bout as well as any of us, I suspect. I just can’t believe this is happening.”
“Truth really is stranger than fiction,” he offered, sagely. “Which one of you got here first?”
“I did, sir.” Keith shifted toward the source of the subtle accent. Lieutenant Estes was standing promptly nearby; his posture impeccable. “I’d like to put in a formal request to be on the investigation...”
“One thing at a time, Lieutenant. You feel up to a report?” Keith felt confident that even if he wasn’t, he’d pull himself together long enough to give one. In all honesty, the detective couldn’t blame him. He too felt the onslaught of emotion. Barrett after all, was a good man; someone they all knew––who served under his command…
Estes went on to relay a point by point account of the circumstances surrounding his discovery of the body after receiving a phone call from the morning housekeeper, and Keith summoned the courage to glance over at it every now and again. It was badly bruised and beaten; even mutilated in places––and there, in plain view for all to see––his left arm, cut off at the wrist. The sight of it made him want to throw up. It was no secret the two of them weren’t exactly friends, but not even on his worst enemy would he have wished Mitchell Barrett’s brutal and tragic end.
Not if he were human.



Happy New Year one and all. See you in '10

D.A.

Avatar

Just thought I'd throw my two cents in on a quiet little movie that could really use the word of mouth.

So I saw Avatar last night, the latest epic extravaganza from everybody's favourite cinematic uber-visionary, James Cameron and...well...

I was impressed.

I'm far from the authority on James Cameron. I've enjoyed several of his films, but there are most definitely gaps in my knowledge of the man's signature catalogue. Nevertheless, I think it safe to say this was vintage Cameron at his best. The story was good. Functional, but not particularly challenging or surprising. If the talkbackers over at Aintitcoolnews are an indication, (which they probably aren't), I am not alone in listing ways in which the story could have zigged when it invariably zagged. A few characters could have been fleshed out more, I suppose. The Norm character jumps out as a prime example, (for me anyway). There were some hints of tension there, right around the film's midpoint, where hero, Jake seemed to be rubbbing good-natured Norm the wrong way. Also, the Giovanni Ribisi character seemed, at times, a little conflicted morally and, while I liked the understated manner with which this was presented, I would have liked more of a payoff. Something. Anything to suggest he had been affected by this experience. Alas, I do not believe this story was as concerned with growth as it was spectacle. I don't mean that in an irresponsible way. Quite the contrary. It felt like a conscious choice on the part of the storytellers, which is fine.
Now, on to the only part that really matters...
The effects and overall design of this film were nothing short of masterful. That being said, I did not feel they were 'over-the-top' or particularly intrusive to the narrative flow. They served the vehicle nicely; spectacularly is more like it and, if what 'they' say can be relied upon, and this is indeed among the first of a whole new breed of 3D films and inspired storytelling, I think it sets the bar pretty high. Still, the sky is the limit and I would expect someone to come along one of these days to combine the brilliant visual techniques of Cameron with some truly revolutionary storytelling. Guess we'll see. But I'd bet on it.

Either way, I look forward to seeing it again...once all the pixie dust has settled.

D.A.

What did you think of the movie?
Was it everything you hoped for? More? Less?
Maybe you went in without any expectation. (Good for you, by the way).
Tell me what you think. Seriously, I'd love to know.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Seven

Things are getting a bit stale around here, so I'm injecting another dose of AO, or An Axis Oblique for you non-nerds, (what the heck are you doing here, by the way?). Seriously though, I've been bogged down the last week or so with things far less interesting. Apologies.


–– Seven ––

The McAllister home was built from the unforgiving ground up in the late 1990s. When they made the down-payment, it wasn’t much more than a flat lot of sand and rock, but the blushing young couple saw limitless potential. Mary was with child at the time, and Henry…well, Henry just needed an all-consuming project, to occupy his wandering mind.
Sure enough, during the blithe early years, he put in a great deal of challenging, painstaking work to bring out of it, the absolute best he could. After building a nice-sized deck in their modestly-sized backyard, he finished the basement, widened the driveway and, (perhaps his proudest achievement), planted a first-class garden on the ample front lawn.
Cynthia was staring out at it now. It was cold inside the living room––and dark. Outside, she could see Mrs. McAllister having a quiet conversation with a man she could only assume was a relative. He was putting his arm around her; a gesture she seemed wholly uncomfortable with, and Cynthia took note of how vulnerable she looked.
She’d done her best to be helpful the last few days, moving into the guestroom, disguising her brutal discomfort with hospitality, menial errands and backbreaking housework. The funeral was small; quaint. She didn’t know a soul, of course, and while the rest of them cried, and grieved in their own particular ways, Cynthia mourned mostly in silence, attempting to grapple with her own complex emotions––alone.
The front door came open and Nicky puttered all the way down the hall before heading upstairs. He’d been that way since it happened––quiet, distant. Cynthia noted a number of separate occasions where his mother tried to engage him; (or at least get him to smile), but thus far, all of her best intentions had gone doggedly rebuffed. There was no way to imagine the bleeding thoughts of a child whose hero had been taken away from them forever. Cynthia knew all too well. It was a pain she still carried, and likely would––always…
“Nicky…?”
Yet she followed.
“Sweetheart, can I come in?” Standing outside his uninviting bedroom door, she got no answer. “Nick?” she said again, gently pushing the door open... “Honey, I just wanted to––”
The television was on and the blanket had been rumpled as though recently slept in, but to her surprise, the kid was nowhere in sight. A diversion, she thought smugly. Pretty smart.
When she found him, he was in his mother’s room, in the dark, on the edge of the bed. She could barely make out his tragic young profile. It was heartbreaking. And suddenly, she realized it was the most she’d actually felt in days.
“Everything okay?” Even as she said it, she knew how incredibly stupid a question it was. “I mean…” She could easily make out the vacancy in his suddenly more mature stare. In his hands was a framed photograph. “I’m here.” She continued. “I mean, I know I’m not him, but…if you need someone to talk to…about whatever, I just want you to know…” The boy gave no indication he was even listening. “I know what it’s like...” she blurted. “To lose someone,” gaining momentum… “and Lord knows the last person I ever wanted to confide in was my mother, so…” The boy remained painfully silent, so she opted to leave it at that, and retreated…
“Why do people die?” he asked with her halfway out the door.
She stared at him, hapless. Oh, is that all? “Well,” she began, coming toward him once again. “I don’t really…I mean, I wish I could…” How to answer… You’re losing him, her inner-child of trauma whispered urgently. “Your Dad once told me you had a goldfish…”
He nodded. “He died too. Did they go to the same place?”
“Well, I don’t…really…” She cleared her throat, regrouping, and said: “Everything that lives, Nicky, dies…eventually… It’s just the way things are; the way they have to be…do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Well…try to think of it like this. You love summer vacation, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Because it’s fun, right? And you don’t have to go to school...”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot of time when it’s hot, or raining, and there’s not much to do.” He looked at her, tears struggling not to run rampant. What am I trying to say here? “But that doesn’t matter; because instead of feeling happy, you might feel…bored; restless even. Until you close in on September…and get homework and tests and have to get up early…then how do you feel?”
“I don’t know. Sad?”
“Right. Because sometimes, you don’t always appreciate the moment until…” Perhaps this wasn’t the best analogy. “Does that make any sense?”
“I guess so…a little...”
“Good. Well––and here’s what I’m trying to say––some people think that, if we didn’t ever die…we’d never be able to…appreciate how important; how special it is…to be alive. Now, does that make sense to you?” She was beginning to wonder herself.
“I don’t know. Sort of.” He answered in a manner hardly convincing. “You’re saying that people need to die so that they can have fun while they’re alive?”
“Yeah. Something like that.” The boy simply shrugged, seemingly unable, (or unwilling), to grasp such a concept. Cynthia had to admit it did sound far-fetched. Why do we die? she thought bitterly. How in the hell should I know?
“Is that their wedding photo?” She suddenly felt desperate to change the subject.
“I just wanted to see them both smiling,” he replied. Cynthia considered this a moment before joining him inside the perfectly preserved moment in time. To her surprise, it actually made her feel a bit better. She decided not to push the issue further for one day. Instead, the two of them just sat awhile; first five, then ten, fifteen and even as much as twenty minutes without one single word between.
*
“Cynthia?” Mary called for the third time, and still got no answer. “My goodness, where the hell is that girl…?” By the kitchen, it occurred to her, she could well have skipped out. Henry was gone after all. No more fringe benefits. Still, there was something about her reasoning that no longer sat well.
“Nicky…?” Hmm, no answer there either, which might have been intentional. The boy hadn’t exactly been behaving like a model child in recent days. If only she could find the right words; the right gesture to reach him, she might just be able to see light at the end of this dark, miserable tunnel.
“Well, well, what’s this?”
Both were suddenly present and accounted for, fast asleep in her very own bed. He looked so peaceful lying there; that monotonous, slightly angry expression replaced by one of enduring calm. She wondered whether she’d ever again have the pleasure of seeing him that way awake. Of course you will. It just takes time. Time. Her eyes bounced over to the clock radio on the nightstand. It had been nearly two hours since she last checked in on––
“Patrick?”
So quiet. The boy seemed to operate on only one frequency. She gently pushed on his bedroom door and a sudden must and darkness overwhelmed her. “Patrick, are you––?” She stopped, glimpsing his still figure under the heavy covers.
His body was so…small; so fragile. Sometimes, when she went in to hug him, she feared he might break; (not that he would ever think to complain). Approaching, she tried to imagine what it must be like to be so easy-going; (clearly not one of her own distinguishing character traits). Maybe he gets that from Henry…
It was only as she drew closer that she started to become suspicious. The boy was practically soaked in sweat. Feeling his forehead, his hair felt as though he’d just come out of the shower. His temperature, however, despite all indications, felt relatively normal. “Oh, Patrick,” she whispered. “My poor little baby...”
“Mommy…?” He surprised her as his eyes inched open…
“Shh, yes sweetie, I’m here.” With what strength he had left, he strained to sit up.
“He’s here, Mommy…he’s coming...” There was an urgency in his voice, unbefitting of the last few days.
“Who’s coming, Patrick?”
“The bad man.” he answered, tears welling up around his already-puffy, brown eyes. “He’s coming to hurt us...”
“Shh, no honey. Nobody’s coming to hurt you. It was just a bad dream.” There was something to be said for his timing. While of course concerned, and frightened of all she may not yet know, in the back of her mind, she was also almost happy to have him this way, if only for a little while. Now, more than ever, she needed someone to take care of. And, after all, who on this earth could have possibly needed her more?
–––––––––––––––
Krieger…
The rock formations were brilliant––so detailed in their intricacies. Something inside him suggested the settlement was surprisingly nearer than first thought; though he was quickly beginning to doubt the words of strange voices unwilling to match with a face.
He’d reached the tail end of his journey. For more than a decade, he’d done nothing but eat, sleep and dream his all-consuming quest. It had been only three weeks since he left that small, painfully-uninteresting excuse for a town. What finally led him there formed the basis of a story, not even he could bring himself to completely believe. It was his very denial, however, that somehow solidified its validity in his own ringing consciousness.
He’d been walking for days. Out here, at the edge of the astral plane, the mountains literally touched the clouds and the heavens were near enough to be seen with naked eyes. If not so thoroughly exhausted, (or completely uninterested), he might well have stopped for a closer look. But there simply wasn’t time. Duty, after all, could not afford rest.
In the distance, he could vaguely make out the crackles and unpredictable patterns of firelight. The path draws to a close, he thought; one of the first he’d allowed himself, and had almost forgotten how rewarding it could be to have one’s own faculties all to oneself. The fire was brighter still, growing moreso the nearer he drew. To his amazement, he felt anxious. The elders could be heard now, chanting faintly in their ancient language.
The caves were suddenly much darker, and Krieger was beginning to sense a presence far more powerful than any he’d ever known. At last he could make out the divine shape of a gentleman, draped in robes just a few metres away. It was time.
“You have traveled a great distance...” a raspy voice stated. Krieger knew better than to respond right away. “Have you news worthy of our holy salutation?”
Carefully, he stepped forward. “I have.”
“Continue.”
“I bring news of the creature…” Krieger went on, shaky. “…known across time and countless human culture––as…la Parra Finico––Perry Finch…”
“Continue…” the elder repeated.
“…news, which pertains to its ultimate destruction...” he finished, a bit dizzy. The elder went silent, and forced him to wait there alone for several more minutes in near pitch darkness…
“Step forward, thy faithful servant, Krieger…’”
Krieger gasped unexpectedly, startled at the sudden sight of a hunched-over, elderly form standing a mere few feet in front of him. The man looked as though he were hundreds of years old. His dress was exquisite, a flowing white robe decorated with an assortment of ancient and divine symbols, some of which he recognized; (though most he did not). The man’s skin literally hung off of his old bones, and a long white beard concealed the majority of his frail upper body. “You are aware now, of with whom you speak?” Krieger nodded, unprepared. “You bring news, Minion. News of the creature that calls itself…Finch…?”
“Yes,” he promptly confirmed. “The creature draws human breath no longer...”
“You have proof of this?” Krieger remained silent. Proof?
“Only my own two eyes,” he said. “Slain by my own weapon, its tainted blood spilt in accordance to ritual, flowing down the femoral artery, from above to below, as decreed in––”
“Your account is in error, Brother Krieger.” The Priest interrupted. “The maniacal creature of which you speak has not been transitioned to its eternal darkness, as you so unremittingly profess...”
Krieger was stunned. He’d never known a representative of The Order––a High Priest, nonetheless––to mislead or be misinformed in such a blatant manner.
“You’re mistaken,” he stated bluntly. “With all due respect…what you say is…impossible…I myself was physically present for the entire duration of––”
“Your victory was one of self-profession. The elders recorded decrease in its particle frequency, but for a brief interval. Your assigned extermination has been unsuccessful, young one. Your duty remains clear, and your task, incomplete.”
The shadowy figure retreated back into the nothingness from which it apparently came, and once again, Krieger was left by himself––
Impossible, he maintained. I was there. I looked into its coal, devil eyes until drained of all but the white of an empty shell vessel…and could not be more certain…
PERRY FINCH IS DEAD!!!
Isn’t he?
Krieger was suddenly faced with the frightening possibility of his own impatient carelessness; his own selfish lack of reliable execution. For the first time, he allowed himself the mind space to wonder: What if Perry Finch had managed to cling to some undetectable scrap of life in that all-too-brief interval between death and eternal oblivion? What if somehow, he’d found solace in yet another unsuspecting host carrier?
What if––? Dear God…
Damn you, Perry Finch.





Stay tuned for Chapter Eight - plus a few other special surprises I'm working on.
Happy Holidays!

D.A.

Simpsons Round-up

Okay, so another new Simpsons last Sunday and another attempt at Simpsons Round-up. As I've stated earlier, I'm not much of a reviewer, but my love for The Simpsons, (warts and all), is undying.

The episode was called "Oh Brother, Where Bart Thou?" and it aired on 12/13/09. Here is the official synpsis:

One snowy day in Springfield, Lisa informs Bart that she and Maggie share a bond that Bart will never understand because he doesn't have a brother, so Bart asks Homer for a baby brother. When Homer denies Bart's request, Bart makes his way to Springfield Orphanage to find what he thinks is missing.


All and all, a pretty decent ep.
As always, I find eps get better with repeated viewings so even if I didn't love it, it typically tends to grow on me. Not to say I didn't enjoy plenty. Off the top of my head what stood out was the dream sequence, (a-la Homer's sleep dream many seasons ago), where Bart goes to sleep babbling no dream could convince him he needed a brother and ends up in Bro-land, (or something like that), and encounters a cavalcade of famous brothers, (featuring a slew of guest voices). Everyone from The Marx brothers, The Manning brothers, (Payton, Eli and lesser known older brother, Cooper), The Blues Brothers, Sideshow Bob and Cecil!, the Super Mario Brothers and The Smothers Brothers, who performed a joke in their signature back-and-forth bickering-style. For me, this was the best part and a great demonstration of how clever and funny The Simpons can still be.

After the dream, Bart becomes obsessed with getting a little brother. This idea, I should mention, was triggered after Lisa teases him he can never know the true bond of sisterhood shared between her and Maggie. I may want to point out, a-la Comic book guy, Bart did have a big brother in Tom, (voiced by the irreplacable Phil Hartman way back in season three), and Homer, of course had Pepsi, ugm, Pepe.

Anyway, after attempts to inspire romance between Homer and Marge, with sexy results; (the Kama Sutra DVD they watch with 'Sextras' was particularly good too), Bart eventually gives up on getting his brother the 'traditional way' and visits the orphanage, which boasts the sign, "Adopt American" out front. But they aren't much help either. Fortunately, a little orphan boy overhears his heartfelt request and decides to break out of the orphanage to be Bart's little brother.

Other highlights for me included Nelson popping Birth Control pills he thinks are 'Tack Ticks', which make him ultra-emotional, the South Park gag, (which was really more an homage than a joke, still...), and the other dream where Bart imagines a third sister, (Kim Catrall), as he carries their shopping bags as they gab about sisterhood and shopping and sex, oh my...

Guess that about does it.
Like I said, there was plenty to love in the ep and with time, it will be sure to blend seamlessly with the rest of the catalogue.

Until next Sunday...

D.A.


P.S. Let me know what you think. Comments are always welcome, (not that I'm desperate or anything)

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Six

It's that time again, boys and girls. Here's chapter 6:




–– Six ––

In times of crisis people often looked to the Good Book. Some in search of support; others, explanation. But most everyone did so for meaning. Perry never really understood that. The Bible offered few answers, if any; mostly just questions. In more than ten-thousand spins of this godforsaken rock, he’d lost track of how often that preachy piece of flowery prose thumbed its sanctimonious pages at the scores upon scores of wretched little followers.
What puzzled him to no end was their inability, or perhaps, their unwillingness…to learn…
Take death for example:
Only the stunted mortal mindset could conjure a concept so flawed and inaccurate as eternal paradise for a life built upon service; or by the same token, perpetual damnation for lack thereof. For whatever reason, so many of them felt entitled to kindly continue forever in some form or fashion – without any real proof. Talk about self-importance.
Someone might suggest that with all his experience, Perry would have grown accustomed to their antiquated quirks. But for all his expertise, he found the exact opposite was usually true.
“Better run through the jungle...”
He had to admit though; despite vague discomfort, this was a welcome change of pace, (or at least scenery). It was chilly with all the windows rolled down, (so the idiot could smoke himself silly). There were subtle, yet distinct differences between the outlook of a healthy young man on the cusp of his prime, and that of an habitual chain-everything on the fast track to middle age, (or maybe the grave). For one thing, the colors seemed to sparkle a little less in here. And the world as a whole had a slightly more ‘lived-in’ feel to it. It wasn’t so much a criticism, as…an observation...
“…un through the j’ngle…”

Keith was singing. Sort of. His voice was barely audible against the song itself and with the windows all the way down, plus the noise of his car, (which sounded about ready for a tune-up), he could scarcely hear himself inside his own head. “…don’t look back…”
He was halfway surprised to catch himself inside a lyric, but continued just the same, all the way through the chorus and into the next verse. For days, the sunshine had been falling on him in an entirely new way. There were moments where everything seemed to sparkle, and tingle all over, as though he could feel his own cells in mitosis.
He wondered how he’d failed to see things this way before; his body replenished from the warmth of Earth’s ever-guiding star. The world was a wondrous place. The sights, smells and sounds were all so invigorating, so…simple, yet deceptively complex; so…
“What the…?”
…goddamned…annoying––
From out of nowhere, this plastic, hybrid Volkswagen piece of shit thumped his rear bumper. “Fucking Christ!” The Cutless was stopped at the stop sign, and Keith caught sight of the rear-view mirror; where a small, awkward-looking man waddled nervously toward him.
“Yikes, I’m…really sorry…” he blathered. “I guess I was…I don’t know, daydreaming and didn’t see your brake-light, are…are you okay…?”
Keith looked up, rubbing the back of his neck.
“License and registration please.”
The pudgy man sort of swallowed. “Oh. Um…I beg your…”
“What are you, blind and deaf? Show me your driver’s license, sir. And your vehicle registration before we do this the hard way…”
“Well I, ah…is that really necessary?” The fat oaf was starting to sweat.
“Do you want me to step out of this car, sir?” Keith snapped, adjusting the sun-visor to play off his gleaming Maplewood shield…
“Okay! Okay, Officer. I certainly don’t want any trouble, I didn’t…” The man began fumbling around his back pocket and finally emerged with an overstuffed wallet. “If you’ll just bear with me a moment...” Flipping through all that clutter, cards fell clumsily to the pavement and the awkward character scarcely seemed to care; (although the impatience in Keith’s voice might have had something to do with it). “This is my, ah, license…and, um, the registration…is, I believe here in the glove––”
Keith snatched it like a pigeon in Central Park. For a moment there was silence as his fingers scanned the laminated card, long enough for the sweaty buffoon to take clear notice of the holstered Berretta on the passenger’s seat.
“Says here you were born in Montana.”
The fat man attempted to relax.
“What’s that? Yup. Yes, siree…moved here about…two years ago, I guess…and I, um, haven’t––”
“And it’s expired.”
“Oh. Yeah, well, I…can explain, see…”
“Save it. Now listen, I don’t know how they do it out there in Backwoods, Bumblefuck, Mr. um…‘Prescott…’but here in Connecticut it’s a federal offence to operate a Class D vehicle without a valid driver’s license…”
“Oh…well now, come on, Officer, I hardly––”
“Hardly what, Harold? You calling me a liar?” he baited, glancing back at the card.
“Liar? What––no…oh, Dear God no, I would never––” Keith made certain the sweaty hick saw him reach for his gun before grandiosely stepping out of his vehicle.
“If there’s one thing I hate worse than laziness, it’s a no-good criminal…” He crowded the man.
“I didn’t…say anything, Officer, sir, I just…now, ah, you’re not planning on using that, are you?” Keith could all but smell the intimidation. Intoxicating...
“What, you mean this?” he challenged, bringing the pistol against the man’s pudgy, round face. “This frighten you, Mr. Prescott? ‘Cuz there’s no reason it should. Not unless you’ve got something to be frightened over…” The barrel slid up and down Prescott’s stocky torso. Keith could literally feel the poor slob’s sweat forming with urgency under his mustard-colored shirt. Polyester. Figures...
“Whoa! What are you…you’re not going to––” Keith smiled. Here was a man moved to blind panic over little old he; spineless…cowardly…expendable…
“Tell me something,” Keith asked, the barrel sinking…pushing deeper into Prescott’s Pilsbury flesh. “Who in God’s name would miss you?” The question was met with a giggle.
“I beg you’re––”
“Oh come now, Harold, don’t give me that, it’s a simple question.” Keith moved just a tiny bit closer, “If I pulled this trigger, right here, right now…would anyone actually notice? Can you honestly name even one person?”
“Well…I, ah…hmm…”
“Do it! Just give me one name; one genuine and, well obviously pathetic excuse for a fool that’d shed so much as a single tear if I wiped your fat, sweaty ass from the planet right here and now on the side of this suburban back street.” Keith could feel his thumb growing increasingly itchy on the trigger... Oh come on, who would know…?
“I’m not sure if…I mean it would probably…wh-wh-what gives you the right, sir, to pull out your…your pistol there and play God with my life anyhow? Officer, um…”
“This isn’t about me, Harold. Now name someone. I really don’t see why it’s so difficult. Throw out one goddamned name and we can forget this whole thing...”
“Well I…really don’t see why I should even have to play this ridiculous––”
“I don’t really give a shit what you see, Harold…now do it or I’ll shoot you. Is that clear enough?” Keith cocked the weapon slowly, loudly enough to be heard beyond the shadow of a doubt. “You think this is a game? Am I playing with you now?” Harold, meanwhile, looked about ready to burst into tears. “I could kill you, you miserable waste of existence. You do nothing, understand? Nothing but take up space.” He stopped. “And you wanna know something? I’d probably be doing you a huge favor.” then ominously went into his back pocket for a tiny Swiss army knife…
“Whoa! Now what are you––?” A single tear rolled down Prescott’s rosy cheek.
“Yup. I could start you off on…an indescribable adventure. How bout it, Harry? You up for it?” The blade pressed into Harold’s fat face. “Aw, who am I kidding. You’d only fuck it up!” Okay, enough foreplay...
“Ow!” The man yelped. “What the…?” The mark was small and hardly noticeable, like a paper-cut. But it certainly bled easily enough.
“Whoops. Sorry about that, friend. Here, let me get that…” Gently, he wiped the fresh blood from the man’s quivering cheekbone, then licked his finger clean.
Tastes like fear…
“Alright! Sir, I’ve had just about en…enough. Now I don’t know the law very well. Certainly not to the extent that you do, but I’m pretty sure that this…” Prescott swallowed hard, determined for once to finish his thought. “…these scare tactics of yours are not standard procedure. Now if you’re going to charge me with something I suggest that you get on with it because, I have to say, I’m quite looking forward to speaking with your superior down at that station of yours…”
“Shut up, Harold. And speak when spoken to.” The blade, featured so prominently only moments ago, was now nowhere in sight. Ditto for the gun.
*
“Your license’ll be up for renewal in a few weeks,” he said, sounding different; calmer… “I’m gonna have to hang on to this, I’m afraid.” The man’s tone had miraculously become much friendlier and more subdued as he retreated back into his car for a pad and pen. “I’m issuing you a temporary permit. See to it you’re brought up to date by then…” he said, tearing away the hand-written permit…
“Yeah…ah, yes. Yes, absolutely…Officer...will do…” Prescott noted his eyes were now back to a shimmering green. Somehow, he could tell this was a different man all of a sudden. It was the damdest thing, but he decided not to rock what was obviously a very unstable boat. “Th-thank you…” he managed. “You know. I mean, for not…”
“You just be certain to heed what I said, okay? Next time I might not be so forgiving. Now go have yourself a pleasant day, and drive careful.”
Harold watched in amazement as the crazy cop got back in his car. Almost instantly, he could hear some tedious, seventies rock riff, blasting without boundary…
–– layin in a travelin band, yeah!
Well, Im flyin cross the land, tryin to get a hand,
Playin in a travelin band...
Driving off into the very oblivion from which he’d come, the officer kindly waved. Harold simply stood there, dumbfounded on the side of the road, trying his best to wrap a stressful and now exhausted mind around the sudden one-eighty––when a gold Toyota rolled up to the stop sign behind him at long last.
Bad timing, he thought. Story of his life.
–––––––––––––––
“I don’t understand any of this. How does a man behave one way in broad daylight and turn into something completely different after dark? It doesn’t––”
“Alright, Raymond, that’s enough.” A voice spoke from the shadowy alcove. Raymond turned to face his Uncle Paulo before shrugging him off in frustration. “What’s done is done.” The old man continued. “There’s no sense in second guessing so far after the fact. Now, the police will be here any minute. What we need to do; and what Juanita needs us to do, is gather our composure and present a united front, understand?”
The core of the Duvaliente family was gathered in the kitchen. Most of the mourners had gone home; some on their own volition; others practically forced by intense discomfort. The rest remained to help with what had become an even more serious predicament than first thought––or ever imagined. Among them were Paulo, Cesaro’s oldest living relative; with her on that awful day more than twenty-five years ago in Manatzas; a place so close to what she imagined Hell must be like, it would burn in her memory forever. Edward was there too; her brother-in-law of almost forty years––and of course, Raymond, Edward’s and her late sister’s son, now in his mid-thirties.
“Oh, Sonny...” Juanita groaned softly, reemerging at long last after a lengthy absence. “Sonny, my dear, sweet Sonny, how could you have been so…” But she could not yet bring herself to speak the thoughts in her head; thoughts that betrayed her. Instead, she just cried. To the others, it seemed like all she’d been doing for days.
“Juanita.” Edward finally spoke. “What do you want to do?” he asked, and as simple a question as it may have been, no one had actually thought to pose it.
“Yes,” Paulo echoed. “Everyone’s been talking around you, but no one’s been talking to you. Now Sonny was special to all of us, and we all want to protect his memory…”
“Not to mention your privacy,” Raymond added.
“Yes. But, as much as we all loved and cared for him as though he were our own, he was your boy and only you can decide how to proceed with this…new information…”
The room went eerily silent. She seemed lost in heavy contemplation, as though attempting to weigh her own wishes against those she speculated Sonny’s might have been. From time to time, the men looked at her, and each other; trying to show respect while underscoring the rising urgency. The police, after all, would be there soon.
“We will show them,” she said after almost five full minutes. The others traded looks before finally, one of them decided to ask the question on all of their minds.
“Yes, of course.” It was Paulo. “But…how much?”
“Everything,” she replied definitively. “No more secrets.” Edward was the first to approach, gently placing a hand on her pale, bony shoulder.
“It’s the right thing to do,” he said. “God will be with you.”
“Yes,” added Raymond. “And so will we.”
*
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Duval. I’m Detective Merrimac, we spoke on the phone, and met briefly the other day.” Keith was in reasonably good spirits, despite the fact he was standing in the doorway of another murder victim in his once-peaceful town. He hadn’t expected to return here so soon after notifying the family of Sonny Duval’s untimely demise, but there was something in the mother’s tone of voice that morning––something that went beyond grief. To Keith, it had sounded more like…blind panic…
“Duvaliente.” One of the men spoke under his breath as he made his way inside. A white-haired gentlemen, who spoke with a thick Latino accent.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You said Duval. It’s Duvaliente.”
“Oh. I’m, ah, very sorry. It’s just that the, ah…Sonny had the name ‘Duval’ on his driver’s license when we…my mistake…”
“Sonny preferred a more American name for business and well…I suppose just to blend in more seamlessly,” his mother explained down the hallway and up the stairs.
“I see. And, um, what business would that be?” Keith inquired.
The woman paused in stumped contemplation.
“Sonny was involved in all kinds of endeavors. To be perfectly honest, Detective, I’m not sure how he made most of his money.”
“Well it’s not entirely unusual for a young man to keep things from his family,” he replied, trying not to offend––and yet somewhere inside, a strange skepticism––and familiarity…lingered…

Old Ghosts…
It was strange being here. This house. That woman, and the others. They all seemed so… familiar; so frightfully distant, though oddly comforting at the same time. Moving through the modest dwelling, Perry took in all the sights, the sounds and even the faintest smells of what constituted a whole nother lifetime. Everyone there was a stranger to him and yet, in some capacity, he felt as though he’d known them all for years. This is the way to my old room, he thought. I wonder if anything’s been changed…

“––’d never thought to look but I––well, I suppose I was just afraid of what I might find...” The woman had been speaking but Keith’s mind was temporarily elsewhere; a problem with which he’d been dealing, off and on, for a few days now.
“It’s perfectly understandable, Mrs. Duvaliente. I can only imagine how difficult this has been for you.” He hoped his reply was somewhere in the ballpark.
“Thank you, Paulo,” she said, turning sternly to the entourage in the doorway. “I’d like you to leave us alone now.” The white-haired gentlemen appeared uneasy, but after a few tense seconds, left quietly, and took the posse with him.
“Be careful, Detective. It’s not quite dry yet.” She said once they were alone, and slowly made her way to her late son’s closet, doors open just a sliver.
“So I’ve noticed…” The smell was consistent with disinfectant. He watched her fragile fingers slowly pull the doors apart.
Keith looked on in disbelief. At first glance, the closet seemed ordinary enough, packed with clothes, a few old board games and other childhood keepsakes, but in the far left corner, up on the shelf, he saw a Tupperware container about the size of a cereal box. It was filled halfway with water, or more likely, melted ice, and from his approximate distance, gave off the muggy, yet distinct scent of formaldehyde…
“What in God’s name…?” But he trailed off in mid-sentence for he could easily make out the contents by then... A hand. “When did you––?”
“Yesterday.” She interrupted. “Late last night, I should say. I suppose I was in shock, or something. So I waited a little longer than perhaps I should have.” Keith was in close, examining but not touching. He had little doubt it was recently severed, but for what possible purpose he could not yet begin to speculate. Late night snack? Fun, maybe?
“Mrs. Duvaliente, please listen to me carefully. Do you have any idea how, or more importantly why Sonny would want a human hand packed in ice to keep in his bedroom closet?” He couldn’t believe he was asking such a question.
“Detective, I can assure you with every fiber of my being that I do not.”
“Of course,” he said quickly, suddenly realizing something peculiar about all this; (well, more so). “Why would he pack it in ice if he knew it would melt?” He posed aloud, though the question was really rhetorical.
“Well…” She was thinking. “We do have a chest freezer––but the motor’s been broken for some––” She stopped. Keith tried his best to be gentle––but firm…
“And where exactly is that?”
* * *
The woman was visibly shaking. They were standing in the garage before a large Kenmore freezer buried under boxes and clutter. Carefully, Keith began clearing them away, then tried the stubborn lid, which seemed frozen shut––
“It’s still plugged in,” he said, feeling the top, and tracking the long, hidden chord all the way to the wall outlet. “How long did you say it’s been this way?” He struggled in a more or less futile attempt to pry the door open with his bare hands.
“I’m sorry? Oh, um, at least a few years. Since we lost the key. I can’t tell you how many times I asked Sonny to throw it away but he just…” Her voice trailed off and again, she looked about ready to cry. Keith looked around for something––anything to pry the stubborn lid.
“Here...” A voice called from the doorway, startling them both. Keith turned around to see the younger man standing there holding a crowbar.
“Raymond, I thought I told you to wait inside.” Juanita snapped.
“You’re trying to get that open, right?” He moved forward, ignoring her, and graciously helped jimmy the heavy lid with their combined strength.
“Good God…” Keith whispered, the strong smell triggering a wave of nausea, (which he fortunately managed to control). The young man wasn’t so lucky. Juanita simply gasped.
The freezer was packed with an assortment of what appeared to be, (and certainly smelled like), human body parts; arms, legs, appendages of every shape, size and color.
And then of course, were the heads.
At least three, at a glance. One in particular seemed almost to be staring back at them; its features kept eerily intact by the freezer’s rigid cold. Packed along the bottom were several carefully placed freezer bags containing everything from human tissue, to full sized organs.
“I’ll, ah, need to call in the coroner,” Keith said after a fairly long pause. The mother remained silent, staring into the frozen grave her own flesh and blood had apparently dug for a whole host of unsuspecting victims. She was now his latest, and hopefully last, wearing an expression the cynical detective would not soon forget.
Keith felt something similar, though not quite as emotional. When he’d woke up that morning, Sonny Duval was a victim of senseless murder; a man to whom he’d intended to bring justice. Now he was merely one of what seemed like a number of disturbing components to a much larger puzzle.
So much for loose ends… a familiar voice sparked indifferently from within; not quite so deep as before. It was true enough. This was most certainly, no end at all. Not by the farthest cry.
For Keith Merrimac, it was only the beginning.

An Axis Oblique - Chapter Five

Recently, I finished 'cleaning up' the first thriteen chapters, or "Volume One" of my horror-epic, An Axis Oblique, (please see the post-index for related entries), and, aside from querying various agents and/or publishers the 'traditional way,' I've also planned to package it into a Kindle Book for Amazon's increasingly popular e-book reader platform. A good friend of mine, (with whom I'm also collaborating on a comic book), has agreed to do a series of drawings for the final product, which I hope will not only enhance the material, but also help it to stand out in that highly-competitive marketplace. I should be putting it out there, so to speak, as soon as I have a good cover image.

Anyway, here's chapter five:


–– Five ––

Finally, some nighttime…
Keith was awake. Big surprise. No matter how hard he tried, his mind would not stop racing. His immediate surroundings seemed different somehow; almost as though he were seeing them with a whole new set of eyes; familiar, yet…strange…
What he needed was rest. The whole Pollack debacle had taken its toll, leaving him weak and disillusioned. And now out of the blue, there was this. More brutality. More innocent blood. Honestly, how could any man sleep?
Being there, at the McAllister residence that afternoon was simply too much, much too soon. What a waste. Just some ordinary everyman; husband and father, going about his life the way all should have the right to. The wife was a mess. The image of her collapsing to the ground; that little boy in her arms, he would not soon forget. Poor woman. Poor family.
I could sure go for a snack…
Rummaging through his half-empty fridge, he grabbed at anything edible…and found some leftover chicken tucked way back behind the econo-mayo.
Plopping down on the sofa, he spread out and went for the remote:
Nope, no…please no…not in a million––wait––nope, no…crap, shite, next, ah-ha… ‘Croc Bounty’––with that Aussie bloke down in the Outback. Keith watched awhile, feasting. Just looking at those cold-blooded carnivores laying merciless waste to whatever suited them seemed to stir something primal inside; those cold, empty eyes, oozing ‘fear me; for I eat everything’ were a true inspiration.
Lest we leave out the million-dollar grin…
The grand ballet that was nature danced all up and down his head, sending his body all atingle as he tore into that chicken…and yet, somewhere in between ruthless images, there was her––the young nanny. What was her name again? Samantha…? No. Cindy…? No. Cynthia…that’s the one… She had to have been…oh, at least half his age; (maybe not quite). Still, the thought of her getting out of her crappy blue car to face him with those majestic brown eyes under not-quite-dark enough sunglasses...made him horny as hell...
Hm. Hardly satisfying…
Ten minutes later they were scraps.
A wave of fatigue overtook him. Food, much like thought, needed space to digest.
* * *
The telephone was in mid-ring. Keith found himself still in front of the TV. There were chicken bones in his lap, which fell between the cushions as he reached for the phone. “Yeah…”
“Merrimac. What in God’s name were you up to? Phone must’a rang six times.”
“Hmm? I’m sorry…sorry about that, Captain, I…what time is it?”
“Almost ten. Officer Sparks says there’s someone here to see you.”
“Christ,” he said, rubbing the excess sleep from his eyes. Mary-Ann McAllister. That’s right. He did say ten. What was he thinking? “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
“Okay but that better not be a load’a––”
Keith hung up, standing to go brush his teeth. Luckily, he was already dressed from the night before, so he splashed on some warm water, followed by a dab or two of generic cologne, and rushed out the door.
* * *
The sun seemed stronger, more formidable a presence as he stepped out to greet the new day. The older he got, the more time played with his burnt-out perceptions. Sleep was a mere means to replenishment, nothing more. Without it, there would be no separation of one day to the next. Sure, there was night. But the hours themselves stretched on endlessly, forever...
Yet somehow, not today.
For the first time in ages, the morning felt fresh and brand new, like when he was a child. The sky looked clearer; the breeze more refreshing…
On the way to the station, he listened to 104.7, the generic fogey rock station, catching some Credence Clearwater in mid Revival...
– ust got home from Illinois.
Lock the front door oh boy.
Got to set down take a rest on the porch.
Sure don’t make’em like this anymore…
…magination sets in, pretty soon I'm singin
Doot doot doot lookin out my back door…
* * *
“Tell me something, Detective. Do you enjoy keeping people waiting? Is it like a power thing for you?”
“No, Ma’am, of course not. The traffic was just––”
“Oh please...”
“I’m sure you have more pressing matters. If you’d like to reschedule––”
“No. No, please, let’s just do this...” She cut him off, shaky, and at last, he could see what was really there. Not anger; (at least not just anger), but…loss. Fear. A part of him took comfort in it. And pleasure. “So, is there someplace we can go, Detective? Like your office maybe?”
“Hmm? Oh yes, absolutely; and please, feel free to call me Keith...” He swerved somewhat sharp, heading toward his locked office; the woman dragging behind...
Away from prying eyes, she softened considerably. “Would you like a tissue?”
“Please.” She accepted.
“Mrs. McAllister,” he began, all business, “can you think of any particular reason your husband might have been involved in an…altercation…of this nature…?”
Her eyes, barely dry, broke into a scowl. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your husband. I know this is difficult but do you know of anyone who––?”
“I thought you said this was a random act, Detective.” Her voice was rising back up toward angry. “Murdered? Henry was no saint by any means, but––”
“Mrs. McAllister, I’m just trying to––”
“I don’t think I like what you’re insinuating, Detective Merrimac.”
“Keith. Please. I’m not insinuating, Mrs. McAllister. Your husband was…involved, so to speak, with a previous investigation of mine, that’s all; one, which could conceivably be linked to the recent Richard Pollack––”
“Richard Pollock? You mean the rapist? But I thought he was––”
“He is. But we haven’t yet ruled out the possibility of some…superficial connection.” It seemed to take a moment or two before the admission could penetrate.
“I can’t…I can’t hear this...” She stumbled, regrouping. “The, um, investigation, to which you’re referring is, I assume, that of Miss. Todd…and I doubt you have any idea of the fresh wounds you’re salting…”
“Ma’am, I’m not trying to––”
“I need to be home…need to be with my babies…” she babbled. “…if you’ll excuse me, Detective…” And turned tail…
“No, of course not, and please it’s just…Keith…!” he called, wondering if perhaps he’d gone too far.
Bite your tongue…
crept a thought from seemingly nowhere.
*
Mary waited until completely shielded by her frosty fortress of solitude, then cried. Slow tears, she found, could be perfectly suited to pain. The slightest inclination of one and more were most certain to follow. For a good five minutes, she just let them come. “Bastard…” was all she could manage, grateful no one could see her.
It was a long drive home; lonely. She used the time to think.
What will I do now? she considered, a wide array of angry possibilities running through her grief-stricken mind. Though difficult to accept, it remained the only relevant question left.
–––––––––––––––
¿Qué ahora haré?
The question dogged her mercilessly as she sat in the dark, empty bedroom. It would never be changed; not one square inch for as long as she lived in this house. “Sonny...” she whispered, tears welling up. “Sonny, Sonny!” The welcome numbness was beginning to wear off. Her only son was gone: Sonny Luis Duvaliente––dead at twenty-eight.
Her aging grey eyes bounced off the light coming under the door. Sonny’s bedroom was like a boy’s of high-school age; posters plastered all over the walls, shelves stacked with track trophies and other mementos from a still-fresh adolescence. There were years unaccounted for, and she wondered, as she’d done so often in the past, how well she truly knew him.
He was always a quiet boy, but still active in his way; particularly when it came to appearances; things like sports, school, and occasionally girls. There were times, however, when he’d look at her with a dark, chilling vacancy, as though he were not even there. It was a look she’d seen before; knew all too well from her days in the old country. ‘Menos que ser humano,’ were the words she had silently spoken on that dreadful day––less than human; terrible for someone to think of her own flesh and blood.
“Juanita…” Paulo was calling her from the alcove. She ignored him.
Sonny had been her ‘child of miracle,’ or so they had proclaimed. It was the only way they could accept his bizarre introduction to this world: the emergence of life in the midst of so much death and suffering. She and a handful of others were saved somehow, spared the unspeakable fate of their fellow detainees at the hands of the Militia.
She gave birth to him hastily, atop a filthy slab of metal used for slaughter and converted into a gurney by her husband, Cesaro and a handful of others; family, friends and strangers. All were as one under the weight of such tyranny. A man stood guard outside the tent, but could do nothing to hide her screams as she berthed her baby boy. And when finally, he was born, the first sounds to fill his untainted ears were of gunfire, spiked with anguish––and terror.
Apart from his mama’s bloodied sweat, Juanita was convinced Sonny’s first sights were of the animal who’d attacked them mere moments before; General Sanuela; the man responsible for most of the carnage on that horrific day. It took several deep gashes into his leathery skin before he had finally seen fit to let go. Cesaro discovered them shortly thereafter, neutralizing him crudely with the Louisville Slugger he’d stolen from the commissary storehouse. Perhaps if he had been more of a monster, and finished the evil degenerate before he could strike back, her kind and gentle husband would be with her today––and so might her Sonny...
Juanita was on her feet at last, unable to stand the sight of this room a moment longer––and took her first step toward the door––into a tiny wet discoloration on the carpet. Curious, she looked down and noticed another such spot almost right next to it; wet, sticky…and dark. Then another…tiny drops of what she could only assume was water had formed an inconspicuous trail. Without thought for what she might encounter, she followed it to the paint-chipped closet doors and slid them apart as if to get a sweater.
A wave of nausea came up and, before she could suppress it, vomit spilled out all over his faded turquoise carpet. This was the first true confirmation of one of her most carefully-guarded fears. The first solid evidence of Sonny’s mysterious other side. And she wished like hell she hadn’t found it; or done something sooner.
The point was of course, moot; an empty wish to begin with, and far too late for wishful thinking. However she chose to rationalize; whether she liked it or not, those eyes, much like the closet doors in front of her face, had been opened for good.



I'm still trying to get the translation just right, from my original Wordfile to this. Call it a work in progress.

D.A.

Simpsons Roundup!

Hey there, and welcome to my first attempt - echm! - first edition of Simpsons Roundup!

What is Simpsons Roundup, you ask?

Just a semi-regular critique or, in some cases, summary of Sunday's newest entry into the pantheon of Simpsons lexicon.

I'll try to keep this a regular thing but it won't always be tops on my list of priorities. Nevertheless, if it catches fire like I know it will, it's popularity could crash the whole Internet!

Let us begin.

Last Sunday's ep continues a streak of strong outings during the month of November. I know, many of you out there think the show has gone stale and at times, I can strain to see your point. The fact is, the sense of humor is, in my humble opinion, as sharp, witty and potentially observant as ever it has been. This week's episode, entitled, "Rednecks and Broomsticks", (11/29/09), featured Lisa joining a group of wiccans. The synopsis is as follows:

"After getting lost in a game of hide-and-seek, Lisa wanders into the forest and discovers three teenage girls, including Cassandra, who are practicing Wiccans. Though she is skeptical of their spells, the girls assure Lisa that they never hurt anyone and ask her to join their coven. Just before Lisa is inducted into their pact, Chief Wiggum arrives and arrest the three girls for witchcraft and Lisa becomes the star witness in their trial. Meanwhile, Homer starts hanging out with Cletus and his hillbilly friends when he discovers that they make moonshine."

Overall, I liked it. As it's been a few days, many of the episode's finer points have already begun to escape me but I particualrly liked the Bambi joke early on in the first act where The Simpsons car spun out onto a frozen lake and slammed into Bambi and Thumper. Also, I thought the Cletus story worked well too, using the character for something other than some dopey aside or one-liner. Don't get me wrong, I love those too when they work, but Cletus has been around long enough, I think, where, by season 21, we could give him some more meat.

The way the two stories came together was also effective, as the tainted moonshine got into the town drinking water and caused an epidemic of temporary blindness, (blamed on the witches, of course). Moe too, had some great stuff, particularly, the mob jokes, where he eggs an angry crowd of gawkers into chasing him just to keep them fired up, as well as a good bit with the annoying travelling game, 'Bonk-It,' which Homer throws out the window only to have another angry father in the next car, throw his own kid's Bonk-It back into the Simpsons car.

The guest voice was Neve Campbell, which I didn't know till I read the end credits.

All in all, I found it to be a solid entry which, as most episodes do, get better with repeat viewings. Not sure yet if next week's is a new one. Either way, I'll try and keep this thing going - for a while.

D.A.

Got an opinion? Think I'm out to lunch? Or maybe right on the money? Leave a comment. Hey, it just might be the best decision of your entire life!