SOC #25: Black Tequila

I was having a conversation with one of my current co-workers the other night and this memory popped into my head from my Santa Barbara days. It was a Sunday, my roommate and I went to a barbecue at his cousin's apartment. As soon as we walked into the place, and speaking in Spanish, he introduced me to his cousin's family. His aunt shook my hand and immediately handed me a beer from a nearly empty 24 pack box. On the kitchen counter behind her there were two more full boxes. My roommate said, "She said if you want another, don't be shy." I noticed his aunt had a black tear tattoo on her left cheek, indication of a rough childhood, but these days I could tell she was in high spirits and enjoying life the best she could. We made our way to the porch where my roommate began grilling a steak for the both of us. As he was heating up the meat we both smoked a joint, having a good time, the beer tasting better the more I toked. The family inside were chattering in Spanish and having a good time. Not even 20 minutes of sitting, smoking, barbecuing, and drinking on the porch did we begin to hear women crying from inside the apartment. I asked, "The fuck they crying about?" My roommate simply replied, "Memories." I said, "Good ones, I hope." My roommate said, "All memories are good because they are in the past." I said, "Good point. Never thought of it that way. Most of the time for me the past is a thorn in my brain, a persistent migraine that not even drugs can numb." My roommate suggested, "You should just change the way you think by changing the way you do things. You seem to be stuck in a routine. Maybe you should change things up." I said, "It was worse when I was back home. Pissing in the bathroom even had a fucking schedule. Same exact time every fucking day." My roommate inquired, "How about shitting?" I chuckled and was about to say something when an empty bottle of expensive tequila shot out of the open sliding-glass door, shattering to pieces against the porch fence. A woman inside wailed from the kitchen, spouting words in Spanish faster than a machine gun as she cried. From what I could discern from my extremely limited Spanish vocabulary, the woman was saying things like: "Why?!" and "Why, God, you Bastard?!" There was the sound of the kitchen table being pushed around while the other women tried to hold her still and calm her down. The struggling made it's way outside to the porch. It was my roommates aunt trying to push other female members of her family off her. The ladies tried to pull her back inside when my roommates aunt suddenly unveiled a switchblade from her jacket pocket, waving it at her siblings, then putting it up to her throat. I asked aloud, "Is this really happening?" I turned my attention to my roommate standing at the grill, flipping the steak, his back to the drama. Without looking at me, he said, "Memories. Just memories. Someone died, someone else was raped, blah, blah." By the time I looked back over to the ladies they had somehow got the knife away from his aunt, and took her back inside. I said to my roommate, "Did that just happen, man?" My roommate replied, "She gets like that when she drinks tequila." I wondered, "How many shots of tequila does it take to put a knife to your own throat? 'Tis the question." My roommate said, "She wasn't doing shots. They all were drinking full cups of it." Astonished, I said, "Fucking memories."

The Orange Bridge

            "I stared into the Abyss, and like Nietzsche said, it stared back. Not only did it

             simply look upon my form, it spoke to me."

                                                             - Elmore Patric, Words of Wisdom 

    SMASH! Shatter. 

    The sound of Elmore's aluminum baseball-bat breaking his car window reverberated throughout the three-story parking garage. If there was anyone around, they would have panicked, and called the Transit Rail police. Luckily for Elmore the place was empty at that moment while he continued to walk around his car and pound dents into the doors, hood, and the trunk. Why was he doing this? It was the end of the line for him. The rock bottom of his depression had crushed his soul. His plan was to take the Transit to the city, walk to that fucking infamous orange bridge, and jump off. So far that year there had been nine suicides on that bridge. He wanted to be number ten.
    It had been two weeks since his girlfriend Claire dumped him after admitting she had cheated on him with an older man. Elmore forgave her, and offered her a second chance because he loved her too much, but she preferred the lifestyle of a money-grubbing slut. He had given her his soul for the past seven years, and she tossed it aside like a dirty rag.
    "Cunt!" Elmore yelled as he delivered one last swing with the bat into the passenger window, the glass shattering into the car. He then dropped the aluminum bat onto the pavement before walking to the stairwell, made his way to the platform, and waited for the train.
    Sitting on a bench, nothing was on his mind but that damn bridge. He thought about how windy it was going to be, if a strong gust of wind could sweep in, somehow cushioning his fall to prevent the smack on the surface of the water from killing him. He hoped not. On a documentary he once watched about the suicides on the orange bridge, a young man, about Elmore's age had survived the fall by changing his mind in mid-fall, adjusting his body so he'd land on his feet. His back broke of course, preventing him from swimming, but as the young man was about to sink a Sea Lion swam around his limp body, keeping him afloat. Though it was the Sea Lion that kept him from dying, the young man said it was God that saved him.
    Fucking dumb bastard, Elmore had thought, a fucking living thing saves your life, and you give credit to something that's not REAL!
    Elmore thought to himself on the Transit platform that if he somehow was still alive after the fall, and a Sea Lion came to his aide, he'd break it's fucking neck with his bare hands.
    The train arrived at the station.
    One year later when Elmore tried to think about that day of his failed attempt at suicide, he realized he couldn't remember the train ride to the Market Street station, walking on the sidewalk, or lighting a cigarette. But what he does remember is when he was about to finish the cigarette he saw the sign outside Tony's Italian Restaurant, decided to have one last meal before his death, and get drunk to feel good about it.
    A sexy blond hostess wearing a white shirt and black slacks stood behind a glossy wood podium, giving a bright, friendly smile to Elmore's stoic face.
    "Good evening, sir," she greeted. "Welcome to Tony's. How many in your party?"
    "Just me," Elmore said, holding up one finger, pointing at himself. "Is it too early for dinner?"
    "We've just started serving it, sir. Follow me, please." The hostess held the menu as she led Elmore through the restaurant to a booth with high partitions.
    Elmore sat down, immediately feeling relief from the near total privacy the spot permitted.
    "Wow," Elmore said. "This is really nice." He almost bared a smile.
    "We strive to make our customers feel the best," the hostess said, placing the menu on the table before Elmore. "Your waiter will be with you shortly."
    Looking through the menu, Elmore scoffed at the pretentiousness of the restaurant industry and their one page menus. He searched for a plate that had the simplest wording, and found it. It made more sense to him than someone giving the middle-finger. He then looked at the wine selection and searched for the most expensive bottle. Being it was his last hours amongst the living, he was going all out
    "Hello, sir," a girl said. "My name is Lilian. I'll be your waitress."
    "I'll start with your most expensive bottle of wine," Elmore said, still looking at the wine menu. "The ce-cedad- the one that costs a hundred-thirty."
    "Is your name Elmore?" the waitress asked. "Elmore Patric?"
    "Yes, that's me," Elmore said, still browsing the list of wines. "Maybe I'll have the Coppola. I heard it's shit, but at least I can pronounce it."
    "I'm Lilian Palmer," the waitress said. "I use to be your neighbor. I lived around the corner. Well, I just recently moved back home."
    Elmore finally looked up at her, and a slow breeze of recognition came over him; it had been years since he had seen her. She was all grown up, with long dirty-blond hair in a pony-tail, thin, fit, and tall. And a nice rack to boot. She wore a black shirt and black slacks.
    "Whoa," Elmore uttered. "The last time I saw you you had a mohawk. You've really changed."
    "Yeah, one of those teenage phases that fade once you make it passed the threshold into your twenties. I see you haven't changed much. You still got the same hair style."
    "I'm not one for trends, I guess," Elmore said, running a hand through his hair. "So why'd you move back home? You finish college?"
    "I never went to college. I moved in with a guy, and-" Lilian squinted her eyes, a little too personal for her to explain to a near stranger. She simply said, "It's a long story."
    "You're right," Elmore said, putting a hand up, "none of my business. My girl just left me, and all I got to say about it-" Elmore stopped himself in a minor fit of rage, then almost under his breath, he said, "Fucking-whore-bitch."
    Lilian smiled and laughed, nodding her head.
    "Sorry about that," Elmore said. "You must understand, it's very emotional for men."
    "It's okay, Elmore. So you want the Ca' del Baio Barbaresco Valgrande bottle? Good choice."
    "Is that how you say it?" Elmore said. "Damn, I was way off. Yes. And to eat I'll have the meal on the menu that begins with the words: 'Full Belly Farm Melon.'"
    "A lot of the unsophisticated order that all the time," Lilian said, raising her brow.
    "Well, I'm no sophisticated fool. And Lilian, for your honesty, I'll overtip."
    She giggled, then said, "I'll be right back with your bottle of wine, Elmore."
    This chance meeting with Lilian Palmer set in motion a change of attitude in Elmore. It wasn't the excellent food, nor was it the inebriation of the superb wine. Much like that young man that survived the fall from the orange bridge, Elmore was going to give living a life one more shot.
    He was surprised Lilian decided to serve him when she could have asked someone else as a favor to take her place. Like most of his neighbors, the Palmer family avoided talking to him after his episode three years earlier when he suffered a mental breakdown, walking around the neighborhood with his shirt off, knocking on front doors, trying to find out who was delivering him to his destiny. The event caused neighborhood gossip in which people feared Elmore was going to shoot them, or break in their homes and rape them. The event embarrassed Elmore so much he became a drunk, which of course led his girlfriend Claire to slowly distance herself from him so she'd find an old fart with lots of money to fuck.
    Elmore couldn't keep his eyes off Lilian as he drank and ate. An overwhelming sensation of faith poured over him, like the first breath of fresh air for a man buried alive climbing out of his grave. Lilian eventually did notice him staring at her, and when their eyes met from across the restaurant she met his gaze with a smile and a flick of her brow.
    If there was a God, Elmore thought, it would not be a thing, but a moment that would save a life.
    Lilian made her way to Elmore's booth with the check folder.
    The moment arrived. Elmore did not care for the consequence, good or bad.
    "Will there be anything else, Elmore? Dessert maybe?" Lilian asked, placing the check folder on the table.
    "No dessert," Elmore replied. "But I would like your phone number."
    Lilian grinned, leaned forward, and opened the check folder. Elmore looked down and saw a phone number written down on a separate sheet of receipt paper.
    "It's right there," she said softly. "I get off at nine-thirty. Will you still be around?"
    Elmore nodded, Yes.
    "Text me your number. There's a bar on Broadway called: Score Sports Bar. We can have some drinks, catch up. Sound cool, Elmore?"
    "Yes, very cool," Elmore said, picking up the check folder.
    Elmore Patric never made it to the orange bridge. He had totally forgotten about it until a year later when two Detectives knocked on the front door.
 
    

SOC #24: Night at the decrepit Hangover Hotel

"Abandon sobriety those who enter," was written on the wall in purple spray paint as we entered the stairwell from outside the abandoned hotel. With me was Josh and three of his friends: Ken, Mark, and Anthony. I held a flashlight and an eighteen pack of Lagunitas. Ken had two pizzas. Mark and Anthony held six packs of IPA's in each arm. I howled, "Any vacancies!" My voice echoed up the stairwell and all about the hopefully empty hotel. There was no answer. Josh said there might be others with their own booze. He said, "Cool, we got the place to ourselves. Fuckin' better be that way the rest of the night." I asked, "Which floor you guys want to go to?" Mark replied, "Tip top, brotha. The Presidential suite." Ken said, "There ain't no fucking Presidential suite in this shit hotel. We're not in New York, man. The place is only three stories high." I settled it, "Third floor then." We made our way to the third floor. Some of the doors to the rooms were open, and the ones that were closed weren't locked. The place had been abandoned ten years earlier due to a financial downfall, so the condition of the place wasn't as decrepit as most people thought. It was just the smell of the fucking place that was nasty. It smelled of piss, shit, and hopefully not poisonous mold, all intermingling with each other in the dusty atmosphere. I found a room that was the least smelly, due to the fact it's window had been smashed by previous party goers. There was still furniture in the room. The only things missing was a television, a mattress for the bed, and lamps. I looked about the floor of the room with the flashlight and saw syringes, condom wrappers, used condoms, and some beer cans and beer bottles. I warned, "Watch out for needles and condoms, comrades." Ken said, "Shit. Thanks, man. I almost sat down." I shined the flashlight on the dilapidating carpets for them as all three of them kicked away the trash, making themselves a clearing for the fresh batch of beers. Luckily there were usable chairs still in the hotel for us to sit. I checked out the graffiti on the walls and found something that seemed out of place from the rest of the symbols. I said, "Hey, Josh, check it out." Opening a beer, he looked at what I shined the flashlight on. He said, "You don't usually see that in places like this. I mean, maybe a pentagram, but not Jesus on the cross." I said, "We picked the right room. Like seeing a shooting star explode in space." Anthony said, "What the fuck you blathering about, fool?" I turned to him, gesturing to the drawing of Jesus, saying, "It's a sign, Anthony. Go to church tomorrow. All of us must go to church, and confess our sins." Anthony gave me the finger, and said, "I got no fucking sins." I yelled in a faux-sermon, "Don't make sign of false idols in the presence of our Lord and Savior." I stopped the preaching tone. "Now give me a beer, please." Anthony tossed me a Lagunitas. I said, "Thank you, sir." I opened it, then held it up to Christ. "Here's to you. Thanks for dying." Later on, I think when I was on my sixth beer, we started a game of throwing Ken's pocket knife at the image of Jesus on the cross. If we weren't able to make it stick in the wall, or if we missed Jesus completely, we had to chug the rest of our beer. At one point while I was downing my beer, Anthony smacked me in the nuts, and to his disappointment, I still finished it without any spillage. He said, "Damn, fool." I said, "I can't feel my body, you idiot." We all laughed in unison. Later, in our drunken haze, we explored the hotel. As we made our way down each hall, looking into each room, Josh told us a tale of why the hotel was really closed down. He said, "It wasn't because the owner went bankrupt or some shit like that, there was a murder here. A woman was tortured and killed by a Witch in a room on the second floor. This floor." Ken said, "A fucking Witch?! It's the twenty-first century, man. There aren't witches these days, just bitches." Josh said, "No, I'm serious. The bitch practiced Satanic witchcraft. She got a prostitute from craigslist, one who plays on both teams, and performed something called 'The Blue Sacrifice.'" Mark said, "Yeah, I heard about it too. And I know which room it happened in. It's the one at the end of the hall, on the left. The Witch got caught because she got carried away and sloppy. A pool of blood formed at the bottom of the door. A guy was leaving his room and saw it, then called the cops." I said, "Bullshit." We arrived at the room Mark said the murder occurred. The door was closed. I shined the flashlight on the foot of the door, and there was a dark stain in the old carpet. Ken said, "Whoa. You were right, Josh." Anthony said, "Fuck this," and ran down the hallway. Mark told me, "Open it. Lets see if they left the body inside." I turned the door knob, but before I even pushed open the door, it was pulled from my grasp from the other side. A woman with long black hair, and wearing a blue dress jumped at us from the dark room, screaming, and reaching out for us. We took the fuck off down the hallway. I screamed, "The fuck, fuck, FUUUUCK!" I woke up. Sorry to disappoint, but that didn't happen. HA! HA! We simply got horribly drunk, and passed out. My head hurt as if it were being crushed, and a used condom was stuck on my cheek as I sat up on the floor. The sun shined through the broken window right on my face. I said aloud, "This is the last time I hang out with kids under twenty-one. Who's fucking idea was it to party at an abandoned hotel? I mean, what the fuck?" Josh, in his sleep, said, "Keep it down. Me sleep." He was curled up on the floor in the corner of the room. He turned over, and I saw a syringe stuck in his arm.

SOC #23: Manifestos suck.

I've only glanced over two manifestos written by criminals that have shot innocent people. The Los Angeles ex-cop who shot other cops, and that one kid who went on a rampage in Isla Vista where I once partied at 4 years ago. And dear God, how these people are boring writers. I mean, if they were willing to commit those tragedies, better leave things unsaid if they can't write worth shit. The first line of the Isla Vista shooter was, "It was on that day I took a breath of life." And that's all I could read. Toneless and as lively as a burnt puppet. I guess that is what these mass-shooters are, nothing more than mindless buffoons with nothing ahead of them in life, if there even was in the first place. People have asked me why my first novel was about such a subject matter such as I've just described. Someone years ago was afraid I'd carry out such an act as the narrator, Ronnie Filbert, did in the first chapter of the novel. Ignorant bitch. Anyway, I guess I'll tell those who want to know why I wrote it. It was the first story I imagined that was worth telling. There you go, that simple. And I'll tell you where it stemmed from. First I'll tell you that one of my favorite novels is American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. Stephen King said it was "bad fiction," but fuck him; he's a pussy for taking his novel Rage out of print. That's just my personal opinion when it comes to an author censoring his own work. The reason American Psycho is one of my favorite works of fiction is because of it's complete, total, and devout desire in honesty when it came to Patrick Bateman's narration of the murders he committed, the sex scenes, and the awkward, heavily detailed descriptions of the cloths he wore. When Ellis was interviewing real Wall Street guys during his research for the book, he realized how boring those fuckers were; all they seemed to talk about was what they bought with their money, so Ellis asked himself, "What if one of these guys was a serial killer?" And thus he created Patrick Bateman. Ellis' basis for writing the story of American Psycho was due to his disappointment of adults, how they lived, how they thought, and how the world was run and controlled by their weakness and greed. I don't think my book Rosemary and Despair comes close to American Psycho; it's not nearly as long, nor is it detailed in it's narration. I kept what Ronnie Filbert told the readers as simple and to the point as I could; I didn't want the dude to philosophize any of his ideas because he himself knew what he was doing was ultimately pointless and inane. Now I want to get into the conception of when I came up with the original story: it was when I was a sophomore in high school, I had this English teacher that no one liked because most kids in the classroom thought she was "weird." She wasn't a bad teacher, she did her job well enough, but due to her weird nature I guess, the students who didn't want to learn caused disruptions, interrupted her, and so on and so forth, to the point the vice principal called her stupid one day. "Wow," I thought. "Like the insane controlling the insane asylum." All I wanted to do was go to school, learn, then go the fuck home. It's so fucking simple. Due to this frustration, and my imagination running wild during that time, this scene popped into my head of a kid sitting quiet in the classroom while other asshole students argued with the teacher, tension building in the kid as he listened, annoyed, rubbing his thumb against his bottom lip. Then, BAM! He slams his hands on his desk over and over again as if it were gunfire. Right then and there, I decided my first story was going to be about a school shooting from the point-of-view of the shooter. The original title was simply "School Shooting." It took me nearly a year to come up with a title I liked, and once I did, the story of Ronnie's High School romance with Rosemary came immediately to fruition. It might not be an excellent novel, but I'm extremely proud of what I've accomplished. People have joked around with me, asking, "Hey, man, what's the title of your manifesto again?" I reply, "It's not a manifesto, fool. Manifestos fucking suck."

SOC #22: A Psychedelic Departure and the double-fuck

No, I've never imbibed shrooms dipped in LSD, but I did watch 5 minutes of the 2015 VMA's, hosted by a half-naked Alien from the planet Arturas. Donald Trump, I've found the ultimate illegal alien. Call the Air force, FBI, CIA, la migra, and NASA, the creature stole an American's job. Oh, dear God, I thought the cocaine laced 80's ended 25 years ago. Did I go back in time? Is Reagan President? Was I abducted and taken to the planet Nephilum? How can a child star promote marijuana, then they show a retarded, uninspiring anti-tobacco commercial? I swear, every time they show a "Truth" ad, I want to cut open a swisher, add more tobacco, roll it back up, and smoke it in one breath. MTV should be put on the controlled substance list as "deathly lethal in one dose," because it's opiate effects have made me forget who I am, and what I'm doing. I can't feel my body. If this shit is what kids these days are inspired by, I'm performing my own vasectomy, due to my lack of feeling from the ultimate opiate M-fucking-T-fuck-V. My fucking God, a TALKING PIG! It's going to shoot me. Change channel, must change channel to something with substance, a work of art with heart and passion, and not a substance with the intellect and integrity of a porno flick starring meth addicts. Look, a normal looking woman playing a guitar...shit song - heard it before - love, kiss, shouldah-couldah-wouldah, ... throws guitar into crowd, kills a robot - no one notice's - the bitch looks naked under her suit-jacket, her skin made of gold. Yuck! I'm no moneyfucker. Are there people that really dry-hump gold? If Jared from Subway looked at kiddy-porn, then yes. I've heard people literally fornicate with trees. Shit! You see what MTV does to me, what it makes me ponder. WHITE SQUAD?!! The fuck is that? My I.Q. has dropped negative five thousand. dot dot lin bin bum moo mooooo. Finally changed the channel. "Maps to the Stars," directed by David Cronenberg. Good film. Now I feel better. Artist's like Cronenberg do not need a trophy on a mantle to prove how worthy they are. Okay, maybe I'm being too negative about Music Television. I change the channel back to the award show. AAAHHH! Kanye West gets a gold astronaut. Fuck, now I have to listen to him talk. He stops yelling into the mic and grabs his head, the zombie robots cheer. Has he finally stopped talking. NO! He continues. Kim Kardashian bounces her lactated balloons. Kanye West then yells his candidacy for the President of the United States. First Donald-realstate-Chump, now Kanye for-fuck-sake Give-it-a-Rest. Orwell's 1984 is alive and well, and so colorful. Double-fuck bad.

SOC #21: No sense makes sense

Have you ever had conversations with ten people during the course of one day and at the end of it, before you went to sleep, you realize none of them were correct, or they even thought what came out of their mouths were total lies? I have. It sucks when I take what I have learned and researched over the years, and use it to help them be more enlightened. But, of course, they think they're right and correct, because the T.V. said so, or some loud mouth idiot with a degree in stupidity wrote it in a book I would never touch myself. Life is not Black and White, nor is it all the colors in the entire spectrum of colors. It is so beyond ones comprehension that one must keep learning and absorbing knowledge in an attempt to get a clearer, more concise picture of what is, and not what others think it should be. If there is only one or the other with the addition of an unpopular third option, run away from it, or pay it no mind. Yes, there are a billion words to glue it together into concrete, comprehensive form, but that doesn't make it the truth. There's still a long way to go until we can make the journey to see the unknown. I don't know what I'm saying. If I've made sense to you thus far, you must go somewhere else. Read something credible, and I hope you'll see it's not. I at least admit I am wrong, but I like to assure myself that these words are good for me and may not be good for you. And if it is, then cool. Do you want to hear something funny? A junkie called me stupid on more than one occasion. HA! HA! HA! I'm laughing as I type. An idiot who was too young and stupid to wear a condom said I'm lazy while more than half his check goes to a kid he doesn't raise himself. Another demeaned me for trivial mistakes while his dumb-ass now works 14 hour days at an hourly rate of 10 dollars an hour. A millionaire called me a satan worshipper for the type of music I listen to while he worships money, using bills to snort cocaine with. These kind of people actually exist, and they are in various shapes and forms, with different lifestyles and different genitalia. Avoid at all costs of being blinded by your own stupidity. Acknowledge your own damn weakness' or you'll be a damn zombie fool, following the consensus of human stupidity. Not even an ant bringing food to the fat ant in the ant hill cares about money, or if you're an illegal with no papers, or a homo getting married, or a republican bitching about gay marriage. This post doesn't have a story to tell. Why are you reading it? There once was a man in Nantucket who looked down at an empty bucket, and yelled, "FUCK IT!" Then pissed in the bucket. He said, "Now there is something that once was nothing."

Scarlet Romance

             "As the worst of the venom left my lips,

               I thought, 'If, despite this lie, he strips

               The mask from my soul with a kiss - I crawl

               His slave - soul, body, and all!"

                           - Robert Browning, Adam, Lilith, and Eve

    Most people do not like to believe that true love sometimes can be the worst sin of all. 

    Picking locks to break into other people's homes came easy to Kristen due to her previous profession as a Bail Bondsman. After skipping a court date - expecting to remain free from the hands of the law - common, petty criminals were so stupid as to stay at their current residence, which obviously was kept on file at Chill's Bail Bonds. That is when Kristen did her Bounty Hunter style work, went on road, retrieved the dumb-ass thief, junky, or wife beating punk, and brought them back to jail. It was as easy as vacuuming when they didn't go on the run; she'd simply stand in the vacant, dark house by the door with a taser gun, then zap them in the back when they walked through the door. 

    On this night though, Kristen was not working for the Bail Bonds business, but for the love of her life. 

    The man she was waiting for had never been arrested before, even though he should have, but with great regret, the wicked have their way of evading justice throughout history. The man was a pedophile who murdered his innocent victims after he was done with them, cut them in half in his basement, put them in a black garbage bag with some rocks, and dropped it in a river from a bridge two hours away. Kristen knew this because the love of her life told her. He had a gift, allowing him to find wicked ones like this child-killing pedophile she was about to incapacitate. 

    Headlights flashed through the windows as the man's car moved into the driveway. Kristen then heard the sound of the garage doors opening up. 

    "Shit," she blurted. 

    She knew where the door to the garage was, ran to it, and stood next to it as she did at the front door. 

    The sound of the driver's-side door opening and closing. Then she heard the man open the trunk, for a moment the sound of paper bags, the trunk closing. She raised the taser gun, ready to shock the pedo-ass out. 

    The door opened. 

    Kristen's back was pressed firm against the wall behind the opened door as the man entered, light shining in from the garage. The man, holding two brown bags of groceries in his arms, moved close to the wall beside the door and switched on the hallway light with his finger, then began to move toward the kitchen. Kristen swiftly pushed the door hard, slamming it shut, and before the man turned around to see what was behind him - let alone jump at the loud bang - she shot the taser gun's two probes into his back. The brunette, white male, wearing a blue polo shirt, and khaki shorts, dropped both bags of groceries as the shock from the taser gun made his shoulders go up, and his arms stiffen. He fell to his knees, then flat on his face. 

    Kristen stepped over the man, bent over, pulled out the taser gun's probes from his back, and out the two holes in his shirt. After rolling the probe's electric wires around the taser gun and putting it in the inside pocket of her black leather jacket, she reached into the other inside pocket to get a pair of handcuffs, bent down again, and cuffed the unconscious man's hands behind his back.
    "Just like the old days," Kristen said, straightening herself back up, "with the new addition of -" she reached into her jacket's outside pocket, and took out, "- duct tape."
    Unrolling a piece of duct tape, Kristen pushed against the man's shoulder with her right black boot, rolled him on his back, got on her haunches, ripped the piece of duct tape, and slapped it over his mouth.
    Moments later Kristen was driving the man's black BMW to her love's house. She had hog-tied the man before lifting his ass, and dropping him face down in the trunk. She was always tough, being that she had to be while working in the Bail Bonds business, but ever since being with her true love, she seemed to become unnaturally stronger. Blind by her love for Laz, she did not even care to notice.
    She turned up the volume on the radio, Katy Perry's song "Dark Horse" blasting on the speakers.
    "Your lyrics fucking suck, slut!" Kristen howled, then proceeded singing her own version to the beat.
                    "You thought it was impossible
                      living in your freedom in denial.
                      I'm here to take you away to suffer
                      at the hands of the Devil."

    Kristen beat her fist on the roof to the beat.

                     "You believed in your dark heart
                       you'd never experience a consequence. 
                       I'm here to tie you up
                       drag you behind my Dark Horse
                       and bring you to your well deserved punishment."

    "Painted whore with her shit lovey-dovey lyrics," Kristen said.
    The BMW drove through a clean, affluent neighborhood, arriving to a closed gate. Kristen opened the driver's side window, reached out with her left hand, and keyed in the four digit code on the keypad erected on a black pole cemented in the ground. The gate slid open. Kristen drove past the open gate which soon closed, and continued onward on a paved driveway that weaved through a heavily forested property. The leaves on the trees were beginning to fall for the commencement of autumn.
    At the end of the driveway was what from the outside looked like an abandoned mansion with bushes and grass overgrown, rosemary nearly covering its entire outer surface to the roof. Kristen parked her car right before the front door, and as she did a sensor light was triggered above it. She got out, walked around to the trunk, then pressed the button on the BMW's key to open it.
    The man was awake, mumbling pleas behind the duct tape. Kristen smiled as she put the car keys in her left jacket pocket, then brought out a different object from the same pocket. There was a click, and out popped a silver blade, which she immediately put the tip of close to the man's eye-ball.
    "I know what you're trying to say," Kristen said, chuckling. "'You crazy bitch, let me go. I'll fuck you up, cunt. Please, don't hurt me.' Am I right?"
    The man stopped mumbling, his eyes wide, and became still. He began to spasm.
    "Don't move, boy. You never know what could happen." Kristen then sliced a small cut in the man's cheek.
    He winced in pain and screamed under the duct tape.
    "You see," Kristen said, waving the blade over his head. "Now, I'm going to cut your feet free from your hands so I can escort you inside the mansion. If you try to run, I'll cut both your achilles. Okay?"
    The man attempted a nod to affirm his comply.
    Kristen cut the duct tape that held the man's feet to his cuffed hands as she said she would, but instead of helping him stand up out of the trunk, she grabbed one of his ankles, and pulled him out. The man squealed as his chin hit the bottom rim of the trunk, and fell head first onto the pavement, forming a new gash on his forehead.
    "Kidding," Kristen said, "I'm dragging your pedo-ass inside."
    The mansion's double-doors opened by themselves as Kristen dragged the man up the four steps passing under an archway. Lights inside turned on as she crossed the threshold. The interior of the place was a complete antithesis to the outside; every surface was clean, gleaming from the lights. Hanging from the ceiling in the foyer was a sparkling chandelier.
    A warming feeling came over the man as he tried looking around in astonishment. Though he took a hard hit to the head falling into the pavement, he still had all his senses surprisingly well attuned after passing the threshold.
    Kristen dragged the man into the kitchen where she let go of his ankle, leaving him on the floor. She didn't stop walking until she got to the refrigerator, opened it, and got herself a Raging Bitch IPA.  Slowly, but surely, she popped the cap off with one thumb.
    "You can get up now," she said, before swallowing a few gulps of the beer.
    The man managed to get onto his knees.
    "Come on," Kristen affably urged. "You can do it."
    He got to his feet.
    "Good for you, boy, good for you," Kristen cheered. "Here's to you, man." She drank some more of the beer, then set it down on the counter. "Now, move back against the wall."
    The man followed her command, stepping backward, his back flat against the wall.
    Kristen slowly walked toward him, sliding her leather jacket over her shoulders, showing the curvature of her boobs under a dark-blue t-shirt.
    "You like my big tits?" she asked, cupping her boobs in her hands, lifting one above the other at a time as she slowly stepped up to him.
    The man shook his head, No.
    "Why not?" Kristen slid her jacket back onto her shoulders.
    The man lifted one shoulder and tilted his head to the side.
    "Oh," Kristen uttered, covering her mouth with one hand, "I'm sorry. You're gay."
    The man nodded, Yes.
    Kristen broke out laughing.
    "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just fucking with you. I already knew were gay." She stopped giggling, and changed to a serious tone. "You're not here for that because that truly is no sin. You're here because you don't prefer males your own age. And I'm not talking about older men, or young men eighteen and up. Hell, not even eleven and up."
    Kristen smacked her hand on the wall beside the man's head, making his body twitch. She got close to his face, looking deep into his eyes.
    "In this place," she began to say, "you have no free will. You can have all the windows and doors open, and his power over you won't diminish even by an atom. There are no lies here. The only freedom you have after you go down to the cellar is the freedom to feel pain, and suffer the consequences of your actions." Kristen stepped back and flexed her biceps. "Serving justice is so fun."
    She brought down her arms, slid up her left sleeve a bit, exposing the back of her naked wrist, and looked down at it.
    "Well," she said, tapping her bare wrist, "it's that time. Follow me."
    Like an obedient dog, the man followed Kristen to a door in the kitchen. She opened it, and the man, without hesitation, went in after her. She flipped a switch, turning on a single light bulb in the ceiling, illuminating stairs leading down into a cellar. Though the man still had his hands cuffed behind his back, he did not lose balance descending behind Kristen.
    Arriving into the underground cellar, they came upon a room well lit by many candles burning along brick shelves in the walls all around with the exception of a wine rack that was on one side of the room. In the center of the room was an aluminum chair, and right in front of it a dark-brown, wood coffin, tilted against the brick wall. Beside the coffin stood a wooden pedestal. On it was a small glass vase which contained a single red rose.
    "Sit down," Kristen said, gesturing to the chair.
    The man went to the chair, sat in it, making sure his cuffed hands went behind the backrest.
    Kristen went to the wine rack, selecting the first bottle she touched. She then found the wine opener and used it. At the top of the rack were a row of wineglasses hanging upside-down. She took one, walked over to the pedestal, and placed the glass and bottle of wine beside the red rose. Without looking at the man, she walked up the stairs, switching off the light before closing the cellar door, leaving the man alone in the candle light in front of the coffin.
    About half a minute elapsed before the coffin began slowly opening, its hinges gave out the infamous, haunting sound, instilling the worst fear upon the man. He began to panic, breathing heavily, emitting sounds from behind the duct tape of a weeping man-child, but his body did not move, and his eyes remained open.
    The coffin's lid finally opened to reveal a sleeping man in an all black tuxedo, shiny black tuxedo shoes, wrists crossed over each other, and slicked back brunette hair.
    The man in the chair stopped making sounds beneath the duct tape, and simply stared.
    The man laying in the coffin jolted forward out of the coffin onto his feet, eyes open, both arms outstretching with hands open toward the man in the chair.
    "Gotcha, bitch!" the Coffin man screamed in a cookie-monster growl.
    The man nearly fell backwards in the chair, but it was bolted to the cement floor.
    The Coffin man broke out laughing, clapping his hands once.
    "That shit never gets old," Coffin man said. "Woo!" He then went to the pedestal, picked up the rose from the vase, and inserted the stem into the tuxedo's outer breast pocket.
    "Even though you can't at the moment, no need to introduce yourself," the Coffin man said. "I already know who you are." He poured himself a glass of wine. "My name is Laz. It's short for Lazarus. You know who I'm named after?" He sipped the wine, waiting for the man's response.
    The man gave a slight shrug.
    "I'll give you a hint," Laz said. "Jesus Christ's most miraculous of all miracles."
    The man simply looked at him.
    "Yes, that's right. The man Jesus rose from the dead, proving to those that doubted he truly was the 'Son of God,' or God himself however you look at it." Laz took another sip of the wine. "I'll let you in on a secret, just between you and me. I'm actually that Lazarus people read about in The Bible. Yes, it's me, standing right here before you, drinking a glass of excellent wine. I'm the first of the undead. Though biblical history strays a bit far from what really happened - after Jesus woke me up, anyway. You see, there was no plot to kill me by those Jewish Chief Priests - it was all word of mouth those days - they simply just didn't believe it. After I got home, my neighbor Paul freaked the fuck out, and stabbed me. People thought I died again, but actually one can't kill someone who has already died. What really happened was I ate Paul with the knife still stuck in my gut. Which is what I'm soon going to do to you as well."
    The man mumbled under the duct tape.
    "Shut up, I'm telling a story," Laz said, then finished the glass of wine. "Years later I was near death, and I didn't know why. I ate food, drank water, but still nothing seemed to cease me from entering oblivion again. It was when I came upon a rich man's house that I realized the abilities I had. I could see the man's wicked sins." Laz placed the empty wineglass on the pedestal. "He murdered and raped just because he could get away with it. Both women and children. I broke into his house and ate him, his entire being, from flesh to bone. Doing so resulted in me obtaining a hundred years more of life, and I've been doing it for over two thousand years. The only drawback being that over time I can no longer be in the sun light. Hence, my love Kristen bringing you to me."
    Tears began rolling down the man's cheeks.
    "So far you've kidnapped, raped, and murdered three boys, correct?" Laz said.
    The man nodded, Yes.
    "Two six years old, and one seven. The seven year old being the son of a female Detective. Janet Tumblar is her name." Laz leaned over, and ripped off the duct tape.
    The man yelped, then pleaded, "Please no. I'll turn myself into the cops. Don't do this to me. I'll surrender to the Law, and ask for Jesus' forgiveness."
    "Dude," Laz said, "I don't work for either of them."
    The man stared up at Laz, mouth agape, eyes wide.
    "The only free will you have now is to feel pain, and scream like a bitch before you die," Laz informed him. "I'm gonna start with the hair because it's my least favorite part."
    From the master bedroom on the second floor of the mansion, Kristen could hear the pedophile's faint screams, but she didn't care to pay it much notice as she looked at herself in the mirror, making sure she was to Laz's liking in a low cut 18th century white chemise.
    "Mirror, mirror," she recited, "who does Laz love most of all?" She ran her hands through her hair, puckering her lips. "Me, of course. Body, mind, spirit, and all."
    Satisfied and excited, she ran backwards over a 14th century Persian rug, leaped up, fell flat on her back on the king size bed, her arms extended over her head, and kicking her feet, causing the chemise to go above her waist. A sight which Laz disliked. When she noticed the screaming had ceased, she contained her visible ecstasy, sliding down the chemise back over her hips, then turned onto her side, propping herself on one elbow, her other hand on one hip. Facing the bedroom door, she waited in that position for over two minutes. Laz finally opened the door.
    Laz looked a bit haggard compared to when the pedophile first saw him leap out of the coffin: His hair was no longer slicked back, but ruffled; the tuxedo jacket opened, and the black shirt underneath hanging over his pant's waistband. Laz himself, including the red rose still showing it's perfect bloom in his breast pocket, seemed unchanged by his big meal down in the cellar.
    "You are the perfect spouse," he said, looking upon Kristen laying on the bed.
    "He give you what you needed?" Kristen asked.
    "Yes, of course, love," he replied. "Rejuvenated my life expectancy for another hundred years, and a new skull for my collection. Before we make love I need a shower to get the pedo-stink off my body." He undressed in front of Kristen, making her heart beat faster, and her pussy wet.
    Before entering the bathroom, Laz sniffed.
    "You're about to menstruate," he said. "Excellent."
    "Anything for you, Laz my love," Kristen said, rolling onto her back.
    Ten minutes later, Laz emerged from the bathroom, and stopped at the edge of the bed. Kristen crawled across it up to him, getting on her knees. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, their tongues lapping each other, and her lips grabbing his as if she were just free from drowning, and finally breathing oxygen. Laz's hand went up her inner thigh, touched her wet vagina, and rubbed the labia and clitoris.
    Kristen's lips pulled away, her head going back, gasping in building ecstasy. Laz licked her neck.
    "You're about to bleed," he said. "Lay on your back."
    She kissed him once more before complying. He spread her legs, knelt on the floor beside the bed, and commenced to drink her menstrual blood, cleaning it all out.
    "Oh, Laz," Kristen uttered in heavy breathing, "my one and only love. I am...and will always be...with you until...my death."
    By the time Laz was done drinking, Kristen had orgasmed three times. She stayed on the bed, her arms spread on both sides of her, exceedingly exhausted and supremely satisfied. Laz, on the other hand, his thirst further quenched, stood up, licking clean his lips. It was the end of their love-making.
    The thing is - the truth is - Laz could not achieve an erection. It wasn't an erectile dysfunction type of thing; it was basically a drawback from being rose back from the dead, a curse from God so Laz did not continue his family tree. Over the years Laz had gotten over it, finding pleasure with living beings like Kristen, his 13th Catcher of Wicked Souls.
    Later that night Kristen sat in bed drinking a glass of wine. Laz sat naked in a cushioned chair reading an old leather bound book, his feet up on a red footrest.
    "What are you reading tonight?" Kristen inquired.
    "A Robert Browning poem," Laz replied. "One which he said God wrote for him." Laz chuckled. "That shit makes me laugh."
    "Why is that?" Kristen asked. "Can't God inspire creative people?"
    "The fucker can't even talk," Laz blurted. "He doesn't have to. That's what makes him God."
    Laz closed the book and put it down on the table beside the chair.
    He looked up at Kristen, and asked, "You have a good time tonight, honey?"
    "Yes," Kristen said.
    "Even capturing that wicked soul?" he asked.
    "Of course, Laz. Anything for you."
    Laz moved off the footrest, and got to his feet.
    Kristen continued, "Now you have a hundred more years of life, and I get to be with you until I die."
    "Hopefully you'll make it eighty years in, huh," Laz said.
    "It's heartbreaking you can't grant me a longer lifespan overtime you eat a wicked soul," Kristen said with some angst.
    "Yes, very unfortunate for you," Laz said. "Not one of my abilities."
    Laz walked over to the bedside table near Kristen where there stood an open wine bottle and an empty wineglass. Kristen was about to move and pour him the wine, but Laz put up a hand to stop her.
    "No need, sweetheart," he said, "you've done enough for me tonight. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your wine."
    Laz filled the glass, then moved to the foot of the bed, facing Kristen.
    "In this house you have no free will," Laz said, before smelling and sipping the wine.
    "What do you mean, Laz?" Kristen asked. "I lo-"
    Laz put up a hand before she could finish saying the word.
    "But are free to feel the pain of betrayal by the words I'm about to say," Laz said, lowering his hand. "The night we met at Sharks Club was the first time I had left the mansion in over forty years. God, how things have changed since the seventy's. Anyway, I always go out to recruit new Soul Catchers. The first time I saw you was outside, a block away from Sharks Club. You were sitting at a table by yourself outside a Starbucks, making a public spectacle by smashing your cellphone to pieces. You weren't a wicked soul yet, so I couldn't get into your mind to see what made you so angry. I followed you down the street into Sharks Club where you commenced to get wasted. I sat next to you. What did I say, honey?"
    "'Looks like you need to dance,'" Kristen quoted, her eyes welling.
    "You taught me how to dance in the twenty-first century that night," Laz said. "I liked the seventy's better, in those days there were actual moves to perform. All you millennials do is hump each other, and jump around. Whatever. When you told me that you lost your job earlier that day, and you smashed your phone after your boyfriend admitted to cheating on you, I thought, CHA-CHING! I had my next Soul Catcher. I then brought you here."
    Laz drank the rest of the wine, then continued, "You don't remember the old lady that opened the door. I told you she was my maid, but she was really your predecessor. Luann was her name, by the way. Once you entered this house you lost your free will. I told Luann to go into the cellar and get us a bottle of wine while you and I sat on the couch before the burning logs in the fireplace. As you expressed how impressed you were with my mansion I made you lose the memory of meeting Luann. Then I told you to wait while I went down into the cellar where Luann obediently sat in the chair, waiting for me to make the speech I'm giving you now - and will again - then proceeded to eat her. I came back upstairs with the bottle of wine to your wide eyes, loving me, and cherishing my eternal presence."
    Tears flowed from Kristen eyes. She wanted to speak, but couldn't. With all her desire she wanted to throw the glass of wine at Laz, and jump out the window.
    "The worst sin of all, my love," Laz said, "is to take God's will into your own hands. Every time you leave my house to catch a wicked soul for me, you have the opportunity to turn him or her into the hands of the law, where their fate can be righteously met with justice. But your blinding love for me makes you fail at redeeming your wicked actions in God's world. As with Luann, when you're done being my Wicked Soul Catcher, you will have added five hundred years to my life, with the addition of a hundred more after I eat you." Laz walked over to the window, and looked up at the night sky. "You know, I can actually go out in the sun light, but doing so would be a great risk to me. I could be spotted by The Wolf. Ever since the Dark Ages, and those fucking puritan, zealot, nut-job Catholics, he's been on the hunt for me. In exchange for his life, they hired him to find me. That's when I started using women like you, Kristen. And after you became a true sinner, I could see through your eyes while you're outside during the day, so if and when he finds you, I'll be ready for him. Waiting in this mansion for a fight. I can feel him when he's close, especially during Hunter's Moon, but I don't know where he is at this moment." Laz inhaled deeply. "You may speak now, Kristen."
    "All this time I thought I was the love of your life!" Kristen cried.
    Laz spun around, ran up beside her in a flash. His face now close to hers. He smashed his empty wineglass on the bedside table. Kristen didn't even flinched because Laz didn't allow her.
    "The love of my life, my wife!" Laz yelled, "died over three thousand years ago. At first sight of me when I came home after Jesus rose me from the dead she ran off into the desert and let the sun kill her. I couldn't bring myself to go after her because she refused to be grateful for Jesus' greatest miracle. Fuck her, and fuck you, sinner." Laz calmed himself, took Kristen's wineglass, then to the foot of the bed. He raised the wineglass and threw it at the wall over the headboard, smashing it to pieces, wine splattering on the wall, bedsheets, and Kristen's unflinching face.
    "You are a puppet, and I am your puppet master," Laz said. "What I've just told you this evening you will have no memory of, for in my house you have no free will. The horrible truth will remain in your nightmares." Laz shook his head with visible regret. "My powers don't extend to what you can and cannot dream, but rest assured for my well being, love, tomorrow morning you will wake up relieved that you're still with me until the end. Then you'll clean up this mess I've just made, and go shopping for my dinner. It will be an innocent man you believe killed his wife, cementing your wickedness before the eyes of God. Then I'll give you a few months vacation until I assign you an actual murderer or rapist. Now, go to sleep, and let my words tonight become a nightmare."
    Kristen followed his command, positioning herself under the covers, and fell asleep.
    When dawn came, Kristen rolled under the silk sheets, mumbling the word, "No" over and over again.
    She jolted up, screaming, "Laz, NO!"
    Gasping for breath, gripping her chest over her heart, she looked around the bedroom.
    "Thank God," she said, relieved, putting a hand on her forehead. "Thank you, God. It was just a dream."
    Later that evening Kristen followed a man talking on a cellphone, and holding a shopping bag that had a picture of a train engine on it. He was walking through a nearly empty parking garage. Kristen wasn't listening to what he was saying into the phone. Both her hands were in her jacket pockets, one hand gripping the taser gun.
    "See you in a few, honey," the man said, arriving at a red minivan. He hung up the phone and put it in his pocket. He took out a ring of keys from the same pocket, pressed a button on the car key, opening the van's backdoor.
    When he placed the shopping bag behind the backseat, Kristen shot the taser gun into his back. As the man got limp, she dropped the taser gun on the ground, then gripped the man's hair, and banged his head against the back doorway's rim, knocking him out. She shoved him hard into the van, crushing what was in the shopping bag. She picked up the taser gun and disconnected its cartridge, then pushed in his limp legs and arms, stuffing him in tight before slamming the door shut.
    Kristen looked around the parking garage. Assured no one was around to see anything, she picked up the ring of keys the man dropped, and drove the van out into the street, bringing Laz - her one and only love - his dinner.