About me … I don’t have any awards – not even an honorable mention. Heck, I didn’t even go to school to become a Writer – I was going to be a Fine Art Painter. Yet I had to pay my student loans. After college, I worked in Mental Health – as in schizophrenics and other assortment of severe mental disorders. All the while, I painted and drew – and wrote. I’m a Stephen King fan, so that may have something to do with my latter ambition in life. I was reading The Waste Lands (Dark Tower Book 3), much to my disappointment, and the Master‘s words spoke to me. King once said something about knowing you’re ready to write a book when you recognize the fact – paraphrased – “You can do better.” Grandiose, I know, but I knew the story I wanted to read – years of drawing monsters had spun my own mythology and I hoped for something comparable and real.

The book I wanted to write would fulfill a fading desire and breathe life into the chimeras I had sketched into my notebooks. That visual mythology was collectively called “The Mortui Philosophies.” I had tried animation, but the repetitive work only produced frustration. So much in fact, I joined the ‘sane‘ world and switched careers into Internet Technology. Secure, I had stopped painting and focused on a very rewarding career. After a few years lacking expression from my creative self and a disenchanting experience with the Gunslinger, my Pazuzu Trilogy took its first breath.

The trilogy was originally one untitled book – the one I had self-published at Llumina after a short list of rejection letters and a vast database of submissions to which publishers and agents never bothered to reply. I knew I needed help writing this epic and yet none seemed forthcoming – nobody really wanted to read my books, so I couldn’t even find a proofreader. That miserable year has passed and I since found guidance from other struggling authors at Authonomy.com. Still, that resource was drawn-out and improvements were made in small steps.

The only thing that stopped me from abandoning my Pazuzu Trilogy was an inability to find work – yeah I had since quite my job at a popular ISP. I do think my old age ( 44 ) stopped my entrance back into the world of technology. Faced with the obstacle, I worked hard to improve technical aspects of my writing – typing, revisions, reading, etc. My effort generated several revisions of my Pazuzu Trilogy and a story I again believe is an epic and not a horrid tangle of typos, tense missteps and incomplete sentences.

And there is the reason readers should read my Pazuzu Trilogy – it is a unique, blasphemous, scrubbed-til-Sunday epic. The Eighth Revision is the first pass in which I did not make major changes – I found typos and a few obtuse sentences, but other than those, the changes are smattering instances of changing blocks of text into dialogue. If my 4,000+ readers would please try Pazuzu – Manifestation again, I don’t think they’ll be disappointed – it’s the same story now told with an Active Voice and looks downright professional opposed my miserable self-publishing effort to date. I hope readers will enjoy the free ebook version of Manifestation - the first book in the trilogy – then tell everyone they know and buy the second and third books. Manifestation is background and Emergence is when the story really picks-up speed. The Seventh Revision was good, but the Eighth is better.

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

The recurring theme in the trilogy is disappointed schemes and exceptions, so Capital illustrates that hypocritical propaganda because the horrible transportation network for the city’s civilians, strict censorship, lack of airports and advanced weaponry, as well as the Middle and Lower castes subjected to a militaristic theocracy. This is the city to which Pazuzu comes and looks for someone the demon can possess because Ben doesn’t “work-out.”

Essentially, what I did with the Preface is remove from Manifestation – the castes, the Chosen’s Church, the drug epidemic, the original Benedict Ishkott – - and included that information at the very beginning. The Preface is primer. As such, readers don’t need to read it and they can skip straight to chapter one, The Wilderness. The Preface is a guide or travel brochure for the godless world of the Shur.

Godless – big deal, like other authors haven’t exploited the idea and if proof isn’t apparent to the unfaithful in the “real world.” Don’t be so judgmental and jump to conclusions – a Godless world is at once a gimmick and crucial for the existence of the Shur desert and all the sinners who dwell within. Because God has abandoned the Shur, alien gods have taken over a pre-Judeo-Christian demon has awoke. Pazuzu hides from the alien gods because they think the demon knows the secret to life in this wasteland. I’m telling readers outright because that’s all back story. The Pazuzu Trilogy concentrates on the unwitting victims in this ethereal game of cat-and-mouse. Those victims represent humankind and how the cosmic war derails their mortal endeavors. Once Abeyance begins, Capital burns and the conflict between Pazuzu and alien gods takes precedence.

Manifestation is the first in the Pazuzu Trilogy. Critics have claimed “nothing happens,” but I disagree. More specifically, all the characters have been introduced and are posed for their roles in the following two books. Events transpire in Manifestation that put these characters into position. Ben, Davey, Margot, the Cortras brothers and their assassin are all fattened for the impending slaughter.

I said readers can skip the Preface, but I’ve got the latest below in case people are anxious for the story or prefer later diving into Chapter 1.

Enjoy!

Matthew Sawyer

Preface

Outrage, because Captain Kanen had become the victim of extortion, or the lack of amphetamine made the priest’s fat hands quiver. Kanen tugged his collarless white shirt and finally removed his uniform’s heavy black jacket. The UnChosen caste called the drug “Ape;” the street name for the stuff that typically turned users into anxious, howling gorillas. Such a consequence could never happen to a priest, the upper echelon of the Chosen caste. All the pomp and dignity granted to Kanen’s position guarded against that base lunacy. The unquiet phases of the chemically grown monkey would not drive Josiah Kanen into madness. The Church had promoted this middle-aged priest to the rank of captain because his genetically endowed discipline gave him immaculate willpower. Captain Josiah Kanen was, after all, born a Chosen. Birthright granted him authority over the Mortal God.

Even so, the responsibility of rank crushed Kanen under stones. The duties the Church pressed on Captain Kanen had driven him to use the damned drug in the first place. The problem with Ape wasn’t the use of the drug, but the lack of using any once addicted. Sobriety-sharpened nails now pressed into his chest and head. From the perspective of his tormented rut, being clean took away the magic of knowing exactly what to do in any situation, and making sense of other people. Nobody listened to Kanen when he went without Ape, they just babbled and interrupted when he spoke. Sobriety compromised his ability to control his god and the forsaken UnChosen that dwelt within his squalid quarter by the Wall.

Reverend Arnett, whom Kanen had assigned the custodianship of the Saint Erasmus parish, had recently been murdered in its church. The crime was unheard within the walled city of Capital, the Promised Land of the Chosen. The Wall protected the city from the ravages of heathen terrorists. No one passed through the Wall without the approval of the Church or its military. The Chosen exercised exclusive entrance into Capital.

The UnChosen permitted behind the Wall lived in forsaken parishes like Saint Erasmus – a suitable batch of hovels for those spineless degenerates. Still, the status of the murdered victim raised the severity of the crime to an act of terrorism. The Church and its military’s censors debated if news of the crime should be made public, but had never made a decision.

One thing Kanen was certain – the presence of pagan tablets on the altar inside Saint Erasmus would never be reported to the public. The Church had immediately confiscated and destroyed the sacrilegious objects. Whatever the dead Reverend Arnett once planned with them was better left unknown. The blasphemous controversy went with him into death. Reverend Arnett had brought the awful fate upon himself.

The phone rang in the midst of Kanen’s cope with his lack of Ape, that and the murder of a priest that had been too curious with an archaic and forbidden religion. Reverend Benedict Ishkott called, again. The Aper was a non-commissioned bastard from the city of Gomorrah. Captain Kanen had just hung-up on the irreverent extortionist.

“Why do you keep calling here?” Kanen shouted into the phone inside his dark and private, casual office at the Church. “Stop calling me.”

“Captain – Kanen,” Reverend Ishkott stuttered with the aggravated squall of an addict. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, but you have something I want.”

“A demotion?” threatened Kanen. “Why, in the name of the Mortal God, do you dare speak to me with such lack of respect?”

The two priests shared an addiction to Ape, with a difference. Ape caused Reverend Ishkott to lose respect for superior officers, sending him out-of-the-way to Gomorrah. The drug gave Ishkott arrogant hopes and ambitions – whereas Kanen had already gladly reached his own pinnacle.

“Listen, I know you’re related to Judah Batheirre, the crime-lord in this city,” Ishkott said, uncovering his hand.

Hopefully, Ishkott didn’t know how complicated the relationship between Captain Kanen and Judah Batheirre had become. The crime-lord used the captain for his connection with the Church, although Judah’s patience had grown thin with Josiah, resulting in Ape becoming difficult to find in Capital and impossible to obtain. Many of Kanen’s brethren in the Church had stopped coming to the offices at headquarters. Those nervous wretches who showed up this morning were useless and hid behind closed doors, like Kanen.

“That is a sad coincidence,” Kanen claimed.

“I know you keep the military away from Gomorrah,” Ishkott stated. “And I know Batheirre is your Ape connection.”

“I know you are a dead man, Ishkott,” Kanen shouted over the phone. “How dare you call me with your crazy accusations.”

“Listen,” Ishkott shouted back. “Military patrols will come to this city, whether you like it or not. Ilu Drystani is in this part of the Shur. Colonel Tacklate himself is coming here.”

Colonel Tacklate’s trip to Gomorrah presented a bigger problem, one Kanen should have anticipated – he knew the colonel swept through the region annually. Captain Kanen reported to the colonel, as would Ishkott when the bishop arrived at Gomorrah. Ishkott, the tattling Aper, may tell their superior officer anything.

“What do you want?” Kanen capitulated.

“An assignment away from Gomorrah and heathens,” Ishkott bartered. “This city will fall to terrorists next, Drystani IS here.”

“Let me think,” Kanen replied. The solution came to him with a staggered breath.

The situation seemed to work itself out – a custodian position had recently opened at Saint Erasmus and a priest materialized who would shut his mouth if invited into Capital. Josiah did not think ahead when he offered the position to Ishkott, because the wretched blackmailer might one day twist Josiah’s arm again. Yet the treacherous possibility failed occurring to him and did not stop Josiah from asking if Reverend Ishkott would bring Ape into Capital.

“No, of course not,” Ishkott denied with a strained snort.

“Please, there’s none here. You won’t find Ape behind the Wall.”

Ishkott thought Captain Kanen could not be trusted with the truth. His supervisor’s plea sounded like a trap. “No,” squeaked Ishkott.

“That’s unfortunate,” answered Kanen before hanging up. Josiah had looked forward toward another batch of Ape for himself.

- END -

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

Concerning the trilogy, I will make this story work because I simply must – it’s my vision and adopted purpose. The Pazuzu Trilogy is a good story – and I continue to proclaim the work is an epic and that’s why people should read it. Hey, everyone, give it a chance – I’ve worked hard making the manuscript readable! Now it’s polished. I expect good reviews – but if you’re a reader who doesn’t enjoy horror, fantasy or science fiction or wage some Radical, conservative Christian crusade, please keep your mouth shut and refrain from ranking my books with the worst score your angry righteous mind finds. I told the story in the fictional Shur desert and not modern Earth so I might mitigate that wrath. I’m looking for nice words that convince others to buy my books.

In those regards, let me introduce my Eighth Revision – available at LULU and Smashwords (and Amazon and Barnes and Noble, too, but I do support those hardworking underdogs).

Why all this work and suffering and insanity? Besides my inability to find work since 2009 – a defining driver behind my growth as a writer – my Pazuzu Trilogy is a foundation of the mythology behind all my horror stories to date. The trilogy itself is derived from my Mortui Philosophies – a collection of sketchbooks I had kept in college. I had a painting instructor at the University of Wisconsin – Whitewater, a Professor Max Taylor. He said something like “An artist finishes his painting when he stops.” I took that thought and applied the concept to writing – besides drawing and painting, I do read and most often write stories. I also didn’t want the Creative Writing Classes I took for my minor in English Literature to be a complete waste.

As with painting, in which I stopped each session hoping I had finished a piece I may or may not alter later, I stopped after each iteration of the manuscripts – they were each finished works of Art. Between iterations, I’ve read and written a number of other stories – all of which draw upon my Mortui Philosophies. That practice strengthened the Pazuzu Trilogy each time I returned and made refinements. This EIGHTH REVISION is the latest. Upon completing the Seventh, I declared the story itself is set in stone. That is the case with the Eighth. The Seventh revision was good, but the Eighth is better. This one glows in firelight – read and see! I mean that, I’m a very sensory-based, visual author.

* Ironic, heh?

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

In the meantime, I hope this updated chapter from Manifestation whets appetites. This is chapter 9 Pride. Manifestation introduces readers to the Shur desert and orientates them to elements in my Mortui Philosophies. Essentially, the first book in the Pazuzu Trilogy is an introduction – and stuff happens that advances the tale. The real story is in Emergence. Readers won’t get lost if they begin with the second book, but Manifestation makes the whole reading experience more comfortable. The book helps orientate readers to my writing. Granted, I hope the trilogy now feels faster and has become much easier to read.

I said before, the Seventh Revision of the trilogy set the story in stone – and it has. The Seventh Revision was good, but the Eighth is better. The Eighth Revision is about polish – and trapping those cursed typos (I’m trying folks. Like roaches, they seem to breed all by themselves and I find them when I turn-on bright lights.)

Below is chapter 9 Pride from Manifestation. I thought I’d omit this chapter but left it in the manuscript. Though the story has moved into the Chosen’s Promised Land and their walled city Capital, this chapter takes place in Gomorrah before the Cortras brothers rescue Benedict Ishkott from the desert. The focus is Jimmy Bathierre. The teenager is the nephew of Judah Bathierre, a crime lord in Gomorrah. Readers meet Jimmy posthumous because the boy is already dead. This chapter is where the Cortras brothers kill him accidentally.

9 Pride

Recently, outside the Wall …

Jimmy Batheirre lived a very short life. At seventeen, he got everything he wanted when he wanted it. Youthful whim drove most of his desires, which were typically forgotten once appeased. The red, newly-antique convertible, “Arroyo,” was not one of those passing impulsive urges. Jimmy had dreamed of the automobile since he was thirteen. The vehicle belonged to his uncle Judah.

Glossy white leather slicked the interior, and a liberal amount of chrome was applied inside and out. The family consensus agreed the car appeared tacky, but Jimmy and his uncle knew Arroyo was a fine example of mechanical sculpture. They sensed the power. Arroyo was a real work of art. Jimmy thought it a shame the car sat beneath a cloth cover in his mother’s garage. This jewel was meant for parades around town – a symbol of wealth and class. The Church and Chosen caste did not intimidate the Batheirres. Money bought respect. That was why the Chosen called the Promised Land Capital. Despite Uncle Judah inheriting the family’s fortune from his UnChosen father. Arroyo symbolized the blessing demanded of the Mortal God.

Standards were dismally low in Gomorrah, and the car surpassed any token the peasants presented. Shiny leather shoes, gold watches and even a swimming pool in the back yard were mere trinkets compared against this marvelous machine. Everything on the automobile was original with not so much as a scratch in the paint, except the few tiny blemishes Jimmy caused and hoped no one noticed.

Sometimes, when Jimmy’s mother left him home alone, the boy snuck into the garage and removed the thick cotton cover. He often spent a good part of an hour gazing at the beautiful monster. Part of his ritual included slipping off his sneakers and stuffing his rings into a pocket; the very jewelry that had made those first, barely perceptible marks. Jimmy would sit behind the steering wheel. He bet his uncle felt the same thrill the first time he sat in the driver’s seat.

In his imagination, the wooden garage doors melted away and he was instantly transported onto an empty road in the desert. The car cruised fast, with the white vinyl top folded down and Jimmy’s foot heavy on the accelerator; not so much as a shudder while the automobile rocketed through sunlight and solitude. Jimmy never dared lower the top while Arroyo sat in the garage. He never touched the dials and buttons on the console either. The scratches were the only evidence Jimmy dared leave, and if he could do something other than hide them, he would.

At fifteen, Jimmy found the keys. His uncle wanted to see the car one afternoon, as he occasionally would. That day, he had come then went away again. Jimmy’s mother left the keys on the kitchen table instead immediately secreting them back into her purse for safekeeping. When she went with Uncle Judah for lunch, Jimmy couldn’t resist waking the convertible. He nearly panicked when exhaust filled the small space. Terrified, he restored the cover and keys. He threw open the garage door and waved an old blanket through the air for twenty minutes and helped dissipate the fumes. Luckily, the little adventure went undiscovered.

Eventually, the car would become a gift to the boy, if Jimmy finished school and actually attended the university in Capital, to which his large family bought admission. Going to the university was still a year away, but Jimmy’s uncle decided the boy would major in business and graduate. That was never a question.

In truth, Jimmy believed he didn’t need his family paving his entrance into school or landing a job. The diluted Chosen blood in his veins made him an intelligent and ambitious kid, smart enough to know life handed him a free ride. Jimmy would not turn his back on fortune or luck. Despite the technicality that he was an UnChosen, wealth put Jimmy and his family above most Chosen and now Jimmy dreamed about crafting his own destiny.

The vices of common people made the Batheirre family rich. The plentiful buyers and sellers in the family business smoothed the sketchy morality of drug use. Even though the production, distribution and selling of methamphetamine was illegal, as were a few other choice drugs for which the family was less known, demand persisted. Ape became especially popular. Rumors that heathens had engineered the drug for addiction only stimulated craving. Who were the Batheirres to tell people how they lived their lives? They certainly were not responsible if customers got hooked.

If people wanted to shorten and spend less fortunate existences Aped, the Batheirre family happily provided the goods. Why not? Jimmy saw what Gomorrah offered the less privileged. If he were not a Batheirre, he too would probably be an addict. Jimmy had merits, but temptation to escape the drudgery would have been insurmountable, especially when relief was so readily available. Besides, if his family didn’t provide the wants of the population, somebody else would. That someone could be less interested in the longevity of customers and the safety of the city. The Batheirre family provided a service and held civic responsibility in high esteem. Caretaking was a good, rewarding business.

The Batheirres were not bad people; Jimmy always believed that. He hadn’t heard otherwise, until he recently spoke with his cousin. Jimmy and Nate were related, but many times removed and rarely saw each other. Nate belonged squarely in the UnChosen caste. Still, the boys were family. The Batheirre held their solidarity a core value. Union kept the operation of their business tight. Nate was older and wiser by a few years, although his wisdom did need more time to cure. The skinny, UnChosen-looking kid foolishly outlined the history of the Batheirre family for plump young Jimmy.

“Your granddad got the business from your great-granddad and that’s how we’re related,” Nate told Jimmy.

Jimmy had always known and scolded his cousin. “I know, and Uncle Judah is my father’s brother. You only need to list everybody once, we’re all on the same tree.”

“I’m saying, your dad should be where your uncle is today.”

“Instead he’s dead?”

Nate crossed his arms. “I’m not talking about him. You remember that schism with our family after your granddad died, right?”

“I heard about it. I wasn’t even one-year old yet.”

“Yeah, cancer killed your granddad, and Judah took over the business, but your dad should have it, he was older.”

“My dad died in a car accident. Some Aped loser smashed into him at an intersection. Besides, he shamed the family because he didn’t marry my mom before I was born. You know that, too.”

“But he didn’t,” Nate insisted. “Your grandfather was thrilled for a grandchild.”

“I thought he hated my mom.”

“Only Judah says that. She’s one-quarter Chosen, Jim. The Batheirre family welcomed a new gold leaf, or two in this case, because you were born.”

“That’s good to know, Nate,” Jimmy dismissed.

“That didn’t sit too good with Judah. He got greedy.”

“I won’t tell Uncle Judah.”

Nate frowned. “Jimmy, you know Judah and your dad competed when they were growing up, right? Their father preached guarding against apathy. The business goes to hungry sons.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Judah was hungry, all right.”

“What are you saying.”

“Jimmy, addicts pay for fixes with suicide all the time. People say Judah found a way and cheated.”

Nate wouldn’t shut up even when Jimmy ran away. “Jim, Judah always said he landed in second place, solely because his happenstance order of birth. He didn’t think it was fair.”

Jimmy tried to comprehended the idea through difficult feelings of loyalty and revenge. Uncle Judah had always been kind and generous with Jimmy. He even occasionally spoke well of Jimmy’s dead father. Most of what Jimmy knew about his paternal father and his grandfather came from Uncle Judah.

Yet a subtle tension existed between his mother and uncle. She never spoke about her misgivings, but Jimmy got an impression she wanted distance between her son and the Batheirres. They visited relatives only when Uncle Judah showed up and dragged them to holiday affairs or other special occasions.

Uncle Judah was the only extended family who visited, and typically arrived unannounced. Jimmy never witnessed Uncle Judah say or do anything to coerce his mother, but she always looked reluctant and pressured. Maybe his mother avoided the memory of her dead husband, but life would have been very different without the support of Uncle Judah and the rest of the family. The tailor shop she owned would have failed miserably a long time ago. Jimmy would not have the money for the university after passing entrance exams, and he wouldn’t have received the plentiful gifts and cash throughout childhood.

In addition to Jimmy’s attendance at school and earning a degree, he was also the only true heir of the family business, his uncle said so much. Uncle Judah had never married and fathered no children of his own. Once Jimmy graduated from college, a good five or six years from now, he undoubtedly would come back to Gomorrah. His uncle would then teach him how business worked in the real world.

With that knowledge, and whatever Jimmy picked up in school, everyone expected the boy would do wonderful things with the family name, and maybe bring some legitimacy from outside the ragged borders of Gomorrah. His mother never disagreed, but she did insist Jimmy express his desire for a future that belonged to him and was his alone. Jimmy did.

However, Nate’s revelation had a bellyache of truth. Nate had no reason for spinning lies and other circumstances already cast Uncle Judah in suspicion. Judah fostered an uncomfortable relationship with heathens around the time of his brother’s death. The family disapproved of the interaction and had harassed Judah ever since. The relationship between Judah and his brother, the interim head of the family, had grown complicated before the death of Jimmy’s father. Nate said “Disagreements wouldn’t exist if Judah made all the decisions for the Batheirres.”

The deals with heathens started at lines of demarcation. Both sides benefited while their activities remained separate. Trouble in one camp never touched the other. The arrangement became tit for tat – not a genuine partnership, but favors were exchanged. That kind of activity could not stay hidden from a family the size of the Batheirres.

“Judah himself implicated himself,” Nate reminded Jimmy. “That’s when your father demanded all connections with heathens come to an end. He issued an ultimatum tantamount to excommunication. All the while, Judah was committed to the path he had taken. He built deeper ties with barbaric nomads.”

Nate speculated “Judah might have gone too far and owed too much. He couldn’t back out, or he shared dark desire with heathens.”

In either case, Jimmy convinced himself Uncle Judah saw his brother become an obstacle that must be removed. The family insisted upon an immediate cremation because the body of the fledgling Batheirre heir had been so horribly mangled in the fatal accident. Appearance was important for the Batheirres. No one owned loose pants in this family.

Jimmy didn’t want to hear more when Nate implied Uncle Judah killed his father. He ran straight home.

“Keep you mouth shut,” Nate called after him. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Jimmy didn’t know what to do, though he dwelt with thoughts about having been stripped mercilessly of a father. The loss was the only thought in his head all the way home. A whole other life had been denied him. Jimmy didn’t know how he would deal with that, either. He grew up without a real father, although Uncle Judah attempted the role every once in a while. His uncle insisted he was involved and usually imposed on Jimmy’s mother.

“I called you Jimmy first,” Uncle Judah said to him one day. “I gave you your given name.”

Whether the claim was true or not, the comment began a terrible argument between Jimmy’s mother and Uncle Judah. The fight left his mother crying and bruised. Jimmy pushed his recollection of that day beneath more pleasant memories. When bad memories bubbled up to his consciousness, he distracted himself. The convertible in the garage always provided the best distraction.

His mother’s beating was a long time ago, but Nate’s story dusted and polished the unpleasant memory. The small trauma glared under a new light Jimmy could not ignore. He grasped a desperate idea for making himself feel better, to help him forget and restore his oblivious happiness of just a few hours ago. Jimmy would drive Arroyo.

The timing could not have been more convenient. His mother had stepped out, probably not far, and her purse sat in its usual place on the vanity in her bedroom. After lunch with Uncle Judah, she must have gone and made a rare call on a neighbor, but that was far enough. Jimmy snatched the key for Arroyo. Once he slipped it off the keyring, he backed out of mother’s room, subconsciously retracing his steps. In the garage, he deftly removed the convertible’s cover and tossed it into the broad back seat. Jimmy unfastened the white vinyl top’s latches, climbed inside and started the car. And the boy lowered the top the first time ever, today. A wonderful exhilaration made his heart beat faster. His anger toward Uncle Judah faded into bitterness.

The transformation of Arroyo was like watching a flower bloom or a bride lift her veil. Jimmy sat dumb and amazed while metal struts folded back the top. The convertible awakened when she stretched her mechanical arms after a long hibernation. She evolved into what the vehicle was meant to be, open to the sky – but not quite yet. In his haste, Jimmy forgot he should first open the garage. After couple rumbling minutes, he hopped out of the car and dashed to the door, coughing out fumes while he went.

The garage door raised with loud twangs of un-worked springs and fear gripped the boy. He almost expected he’d see his mother and Uncle Judah standing in the driveway or on the corner at the end of the block. Jimmy scouted the area in three long-legged paces. The street looked empty in the middle of this hot day. People were either at work or busy finding shade. Jimmy listened to the growling engine of the convertible. She wanted to go. He felt thirst from the machine, and that was all the convincing he needed. Jimmy jumped back into Arroyo and rolled the vehicle from its cramped cell.

The sun glistened in the red paint like a bead of molten glass. The reflection flowed across the hood while the car tentatively crept forward. Jimmy wanted nothing more than to drive away, fast and far, but he restrained himself, got out and lowered the garage door again. When done, he returned to the idling vehicle, shifted into “Drive” once more and gently dropped his foot on the accelerator. The tires screeched with his slightest touch of the gas pedal, and so Jimmy raced the car down the street a moment later. Everything Nate said now flew away and became the furthest thoughts from Jimmy’s mind.

The feel for the car came naturally to the boy. Jimmy believed himself a good driver, despite lack of experience. People raced out of his path anyway, because everyone recognized the boy. Being the only nephew of the most powerful man in Gomorrah automatically granted Jimmy fame, status and deference.

No doubt, news of Jimmy’s adventure would soon reach his mother and uncle – the drawback of fame, but Jimmy didn’t care. On long empty streets, he built speed and whistled the wind past his ears. Between the wind and the thundering engine, Jimmy couldn’t hear himself laugh and yell. His shaggy black hair danced the whirl of a dervish as greasy strands whipped across his vision. The twirling locks smeared away tears the wind blew from his eyes.

The speed, sun and feel of the wheel in his hands stoked Jimmy’s daring. He turned the knob on the radio, which never had anything worth listening-to. Sermons from the Church and military news were not catered for teenaged boys. Both channels droned and bored Jimmy. Playing with the radio was really just a matter of exploration. He wanted to hear sound from the dashboard speaker. Jimmy wanted to blast the radio over the noise of the wind and the car. The biggest risk was taking the convertible. What more did little things like twisting knobs matter compared to that offense?

The day arrived when Jimmy did what he had wanted to do for years. Taking Arroyo was the only thing he was forbidden, the only thing not given him the moment he asked. Having Arroyo now, after wanting the convertible so long, tasted sweeter than any fulfilled desire he ever had. The fact he simply took it made his chest swell. The feeling made him more bold.

His foot pressed more heavily on the accelerator when he forgot to watch where he went. Jimmy also caught himself minding the radio rather than tending the road. The little orange bar floating behind white numbers moved rightward while Jimmy continued twisting the knob, and the radio was not cackling. The other knob did nothing at all. At the last moment, Jimmy tugged the steering wheel toward his left and avoided sideswiping a parked car. When he passed, Jimmy told himself he had not even come close to the other vehicle. The perspective and sudden upward glance had tricked him. He snickered at his momentary loss of confidence.

Jimmy returned to discovering how he might operate the radio. He grasped the first dial between his thumb and forefinger. He felt the knob give a little and he pulled harder, hoping the silence would change into shower of voices or static, depending if he fell upon a station during his random dial-twisting. Neither happened. Instead the knob popped off its metal stem and slipped between his fingers. Jimmy watched it flip through the air in front of him. It bounced off the steering column then rolled on the carpeted floor between the gas pedal and brake.

Sudden fear gripped the boy. The sight of the displaced chunk of cast metal rushed back, in fury, his anxiety about breaking something on his uncle’s car. Still, Jimmy could easily fit the knob back into place. He instinctively and immediately reached down and retrieved the dial. When he did, the boy sealed his doom. No more thought or desire, only oblivion. The convertible folded like an empty soda can, and did the bed of the stalled pick-up truck Jimmy rear-ended. His blood fell in thick drops across the white interior and shattered glass like big pearls of rain at the beginning of a summer storm. The truck rolled forward, while the crumpled car skid an impossibly short distance – given the vehicle’s momentum before hitting an obstacle. The truck pulled away as if nothing happened.

The concussive collision drew witnesses after the fact. Everyone knew Jimmy Batheirre lay in the crushed convertible. A few people even recognized the truck belonged to the migrant Cortras brothers, even though the vehicle was relatively new to Gomorrah. Before nightfall, a dozen people looked for the squashed truck because the Batheirres offered a reward for the vehicle’s owners. Jimmy still lived, technically. Gurgling came from his throat, but the boy never recovered.

Someone who worked for Judah, as did half of Gomorrah, directly or indirectly, whether they knew or not, wrapped Jimmy’s limp body in a blanket and rushed him to Judah Batheirre’s home. Within fifteen minutes after being placed on a leather sofa in the den of Gomorrah’s crime lord, Jimmy drowned in a lungful of blood. Five minutes after expiration, the summoned doctor pronounced the boy dead.

“I’m sorry, Judah,” the summoned doctor told the stunned and silent family. Judah exploded and he beat the unsuspecting man.

Loud cracks accentuated Judah’s flourish of curses until both men lay on the floor. The doctor suffered fractures all over his face during the rain of knock-out blows. His nose and jaw pressed unevenly toward the right side of his face.

Judah sobbed and raised the fractured fingers on his right hand before his face. He ordered everyone “Find the unlucky bastards who killed my son” and he emphasized the word “son.”

He commanded “Bring the murderers here, make them see what they’ve done.”

That was before the cowards fled. Still, they would make amends with tears and their lives. However, the guilty party was not found. The Cortras brothers had escaped Gomorrah. No matter, Judah knew who was responsible.

****

The following morning, Jimmy’s mother, Annette, was awoken by early phone call. She had spent the night worrying where the boy had gone, especially because last night was the first time Jimmy had not been home in the evening. She failed to notice the missing convertible, because she had not even bothered looking. Months often passed without her entering the garage. As far as Annette was concerned, that part of her home didn’t belong to her. Judah had taken over the territory for his brassy car.

“Annette,” a random relative said when she picked up the phone. The voice sounded urgent and edgy. He or she said “Jimmy’s dead.”

The news struck Annette dumb and unthinking. She didn’t know who spoke on the phone. Her focus had immediately narrowed on her child and she lost recognition of all else. Regardless, the woman caller delivered details. “He’s at Judah’s. He was taken there yesterday after an accident.”

“What?” Annette managed after breathless seconds.

“He was driving Judah’s car and had an accident.”

“Who?” Annette asked mindlessly. She didn’t recognize her automatic questions.

“The other driver ran away with somebody else. Don’t worry, Annette. Judah will find them. They’ll see what they’ve done and Judah will make them answer.”

When Annette finally understood the convertible had become the instrument of her son’s death, her bitterness toward Judah, all she had long harbored in her bosom, burst and inflamed her. She left the caller hanging and rushed to Judah’s home so she might see her dead son and take proper care of him. The body of her child would not be treated like muck in which his vile uncle might rub the noses of offending dogs.

“Bring him home, Judah,” Annette screamed at her brother-in-law when they met at his front door. The crime-lord’s fingers were bandaged and she spied her advantage.

“Annette, our boy will stay here. I’ll take care of this,” Judah promised, but the selfish assertions weren’t good enough for the grieving mother.

“Let me see my baby. I want to bring him home.”

“Not yet, Annette.”

Today was an infrequent occasion when her will dominated the arrogance of Judah. Annette snatched his bandaged hand before an argument ensued and bent his broken fingers. She had not forgotten her lesson how effective violence came toward winning.

****

Judah and Annette held visitation a couple days after Jimmy’s death. By then, Judah had successfully demanded the viewing take place at his home. He argued a valid point about space, and shock made Annette too tired for dispute; there were way too many details to wrangle over. Judah took care of everything, just as he always had before. Likewise, Annette refused to be grateful.

In their deal, she demanded Jimmy be taken back home and he’ll spend one more night with his mother before his funeral. As inconvenient and unorthodox as the request sounded, especially because the body of the boy was senselessly shuttled between houses, Judah granted the wish. With a grudge, he allowed the mother her quirks in her grief. His broken and aching fingers played no part in his decision.

Gathering the Batheirre family together was a simple matter. Though there were many members to contact, all lived in Gomorrah and word quickly spread. The ceremony passed quietly, for the most part. Judah and Jimmy’s mother sat furthest from each other, at opposite ends of a burgundy casket.

The coffin was originally going to be red, like the demolished convertible, but the time and poor taste were too great of obstacles for Judah to overcome. The lid remained closed during visitation, since the boy’s face had been pulped in his fatal accident. No amount of creativity on the part of the mortician restored Jimmy’s cheeks to the same shape they held in life. An open casket would have been cruel toward his mother, even though Judah demanded everyone see what lowly migrants had done to a member of his family.

Witnesses to the work of cowards volunteered and Judah got his way. Whenever Annette stepped out of the room, Judah opened the coffin and showed Jimmy’s battered death mask to whomever passed nearest. Jimmy was no longer a human being, and certainly did not look like one anymore.

“They’re gonna look like this when I’m done,” Judah often said and laughed. He was the only one who laughed the whole day.

That evening, the immediate members of the family followed the coffin and gathered inside Annette’s home. All the lights in the house failed banishing the shadows. The black dresses worn by women reflected the sorrowful mood. The dull, ordinary suits of men increased the somber tone.

Judah invited himself. He felt justified, more than obligated. Though Judah avoided using his drugs on professional principle, Ape helped ease the pain of his hand. A bottle of foul wine called Yowling Cat – Judah thought, eased his heartache further.

Despite his tenuous relationship with Jimmy’s mother, he saw so much of the boy’s features in her face, and he missed seeing that beauty now. The boy shared the same almond-shaped brown eyes and high cheeks as Annette. Both mother and child possessed sharp chins and noses and clear, pink skin. Both have the weight of Chosen in their blood. Judah remembered the beauty of Jimmy’s mother, Annette, when she was younger. She captivated Judah so many years ago, the day he discovered his deceased older brother had met this lovely girl.

Annette eventually could not decide between the loves of two brothers. Ultimately she chose the elder and rational brother, the one who didn’t scare her. Judah once felt he regained from Jimmy the passion he lost with Annette. Now, he could only conjure the mauled image of the boy in death.

Judah finally saw Annette again, and after such tragedy. He recognized what he loved in Jimmy and realized he loved Annette all along. The booze or the pills and not the Ape Judah consumed throughout the day played no part in his insight. He and Annette had made Jimmy into the boy he was.

Annette might see the affection in Judah now. He was the only friend she had. Judah decided their game, in which they avoided each other for the past day and a half, came to an end tonight. The time for renewal arrived; an affirmation of life and a new beginning. Annette lingered near the coffin and Judah crossed the room. That corner cleared when the two met. He and stood squarely before Annette and the family prepared for confrontation.

“Annette,” he said. His voice carried the inflection of reverence it had not offered in years. Judah surprised himself. The sound of his words took him back to youth and rekindled the excitement felt the first time he made love with his brother’s girlfriend. Judah regressed into those weeks of tumbling romance when he fought another man for Annette’s heart – tragically, in vain.

“There is so much I want to go back and change.”

Annette glared at Judah with venom in her eyes. She felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten as if she coiled, but Judah refused the warning. He foolishly swam in rediscovered memories of moot love and lust.

“This is not what I wanted for us. We have wasted so much time.”

“That is why you tore it all away,” spat Annette. “You lack imagination, Judah. Or is it some kind of sick joke, that you killed Paul and his son in the same way?”

Judah reeled. He didn’t expect accusations against him tonight. He thought Annette’s suspicion about the death of his brother, her husband, had been buried ages ago. The subject had not come up since the argument over Jimmy’s real father, the day Judah staked his claimed. The renewed charge was unfair and, given the circumstances, flatly inappropriate. Judah still stood speechless, but a matchstick was struck in his chest. He tasted the sulfurous smoke curling from his open mouth.

“What is it, Judah? Did Jimmy remind you too much of Paul? Did you think he came back for revenge? He’s got it coming, you idiot.”

That was enough. Annette grew louder even while her voice shook. The topic was off limits and this woman dragged a bag of bones in front of the family at the very worst time.

“Jimmy is my boy,” Judah yelled. The family still in the room attempted inconspicuous retreat. Judah caught the motion in the corner of his eye and waited. When the last back turned, he grabbed Annette’s arm. A purple imprint of his fingers would swell the following morning.

“Let me go. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she screamed. “Jimmy is Paul’s son. Sleeping with you was the stupidest thing I ever did. You are so stupid.”

“Marrying the wrong man was the stupidest thing you ever did. You thought you fucked money, but he’s dead. He’s been dead for a long time. I don’t understand why you’re not fucking me now.”

Annette slapped Judah. He raised his bandaged hand, but despite instinct, thought better than striking the woman. Injury had taught him restraint. Instead Judah yanked Annette off balance and pulled her stumbling toward the coffin. The reminiscent affection for the woman burned away like the past and Jimmy. Judah again went for the latch on the coffin’s lid.

“Like I said, Jimmy is my boy. Do I have to point out the resemblance?” Judah fired. “Let me show you why Jimmy is mine, not Paul’s.”

“Judah, please,” Annette pleaded. She righted herself and firmly planted her feet. Judah still pulled her along and she skidded on the raised heels of her shoes. “Please, I don’t want to see my baby. I don’t want to see my baby like this.”

“Bitch.”

Judah fumbled with the latch and the broken and bandaged fingers on his free hand made the task difficult. Annette tugged her captured arm. Every movement in her struggle constricted Judah’s grip automatically. Her fingertips tingled and turned purple while his knuckles turned white.

Annette sobbed in protest. “No.”

“What will happen to you now?” Judah asked and worked the latch. “You would have nothing without me. You will be nothing without me. I’ll make sure of that. I’ll take it all away.”

A dilemma arose; Judah couldn’t possibly unlock the casket with his bandaged hand. If he let go of Annette, she would undoubtedly bolt. He was not a man who gave up easily.

Even in rage, he timed his next motion. Once he let go, he planned he would lunge forward and deliver a backhand at Annette’s face – an eye for an eye was his motto. He personalized the saying and made his retribution hurt much more. Judah had reached the final seconds of his silent countdown when a mourning guest disturbed him.

It was Truman, Judah’s uncle on his mother’s side. Neither Judah nor Annette had heard the man clear his throat when he attempted their attention. He was nobody of consequence, but closer to the center of power than Judah preferred. Too many “hanger-ons” and charity cases dropped from that branch of the family. Judah often felt lucky the fire in his father’s blood overcame the meekness and beggary that cursed his mother’s side.

Judah’s mother was fortunate and preserved her natural beauty well into middle age. Her looks certainly had earned her a grand share of undeserved favors for her rodent-like siblings. She must have been a changeling, kidnapped at birth by a pack of half-rat creatures. What other than a mythical explanation sufficed?

“Judah?” Truman asked. He resembled a plump rat, just like his brothers and sisters, all thanks given Judah. Truman would be the only person so obtuse and not realize his master desired privacy. Mired still, he couldn’t understand a clue given from everyone else.

Judah said nothing and waited for Truman to go away. When the man obviously was not going, Judah let Annette go. She ran past Truman, stunned and wobbling.

“Bitch,” Judah muttered again. He called after the fleeing woman. “Think about what you do next, Annette. Think about how good you had things.”

When Judah watched her go, he couldn’t believe he had allowed her escape. Annette had slipped away again. The flight made Judah more angry. His fire still burned when Judah shouted at his uncle. “What is it?”

“It’s Josiah,” Truman answered. “He’s on the phone.” The ringing phone was something else Judah and Annette had missed.

“He wants to express his sympathies.”

“To me?” Judah was incredulous. “What does your Aped brother really want?” For a moment, Judah was not taking the call, but then remembered his prey had escaped him. He stood alone in the room with his unpalatable in-law and dead nephew. Judah needed something else and was at an immediate loss for anything. He stomped across the floor, grateful Truman stepped toward one side and cleared the doorway. Judah never liked touching the man.

He mused about finding an island and creating some kind of leper colony for his mother’s side of the family; Truman and Josiah would instantly become residents, and Annette would follow out of principle. The far-fetched solution seemed the only practical one. Killing family was much too complicated and perilous. Judah had learned that lesson when he was young and more rash.

Josiah Kanen once showed potential. The Batheirres were introduced to him when Annette and Judah’s brother, Paul, were married. Josiah, a Chosen priest, performed the ceremony. Judah’s father said a connection inside the Church was unfortunate, but Judah disagreed. Not only was Josiah a priest, but also assigned to a position inside Capital. The connection could prove useful. If Judah was more ingenious, he could have played both sides, the Church and heathens could have been unwitting tools. But the manipulation was out of Judah’s scope. He didn’t have the vision or temperament. Judah behaved more like a rolled-shirtsleeve overlord and was always getting his hands dirty.

Despite the Batheirres’ money paving Josiah’s improbable rise through the ranks of the Church, the investment amounted to pearls for swine. The priest experimented with the family’s product and liked it. His addiction became a liability. The Batheirres wasted too many resources keeping secrets. Bribes and payoffs that once bought position and promises, became maintaining status quo. Losses had to be cut and Judah decided no more money or drugs would go to Josiah.

Judah went to the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall. Most of the family had already left Annette’s house. The few who remained went back into the room with Jimmy’s casket. Judah continued insisting privacy and his glare made his attitude evident. Meanwhile, Annette stayed from his sight.

“Joe,” Judah said into the phone. “What do you want?”

The caller paused then replied with a keen inhale. “Hello, Judah.” Another pause punctuated the insincere greeting. “I want to say I’m sorry about James.”

“In the name of the Mortal God, you didn’t even know he was dead until you called,” Judah accused.

“No, Judah, I did.”

“You know I cut you off. Your fake sympathy isn’t changing that.”

Josiah pleaded. “Judah, please, that’s not fair. That’s not why I called, and I truly am sorry.”

Judah made a concession. “All right, why did you call?”

“I need a favor”

“I knew it. What is the matter with you? You’re a captain now, right? I’m supposed to ask you for favors, and I get none.”

“It’s that priest. He’s here.”

Judah remembered. Another pay-off, but that time, Judah refused Josiah’s request. The day came when Josiah handled his own problems. That is exactly what Judah thought Josiah did about this other non-commissioned priest, another addict. The Church had so many addicts, their epidemic of Apers must be obvious. Yet once an initiate became ordained, there was no thing as a pink slip. The Church shuffled addicts from one low profile assignment into another. This other priest got his Ape from the gutters of Gomorrah. The man was a regular, so he knew everything everyone knew – all the players, dealers and other buyers. His knowledge is what the upstart priest had on Josiah.

Josiah got stupid, and was spotted blindly wandering the streets of Gomorrah and looking for a deal. That a captain in the Church sunk so low looked bad. As it was with word on the street, everyone knew why Captain Josiah Kanen crawled the alleys in Gomorrah. Josiah had fallen out of favor with the Batheirres. This other priest took advantage of the pathetic discovery. The extortion was not the first time someone blackmailed Josiah. The fact the compromising position would happen again seemed inevitable, even if Josiah kicked his drug habit.

Without resources from the Batheirres, Josiah pulled frayed strings and got lucky. An opening arose at a parish in the Cap. Josiah genuinely impressed Judah when the he brought an outsider into Capital. The accomplishment made him wonder if his stepped in-law had held out against his obligations toward the Batheirre family all these years.

“Yeah,” Judah said. “I thought that’s what you wanted. You handled it. It’s done, right?”

“He can’t stay here.”

Judah knew it, a catch in Josiah’s temporary solution. Now the priest wanted his mess cleaned-up for him all over again. Judah would not bail out this sorry excuse for a man. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. He’s got to go.”

“You better not ask me for anything. You know that.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” Josiah implored. The desperation made Judah ill. In the least, his pitiful in-law distracted him from Jimmy and the dead boy’s mother.

“Handle it yourself. That’s what you do.”

“This isn’t just my problem,” Josiah blamed. “What if the Church finds out the Batheirre family has their fingers in the affairs of the Church? This priest could tell them that. He can walk straight into the Church complex here at Capital.”

This was an old threat. Judah refused to fall for the empty menace again. Nothing will happen to the Batheirre family. Gomorrah was of no consequence to the Church. What would happen is that a particular finger in Capital, the gangrenous Josiah, would be sliced off – the best for every one, actually. Judah finished this detour in his tumultuous evening. He had bigger concerns, and they needed perspective.

Judah called Josiah’s bluff. The priest always was a terrible gambler. “Let me remind you, Joe, what has happened here. Jimmy is dead. His fucking brain came out his nose. I don’t have time for your shit. I’m looking for the cunts that killed him. You handle your problem, yourself.”

Nothing more could be said, but Josiah still needed help. “You’re right Judah. I don’t know what to do. I wish this guy was dead.”

That was the simple solution. The hard part was figuring out how Judah might kill him and get-away with the deed. Judah said nothing, but he didn’t hang up the phone.

“I wish you would just tell me what to do,” begged Josiah. “You know what to say and you won’t say it.”

There were professionals in this field. In the Batheirre family business, Judah had become familiar with a few. The resources were often a necessity.

“So you want him dead?” Judah asked. Josiah grew hopeful, Judah knew because the man breathed heavier. “You got money?”

“I can get it. Can I send it to you after you’re through?”

Judah had provided an avenue and Josiah already steered the wrong direction. “I didn’t say I was gonna do anything. There is someone in the Cap you can talk to. You better have the money up front.”

“But…”

“Shut up,” Judah snubbed Josiah. “Or you might as well fuck it up yourself. All you get from me is a phone number. When you call, don’t ask him his name. He won’t tell you, and asking looks amateurish.”

“Thank you, Judah.”

The conversation ended with a number and more thanks from Josiah. Judah went home without talking with anyone else. He took vicarious solace in the fact someone will die, but the death served only an appetizer. Judah wanted the Cortras brothers. He would make calls the next morning and offer a bounty. No place will be safe, not even the Cap.

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

At Llumina, I had paid for the book to be proofread and new cover art – neither of which came to an advantage for me. I didn’t begin seeing interest in my Pazuzu Trilogy until I had completed the story and divided the bleak tale into a trilogy. I created the Artwork for each new book myself. Interest exploded, but few sales followed. Still, that was much better than the quiet quicksand Llumina sold me.

Another saleless Llumina author mailed me and a bunch of my peers complaining of sales. The argument sounded familiar so I included my thoughts. Llumina then contacted me, pretty much to say “you’re not marketing your book right” which I assume involves paying Llumina even more cash – yeah, I was told I had been ripped-off by Llumina.

I tried hard not to make a rash decision and again jump premature, with little avail. The arrogance I witnessed and paranoia made my decision for me and I requested Pazuzu Book One be removed from Llumina’s shelves. The book itself was going out-of-print after February 2013, but recent correspondence with Llumina encouraged my decision. The second revision of the Pazuzu story, Pazuzu Book One, will no longer be available sooner than expected – which is fine with me, I’m not comfortable anyone reads any revision lower the Seventh.

Paperbacks and Hardcover copies of the Seventh Revision of my Pazuzu Trilogy are still available at LULU.

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

Now, I was thinking of wholly new book covers for my Pazuzu Trilogy, so I didn’t plan to fiddle with the old pieces of artwork. Still, I felt compelled and the compulsion wasn’t selfish. Encouraged by the number of people looking at the first book in my Pazuzu Trilogy, I wanted to recognize those visitors and offer everyone a little better Pazuzu – the Artwork that is. I continue poking at the 8th revision of the story itself and that’s still coming. In the meantime, I think readers will be just as satisfied with the current 7th revision.

My refinement focused on the demon itself. Here is Pazuzu below,”on the road.”

I have a “vintage” version of the surreal digital painting. The image has been blanched and moderately desaturated.

Both images are in the Pazuzu Trilogy online art gallery on Deviantarts. They’re free for use as desktop wallpaper, promoting the Pazuzu Trilogy – and real-life prints are even available for purchase. Enjoy!

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

Debbie desperately wants the old, faux-Victorian house in Wister Town sold – perhaps to a hopeful publisher? Anyone curious and who lives outside the Midwest can see the swath of southwestern Wisconsin toured in the story on a crude map illustrated on the drafted cover for Debbies Hellmouth.

If anyone else wants to read more about Debbie, there is a short story that tells her tale ten years ago. Portal Painter is included with similarly weird short horror stories gathered for Matthew Sawyer’s second collection, called A Codex of Malevolence.

This short story was originally posted last year, so readers may remember and know Debbie Menon hopes she will become a professional painter in Los Angeles. Her mural in a pizzeria catches the interest of a local screenwriter. He pays Debbie thousands of dollars to paint a pattern on his concrete patio floor. The writer tells her the design is a portal.

Portal Painter
by
Matthew Sawyer

My fifteen foot long mural of an Italian picnic still looked pretty good. After finishing the painting, I came back to the ‘Double Drabble’ pizzeria in North Hollywood to fix holes in the canvas. Predictably, a kid poked my painting with a fork.

The height of the canvas stretched from beneath the top of the restaurant tables, which lined the wall, to the ceiling. I expressed concerns about the extending painting’s dimensions, but Lou said artwork would be fine. The damage justified my original recommendation to keep the height of the work to only about six feet, but the cautious assessment made no difference now. There were holes to be patched.

Lou Drabble agreed to pay extra for the paint and the canvas, but he denied compensation for the extra time required for the work. Although, Lou and Vic, the cook, fed me every time I walked into the restaurant. The offer gave me a reason to come back periodically to say “Hello” and check the condition of my mural. As I walked into the long and narrow dining area this afternoon, I saw my punctured painting and a chubby Asian guy looking at it.

The Asian man turned to face me as I walked into the dining area. He smiled and slipped off his black overcoat, uncovering a wet, black button-up shirt. The warm California day punished him for having overdressed. Experienced with the dry climate, I wore my sweat pants and a T-shirt today.

“Debbie Menon?” the man asked, “You need a picture next to your biography here on the wall.”

“I hate photographs of myself,” I honestly replied. “I’m the little girl on the picnic blanket, on the right side. Her hair is a lot darker than mine.”

“Yes,” the man said gazing at my painting. His eyes locked on the figure I pointed at. “You look Mexican.”

“No,” I said, gritting my teeth. “That’s the way Lou wanted the faces.”

“You shouldn’t have listened to him,” Vic said from behind me.

“He paid for it,” I reminded Vic.

“Change it back now. Between him and me, I’m the only one here looking at it.”

“No, its fine,” the Asian man insisted.

“Excuse me, who are you?” I politely asked the man. I suspected he was the screenwriter a friend of mine, Eddie, told me about earlier today.

The screenwriter asked Vic, who in turn asked my roommate, if he knew whether I was interested in doing book illustrations. As an unknown artist, I explored every opportunity.

The man grew a long, horribly uneven mustache on his upper lip. He combed the uneven hair over his lips. The hair on the man’s scalp may have also been butchered, but impossible to determine. He slicked his hair back with shining oils.

“I should introduce myself,” the man stated. “I’m Nai KriangSak, you can call me Sak.”

“Hi, Sak, you know my name,” I smiled. “Are you the one Vic, here, told Gary to tell me about?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Sak said shrugging his shoulders.

“Yep,” Vic said. “Debbie, meet Sak, and Sak please say hello to Debbie.”

“Hello, Debbie,” said Sak and smiled. The man had nice, white teeth. “I’m looking for an illustrator for my book.”

“Well, I can do illustration, but I want to paint stuff that interests me,” I told Sak. “Otherwise it gets boring and no fun.”

“But what you did for Double Drabble is acceptable,” Sak claimed. “I love it!”

“That’s not really my style though. That’s just for Lou,” I confessed to Sak.

I painted the first mural I had ever created in the restaurant in a desperate move to show off my talent. I compromised too much of myself. I did not begin to assert how I personally expressed myself until after my second mural, two cities away. The owner let me do whatever I wanted with images of sunflowers.

“Well, what is your style?” Sak asked with genuine curiosity.

“Like Georgia O’Keefe, but on a fractal level,” I said, anxious to talk about my artwork. “Other artists have done it before, but I make my own special dreamland in my paintings.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sak said immediately. “How about you come over to my house? I have a pattern to be painted, but I can’t do it. I’m not an artist and I have poor eyesight.”

“Sure,” I instantly caved. Work still outweighed artistic expression. “I usually charge forty dollars an hour, and that doesn’t include paint, canvas or if I need a new brush.”

“That’s fine. I’ll give you two hundred dollars an hour. You will be needed for a minimum of three,” Sak told me.

“I’m not going to argue,” I answered stunned. The generous pay staggered me. “All right, I’ll take six hundred dollars for a few hours of work. Do you want me to come over to your place? When do you want to meet?”

“Let’s go now,” Sak said.

The late hour made the invitation suspicious. I looked at Vic. He smiled and waved me out the door. I knew Vic well enough to know that he and I thought alike. I can handle myself, and six hundred dollars is a decent incentive to take some risk. But the rushed work had not allowed time to gather materials.

“The paint store is closed until tomorrow morning. I don’t have any of my own right now,” I told Sak.

“We don’t need your supplies,” Sak happily said, bowing and gesturing me toward the front door. “I have paint at my house. And you’ll paint on the concrete of my patio.”

“Is it some kind of decorative pattern for the floor?” I asked a little confused.

“No,” Sak said. “A portal.”

“A what?”

“A portal, or door,” Sak ominously explained. “I need the Sumerian symbol on my floor.”

“Oh, a symbol?!” I shouted. “You want me to paint a symbol. That’s no problem. I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

“Yes, but you need to copy two symbols on the floor by hand, to make a new one,” Sak explained, complicating the work I expected to do.

The man did say he will pay me six hundred dollars. I supposed Sak expected me to exert my talent and training. I had to call my roommate before leaving the restaurant, just to let him know where I’m at. I no longer expected to get home before dawn. But, according to Sak’s offer, the extra hours meant even more pay.

“Let me see the symbols,” I said. “Do you have copies?”

“No,” Sak replied in sudden angst. “The images won’t photocopy. They are in a book; very old and precious.”

The job now sounded perilous, so I thought I knew why Sak offered so much money. Still, I wondered why he asked me if he would be better off hiring people who did things like art restorations. But he did and that fact made me happy. Sak gave me his address when I asked. He told me to follow him over to his house once I made my call.

On the answering machine at my shared apartment, I left a message to myself listing Sak’s name and address. I then told Sak that I parked in back of the Drabble and will meet him on the street in front of the restaurant. Sak agreed and told me he drove a brand new black sports car. He went out the front while used the back door. Once I pulled my red subcompact out of the alley and around the block, I followed my eager patron back to his house.

He lived in a residential neighborhood a few blocks from the restaurant. Sak could have walked to the Drabble, if he braved the local street gang and the most dangerous intersection to pedestrians in the Valley. That fact about the intersection is the truth. On average, someone got killed walking across the Lankershim cross street every week. Granted, thousands of cars and people passed the intersection every day.

Sak lived in one of the endless, stuccoed single-story houses in the treeless neighborhood. I’m glad I followed him. I wouldd have gotten lost counting the numbers on the identical buildings as I looked for the house.

I parked on the street, behind Sak’s sports car. I don’t know how Sak managed avoid the vehicle being stolen or if he even worried about someone breaking into his car. I figured his vehicle is a bigger target, so I felt safe leaving my cheap junker behind his prize vehicle in this neighborhood at night.

Sak led me into his home. I saw lights in the windows as Sak and I walked up the short front walk. The door was unlocked, so Sak and I strolled straight inside. People were inside his house, although I only heard their echoed voices. Sak seemed unconcerned and shut the door behind me.

“I’ll get the book,” Sak said as he poked his head into what appeared the kitchen.

I noted where the beige carpet of the room, in which I stood, came to an end. Uncomplimentary green linoleum began where the carpet ended. Though I only saw a sliver, the slick floor covering probably spread across the concealed room.

Sak said nothing when he gazed into the kitchen, but the talking stopped. He turned into a dark hallway, perpendicular to the entrance of the kitchen. A young girl walked from the kitchen, followed by two skinny boys.

“Hi,” the girl said to me. She did not introduce herself. Neither did the two boys. In fact, they said nothing at all, only stared.

“Hi,” I answered.

I think the three kids were old enough to be out of high school. After I graduated from college, distinguishing the age of people younger than me became a problem. Those signs that said IDs were checked for alcohol sales to anyone who appeared under thirty were specific instructions for me, if I ever got a job as a clerk at a convenience store. At my age, I only had three categories for how old a person is: too young, young or old. I didn’t count dead as a category, but Eddie insisted the classification applicable.

All of the kids were taller than Sak and I. The pair of us were about the same height. I wondered who these Caucasian kids were, maybe groupies. I supposed screenwriters can have groupies. Although, I expect that would make entertainment news and I never heard of Sak before he introduced himself.

“I’m a painter. I did that mural at Double Drabble,” I listed. I didn’t drop my name, but I felt compelled to somehow identify myself. The revelation seemed fair, because then I asked who the kids were. An awkward silence, after I told them what I did, insist we get to know each other.

“We’re his coven,” the girl laughed, pointing down the dark hallway.

“Deema, don’t be rude,” said the boy with a purple goatee and who wore a heavy metal T-shirt.

“Yeah,” said the clean-shaven boy. He sported a butch haircut.

“I’m Jonny, he’s Tim, and the girl in the shirt with the cartoon pig is Deema,” Jonny said, pointing at the only other girl in the room. His goatee dipped into the loose collar of his T-Shirt as he spoke.

“I’m Debbie,” I said as Sak returned.

Sak carried a thick book with yellow pages. The book covers were wrapped in plastic. Sak wore pink, satin gloves. The fingers appeared shaped like those on gloves made for a woman. His thick fingers stretched the seams of the apparel. I remembered noticing that Sak had small, thick hands. The long ends of the glove’s fingers looked crooked and lumpy, pushed partially full of air.

“Here,” Sak commanded my attention. “I’ll hold it. When you copy the glyphs, I’ll set the book on the table open to the pages. But, please, no touching.”

The request did not seem odd at all. Sak gave me a lot of money to copy pictures out of what appeared an ancient and fragile book. It must be valuable. I wondered if Sak himself wrapped the tome in plastic, which is fine by me. I certainly had no idea about preservation other than spreading varnish over something. I doubted the technique worked for books. Well, the outside would look good, permanently, but the pages will stick together.

“Ooh, I love the book,” Tim droned.

“You all go clear off the patio,” Sak ordered his coven, fans or minions. I still had no clue why the kids hung out here. Evidently, the two boys and girl served as on-hand furniture movers.

Sak opened the book directly to the first page he wanted to show me; close to the middle of the tome. I saw no book mark and I know his finger had not held the page. Sak turned right to the page he desired. The dry, yellow pages seemed to hold themselves together quite well. As Sak unintentionally demonstrated, they appeared extremely resilient to being pinched and bent.

The pattern was a circle, with curls flowing in opposite directions in and out of the circle. The design seemed simple enough to reproduce. I just needed to be sure to capture the correct number of swirls. Seven spirals swirled from the outside of the circle, six from the inside. They didn’t completely curl in upon themselves, leaving wide, negative space around the ornate, geometric pattern.

The second pattern Sak showed me was a pentagram. Only the outside of the figure had been drawn, no pentagon formed the center of the star. The lines between the vertexes of the five points were broken. The pentagram appeared well ventilated. The drawing of this shape appeared significantly larger than the circle.

“I need this pentagram to fit inside the circle,” Sak said, as I expected he would.

“I suppose it will make a decent floor decoration,” I conjectured aloud. “It’s little creepy, with the star and all.”

“So you can do it?” asked Sak.

“Yeah, no problem,” I said. “I want to get the final pattern on paper and show you before I paint it.”

Sak paused. He looked hesitant; maybe because the value of the book prohibited him from pulling it out again. Sak may be overanxious about the mysterious volume. He also might just want to have his painting completed. Coming to his place so late today supported the latter hypothesis. Maybe he had a party planned tomorrow. After I allowed Sak a quiet moment to resolve his indecision, he agreed.

“I’ll need a paper and pencil,” I told Sak. “And, do you have chalk for the patio?”

“Yes, I’ve got all those things,” Sak said. “What else do you want, because I have it.”

I wanted to be an established artist with clients knocking on my door, but I don’t think that is what Sak meant. All I needed for this particular job is something to make markings. Nothing beat a number two pencil as the fastest tool, but I will have to switch to something less lasting once my canvas became concrete.

“How about a place I can sit down and draw?” I asked. “Someplace with a lot of light.”

“Have a seat in the kitchen,” Sak said pointing toward the room with the linoleum floor. The precious book lay open, balanced on its spine, in the palm of one of Sak’s hands. I gasped.

The book stayed glued flat on Sak’s palm. My patron seemed unconcerned, or unaware, of his own reckless treatment of his book. Sak followed me into the kitchen and put the book down at the far end of the table, out of my reach from where I sat.

“You can look, but don’t touch,” Sak said smiling. He dropped his expression into a grimace. “Seriously, don’t touch the pages with your bare hands. Here, put on my gloves.”

Sak took off his feminine gloves and handed them to me. After having been stretched out, the gloves fit loose around my knuckles. Sak waited for me to put them both on before he left to retrieve paper and a pencil. When Sak came back, I asked him a logistics question.

“When I’m done drawing a copy of the pentagram, will you turn the page back to the circle?”

“You’ve got the gloves now. You can turn the page,” Sak said.

“Which page is it,” I sheepishly asked. “I wasn’t paying attention when you flipped through the book.”

“Just turn the page, you’ll see it.”

The answer Sak gave implied I can thumb through the pages until I found the image I looked for. That suited me. I grew curious as to what the volume might be. The book appeared professionally bound. The plastic, in which Sak had wrapped the book covers, made ascertaining the material difficult. The black, visible sliver of binding looked like leather.

Not a lot of words appeared on the page with the pentagram. The text had been handwritten, not typeset. The language might be Latin; it looked foreign with dotted bars at the end of a lot of words. I hoped other pages in the book included translations or even a recognizable drawing. The book itself became a distraction and remained oblique.

I reminded myself of the late afternoon and my goal to be done in less than three hours. Now that I knew exactly what I needed to paint, I now anticipated finishing in less than two. But if I became fascinated with the book, I will get stuck here all night. I resolved myself to quickly copy the pictures and give the book back to Sak.

Copying the pentagram was easy. White space composed most of the image. I could not use a ruler to draw the visible pieces of the pentagram. The original artist bent the lines. Whether the crookedness was unintentional or not, I wanted to make certain I captured the image exactly. I meticulously copied what I saw. Sak periodically returned to the kitchen during the minutes I spent drawing the pentagram. He heaped on praise for my artistic abilities.

I told Sak that instead of copying the pentagram inside the circle, I will copy the circle around the pentagram. Sak thought the idea ingenious, rather than realizing I had simply drawn the broken pentagram first. I let him think I had inspirations of genius. The idea probably made him feel better about paying me so much money for the artwork.

When I turned back the page in the book, I instantly arrived at the image of the circle. I could have sworn when Sak showed me the two images, he turned a lump of pages at once. I turned around and asked him if I found the correct image. Sak looked at the page to which I had turned and nodded his head.

“There is only one Circle of Wind in the book,” Sak said.

“Circle of Wind?” I asked. “That sounds like a Kung-Fu move in an old movie.”

“It’s a glyph,” Sak corrected me. “You just have to paint it.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said.

Once I started copying the circle I suddenly needed to concentrated. For some reason, I could not draw the dimension of the circle on the same paper as the pentagram. The circle refused to stay round. I erased my light, preparatory scribbles. Drawing the circle on a separate piece of paper seemed to work smoothly. I even managed to approximate the size of the circle I will need.

I put my two drawings together. Looking at the images side by side made me dizzy. I instantly suspected I was growing tired.

“Hey, Sak, do you have any cola? I want to wake myself up,” I asked my host and patron.

“Oh, sure,” Sak said. He opened the glass sliding door from the kitchen to the patio.

I then noticed night had fallen. Time passed without my conscious awareness, although my body certainly knew. My neck, back and drawing hand ached.

I could not see or hear anything outside in the darkness, but remembered Sak had sent the kids to clear off his patio. Sak flipped on the exterior light, causing the two boys and girl to stare blindly into the glowing bulb. Deema was standing before Jonny and Tim, who stood side by side. They looked as if caught speaking to each other in secret. The trio blinked their eyes and stepped forward, wordless.

Sak waved a can of soda in front of the open patio door and then gave it to me. The three kids walked into the kitchen and each grabbed their own can from the fridge. Deema looked over my shoulder while Sak stepped out of the room.

“How’s it going?” Deema asked about my progress. I showed her my copies.

“That is fast!” Tim exclaimed.

“I did this already,” Deema claimed. She shouted into the hall the lead from the living room. I presumed that is where Sak continually disappeared. “I drew these already, Sak!”

“But this is fast,” Jonny agreed with Tim.

Sak raced back into the kitchen.

“Yes,” Sak said to Deema. “But now Debbie will draw them, put together.”

“Good luck with that,” Deema said grudgingly. “I’m still working on it.”

“See?” Sak said. “Debbie went to school.”

“Then send me school, Sak,” Deema demanded. She sounded threatening.

“That will take too long,” Sak protested. “Debbie is a proven professional.”

“Well, I don’t know about proven,” I said. “You saw my first mural.”

“Yes,” Sak validated. “It’s good and you’re fast.”

“I work better without people looking over my shoulder,” I hinted to Sak. I especially did not appreciate Deema’s criticism, even though she told the truth. She sounded jealous.

“All right, everyone,” Sak said, gathering his servants. “Go watch TV or read my stories.”

“Let’s watch TV,” Jonny voted.

The kids took their soda with them. Sak followed the three into the living room. I failed to recognize the sound of the movie they found on television. Although, even if I did remember the movie, I would not know its name. Nor would I be able to elaborate on the story beyond the dialog. Whenever I sat in front of the television, I became inattentive while I doodled in my sketchbook.

I tapped my drawings together, intending to trace the image that shown from beneath the paper. I saw nothing. When I stacked sheets of paper, and put them against the light, I still did not see an image bleed through. I even switched the sheet I placed on top and only saw the image immediately in front of me.

Light bled through the paper. The top sheet glowed white when held against the illumination. I should have at least seen a shadow of the image. I heavily marked an empty corner of a single sheet of paper before again testing the transparency of the paper against the light. My scratches were plainly visible through the top sheet of paper.

I thought about going into the living room and telling Sak I’ll probably need more time to figure out how to trace the image, but then I did not want to provoke Deema. She would instantly proclaim my higher education for nothing. That won’t happen. I resolved to tackle the problem without disruption.

I will manually scribe one image over the other. With a deep breath, I put myself to the task. I shut the book before starting work again.

I placed my drawn images side by side again. My dizziness instantly returned, until I partially concealed one image with the paper of another. The strange reaction perplexed me. The cola did not seem to help, but when I wasn’t looking at my drawings side by side, I felt fine.

I started copying the pentagram inside the circle in earnest. As long as I kept a little piece of the pentagram concealed, I worked strong and steady. The combined images must create some sort of optical illusion. Making everyone sick is a horrible idea for a backyard grill party. Although, Sak may be crafting a special trap for people infringing on his copyrights. My fantasy only reminded me how late the hour must have become. The time flew by.

My stomach suddenly dropped when I realized my stupid mistake. I never asked how Sak wanted the swirls on the inside of the circle to intersect with the pentagram. Do the swirls join the severed ends of the pentagram? If that detail did not matter, I can finish in ten minutes. Sak had to make the call.

I was getting tired and only wanted to go home. If I needed to start over, I probably had to see the pentagram again. The work will also have to wait until I finished the week at my full-time job.

I put on the gloves and brought the book with me into the living room. My nearly finished drawing came, along pinned to my side, beneath my left elbow. Sak watched me enter the room from his overstuffed chair. Jonny looked up from the television.

“Here’s the book back, Sak,” I said.

“Put it down and give me the gloves,” Sak said anxiously.

“I don’t know how you want the images to overlap,” I confessed in front of Deema as I put the book on the coffee table and lay the pink gloves on top. “But I’m almost done.”

“You’re almost done?” Sak asked excited. He bounced from his chair.

I took the drawing from beneath my arm to show Sak. Jonny still watched me whereas Tim and Deema seemed enthralled by some late-night talent competition. I held my drawing out in front of me. When I showed Sak, Jonny vomited unto the carpet; in front of the couch he sat upon with his friends.

“It is finished!” Sak shouted, overjoyed.

“Dammit, Jonny!” Deema shouted. The three kids maneuvered from Jonny’s splattered expulsion.

“I didn’t think it was finished,” I honestly said to Sak and looked at my drawing again. At second glance, the image did indeed appear complete. That’s funny, I swore when I stopped drawing the image was obviously incomplete. I could easily pick up the drawing where I left off. “No, Sak. Let me check the pentagram drawing again. I’m sure I left out a couple lines.”

Even though only a few lines comprised the drawing of the pentagram, something felt missing. True replications are betrayed by amateur mistakes. For the sake of my own integrity, the pattern needed to be perfect.

“You got it done?” Deema suddenly interjected herself. “Let me see.”

Deema jumped over the creamy yellow puddle that seeped into the carpet. I showed my newfound nemesis my drawing. Deema also vomited, just like Jonny. I whipped the drawing out of the path of sick and retreated to the kitchen. Sak followed right behind me.

“Can you paint it tonight?” Sak asked turning the patio lights back on.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m tired and I have to go to work tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’ll give you two thousand dollars on top of what your total hours will give you. I’ll pay all of it tonight, when you finish, in cash.”

“You owe me sixteen hundred dollars already,” I reminded Sak. I felt guilty about asking for so much money without having lain a single brush stroke. But, Sak did say two hundred dollars an hour.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Sak said. “You’ll have it all in cash when you finish.”

Thirty-six hundred dollars is more money than I make in a month at my full-time job. I felt like Sak paid me like a real artist should be paid, despite how little I accomplished. My tired giddiness with earning such a wild wage chased away any guilt. I set aside all caution and hesitation, and agreed to paint my composite image immediately.

Sak and I went onto the patio. The kids let us go alone. No one appeared in the kitchen while Sak showed me the quart of lidless black paint on the patio, against the wall. The can had no label either. A fat rubber band held a plastic wrap over the open end of the container. I don’t know why the paint was in the unlabeled can, maybe poured from a larger can, but the color is definitely black. Brand new, small and medium sized brushes lay on the concrete behind the can. Sak really had prepared.

“The top of the pentagram has to point to the north,” Sak said pointing at the block wall just beyond his patio.

“Now is that the Satanic pentagram where the goat’s ears and nuzzle make up the star? Because the points representing the horns, they’re on the top. In your book, it looked like it’s the other way around. I don’t know what that is called.”

Sak thought for a moment. After gazing at my drawing again, right-side up, he asked me to confirm his observation. “This is how it is in the book?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I hummed.

“Then paint it like it is in the book,” Sak decided.

“All right, I’ll get started,” I said, finding the chalk that rolled against the house. “This may take a little while. I don’t know why I’m taking so long.”

“No,” Sak objected. “You’re fast! Deema has tried since last year.”

“Maybe you’re right about the education,” I agreed with Sak.

I finished tracing the drawing on the concrete with chalk. The task took no time at all. I expected the painting to go just as easily. The temporary lines only needed to be filled in with paint. As I painted, I felt nauseous.

“Hey, Sak,” I called up from kneeling on the floor. By the time I finished, I’m sure I’ll be lying down. “Do you have ginger ale or something to calm a stomach?”

“Yes, sure. I’ve got antacids, too,” Sak volunteered.

“That will be great,” I answered thankful. “I’ll take both.”

I faced the patio door as I painted and saw into Sak’s home. He went back into the house, but stayed in the kitchen. Sak knew exactly which cupboard he kept his antacids. He brought the half-full plastic container to me with the ginger ale. I was grateful.

I started to feel like Deema and Jonny, yet to lose the contents of my stomach. A fast-acting flu bug must have victimized me. The speed of the virus and the number of sick people made me wonder if we suffered from food poisoning. The only thing I shared with Deema and Jonny is the cola, in our own, individual cans. The soda might have all come from a bad batch.

While working, and feeling better, that nagging thought about the unfinished glyph returned. I wanted to look at the book again and asked Sak.

“No,” Sak said. “The drawing is fine. It’s almost dawn.”

“Dawn, really?” I asked surprised. Time had really flown, and I was almost done. I knew exactly where I had stopped on this painting. Despite the chalk lines, I made a point of laying a pebble down in the spot where paint still needed to go.

“I didn’t anticipate the time, but it’s actually perfect,” Sak insisted. I guess he stood looking over my shoulder for hours. His vigilance made me self-conscious.

“But it might not be perfect with the images in the book,” I stated, not wanting to give up my artistic integrity.

“Okay,” Sak instantly agreed. “I’ll get the book, but you, continue painting. You can add in what you’ve missed, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” I answered, not completely satisfied to wait and see if my mistake was really just a missing piece. Two things convinced me to follow Sak’s direction; I was tired and felt sick again.

After painting a few more seconds after answering Sak, I talked to him again. “Hey, Sak, can I have another ginger ale and some more antacids?”

“Sure,” Sak said going into his house. “The antacids are still there on the floor, next to you.”

I reached for the bottle, now only a quarter full. No wonder I felt bloated and queasy. Ironically, the bloated feeling was the lesser of the two evils. I ate another couple of tablets. Sak returned with the drowsy looking kids and my ginger ale.

A hot wind suddenly blew up. I turned away from the blast, feeling the rising temperature on my back. I wondered if the wind is the Santa Ana’s I experienced last year. I could not remember the season, the weather could have been like this last summer. The wind would not dissuade me from completing my work before dawn, but I needed to work fast. I saw the eastern horizon glow neon blue over the Verdugo Hills.

“You’re almost finished,” Sak said as I slowly stood, aching.

“I said that,” I snapped at Sak. I should be happy, being so close to earning so much money. Instead, exhaustion made me bitchy. “Are you going to get the book?”

I drank the ginger ale Sak handed me before he went back inside. The kids stayed outside with me. Nobody looked at my painting.

“I couldn’t do that,” Deema told me.

“It kinda makes you sick looking at it, doesn’t it?” Tim asked Jonny.

“Yeah, but that’s how you know its got real power,” Jonny answered.

“What are you two talking about?” I asked the boys.

“Your circle,” Jonny told me. “Deema worked at it for a long time. Man, you’re fast!”

“Christ, Jonny!” Deema shouted.

“That’s the point, Deema,” Jonny stated. “There isn’t one, so we gotta summon our own.”

“What are you guys talking about?” I asked draining the last of my ginger ale. I felt better again, maybe I stopped painting the image. I crawled down on the concrete and started again, because I wanted to finish by the break of day.

The wind seemed to come in gusts. The heat and the blowing sand wasn’t so bad while I stayed close to the ground. I listened to the kids answer my question as I worked.

“You’ve got to read Sak’s writing,” Deema said, speaking over whatever Jonny babbled. “The man is like a prophet.”

The impression I missed something in my drawing still nagged me. I desperately wanted to look at the book again, but Sak had not returned. I don’t know what took him so long, the book lay on a chair in the dining room. I was tempted just to look myself. Except, Sak returned wearing the pink gloves and carrying the tome.

“Which one did you want to see, the circle or the pentagram?” Sak asked.

“The pentagram,” I answered. The image is so simple, especially with its abundance of empty spaces. I saw the image as perfectly whole when I looked at my drawing, but I knew that is where my mistake lay. It’s funny I knew the unfinished corner before Sak proclaimed my drawing finished, but I then lost the spot when he made his announcement.

“I’ll find it, you keep painting,” Sak said as he turned the pages.

The first rays of light cut into the fog of morning. Bands of golden clouds, between the black earth and starless sky, looked like they perhaps formed a bridge to heaven. The foot of the bridge never touched the earth. I wonder how any soul left this world.

I brushed the last thick line of black paint on the concrete. Dust and sand, blowing in the wind, became embedded in the drying paint. I lay on my right side. My back and left thigh felt hot in the light of dawn, as if I lay under a summertime sun at noon.

The band of golden clouds widened and tilted toward the ground. The fresh blue skies were visible through the fog, but Sak’s backyard remained entrenched in shadows.

“Thank you,” Sak said as he turned around and went back inside.

I jumped up and caught Sak in his living room. “What time is it?”

“It’s six AM,” Sak answered. Thank you again, Debbie.”

I thought about how much Sak owed me. The amount of money is insane, but the tired and rotten way I felt right now made the sum seem justified.

“You owe me forty-four hundred dollars,” I told Sak, delivering my invoice for cash upon completion.

“Of course, and thank you again,” Sak said handing the money to me in wrapped stacks of one hundred dollar bills.

“So what is the design for anyway?” I had to ask.

A lot of hassle went into getting this job done. Something supernatural seemed to complicate my otherwise straight forward path. Whatever stalled me fell versus my perseverance. I think I deserved to know the future of the product of my sacrifice.

“A gateway,” Sak said. “I thought the nearest I would ever get to the afterlife is Hell. But you beat the start of the equinox.”

I honestly did not know how to reply to Sak. I understood he stayed awake all night and probably felt just as loopy as me. Sak probably tried to screw around with my head and got himself confused as he told his tall tale. I knew a lot of people in Wisconsin like that. I decided to entertain him.

“If it’s supposed to be the bridge to heaven, why is it so hot?”

“I don’t know,” Sak said looking disappointed.

- END -

The A Codex of Malevolence Trade Paperback is available at LULU.COM.

The ebook, in a variety of formats, is available at Smashwords.

A Codex of Malevolence printed copies and ebooks are available at LULU and Smashwords.

I wasted no time assembling a new slideshow presenting the old book and its refreshed cover and new title. After watching the slideshow, visit A Codex of Malevolence webpage – here. This one isn’t free, but it is cheap. Encourage my bad habits and buy the book at Smashwords or LULU.

A Codex of Malevolence printed copies and ebooks are available at LULU and Smashwords.

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

I’d make a gross comparison – please, accentuate the visceral aspect of the word – and I would assign the 1% status in the Pazuzu Trilogy to the Chosen caste and 99% to the UnChosen. The heathens are excluded and live outside the plutocracy. They are the chaotic terrorists of both worlds. In the current, Seventh Revision of my Pazuzu Trilogy, a government by the wealthy has been replaced by a theocracy – which I imply is the same power when I call the Chosen’s walled Promised Land Capital – no, that is not a typo. The Chosen’s capitol city is called Capital. Many of the characters in the books call the city simply “the Cap.”

There isn’t a lot of wealth in the Cap, so the 1% suffer like everyone else in the Shur desert. That is, except priests of the Church – the drug-addicted upper echelon of the Chosen’s caste. I boldly make the unoriginal claim that God has deserted this world, but that is an important story point. In His absence, alien gods have arrived and woke a demon named Pazuzu. These diabolic entities control the human characters whom readers follow through my tour of the Hellmouth of a bleak alternate world.

Advancement in the world of the Shur desert is constricted because there is no God. As Stephen King stated in his gunslinger series, “the world is winding down.” Stephen King’s Dark Tower series inspired the genesis my Pazuzu Trilogy – I had finished reading the fourth book The Dark Tower IV: Wizard and Glass when the idea occurred to me how I might give life to the monsters I had drawn in my sketchbooks.

I hope I’m able and polish my Pazuzu Trilogy into Art that King can bless – Hell, I’m not beyond prostrating myself at his feet and begging for love. I’m kidding myself, I’m too old – that or malnourished. I’ve embraced the starving artist lifestyle this economy and age have imposed upon me.

That can change. I’m working toward that goal of becoming a professionally published author – that or a fabulously successful ebook author. Every one of you readers can help improve my situation and buy my books! This is where I put the sales cap on again – Collect the books and give my stories as presents. Tell your family and friends, and say encouraging things in forums on the Internet. As you can tell, I suck at sales.

- And I’m asking for a little more – I need social network support. Help me get started and Like the Pazuzu Trilogy page at Facebook!

Purchase Pazuzu Trilogy Pocket books and Hardcovers at LULU.

The Bestial Cult of Hathor
Matthew Sawyer

I know – my home town sounds confusing and its details superfluous, but Wister Town Wisconsin is an old place, with lots of historic landmarks. The Rathskeller is one of them. The themed restaurant is actually in the basement of a historic two story building with a stage and genuine wood dance floor on its second level. On the outside, the whole place looks like a Swiss chateaus. The landmark is run by a locally elected committee.

Committee members used the entire second story of the chateaus for storing their belongings, instead hosting bands and dances. The garbage committee members kept at the Rathskeller looked better suited for a garage or landfill. I don’t know why anyone hung-on to the junk – arms-length nostalgia, perhaps.

Anyway, before I digress further, as I’m wont to do, let me explain the Rathskeller committee. The state of Wisconsin had designated the building a historic monument because it’s original and inspired architecture. The Midwest state granted the Rathskeller restaurant a special tax status as long as a publicly elected committee maintained repairs and displayed the local flavor and folklore of Wister Town. When I arrived there for my interview at the restaurant, the local flavor meant keeping gross sausages no one ever ate on the menu. Pumping loud, non-stop polka music through the outdated and grainy speakers also constituted flavor.

The music CDs must have come from a bargain bin in a big department store outside Wister Town. I’m not a connoisseur of the accordion, and loathe yodeling, but even I knew the selection was shit. I grew up here in this town, after all. I know what decent Slavic folk dance music sounds like. What I didn’t know were the names of the all the Swiss cantons shields residents displayed above their garages. Red was a prominent color in most placards.

The music that played for my interview was definitely not polka music. It sounded like a goddamn mariachi band. One of the reasons I left LA and came back home was to escape the crap – I guess I had forgotten its cacophony also clacked and wheezed here. Jesus, it seems wherever an accordion was used, the music turned to poo.

Whoever put on the CD that day either hoped tourists would not notice or they failed to distinguish Switzerland from Mexico. The Spanish lyrics should have given away the origin of the music, but the CD played until a background singer wailed “Ah, ha,” where a yodel should have gone – if the song had been a polka. I walked into the Rathskeller at that failure, and down concrete stairs into the dim basement restaurant.

Besides bad music torture, part of the process in establishing the Rathskeller a historic monument entailed the election of a committee. I said that, and their purpose was to maintain the operation and upkeep of the facility. As nobody wanted to manage the restaurant themselves, once committee members had pissed-off the last three managers, that job had opened-up. I had applied for that position – the only job posted in the local newspaper in weeks.

The day after I mailed my resume, someone from the Rathskeller operation committee called on the phone. I got a blessed interview! That day, I interviewed with Simon Ecker and Cheryl. Simon asked the only questions. He said things like “Your job as a Mental Health Manager works here.”

He made an analogy. “The work here is like the job duties you listed on your application.”

I had submitted my generic resume and had not completed an application. I only nodded my head, allowing my interviewer to talk in depth. He impressed Cheryl with his rather obvious assumptions. I surmised neither of them had any restaurant experience either.

Neither Cheryl nor Mr. Ecker had reason to be on the committee. They should be at home playing computer games. But I learned Cheryl couldn’t figure out how to retrieve her email and Mr. Ecker became irrationally angry at any mention that the “modern adding machine now did spell checking.” I bet he had crossed out the lines on my resume citing my experience as a software quality analyst. I tried examine the paper he held with the name I had printed and sloppy rows of black bars.

Mr. Ecker had brought my original, folded resume to the interview. Cheryl held a thin photocopy of my life, with the same blocks drawn through my experience. In reflection, the fact Cheryl actually had a copy impressed me. Mr. Ecker is such a Luddite, I imagined, if he bothered to give my information to Cheryl, he had copied my resume by hand, and used chalk on a flat rock.

After the performance, I hoped for Cheryl’s benefit, Mr. Ecker offered me the job and I accepted. I saw him twice more before they unceremoniously canned me. There had been an incident. I don’t want to say more because I’m not a crybaby, but I’ll say Cheryl came to the Rathskeller every week with her drunken and oversexed geriatric friend. You can think whatever you want and it was just as horrible. Afterward, I moved away and went back to California – the sunshine felt cleansing.

A year after the incident before I had been fired from the Rathskeller, I returned again to Wister Town. I first visited Mr. Brodman’s grave. He was the chairman of the Rathskeller committee that had canned me. When he was alive, that man had handed me my walking-papers. I poured him a bottle of Wisconsin beer at his snowy graveside, through my bladder. I planned then that my mother would call me in Los Angeles whenever the graves of other Rathskeller operations committee members were ready for watering. Although, I had found-out about Mr. Brodman’s demise on a social media website for high school and college class mates. When I had, I came right back home – for a weekend tops – and stayed with my Mom.

Feeling a bit relieved from my burden of vengeance, I navigated icy roads and drove to the Rathskeller. That afternoon, no committee members were present at the restaurant. Not surprising, no one at all appeared inside the restaurant, besides Paul, the cook, and Leanne, a waitress I never particularly liked.

“Terry,” Paul shouted from the kitchen, through the pickup window between the kitchen and dining area. He sounded excited to see me, even though we only casually knew each other. We saw one another only when I worked at the Rathskeller, and strictly on the premises of the restaurant. Leanne turned around and promptly disregarded me.

“I haven’t seen you since before you got let go. How ya’ doing?” asked Paul.

“I went back to California,” I answered honestly.

“That’s not cheap,” he told me.

“I know,” I said. “After six months of looking for work in Wisconsin, I sold my house and spent the next seven unemployed in California. I had that money to live-on, although I expect the government will rape me on a capital gains tax. I owned the house in Wisconsin for only those six months I lived here. I got a little extra money from the sale.”

“Yeah?” Paul stated. The question actually signaled the conversation had come to an end. Paul returned to preparing for the trickle of customers expected for supper. Given the road conditions this late February, there was bound to be fewer hungry, and typically thirsty, patrons than last year – even with the pathetic Swiss Mardi Gras gimmick the Rathskeller most recently hosted annually.

“Hey, are the W2 forms in the office?” I interrupted Paul. He needed to unlock the office door and retrieve the forms, unless the Rathskeller operations committee had found another manager. I had to ask. The manager would be in the office, because he or she was not in the dining area. “Does the Rathskeller have a new manager yet?”

“Nah, to both your questions,” answered Paul as he chopped slabs of pork. “Chrissy ain’t done with the W2 forms.”

Leanne turned up the volume of the skipping CD. The accordion actually sounded benign, in a jazzy sort of way, but the instrument still made a noise I rather not listen to. I planned to leave anyway. I told Paul goodbye and climbed the flight of concrete steps toward the front doors. Another flight of concrete steps, at the top of the wide landing, went to the warehouse of other people’s private belongings. An elevator, no one used, went to the top and foot of each set of stairs. The conveyance remained perpetually locked.

The outside of the Rathskeller looked like a big, old chateaus, crowded between a nondescript bowling alley and boring and sour middle school – as I recalled. I grew up a block away from this place, up the hill, in the brick house. During the summers, every weekend, live amateur accordion ensembles and drunken yodelers tormented me. That probably explained why I detested the instrument. Ironically, the memory reminded me why I first fled my hometown.

I remember, as a kid I had a friend who took accordion lessons. I refused to listen to the racket he made, so, I answered truthfully when he asked if I liked the instrument. His ten year old mind equated my criticism to hating Swiss people, and therefore him. The kid was a freak. A few years later, I got my ass kicked by a bigger kid because of that little prick. I’m surprised my nose was not broken back then.

I suppose there’s a certain Old World charm to Wister Town, especially the Rathskeller and the town square. But, sadly, the town just never grew beyond the Old World. Serving up physical landmarks for the memory of old people got the town stuck in slow decay. Tourists were encouraged to visit and indulge the elderly who would reminisce in spooky hazes. The Rathskeller had been deigned that forum. As the restaurant’s manager a year ago, I had put seriously thought into marketing the asset.

Just like business, I never had lessons in marketing, so my best ideas were often disastrous from conception. On that day dead Mr. Brodman fired me, I had thought about setting up booths, with tables and checkered tablecloths, outside the Rathskeller in May, when the snow and ice had melted. The restaurant could charge a two drink minimum for the company of an old person. Wister Town was full of the elderly – we could cart in the geezers from the neighborhood as they were needed. They would act as “volunteers.” In one respect, I’m glad the committee fired me. I had begun to think like the inbred cretins, again. (I did say I had grown up here).

At six PM, the sky darkened already – typical of winter in Wisconsin. Besides the obvious time zone difference, the bright skies in California took a long time before they faded, stretching the day longer. I had definitely taken the extended daylight for granted before buying a house in Wisconsin. I learned that when I went back to California, and missed the warm sunlight now.

A group of old men tottered toward the entrance of the Rathskeller, from where I departed. I tried squeezing past them, only to be pushed into the wrought iron fence surrounding the hibernating flower garden, now mounded in shoveled snow. I felt glad I never have to clear snow in Los Angeles, only brush ashes from my car when the hills catch fire.

One of the bundled codgers asked me “Young man, what d’ya think?”

The warm fog of his breath encompassed my head. I feared breathing until the cold air chilled the cloud and made the vapor dissipate. A couple other men pulled the man away from me. The padded jackets, stocking caps and scarves made recognizing the “regulars” impossible. I thought a committee member or two must be in the bunch. I chanted to myself “I may not know who you are, all covered up, but I know I’ll see you again soon.” Further, I mused I may just piss on all of their graves. There was nothing special about Mr. Brodman anyway.

The man talking to me wore a red insulated, zippered vest over a gray flannel shirt. He jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His arms shook violently in the cold. He asked me the question for which he wanted my thoughts.

“Shouldn’t a man be allowed to love his cows? It’s how you worship God. King Tut did.”

“Shh, Earl, not that one,” a man in a blue insulated jacket ordered through his green scarf.

Normally, I would have attributed the comment to drunkenness, and once inside, Earl will surely start on his way. But, at their age, anything could have caused the slip; diabetes, prescription mediation, a stroke or Alzheimer’s. Earl had probably already forgot he asked me anything.

The disguised men pushed Earl through the entrance of the Rathskeller. No doubt, they had scheduled a meeting tonight. It might even be one of those secret operation committee meetings I was once told took place every month. I never saw one when I worked at the Rathskeller. And when I worked there, I was at the restaurant all the time. I knew the number of skips on any particular CD of accordion hell stacked by the player.

I told myself not to even bother thinking of the place and decided I’d go back to my mother’s house. She allowed me to stay in her extra bedroom. The room stank of cat litter, but the accommodation saved money. I could always throw the blanket over my head when I went to bed. The simple remedy helped me attain another goal of mine; not to spend one more dime in Wister Town. If I’m not good enough for this town, then obviously my money isn’t either.

Despite the cold winter evening, I walked to my mother’s house nearby. Slipping across ice on the sidewalks and taking care slowed me and my trip took about ten minutes. The walk would have been faster if I had not spent all my energy shivering.

I had never become accustomed to knocking on her door, and walked straight into her three bedroom, two story home. My mother said when I entered “Terry, there’s a job in the newspaper you can probably do.”

My mother stayed downstairs because of her temperamental joints and poor heart. She went upstairs infrequently, and only to change the cat litter. In her mind, the cat could just poop outside if the animal got fussy about how things looked up there. Mom only changed the litter when she smelled ammonia in her kitchen; where she always spent most of her day.

“I’m not planning to stay in this town, Mom,” I reminded my mother.

“But you’re not working in California either. I didn’t raise lazy children,” my mother said. “The mail man delivered the paper this morning, but I haven’t checked my mail.”

“How do you know there’s a job in the paper if you haven’t looked at it?” I asked fairly, although I thought I knew the answer. Wister Town was such a small place that even stories in the newspaper were discussed across town before most people read the articles themselves. At the very least, conversations about news articles stemmed the spread of gossips and rumors in his town, albeit barely.

“My friend, Lisa, told me about it this morning.”

“The post office delivers the paper now?” I asked a little outraged at the arrangement.

“Yes,” Mom answered. “There are so few people that get it anymore. A lot of people look on the Internet for their news. It’s exciting.”

“I feel sorry for the mailman and all those paper boys,” I commented. “Why do you still get it? This is only four pages. And do they really charge seventy-five cents?”

“I like to read the paper in the kitchen,” Mom answered. “A weekly subscription is seven dollars.”
“That’s a dollar a day,” I said even more indignant. “You can get a subscription for the paper in LA for, like, a buck fifty.”

“No, the Sunday paper is a dollar fifty. The daily paper is a little cheaper.”

I gave-up talking my mother into dropping her subscription to the same amount of ink and paper I find on my windshield in LA, whenever I parked my car in a public lot. She had subscribed to an ISP, learned to use email, and she even read the local news online, but she was a creature of habit. Mom must have her newspaper in her hands when she sat in the kitchen.

After turning straight to the back page of the paper, I reported “Their website has the same content, but doesn’t include the want ads.”

“That’s how they get people to buy the paper, nowadays.”

“It’s lame,” I answered, frustrated.

Only one job appeared listed in the paper today. I told Mom “There’s just a Medical Biller position at the hospital.”

“Do that,” Mom cheered.

I told her “I know I lack the patience required for the job. The work involves telephone and in-person interviews with patients, or whoever paid their bills.”

“You can do that,” she insisted.

I claimed “I just can’t heartlessly wrestle money from the sick and injured. The idea feels wrong. Maybe, when I eventually sell my soul for work, I can do the job. I could be good at it, but I’d hate myself.”

“Why then, did you come back to Wister Town?” my mother asked. “Aren’t you running out of money?”

“I sold my house, Mom. I’m living on that. It will last me for a little longer, unless I get sick or hurt.”

“That’s why you should take the job here,” Mom stated.

“It says right here, there are no benefits,” I said, pointing-out the printed line to my mother. “I’d be in the same boat if I got in an accident, or something. Besides, I bet a lot of people here in town have blocked the hospital on their telephones. They will just throw away letters demanding payment. I’d have to knock door-to-door, in the snow. That’s a job for the mailman, slash paperboy.”

“All right, Terry,” my mother interrupted. “You’ve made your point. Do you want a cup of coffee? I know you like it, to settle yourself down.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. I was an admitted and dedicated addict. Although, I had not even started drinking the stuff until I originally moved to California. My girlfriend at the time turned me on to caffeine. I turned down espresso and didn’t like any of those caffeinated energy drinks. I wanted a long, slow burn, not a quick, citrus-flavored boost of energy.

“Why did you come back, Terry?” my mother asked again, rocking out of her easy chair. I stopped the woman and made the coffee myself.

“Mr. Brodman died,” I answered walking into the kitchen.

“Oh, he was one of your favorite teachers,” Mom remembered.

“Not anymore, not since he fired my ass,” I answered.

“Oh, Terry, since you went to California, your language has gotten so rude, hateful,” Mom said.

“It’s ‘cuz I’m older, Mom, and bitter,” I answered. “The only job I’ve got now is getting old, and I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“It’s hard,” Mom agreed. “You’ve had so many failures; you can’t get a job, and your accident, and two broken engagements.

“Yeah, I don’t think you can call those failures,” I replied. “That’s like when you told people I was sick, not in an accident. And the accident was completely out of my control. I don’t even remember it.”

“Shh, drink your coffee, Terry,” Mom commanded.

“I just hope you’re not telling people I’m a failure, Mom,” I said waiting for the pot to brew. “Because, yeah, I gave up painting a while ago, but I’m writing a book, while I look for a job. I stay busy.”

“But you haven’t worked in a year, except for what you did for your brother.”

“Yeah, I know,” I conceded. “That’s the first question I get, if someone ever calls me back. I tell them I’m writing and try to sell them the book.”

“Getting a book published can take twenty years,” Mom said.

“I know, and I might not make it. How old was dad when he died, sixty-three?”

My mother nodded her head.

“Well, there you go,” I answered. “If I win just under a million dollars in a lottery, I’ll make it until I’m dead.”

“Unless you get sick,” Mom said.

“And that’s what makes me a Socialist. Anything to get medical attention when you need it works. I don’t see why I have to trade my home for my life.”

“Well, if you’re a Socialist, you won’t even have a house,” my Mom stated.

The comment sounded like a threat, like my house would be taken away because of my political party. Well, I don’t have a house, because the people in power fucked up the economy. At least, I was glad the administration changed. But in all honesty, the politicians can keep playing games, as long as I’ve got the sunshine in southern California. I was eager to get back, now that Mr. Brodman’s grave had been adequately defiled.

“Why did you come back, Terry?” Mom asked again. “There’s nothing here for you.”

“I know,” I said. “I came back to see you, too. In all honesty, you’re in the last years of life yourself. I wanted to see you.”

“I’m sorry, Terry,” Mom said.

“I don’t know why,” I said. “Life has gotten everybody tangled up. Only the lucky get out alive.”

“There is Hathor, Terry,” proposed Mom.

“What?” I asked, completely confused. The woman was diabetic. She might be having an episode and babbling nonsense.

“She is a goddess from Egypt,” Mom said, seriously.

“What are you talking about?”

“There is a meeting tonight at the Rathskeller, where you worked for a little while. It’s in the paper today.”

I opened to the second page of the paper and at once saw everything that happened in Wister Town the previous day; primarily high school sports scores and obituaries. I didn’t understand why people would pay for a newspaper that someone, they never knew or care about, had already purchased with the announcement of their own or a family member’s death.

Sure enough, a sizable announcement in the paper declared a meeting tonight at the Rathskeller. The announcement clarified the meeting was intended for anyone of Celtic descent. The meeting looked like it concerned an ancestor club of sorts. Everyone in town always did have keen interest in genealogy. Heck, mapping out a family tree was my first exercise when I started grade school.

“It says you have to be Celtic to go to the meeting,” I told Mom. “You said our family came from Norway.”

“My father’s father did, your great-grandfather. Your dad’s grandfather was German.”

“So what’s this about?” I asked my mother. She had obviously made her rounds and had talked with her friends today, or the woman read the paper psychically.

“She’s a cow goddess from Egypt,” Mom said.

I offered flourish and condensed her story. “Right, because there are a lot of dairy farms up here. So, what do the Celts have to do with an Egyptian goddess?”

“The Celtic used to be mercenaries for the Romans. That’s where Wister Town got its colors. You can look that up on the Internet. I did.”

“So, this meeting is about high school football team’s uniform color? But you need to have Celtic ancestry to attend?”

“No, I meant to say the Romans introduced their gods to the Celtics and made the mercenaries worship them. But the Celtic learned about Egyptian gods from them, too, that’s where Hathor came from.”

“Geez, Mom, you should write a book. That’s the kind of stuff I would read.”

“Well, can you see what the meeting is about?” Mom asked me. “I am interested in what they say. People say Hathor will be good for Wister Town, especially us old folks.”

“Oh, so you think it’s a company moving into the city?” I asked, believing I understood a little more about the meeting.

“I don’t know,” Mom said. “I’d go myself, but my ankles and knees hurt because of the cold. It sounds interesting.”

“Oh, all right,” I halfheartedly agreed.

An evening at home with Mom would have probably ended up with us staring at each other, anyway, or she would fall asleep. Mom usually went to be early. I went back to the Rathskeller resenting the fact that everything in Wister Town revolved around the place one way or another. I couldn’t give a squat if the place burned down to the ground, despite its historical significance. I thought the fact unfortunate, a few idiots managed to gain control of the restaurant and the place had lost all its attraction for me. The only way the Rathskeller seemed could survive was the adolescent, ritual defilement of the graves its committee member. I felt justified and selected for the historic chore.

I put on my insulated jacket I had brought from California with the rest of my flimsy cold-weather apparel. I then started my downhill trek back to the Rathskeller. Many of the sidewalks were unsalted and already covered with ice. Sliding down the slicks made the trip a little faster, if not risky for someone my age without health insurance.

The skate in the dark, back to the Rathskeller, passed without any trouble. I entered through one of the four heavy, wooden doors at the front of the building. After climbing down the stairs, I saw the Rathskeller empty, though I heard voices. Paul cooked something sour in the kitchen and paid no attention when I entered the restaurant.

I refrained and did not disturb whatever pointless thing Paul did. I also did not see Leanne. The paper reported the meeting was held in the private dining room. The proper name of the room was painted in German letters above an open set of double-doors carved from dark-chocolate wood.

The meeting took place in the “weistube,” pronounced vish-tu-bah; a room off the dining area of the restaurant. Designed for wine tasting, the weistube was a traditional addition to the building that housed a Rathskeller. Everybody in Wister Town preferred beer. So, this weistube became the supposed meeting room for the Rathskeller’s operation committee.

The meeting concerning “Hathor” obviously took precedence over any other reservation for the weistube. Tonight, the heat radiating from the room felt excessive. The thermostat had problems when I worked here last year, but I had never felt such intense and humid warmth coming from the room before.

The men I had passed leaving the Rathskeller earlier sat inside. Although, I failed to recognize anyone stripped of winter coats and sitting fat in sweaters, except Earl. He spotted me once I stood in the doorway. A wild look burned in his eyes.

“Drive him out,” Earl screamed. “He is watched by a New World God. He threatens holy Hathor!”

Everyone sitting around the overlapping huddle of eight dark and heavy wooden tables – all pushed together – looked at me and stood up. Each one appeared alarmed to see me. A couple committee members restrained Earl. If I couldn’t outrun every one of these old timers, their expressions and movement would have been frightened me. The meeting attendees looked as threatening as the grouchy residents of a nearby nursing home.

“Hi Terry,” George Simon said. He originally served as the president of the operation committee, last year when I was hired then fired.

The man seemed all right, if not a little too pliable. He promoted the concept of unanimity to staunch controversy. I refused to believe he also condoned anonymity, but I guess I was wrong. Come to think of it, that was an easy tactic if he avoided taking responsibility. The man was a coward, and so was everyone on the committee. I skipped returning his greeting.

“We thought you went back to California,” George said.

“Brodman died,” I replied.

George nodded while everyone else in the broiling room stared at me. Sweat soaked many of them, but not because of me. Standing in the doorway felt as if I had opened the door of a baking oven.

“This is kind of a private meeting,” George told me.

“That’s not in the newspaper ad. It just said something about Celtic ancestry.”

“You’re not from Switzerland,” Carrie, George’s scrawny wife judiciously stated.

“Well, neither are a lot of the Rathskeller supporters,” George said. “I don’t think that matters.”

“My father’s side is completely German,” I said to Carrie. “That country is right next door to Switzerland. Check out a map.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Greg said nervous. He licked his thin lips. “But we have already called the meeting to order and started our discussion.”

“Go ahead, I’m not stopping you. I’m just here to find out what this is all about, anyway.”

“Throw him out,” Earl cried. “He blasphemes Hathor.”

“No, Earl,” George said. “I don’t know who told you that, but there is no evidence.”

“Is that why the operation committee asked Brodman to fire me?” I asked George. He had pleaded ignorance to my question when I asked him before I left town last year.

“I wasn’t at that vote,” claimed George.

“I wondered about that,” I told George. “So, a unanimous vote only counts for people that come to meetings, not the whole committee?”

“Objection,” shouted a woman furthest from the door’s entrance.

“That works in a court of law, Emma,” said another woman that stood next to the challenging woman.

“Well, yes, it is out of line,” George said. “Terry, you are interrupting this meeting.”

“Me?” I asked bewildered. “I’m just standing here and listening. If you’re going to throw anyone out, it should be Earl.”

“Oh, we need him this evening. I’m asking you to leave, Terry. Please leave,” decided George.

“That’s fine,” I said, feeling angry for having been asked to leave a public forum – I was not the one who started yelling. “Just tell me what this Hathor thing is all about.”

“Hathor lives! Praise to the beautiful and living Hathor!” Earl shouted.

“Shh, Earl,” many of the attendees croaked in unison. A few, less sharp, individuals staggered their solicitations for quiet. One snaggletoothed, old woman echoed Earl. She was also silenced.

“Earl, there, makes Hathor sound like a cult,” I observed aloud. “Out of a bad horror movie from the fifties.”

“No, Terry,” denied George. “It’s a way of life.”

“George?!” Carrie scolded.

“What is it, then?” I asked.

“None of your business,” spat Carrie.

“What, is this a cult of an Egyptian Goddess?” I asked, not seriously, but Carrie had always gotten on my nerves with her secret nonsense. Now seemed as good as any time to throw the conspiracy back at her. I told them all “The local churches held ecumenical meetings here in the weistube every Tuesday. Doesn’t that still happen? What will the Catholic and Protestant churches say about a cult?”

Everyone continued staring at me. The mouths of a few folks dropped open. I did not see Earl – someone probably held him seated in his chair, behind the standing attendees. Someone else must have put a hand over the man’s mouth. In this town, invoking the Christian faith usually provoked some reaction. Everyone here most likely considered themselves exceptionally pious.

Paul stepped behind me. I had not seen him leave the kitchen, even from the corner of my eye, but I did hear him approach. I could never forget his heavy, dragging footsteps.

“Terry,” Paul softly said, catching my attention. The cook talked to me in a hushed tone. He told me “You should leave before they throw you out. You don’t want to bring the cops here, do ya?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I answered Paul over my shoulder.

“Hey, I got some rosti you can have for free. I got it in a take out box already,” Paul offered.

“Yeah, I’ll take it,” I said turning around. I followed Paul back toward the kitchen.

I didn’t particularly enjoy hash browns covered with cheese, but my brother liked the stuff. I’ll give it to him, if I see him, within the next couple days, or my Mom will eat it. The carry out box will sit in her refrigerator until I see my brother, anyway.

Simon Ecker followed Paul and I to the kitchen. As he moved through the vacant dining area, weaving between tables lain with silver-plated, or plain silvery, utensils for fine dining, Simon botched his sneaky approach. The old man stumbled over chairs. He still lurked nearby, hidden outside the window that looked into the kitchen. I still hadn’t see the waitress, Leanne – not that I cared.

“So what do you know about this Hathor?” I asked Paul while we stood in the kitchen.

Paul gestured at the window and glared at me. He must have also noticed Simon following us. I nodded my head and confirmed Simon eavesdropped. Paul stepped closer to me and whispered his reply.

“You should have never come back to town the first time,” Paul told me.

I stared back at him with my brow raised and shrugged my shoulders, indicating I had no idea what threat or consequence Paul referred. Simon poked his head through the window. The heat lamps over the shelf lit the inside of his open mouth as the old man shifted false teeth with his plaque covered tongue. Paul saw him the same moment I noticed the warm glow of the man’s balding scalp. The gray tufts of hair he still possessed glowed like warm metal.

“Nobody is going to miss him when he’s gone,” I heard Carrie shout from the weistube. I ignored her dreary, mad and meaningless threat.

I took the foam box of potatoes from Paul and said good bye. Simon and I said nothing to each other as I walked past and on my way toward the stairs. At the foot of the concrete steps, I saw a door on the top landing open. From my perspective, I then saw fluffy and dusty yarn balls on the tops of a couple knitted stocking caps. A young animal belched. The noise sounded like it came from a kid, as in a goat, or a calf.

The two people who brought the animal inside jerked and bobbed about. Honestly, all I saw from the bottom of the stairs were the red and white yarn balls appear and disappear. The balls floated above the stairs like puppets driven by a manic puppeteer. I climbed the stairs, anticipating I would dodge a frightened and flailing animal just so I might get outside the Rathskeller.

Blood slicked the top of the stairs; the horrendous animal shat and vomited the spoiled ichor. Blood oozed from its mouth and streaked between its rear legs. Those were the parts of the creature that made sense. Maybe the thing began as a calf, but had then mutated. The thing had swelled into a pig-like shape, specifically the rotund belly and stunted legs. It also had four extra limbs; tentacles, actually. The tentacles were covered in the same bloody brown hide of the creature, and even ended in vestigial, cloven hooves.

The pair of tentacles on the top of the animal writhed and bludgeoned the slimy concrete floor with bony hooves, splattering blood against the walls, doors and elevator. The knocking rattled the stairwell. Everyone in the weistube must hear it, but I suspected most of the elderly patrons had hearing problems. The tentacles that had grown from the belly of the pig-calf monster dragged lifelessly on the floor, swirling patterns in the coagulating gore.

“What the hell is that thing?” I shouted between the knocks. The thunder of the creature’s hooves continued to echo in the vestibule and muffled my voice.

“This is the manifestation of Hathor, our loving goddess,” someone answered from the bottom of the staircase. “All praise beautiful Hathor!”

The writhing and panic-stricken thing bleated hoarse, vulgar coughs. The ropes wrapping its swollen neck complained, but held. Nevertheless, the sharp whine from the taut leash warned that the restraint was ready to snap.

“We pledge our love and offer our seed,” said one of the men who held the monster with ropes. The drooling older man unlatched the straps on his overalls using on hand.

“Not now or here, Willis,” commanded the second man, also holding the monster and wearing overalls. The man who had unfastened his clothes grabbed his end of the rope with both hands. His overalls clung, snug against his waist. The top half of the overalls covered his thick thighs like a skirt.

“What are you morons doing?” Earl shouted from the back of the crowd gathered at the foot of the stairs. “That man is watched by a New World God. Don’t let him near the body of Hathor.”

“It’s alright, Earl,” George said. He stood at the front of the crowd and on the first step. “That god has abandoned him. But he can’t leave here, now that he has seen our beautiful incarnation of Hathor.”

“Once an enemy, always a danger,” Earl screamed. “So sayeth Mars.”

“We’re not supposed to mention them,” somebody near Earl said. “That’s the Centuries’ Contract with the Catholic Church.”

“We got a new God, a beautiful Goddess,” Earl exclaimed.

“Everyone appreciates and shares your enthusiasm, Earl,” George said uselessly. Earl paid no attention to the somewhat rational man.

The wild man pushed his way through the mob. George attempted to calm Earl from the first stair and talked over everyone’s head. He seemed to exert no influence. Earl emerged from the front the crowd. As he dodged George’s attempts snaring him, Earl fell on the concrete steps. The snap of a small bone echoed in the stairwell. Meanwhile, the pair of strangers held the monster in place. Its flailing limbs spun in the air. The abomination belched more blood that trickled down the stairs, like an impotent waterfall, toward where Earl lay.

“Goddammit, I broke my finger,” cried Earl.

I leapt over the flowing blood and ran outside, into the cold night. I heard the beast inside the Rathskeller clack it’s hooves against the concrete floor behind the shut door. No other sound of pursuit came over the thunderous racket. Turning around, I watched the front door suddenly opened. Earl charged outside without his coat or any other cold weather apparel. When I saw him, I threw down the take-out container of potatoes and ran. The ice on the sidewalk made my flight treacherous and slow.

Before I reached the end of the block, more people erupted from the Rathskeller. They skated across the ice on the sidewalk gracelessly, but everyone stayed on their feet. The accomplishment heralded a long lifetime spent coping with Wisconsin winters. The old folks moved quicker than I expected, but not as fast as me, if unhampered by the cold and ice.

The sidewalks coated with ice on the blocks that sloped uphill were impossible to climb. My feet slipped backwards as if I pumped my legs on an imaginary bicycle. Desperate, I jumped onto the snow bank closest the street. I sank up to my ankles into the shoveled ice and snow, so my progress slowed even more. Mercifully, the terrain allowed me to move forward. I wish I had brought my car. The roads were covered with sand that kept vehicles from slipping. In fact, I heard someone in a truck now. The vehicle came from the Rathskeller.

I thought I spotted a dry patch of sidewalk, so I jumped off the boot-sucking snow bank. As soon as I tried running, my legs flew in front of me and I landed flat on my back. I slid, uncontrolled, downhill. While I lay moving on my back, I looked up and saw looming shadows of people come from the Rathskeller. They appeared as nothing but black shapes against the moonlit snow and still a block away. I picked myself up just as a yellow, beaten pickup truck paused on the street, opposite me. The barrel of a shotgun poked through the driver’s side window of the truck.

The driver fired the shotgun just as I dropped back down on the ice, completely concealed by the snow bank. I immediately slid downhill again. The blast from the firearm blew out the picture window of a white colonial house. As I slid, I heard a man curse inside the home. He ordered others inside the house.

“Turn off the lights,” the victimized home owner shouted. He commanded others “Crawl behind furniture.”

I stopped my slide, spun myself around so my head pointed the other direction, and rolled over. Somebody stepped on my back and pinned me, as best as possible on the slippery slope. I could probably knock my captor over, suddenly sliding into his other foot.

“Sorry, Terry,” Paul said. His boot pressed me against the cold ground.

The identity of my captor shocked me. This was the cook at the Rathskeller. He always seemed aloof to anything outside the kitchen. Paul had usually been helpful to me. I thought we probably liked each other.

“Paul?” I shouted. “What are you doing? Let me go. Those fuckers are gonna kill me.”

He tells me “I didn’t realize you saw the incarnation of Hathor. This is her first manifestation. The New World God of the Sun cannot know she is born yet; even the blind eye of the sun castes light. And it’s hot and jealous.”

“What kind of bullshit is that?” I protested. “Just get off of me. What have you got to do with this?”

“My grandparents used to own the Rathskeller. They once hosted secret Passion plays upstairs. These plays were resurrections of pagan gods. Hathor is one; the most beautiful and mighty of them all. She came from Switzerland with my ancestors – from the Canton of St Gallen, on the Rhine.”

Earl and a couple others from the Rathskeller appeared as they stepped and slipped past Paul. The mob stood over my head. The growing number of opponents became disconcerting, but they all were old men; I could take the lot of them. Only Paul presented a problem, a big one. The man was nearly twice my size.

“What is this New World God you guys talk about?” I grunted from beneath his heel. If I could talk him into letting me go, I could plow through the rest of these brittle pagans just fine.

Paul answered me thoughtfully. “He must have watched you in California, but would not follow you into winter. That is a lawless place when the world passes from old to new.”

“So what, Paul,” I shouted, giving up.

This cult, which apparently worshiped a side-show attraction, had hypnotized Paul. The freak animal I had seen definitely was a sick cow. Although, I don’t know what kind of mutation warped the thing’s body and made it grow tentacles. The moving limbs on the creature’s back amazed me. Come to think of it, I don’t know if the blood the thing puked and shat came from internal bleeding or whatever it had been fed. The thought crossed my mind that I may become an upcoming bout of bloody vomit.

“Just let me get the hell out of here,” I begged, then propositioned. “I won’t ever come back to this damn state!”

“Sorry, Terry,” Paul said. “You’re not leaving.”

I rolled over and, as expected, caught Paul off guard. The ice beneath me was too slippery and he could not keep me in one place. Paul fell over, and leaned broadly against a snow bank. I scrambled onto my feet as people in thick mittens reached for me. I yanked myself out of the pawed grasps of everyone, pulling off mittens as I broke free. The number of bundled assailants almost overwhelmed me. I felt overborne and suffocated beneath a mountain of pillows.

Shoving, I pressed my way up the side walk. My pursuers had as much trouble gaining traction on the ice as I did. I continued pushing forward until an attacker I forced uphill fell over. Another stuffed winter coat on bowed legs waddled forward and took the place of his fallen comrade.

No matter how much I pushed, the lynch mob-mentality of the crowd brought old people from behind and to my front. All the while, I through “Even if I escape this crazy monkey-pile, there was that crackpot with the shotgun.”

I reminded myself “There might even be more inbred lunatics waiting for me once I cleared the shooter’s allies.”

If one of these crazy cultists got me, the creepy asshole would probably mount my head over his fireplace. This cult of Hathor would butcher me and serve me in two portions. The Rathskeller would serve my guts in Schublig on a bed of sauerkraut. The rest of me would then go fed to their goddess thing. The horror motivated me.

I got lucky when I reached a shoveled and salted front walk. I bolted up toward the house and a salted walk, then leapt around the building, over the lawn and through the snow. The old coyotes who chased me could easily follow my tracks, but lots of luck catching up. I felt relieved I avoided the shotgun waiting for me once I broke to the other side of the block.

I watched headlights come around the corner and turn down a familiar alley I planned to sprint down. I had no other choice. I reached the alley before the cultists sealed-off one end of the block. Although, I suppose if I really needed, I could jump through another yard – I conjured my own optional escape routes.

I ran back to my Mom’s house, where I had left my car, and immediately suspected Hathor cultists had followed me. They probably knew where I stayed – news traveled fast in Wister Town. Because that seemed my predicament, this was my final farewell and I felt chased from my hometown. I was urgent.

I got into my car, with no pursuer in sight. Thankfully, the vehicle started and refrained from complaints about the bitter chill. I got the Hell out of Wister Town – a town of murderous cultists that worshiped an Egyptian cow goddess. I refused to come back for the other eight funerals. Once I crossed the city limits, I felt I left something behind, but I wasn’t going home again – I wouldn’t die and be buried in Yelloweed cemetery, in a pit he had probably filled with his own urine.

Horrid Tales of Wister Town printed copies and ebooks are available at LULU and Smashwords.

Truthful Consequence

Matthew Sawyer

“All right, Darren. It’s good to see you again,” said Rich, Darren’s brother-in-law. Darren knew the man lied.

If not for his sister, Jessica, Darren would never have seen his niece and nephews today.

“Bye-bye, Darren,” Jessica said hugging her older brother. “Hey, I just want to say, telling your other niece she is adopted was not cool.”

“I didn’t know it’s still a family secret. She’s twenty-five years old and just had a girl of her own,” Darren justified. “She needs to know her heredity, because color blindness doesn’t run on our side of the family.”

“Her mother promised to tell her when she needs to know,” Jessica stated. Darren’s sister, both sisters actually, didn’t understand secrets and white lies are always revealed at the worst times. The best policy is honesty, now matter how brutal and immediate. Hoping secrets stayed buried only taunts fate to deliver consequences, with untimely and tardy revelations.

“Yeah, I know,” Darren said in defense then softened his tone. “I told her by mistake, a slip of the tongue. The girl is going to pay out-of-pocket for more vision tests, her mother only has to tell her.”

“You know those two fight,” Jessica reminded Darren as she stepped out the door Her kids followed the young woman out of the dingy, first-floor studio apartment.

The kids, Tammy, Nicholas and Jimmy, joined their parents in the parking lot, right outside Darren’s front door. The kids said goodbye to their only, and consequently, favorite uncle. Jessica expressed to her brother “I’m less leery about bringing the kids to see their uncle.”

Darren told her “At least, you come right out and tell me, instead of skirting around the issue.” That kind of silent evasiveness automatically turned Darren into a crusader for truth.

She said “Something like that must run in the family.”

As a teenager, twenty years ago, Darren received his clinical diagnosis. The psychologist said the boy suffered an obsessive-compulsive disorder – Darren always told the truth. Although, way back then, Darren himself insisted he was not obsessed or compelled. He simply grew up honest. A few years later, he felt everyone should be truthful. That’s when Darren lost all his lying and unrepentant friends.

Honesty became a real problem and people got mad. Darren lacked discretion when he revealed secrets and lies. His nagging impulse to uncover truth made finding friends and holding a job impossible. Darren’s integrity became a burden, one he could not willfully drop with any ease .

There was so much deceit in the world that Darren seriously thought about carrying signs and hanging revelations outside his apartment. He controlled himself, despite the dictates of his common sense and ethics. Causing trouble would only get him evicted from his apartment, not that he particularly cared about losing his hovel.

Listening with his heart made Darren keenly aware of other people’s violations and misjudgments. A perfect example was Rich, Darren’s brother-in-law. Darren ignored the stench of the man’s rotting soul – buried beneath fibs, exaggerations and half-truths – every time they spoke.

Jessica called from the mini-van carrying her family today. “And thanks for not teaching our kids anymore dirty words.”

The vehicle passed slowly, with all the windows down. Rich grunted a chuckle, but no one had to be psychic to see the man pretended his wife’s comment was funny. Darren waved farewell to his sister and her family. The mini-van disappeared once it turned down a driveway that lead to the street in front of more apartment buildings.

The profanity had nothing to do with Darren’s erroneous OCD diagnosis- he had just gotten used not watching his language. If his sister wanted Darren to stop swearing, she just needed to visit with the kids more often. A little practice and live drills would only improve his vocabulary. He would appreciate the company too. Darren’s nephews and niece were honest kids.

Standing outside his apartment, Darren watched storm clouds roll in fast. The weather on the news and the Web reported another killer-tornado on the way, thanks to global warming. Darren decided he would ride-out the wind again. The apartment complex contained no underground shelters – everyone worried for their own neck must go to the community center a couple blocks away. As far as Darren was concerned, the apartment complex had never been hit and stood a good mile from the street recently nicknamed “tornado highway.” Tornadoes weren’t like lightning, and their habitual paths were mapped once they struck.

If Darren did make the wrong assumption about the sanctuary of his apartment building, then he only will pay the cost. He has never been married, nor had a girlfriend. His “compulsive honesty” usually subverted any chance of starting a relationship, right at the moment Darren invited the poor woman on a date.

The same perception, a sense of desolation in the ethics and morals of others, also prevented Darren from ever finding a roommate. Darren has, so far, lived his entire adult life alone. His job as a janitor, at a nearby nursing home, paid for rent, food and utilities. Everything else was scrounged together month to month. His poor soul had always believed something waited for him when he got older. So far, he has only faced disappointment.

The hope and delusional promise of deliverance into an abundant life seemed shared by a lot of people. Darren occasionally joined a fellow that cried into a beer at the bars. The drunks repeated the same dreams aloud and Darren mourned. Their dreary self-loathing eventually drove him to drink alone at home, which was actually better for everyone. A little alcohol turned patrons into raving liars and loosened Darren’s self-control.

Though storm clouds spared the late afternoon sun, Darren closed the vertical blinds on the picture window facing a sparse parking lot. He touched a burning match to the wick of a candle – because he enjoyed the ambiance. The feeble and flickering illumination made him feel as if he sat in an eighteenth century courtroom. Darren had no idea how his mind manufactured the connection between courtrooms and candlelight, but his brain honestly did and that’s why he lit the candle. If he was not so much a righteous Christian man, Darren might have merited the vision was a memory from a past life.

As a single man, he never kept much of anything edible. Corn chips and booze became his supper tonight. Darren knew the moment he got drunk – when he believed his brother-in-law was right for not bringing the kids around more often. A clear conscious was not enough to justify a moral life, scraped out alone. Darren knew he presented a horrible role model.

Outside, the wind blew fierce. Sunlight engulfed the glow cast by the candle as the vertical slats on the blinds swung open and closed like unsynchronized pendulums. A draft forced itself between the window’s glass and wooden frame. The blinds swung as the sky outside darkened, leaving only the candlelight inside Darren’s apartment.

Darren tried the light switch, but the bulb refused to glow. The computer, television and microwave were also uncooperative. He thought the winds appeared to have already claimed power lines. Darren hoped Jessica and her family got home safe. They probably drove along tornado highway after leaving his apartment.

The city would not restore electricity until after the storm, so Darren sat down with his bottle for a game of solitaire. He anticipated the night would be monotonous, filled with the dull company of himself. Darren anxiously listened for the sound of rain to overtake the howling wind.

As soon as the storm passed and the power was fixed, Darren planned to turn on the TV and enjoy the scripted lies of virtual guests. Plays, movies, sitcoms and dramas were okay. The media seldom made Darren anxious because he recognized the characters and events were pretend. Still, sports, documentaries and the Evening News drove him mad.

The door rattled as if caught by the wind. He believed the storm must have passed, because Darren heard nothing else blowing around. The rattling continued as if the door held a hurricane at bay. Someone knocked with mad urgency, like Emergency Medical Technicians responding to a medical crisis at the wrong apartment number. That’s happened before. The exterior of all the apartments in the building looked alike. The apartment numbers can be difficult to find, unless a visitor knew where to find them.

Anyone standing outside his front door was visible from the picture window. Darren pulled a single slat aside and spied his visitor. A huge man stood in front of the closed door. Either water wet his shining black hair or the man had used some grease to slick his coif flat against his skull. Only the man’s big head remained unconcealed. An enormous black raincoat engulfed the rest of him. Its cut, as discerned on the visitor’s immense and rounded shoulders, made the garment appear from a military surplus store.

Darren could never imagine the military enlisted someone so obese, let alone provide the unconventional wardrobe. The raincoat covered the man’s feet, hovering an inch above the ground. The coat cast darkness, as impenetrable as the concrete its shadow painted. The man noticed Darren lurking behind the window. He thrust his big head toward the gap in the blinds.

“Darren Peters,” the man said. The glass muffled his low voice. In turn, the window vibrated with the growl. “Darren!”

Whoever the stranger was, the shrouded man knew Darren. He obviously knew where Darren lived. Darren briefly worried a repo man came for something else, though there was nothing the man could take. Everything in the apartment and the car outside belonged wholly to Darren. Anything else he once owned had been already repossessed.

Now that the man saw Darren at home, he obviously would not go away. Darren dropped the slat and let the blind rock itself back in place. His refusing to answer the door did not discourage the man either. Darren saw his visitor’s unmoving shadow cast by the setting sun against the back of blinds inside the apartment.

After several minutes, Darren pulled open the slat and looked out the window again. The man still stood there, grinning. Feeling a little frightened, Darren opened his door.

“Yes?” Darren asked the humongous man.

The visitor dwarfed Darren, not a small feat. Besides fear, Darren instantly became suspicious of the stranger. He automatically knew every word the man would say was a lie, but that was harsh criticism. The man merely uttered Darren’s name, which felt like a “white lie” when the stranger said it.

“I knew you were inside,” the smiling stranger said as he stepped into the apartment. The man had perfect, if not overly large teeth.

The man never asked Darren for permission to enter, he just walked into the apartment. Darren stepped backwards to avoid the man’s huge belly pressed against him. The cascading raincoat momentarily snagged on a screw in the door jamb. The stranger leaned against the frame, wrapping either side of the doorway in his raincoat-shrouded shape, before he suddenly became free. The monstrous man forced entry with his sheer bulk.

“Now, who in Hell are you?” Darren shouted.

“Certainly not in Hell,” the man answered.

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?” Darren asked, wondering if the answer was an evasion or a lie. He perceived nothing, other than a general distrust and dislike of the man.

With the stranger in the room, filling a quarter of it, Darren spotted the sunset through the open door. A big red orb sunk between two waves of storm clouds. The wind pushed the clouds along in gale force. More wind and rain were coming this way.

Darren wanted to watch this storm come in, now that he had poured himself a nice buzz this evening. But the stranger, who had barged into Darren’s home, spoiled the show and the mellow feeling Darren had conjured on occasion and in the midst of storms. Regrettably, the mellowness devolved into depression.

“Well?” Darren prompted his unwelcome visitor for an answer. “What’s your name?”

“I am an elemental, but that means nothing to you,” the man said. “I am Baphomet.”

“What is that, a superhero?”

“I can’t lie to you, Darren, or hide any malevolence. I know that,” the man answered Darren. “That skill makes you valuable to me.”

“What are you talking about?” Darren asked confused. He could not distinguish if Baphomet told a lie. Darren thought the man might be lying, but he felt honesty in the stranger’s answers.

Darren suddenly knew the man’s name was indeed Baphomet – now – but the name seemed false in the past. The sharp clarity and definition of the impression were unusual. Yet certainty energized Darren.

“I see you’ve set the mood. It feels like old days, like the eighteenth century, inside during a tornado,” Baphomet described.

“The electricity is out,” Darren stated.

“That is alright,” Baphomet said. “I think the atmosphere is fine.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ve told you, your skill to know and divine honesty.”

“Are you some kind of door-to-door recruiter or something?” asked Darren. “I’m a janitor, because I don’t get along with people and you want me to be like a salesman?”

“The job isn’t so personable and really only entails telling me who you see as liars,” Baphomet explained. “I am confronted by endless lies.”

“Well, I can do that,” Darren asserted in confidence. “How much is the pay?”

“Boundless, although you will travel with me,” stated Baphomet.

“No, I mean money. The travel is fine. I’m OK with that because a tent is better than this garbage heap – there will be beds, right?”

“You’ll have no need of money when you’re with me,” Baphomet promised.

“That sounds like a blast, but obviously a temporary scenario. I’m better off keeping the job I have now. They put up with me,” Darren replied.

“After tonight, that won’t be a concern of yours,” Baphomet said. “You won’t survive this storm.”

“What are you talking about?” Darren asked, disturbed by the truth in the man’s voice.

“I’m telling you that I am your salvation,” Baphomet said believing every word. “There is no Heaven for you Darren. You are left with Hell or oblivion. I offer you preservation from the tornado, sent here for you.”

“Me?” Darren asked surprised, although he perceived the truth in the statement. “I’m going to die here in a tornado.”

“In seven minutes,” Baphomet said not looking at a clock or a watch. His hands remained buried in his pockets the entire discussion. In fact, Darren had never glimpsed his visitor’s hands and feet.

“I’m going to die in seven minutes,” Darren stated. He knew the revelation as true. When Baphomet was near, Darren felt so sure of his perceptions, as if the man amplified every telltale sign.

“Or you can come with me,” Baphomet proposed.

“What if I run someplace like the community center? I can make that in three minutes even in my bad shape,” Darren asked Baphomet. Despite his plan to seek safety, Darren lingered with his visitor.

“If you try, I will hold you here,” Baphomet threatened, pulling his hands from the pockets of his raincoat. The man’s arms ended in three-toed hooves. The three hooves curved toward each other like crossed sabers.

“Christ!” Darren shouted shocked.

“He is gone, Darren. There are only the New Gods. They are not from our world. Now you’ve got a minute to outrun a tornado. I will hold you no longer.”

“You’ll die too,” Darren predicted.

Baphomet only smiled at the overweight man. His stare gave Darren a headache. If Darren believed his visitor, and he absolutely knew Baphomet told the truth, time ran out.

“Fuh, man!” Darren shouted. “All right, I’ll work for you. What happens, does my apartment get crushed?”

“Yes,” Baphomet said. He thrust his hooves back into the pockets of the raincoat.

“Then let’s go!” Darren implored walking toward the front door.

“Wait a second,” Baphomet said. He stood a moment before the open door. The screen door had shut but the latch failed to catch. The wind swung the meshed frame wide open. The girth of the man seemed to have sealed the apartment.

“All right,” said Baphomet.

“What was that about?” Darren asked. The visitor had done nothing.

“Your death,” Baphomet revealed. “We have an agreement.”

“What?” Darren asked feeling fine. He sensed his visitor was not lying to him, but his own perceptions disputed the claim. “Are you the devil?”

“Some believe so, but think of me as a saint. Your death here will have been slow and miserable. I’ve spared you that dire fate.”

“What are you then, a demon?”

“No, Darren. I told you when I introduced myself.”

“Alien?” Darren asked, playing-along with the game.

“This is tedious,” said Baphomet.

“Well, I’m sorry,” Darren apologized. “I’ve never talked with priests about this sorta stuff. I got a problem talking with people.”

“It’s hard to speak to you,” answered Baphomet. “Your mind is open, but you are watchful. You are not the sort of mortal that hides behind closed doors.”

“Thanks, I guess. But I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“None of it matters,” Baphomet said. That statement allowed Darren to forget his caution and worry, his burdens were automatically lifted.

Baphomet stepped toward Darren. The floor sagged beneath Darren’s new master. The walls and ceiling seemed to bend toward Baphomet until he became the only thing to see. Given the enormity of the man, the interior of Darren’s apartment warped very little. Darren backed from the ominous figure.

“Wait, I’m dead?” Darren asked when he realized they no longer stood in his apartment. The child’s bedroom looked familiar. Darren then realized they were in his niece’s yellow-dotted room. Tammy was not there. Darren heard his sister, Jessica, and her boys downstairs.

“That is how you are able to travel with me,” Baphomet said. “Mortal conveyance is not suitable to this shape.”

“You are a demon,” Darren decided, but he knew his statement was a lie. The giant man with hoofed hands was certainly fiendish, but didn’t quite fit into Christian mythology. This Baphomet was something that existed before creation.

“Ask your niece if she serves Pazuzu, the betrayer and renegade,” Baphomet commanded. “If she is a follower, then your nephews are as well.”

“What are you going to do to them if they are?”

“Nothing,” the demon promised.

Darren’s conscience told him the demon lied, but his heart believed the promise without doubt. The disparate impressions refused resolution. Darren went with his heart. He had been raised to follow his feelings and they unerringly pursued the truth.

Baphomet vanished when Tammy entered her bedroom. She did not seem to notice her uncle standing in front of the dressing table the girl had inherited from her grandmother, Darren’s mom. The furniture looked old was he was a kid. Tammy jumped on her neatly made bed, oblivious to her uncle standing over her.

“Tammy, I’m right here,” Darren said to his niece. “It’s your uncle. We just saw each other this afternoon.”

Tammy propped herself up on her elbows. The girl looked in Darren’s direction and still saw no one in her bedroom. Darren shouted her name loud enough to bring the entire family upstairs.

“Uncle Darren?” the girl finally asked. Tammy looked around as if she still did not see her uncle. She looked as if she doubted hearing him shout for her.

Darren pranced everywhere in the room, trying to stay in the girl’s field of vision as she gazed at the walls and into corners. Tammy rolled off her bed and looked in her closet. That was when Darren noticed he cast no reflection in the mirror mounted on the old dressing table.

He could not help but accept the fact he had died. Baphomet had lied to him. The demon said Darren will be preserved. Darren wasn’t certain how he might accept the grim realization he was now a ghost. Merciful, his death had been painless – personally unnoticed, in fact, and he had escaped a burning lake of fire.

“Uncle Darren?” Tammy asked her uncle directly to his face. The girl saw him! “You’re dead, the sheriff just called.”

“I figured that out,” Darren said.

Tammy wasn’t listening to her uncle, she instead summoned her parents upstairs. Darren felt compelled to ask Baphomet’s question before his sister and her husband arrived.

“Tammy, have you heard anything about Pazuzu?” Darren asked hurried – his quick sister would soon arrive at her daughter’s room.

“Uncle Darren, you died in the tornado. Didn’t you hear the warning sirens?” Tammy asked. She heard her uncle and ignored him as usual, though he still liked the kid.

“Tammy, do you know Pa-zu-zu?” Darren yelled. She only seemed to hear him when he shouted.

“Yeah,” Tammy said looking guilty and a little ashamed.

“It’s a demon,” he told her. “Stop talking to it and tell Nicholas and Jimmy. There is another demon looking for you.”
Darren and Baphomet suddenly appeared back at his demolished apartment building. The entire police force, fire trucks and ambulances lit the dark parking lot with strobes of red and blue light. Darren’s apartment lay squashed flat. The top half of the building must have blown away.

The center of the building, about where Darren had lived, appeared charred and burned. The tornado had blown most of the apartment buildings off the block and decimated the tenant’s vehicles. The wreckage trailed down the street toward the south – the tornado had unobstructed the view.

“You said I’d survive!” Darren shouted at Baphomet.

“I said nothing of the sort,” Baphomet countered. “I can only transport your soul anyway. A physical body is impossible, the costs are too great.”

“What do you mean?” Darren continued to yell at the demon.

“Taking my shape alone is expensive. The creation of my body birthed monsters in the place I took shape. They now die with the wild animals in the woods.”

“You let me die!” cried Darren.

“So you will give yourself to me,” Baphomet stated and grimaced. “Tell me what your treacherous niece said.”

“She never heard of the thing,” Darren lied and Baphomet knew it.

“I can see that treason also runs in your blood,” Baphomet said. “The children must be killed.”

“What? No! Why?” Darren shouted.

“They die for your deception and their congress with the enemy and deceiver. All threats to the New Gods will be scoured from this world,” Baphomet recited.

“I don’t like that,” Darren said helpless.

“We have an agreement, Darren. You are bound to me and are but a ghost, a groundless soul in the refuse of winds,” Baphomet said before the pair vanished again.

Horrid Tales of Wister Town printed copies and ebooks are available at LULU and Smashwords.