Click

Click

Barely discernible over the gentle murmur of rustling leaves and vines making soft rubbing sounds against the bark of the trees in the gentle breeze Lukas whispered “Do you see it?”  Eyes Straining, watering from the long hours peering through the powerful spotting scope Manuel spit “I don’t see a fucking thing, we’ve been” then went silent as his eye picked up a slight movement in the distance.  Manuel tuned the scope to the spot and moved the setting of the scope to the highest power without taking his eye off of the jungle where the movement had been.  At 45x power he could make out individual ribs and veins of the leaves; field of view narrowed by the high power setting of the spotting scope he only partially saw the puff of the burning powder as it pushed the 150 grain bullet out the barrel of the sniper rifle at just over 3000 feet per second.

 

Sgt. Pete Miller Ret. Knew he was a hunted man; you kill a cartel boss, you can count on it.  He was a little pissed off the reward for his head was only $50k; alive $75k.  They wanted him dead but wanted him alive a whole lot more.  The punishment they would deal him would more than make up for the extra cost of bringing him to the cartels form of justice.

Manuel’s brain had just enough time to realize what he’d just seen as Lukas’s head exploded and sprayed blood and brains against the side of his face.  Instantly rolling to his right and digging his head into the soft jungle litter saved his life as the second bullet ripped past his head nicking his left ear and making a nice half circle with burnt edges, smooth as glass.  The first crack of the rifle joining the second nearly coming together as one huge explosion; Pop, pop as 20mm grenade rounds lifted into the air.  Manuel rolled and jumped to his feet making a good five meters before the grenades landed, one behind him, one boring it’s self into the leaves and twigs just at his feet.

 

“Impossible; I’m the best” Flashed in Manuel’s brain milliseconds before the blast lifted him ten feet straight up into the vines, splitting him neatly in two; a red spray spotting the myriad of jungle leaves like a fine rain.  The local police would believe he had stepped on a land mine; wrong only for the fact that Lukas and Manuel hadn’t attempted to follow the trail left for them by Miller.  Maybe in the next few weeks a villager would show them what a true mine could do to the human body; they’d need a dust pan to get all the pieces; Miller was packing some good shit.

Lying in the jungle litter; shadows, muted light flickering reflecting from innumerable rain drops Miller watched the two hit men set up their shooting position.  Not a bad set up he thought; to bad Miller had already laid several land mines and his own position over looking his back trail.  He watched as both carefully concealed themselves and cut a few vines blocking their view of the low shallow valley walled on both sides by low but formidable rock formations; ones that would make climbing a very difficult if not an impossible task.  Bracing his rifle on his pack and settling down for the long wait he snacked on a protein bar and thought back on his first jungle mission.

Jungles of Vietnam;  long after the formal war ended, Miller found himself part of a handpicked team looking for a General of the Vietnamese Army who was responsible for the murder of America service men captured during the war.  His death would remind enemies of America that justice would be handed out regardless of how many years separated evil deeds.  Miller third man in line, five meters between them heard the metallic click of his last step.  Freezing in place, standing in the middle of the narrow thin trail holding his breath Miller eyes showed he understood what the click meant.  All six members froze in place, each looking to see who had stepped on the detonator switch; then hit the dirt when it wasn’t them; waiting, expecting the explosion.  Slowly heads began to rise above the litter and vines looking to see who was standing on the mine.  Whispered orders, hand signals, a quick assessment; six men evaporated into the jungle putting at least a hundred meters between them and Miller standing on an old rusting U.S. land mine.  All recognized the model as one that would leave a huge crater; one of the biggest in the U.S. arsenal. Many times U.S. troops would rig multiple mines together with a single trip wire; whole trail systems would explode at once killing anyone along the trail for at least a hundred and fifty meters.

Sweeping the jungle for other killer teams Miller decided the two men were the only ones in the immediate area.  Placing the cross hairs of his scope on the top of the man’s head, the one who was the shooter Miller shook a fine vine with his left hand waiting for the men to discover the movement.  Mr. Right side saw the movement first; raising he head slightly brought him cleanly into the center of the cross hairs in Millers scope.  Miller noticed that Mr. Left had just spotted the movement as he slowly increased the pressure on the trigger.  These two appeared to have military training but obviously it had been many years and skills had deteriorated with lack of practice or continued training.  Killing Mr. Right first would assure no return fire and would force Mr. Left to make a hasty retreat to Millers left away from the dead man if Miller’s second snap shot missed.  It would all depend on Mr. Left’s reflexes and training.  Miller had already made plans for Mr. Left if he happened to evade the .308’s wrath.

Waiting thirty minutes for the team to slowly quietly leave the area Miller found himself thinking of his life, what was and what could have been.  He checked his watch and decided it was time to live or die depending on whether the U.S. made land mine was still functioning.  It must have been laid towards the end of the conflict; after the North was able to slow the tons of traffic of arms and munitions towards the South.  That made it at least 35 years old sitting in the jungle floor, covered in mud, wet, cold and rusting.

Two in the bag Miller knew he could look forward to swarms of hunter killer teams descending on the area; blood money was hard to turn down, besides how hard could it be to bag an American in your own jungle.

Slowly, deliberately, Miller raised his boot from the mine.  No reason to run, no reason to jump, plow head first into the jungle floor; this mine alone would create a crater larger than Miller would ever hope to clear and live let alone if it was teamed with a bunch more up and down the tiny trail.  He’d never even know if it went off; he’d be blown to tiny pieces so fast no one’s brain could comprehend its own destruction that fast. 

A little more weight off, a little more; click.

After the jungle settled down from the 20mm grenades and the insects again began to make their mating calls Miller relaxed but continued to scan the jungle for movement of hidden killer teams.  It was just unlikely that this team was working completely alone.  A huge explosion and a scream answered that question as one of Miller’s mines went up in a cloud of litter mixed with blood and bone fragments.  It was the closest mine that he had laid to his shooting position; meaning that whatever tripped it had already evaded three he had carefully laid and hidden with great care.  Was it a jungle animal ran through Miller’s mind; the answer came as a human left hand and other torn and obliterated human parts rained down all around him.  Miller dug deep into the wet earth for cover as machine gun fire sliced and cut vines and small trees in lethal fragments searching for soft tissue to rip and tear.  A grenade landed two feet from Millers face; rolling to his left away and into a small depression in the litter saved him from all but a few splinters of shrapnel. Miller found himself in the middle of a well planned and perfectly executed ambush; the two fools he’d killed were bait to bring him out of hiding and into the sights of a large killer team.  His sniper rifle, pack and his equipment was strewn about the hide by the first grenade; made useless by the explosion.  Pulling his .45 from his hip Miller waited for the killers to check their kill.

Click; silence.  Miller looked down at his foot; his boot was two inches above the protruding three prongs pushing through the ground litter.   It could be a hang fire his mind was screaming, or it could be rusted and water goo filled and no longer working.  Miller knowing he was a dead man slowly walked into the jungle away from the tiny trail.

Three came into the small clearing to Millers right; silently searching for the concealed sniper.  These were dead men and they all knew it; either the sniper was dead, or they would be in seconds, cannon fodder for the remaining team members.  Miller pulled pins on three grenades and held them tightly to his chest waiting for the exact moment when it would do the most damage.  A huge back Sheppard burst into the clearing and straight for Miller’s hiding spot.  A trained kill dog at least a hundred and fifty pounds used to flush hidden quarry from the jungle brush.  These guys had it all; Miller clutching the grenades with his left arm raised his .45 and dropped the Sheppard’s snapping jaws two feet from his face.  Throwing his grenades and firing into the jungle Miller only hope was to take as many with him as possible.   Pinned to his spot by withering fire; grenades landing all around him; the calamity of fire and grenade explosions drowned out the beating of rotor blades directly over Millers head.  Quad thirty trails of tracers tracked through the jungle seeking flesh.  Mini guns from four ships rained down from above cutting the jungle tangled trees and vines to the ground.  Bullets rototilled the leaf litter leaving only feet of unturned earth around Miller’s slight depression in the ground.  A camouflaged helmeted figure landed at Miller’s side; jerked him to his feet and wrapped a belt around his waist; he was hoisted to the waiting helicopter in less than two seconds and with rotor blades cutting tree tops off they made their way east at top speed.

The sun was warm; the beer cold in Miller’s hand.  His new friend scantly clothed with beads of fine sweat between her breasts; ran a slim finger down the partially healed gouge that split Miller’s right cheek through four days of stubble.  Sipping his beer Miller thought “It’s good to be alive”.

From the Ramblings

t

Joey the Clown

Joey the Clown

What a great idea to have a clown for Bobby’s birthday party.  The kids will love him, and all the parents will think you’re the best.  Joey the Clown wasn’t even that expensive, and he brings his own balloons and party gifts.  You made quite the deal on this one; if the other parents only knew what a steal you got on this deal, they’d just die.  No, literally, right after they tear your heart out, you fucking bitch.

DA:  Mrs. James, how did you come to know the Defendant Joey Miller?

Mrs. James: Well, I met him at the grocery store; he was, was in his costume, his clown suit, and had a sign.  A sign that said clown for hire.  So I; I booked him for my son’s birthday.

DA:   Your son’s birthday party? A party at your house?

Mrs. James: Ummmmm, yes, at my house; I HAD NO IDEA, NO IDEA, THIS ISN’T MY FAULT!

DA:  Objection, your Honor.

Judge: Mrs. James, answer the question; only the question.  Please

Mrs. James:  OH LOOK AT THEM; LOOK AT THE WAY THEY STARE AT ME; IT WASN’T MY FAULT, IT WASN’T.

Judge: One hour recess.

A low murmur went through the crowded courtroom as the judge left the bench.  A few thought they were watching a witch hunt, one of which they were all willing to fight to get to be the one to light the fire to send the bitch to hell.

Joey the clown showed up early to the James house; a two story mansion and a full basement; two large pillars holding up the front facade, with white siding except the shutters which had been painter a soft grey color to compliment the early colonial architecture; a little drab, but huge; four thousand square feet and on a nice piece of property overlooking the St. Luis River.   Joey rubbed his hands together in excitement.

Nancy James greeted Joey at the front door, walked him through the entrance, and into the living room area just left of the front hall.  A spacious room with high ceilings and one grand chandelier in the center of the room.  In the midday sun, it was set on a low setting, just enough to set off the cut of the crystal, but not enough to cast a shadow; saving energy was not a concern in the James household.  Joey placed his trunk on the serving table; with rolling eyes, he asked Nancy when the children would be coming.  A slight chill ran up her back; being the finest of hosts, Nancy got Joey a glass of water; the party would start in twenty minutes.

Children began arriving in ones and twos; Mother dropping off their four-year-olds without a worry; the Jameses were well known in town, being that they owned a good half of it. With horns, hats, and candy, the party was off to a good start; even the Martin boy was behaving to a point, his autism making him a handful at the best of times.

Soon it was Joey’s turn to entertain the children; he made crazy faces and danced; they all laughed and laughed; he next twisted balloons into horses, cats, dogs, and one that looked just like a sword.  The children were so engrossed that Nancy had to yell twice that the cake was ready; everyone ran for the
kitchen.

DA:  Mrs. James, did you ever ask for identification, or do any type of background investigation or ask for references?  You just let this person into your house full of four-year-olds?

Mrs. James:  He’s a clown…a clown.

DA:  Nothing in his demeanor; his actions raise a red flag to you?  You let him take all eleven four-year-olds down into the basement?  You or any adult going with them?

Mrs. James:   He’s a clown; they act funny; you know, he kept laughing all the time, but don’t they all do that kind of thing?  No, your question; we were having drinks, there was just me and Mrs. Ellis; we were just up in the dining hall; I’d had only two glasses of wine.

DA:  Mrs. James… what about the screaming; tell me about the screaming.  Why’d you ignore all the children screaming?  Did you not tell the Police that the children were screaming for at least thirty minutes, if not longer?

Mrs. James:  He was doing magic tricks; don’t you scream during magic tricks?  I always scream; I’m scared of magic tricks and magicians…  I didn’t do anything wrong; nothing, nothing at all.  I didn’t do anything wrong here.

DA: Mrs. James, what was the first thing that made you think that something was wrong?

Mrs. James:  Well, it got quiet, and then I thought I heard crying, so I went right away to check.

DA:  What did you find, Mrs. James?

Mrs. James:  The children; there was blood everywhere.  I thought; I thought someone must have fell and hit their nose; but no, no, no they were all laying on the floor; I thought; thought they were doing a magic trick; but all the blood; you could smell the blood; it made me sick; I called Bobby my son, but he didn’t answer; all I could hear was; was the clown laughing, laughing; he just never stops laughing.  He cut Bobby’s head off; clean off, it was just sitting there; all the children were cut; little Mary, Mary Williams, her head was almost all the way off.

DA:  Mrs. James, why didn’t you call the Police?  Why did it take so long to call the Police?  Mrs. James; Why?

Mrs. James:  I, I was in shock; I needed another drink; I just couldn’t believe it; he just kept stabbing them and stabbing them; I could hear the laughing; he just wouldn’t stop laughing; IT’S NOT MY FAULT, NOT MY FAULT…

Judge:  Bailiff, please remove Mrs. James from the Courtroom.

DA:  Judge, I’d like to remand the Defendant over to trial; this Office has more than shown the neglect of the defendant's actions in this horrible crime.  Your Honor, Mrs. James failed to act in any manner to save any of the children from Joey Miller, a known killer and child molester in this community.

Judge:  The defendant will be held on one million dollar bail; next Court date August 15th @ 3:00 pm for plea.  This Court is adjourned.


From the Ramblings.

t

H-ham

H-ham

Jimenez checked off his name on the filthy clipboard.  Who ever thought to pass a clipboard down the line?  With a silent chuckle Jimenez rolled his eyes and said to himself “the new Lt. that’s who” he reached out with his right hand and tapped Simpson on what he hoped was his shoulder; the board disappeared into the ink black of the night.

Jimenez went back to scanning the front with his night vision goggles “I wonder if the Lt. thought about whether we’d be able to see the fucking board in the pitch black out here without night eyes?”  Again shaking his head and a silent snicker he went back to watching for any movement towards the front of their position. 

The night was as dark as an ink well; so dark little round flashes of light, light up in your eyes as heavy charged protons rocket through eye fluid and passes into the earth leaving a flash as it goes through.   No moon, heavy cloud cover without a breath of wind; no crickets, owls, nothing but silence; it was so quite you could hear your joints creak.

 Simpson found where Clark was because Clark’s stomach was rolling and growling so loud you could hear it three meters down the line.  Simpson jammed the board into Clark’s left arm hard enough it made a thud sound. An almost silent squeak from the front was heard immediately; everyone in hearing distance knew what that was.  No one moved or even drew a breath for what seemed like minutes.  Twenty yards to the right and at least fifteen to the front a cricket sounded; again the nearly silent squeak.  Jimenez, Simpson, Clark, Stark and Franks all had the target acquired. 

The 15^th light armor division had been deployed for over fifteen months.  Casualty rates stood at 82%; 47% wounded; 29% dead, and 7% missing and presumed dead or captured; which meant dead. The recently promoted third Commander in two weeks was screaming over the secured phone; Johnson the Company Staff Sergeant knew he was trying in vain to explain that he no longer had a command and the reason they didn’t know who the hell he was, was because the other two Commanders had been killed so fast the paperwork hadn’t gotten to the rear yet.  He needed men; and needed them fast.

Everyone knew what the score was; they were going to be overrun just a few minutes before first light of morning.  Not enough light that you could see in, but the faint light of early morning that you start the battle in and finish after it’s a bright sunny day with everyone dead.

Something touched Jimenez’s right arm; so softly that he barely felt it but Jimenez was as tense as a coiled spring.  He slowly, barely moving looked to his right and pulled his night eyes off his face.  Sergeant Williams was three inches from his face with a great big grin.  Jimenez rolled his eyes and took a breath.  Williams moved forward with lips to Jimenez’s ear said “H-ham when they come” a softball sized weapon was pushed against his side.  Jimenez’s eyes rolled up in his sockets.  He started to whisper to Sergeant Williams “OH no fuc……..”  Sergeant Williams was gone.  Jimenez could hear him moving down the line. He thought he could hear other’s gasps, but he knew better.

Around 3am a slight breeze kicked up from the rear of the 15^th’s position and gave a slight reprieve to the astounding silence of the night.

 

Stark slow crawled toward where he knew Jimenez was dug in; so slowly it took over fifteen minutes to cover the four meters.  He was greeted by the flash suppressor of Jimenez’s rifle pointed at his forehead as it appeared out of the blackness.  Moving to Jimenez’s side and placing his lips directly on Jimenez’s ear, he whispered “H-ham’s?” Stark pulled back from Jimenez’s ear and looked directly in his eyes.  He saw the same look, the same blood shot watery stare.  Jimenez only slowly shook his head.  Without a word Stark started the long crawl back to his position.  Tears leaked out of both eyes, small dabs of mud caked on both sides of Stark’s cheeks as he made his way back.

Juan Dean Jimenez was a born athlete; lettering in every sport but picking up girls, he was a school favorite and home coming king.  Entering the Marine Corps one week after graduation he wanted to be a lifer.  Basic was a breeze; his only set back being when the DI’s found out his middle name “Dean” and tore into him for having a gringo middle name.  “Didn’t your momma mean “Bean” not “Dean” and you’re father just fucked it up!”  From that point on his nick name was “Bean”.  It had nothing to do with the fact that he was full blooded Mexican and was the first generation to call America their home.  It was the weird middle name.  A few of the other boot’s asked him why he had such a fucked up middle name; Jimenez would just shrug it off and never an answer was given.  The truth was his mothers, father was a gringo from Texas and they wanted a part of him passed down the line.  After boot camp and secondary school Jimenez was assigned to the 15^th as a grunt.  It never entered his mind to be anything but a pack carrying grunt headed to the front line of whatever action the United States might be in.  The Corps tried twice to promote “Bean” finding that he flat turned them down each time; he was where he wanted to be.

The night breeze slowed, then turned 90 degrees and picked up its pace.  Coming out of the South it carried heavy smoke and ash from yesterdays fighting down south.  The air was smoky but had a strange nasty taste to it; like burnt barbeque sauce and a fallen cremated hamburger patty.  It made you want to cover your nose and mouth; you knew in your heart you didn’t want that in your mouth.

Jimenez moved the canister up from his side and lifted it with his right hand.  He tested its weight and guessed at a half pound.  How far could he throw 8 ounces?  He knew a baseball weighed 5 ounces and he could throw an advancing runner out from the outfield fence with ease.  So about 275 feet if he guessed right and more than likely shorter with a cold arm; say two twenty five max; subtract wearing BDU’s and a chest rig, 150 feet on a good day.  If what they said in special training was right, this was going to be close, very close.

 

Hearing movement in the distance they all knew that enemy troops were moving closer to the front line. Number of reinforcements was a guess but by the sound it was a lot.

The stars where still out bright in the night sky, but looking to the horizon to the east you could tell the stars were beginning to fade. 

Over the last weeks both sides had run their supply lines to the point of exhaustion.  Not being able to keep up with anything but the simplest of supplies; small arms ammunition and short food allocations was the best both could hope for.  This was going to be a battle straight out of the WWI manual; straight up the middle as fast as you could run; shooting anything that looked alive.

Two hours they’ve been moving men forward; it was clear to Jimenez and the rest of the squad why they’d been issued H-ham’s and ordered to use them before they could be overran; without them it was going to be a short day and a turkey shoot.

With the sky glowing in the east they came.  The American’s fired their weapons to empty and then threw their H-ham’s (Hand Held Atomic Munitions) as far as their arms were able.  With a payload of 500 pounds of TNT; estimated detonation kill zone of 150 feet; leaving a 40 foot wide, 8 foot deep crater; first blinding white light; hammer strike, and then churning blackness.

Jimenez threw his H-ham with everything he had; jumped into his hole and waited for the bang.  It was an eight second wait; flash of light; floating, twisting in the air Jimenez knew he’d been too close to the blast zone and waited for the hard landing. 

Waking minutes; hours later eyes caked with wet ash, lungs choking on dust; white ash three quarters of an inch thick on his blouse; the ash looked like white grey corn flakes, with the slightest movement, touch of breath they’d crumble to a fine powder.  The slightest movement would free them back into the air.  Jimenez rolled over causing a cloud of choking thick dust; rising on one elbow he looked towards the front.  Where once was flat land there was now a shallow depression; with high edges and smoke filled bottom.

 

The figure with heavy white robes rode with ease as the stallion pranced and danced; hooves kicking up clouds of powder fine grey dust dimming the blinding white light from the sky.  Raising a hand to block the light Jimenez grin grew wide as he watched his squad march behind the prancing stallion.  He fought hard to join them; straps cinched tight kept him pinned to the hospital bed; nurses ran from gurney to gurney in feeble attempts to stem the flow of blood and dying.  An over head speaker scratched out a dreary speech “a great victory, I’m proud to be part of the forces….”  

From the Ramblings

t

Jimmy Duke

Jimmy Duke

 

The body rose to the surface slowly, having lost most of its buoyancy over the months it had been tied to the bottom of the lake.  Two minutes later, the diver also floated to the surface, just as dead as the young mutated woman.  The crime scene went crazy; ignoring the woman’s floating corpus the State Police Officers grabbed the diver out of the water, trying to bring him back to life.  The diving mask full of vomit confirmed the horror of the find.

Number 7 was a young white woman, somewhere between twenty and twenty-five years old.  Blond hair, about five feet six inches.  Anything further just wasn’t possible; her head had been removed crudely, leaving just enough scalp to id hair color; hacked off hands and feet removed with an axe-type weapon.  Stomach torn open, internal organs ripped from her body; connecting tissue showing rips and tears, not knife marks.  Sex organs mutated by heavy axe blows and pulled from the body, showing no knife marks, just torn flesh. The body was a ruined shell of what used to be a human being.

Jimmy laughed until he couldn’t breathe watching the TV news story showing three big State Police men in a little boat dragging the dead diver over the side of the boat, nearly tipping it over. It was hilarious; with tears streaming down his face, he was just howling; the next-door neighbor banging on the thin wall brought him back to his senses.  Pulling hard on his fifth beer of the morning and throwing it against the wall along with a “GO FUCK YOURSELF” at the top of his lungs, he knew who would be next.  Jimmy toned it down a little, not wanting the old bitch to call the police on him.

 With a chuckle, he sat back on the threadbare couch, turning on his mental movie of Jenna, his latest and twelfth victim; smiling and snickering, he played the movie over and over.

Jimmy was an easy-going petty thief who had discovered by accident that he was also an up-and-coming serial killer after killing one of the neighborhood kids he caught in his apartment going through his shit.  Stealing people's stuff and money was one thing, but taking their lives as a whole new game; a game he couldn’t get enough of.  He had found a vast reservoir of rage and hatred that had been untouched until now.

Tuesday morning, shortly after 8 am found Jimmy at his neighbor’s door.  He’d waited listening closely at his own door for all the floors' little worker bees to leave the building, making his floor nearly empty; empty except for him and old Mrs. Stock, his next-door neighbor.  Tap, tap on the door, and he could hear her coming to him.  Jimmy had a newspaper he’d picked up out of the recycle bin in one hand, covering an eight-inch kitchen knife in his other gloved hand.  He’d found the kitchen knife going through a garbage can two blocks from his flat.  Sharpening it against a concrete wall as he watched people looking for a target, it was now razor sharp.   Mrs. Stock, with a “humph” of displeasure at being bothered, opened the door to the hallway.  Jimmy, with a big grin on his face, stepped into her and plunged the knife into her left eye with enough force that it jammed and stuck solidly into the back of her skull.  Standing at the open door, not breaking the threshold, Jimmy watched as Mrs. Stock stumbled backwards, hands waving and trashing the air; a small squeak coming from her wide open mouth; a fine line of vitreous humor, the fluid of the eye, and a small line of blood ran down her left cheek; three cats dashed for safety.  The old bitch stumbled across the room, hitting the far wall, sliding down to a sitting position, dead just as he wished her to be.  Jimmy reached inside, pulling the door to him; locked and closed it with his gloved hand; leaving the building, giggling, Jimmy walked twelve blocks before dropping the glove down a storm drain, then tossing the newspaper into an empty recycle bin.  He couldn’t wait for the evening news.

Two months later, and Mrs. Stock, the old, dead bitch still hadn’t been found.  Jimmy’s apartment was beginning to pick up the scent from his dirty work.  He’d have to do something soon if someone didn’t wake up to the stench and call the police.  The smell was getting that bad.  How can it be that no one checked on his neighbor's bitch in two full months? No wonder she was such a bitch?  Jimmy decided to go out just to be away from the smell.  Coming out of the elevator, Jimmy nearly ran into the super of the building coming into the elevator.  Jimmy recognized the super Ed Kock from when he moved into the building a year ago.  “Say, don’t you live up on the seventh?”  Jimmy, cool as ice, said, “Yeah, just heading out, problems?”  “Yeah, 7E says the floor smells bad,”  Ed said, rolling his eyes into his head.  Jimmy, “I noticed that too, must be a dead rat in the vents, who knows?” “Well, I’d better find something; I’m tired of the constant complaints from those people!” The elevator door closed, and Jimmy hurried out the double doors into the not-so-clean smell of auto fumes and old garbage.

Ten minutes later, the sounds of sirens filled the air in the direction of the Hampton apartment building.  Jimmy was six blocks away, sitting on a bench, watching down 2^nd street to where the sirens were stopping.  Yep, Ed had found Mrs. Stock’s body. 

Jimmy sat out as long as he could; finally, he headed to the Hampton.  Still three cop cars outside; he knew they’d want to talk to him just like when the kid disappeared a few months ago.  Jimmy was exceptional at evading trick questions, and his short interview went well.  He asked the Detectives to come into his apartment and look around if they wanted; they did, but he was way too clever to have anything out that they could see.  He had a little something from each of his kills, but nothing big that would stand out. They were all hidden away nice and tight, where even a hard search would likely not find anything.  He was turning into a pro.

With the heat off, Jimmy went out on the hunt.  Having to go to the grocery store for a few things, he’d also found it to be a great hunting ground.  He wasn’t disappointed; standing there on aisle four was just what he was looking for.  She was about five foot three, brown hair, decent build, and Jimmy saw his opening and, as any predator would see, there on the left forearm were tiny marks that would open the door to his next kill.  Stepping just around the end of the aisle so he wouldn’t be seen, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a syringe filled with dark liquid.  Strolling up to the young woman, “Hey baby, looking for some time,” he rolled his wrist so she could see the ready syringe.  “Oh, I think I just found a party,” with a giggle and rolling her eyes.  “Well, let me buy your stuff, and we’ll go,” with a wink, they were off to the register.

Walking just two blocks to the girl’s apartment gave little time for conversation, but the girl had already told Jimmy her name, that she was new to the area, knew no one, and needed a fix real bad.  Shutting the door behind her and throwing the three deadbolts, Jimmy was floating in anticipation of getting down to work.  Dumping the small bag of groceries on the counter, Sara turned and stuck out her hand; she was very much in need of a fix.   Jimmy tossed the syringe to her, and she only then realized she been taken.  The right hook came out of nowhere; she didn’t see it coming, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head when the fist drove into her head hard, snapping her neck and sending her sprawling on the floor.  “Bitch” was all that was said; on top, straddling her, Jimmy drove his knuckles into the soft tissue under her neck, perfectly cutting any chance of getting another breath.  Eyes bulging, Sara pushed off the floor with her hips and threw Jimmy's weight forward over her head.  Sara had been raised with three brothers, and fighting back was ingrained in her head.  Tipping forward, Jimmy had no choice but to release his grasp and tumble forward.  Now lying flat across on top of Sara, his chest across her upper chest and head, Sara bit hard and deep into Jimmy's right shoulder like a cougar.  The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth and her body with adrenaline.  All knees and elbows she pushed Jimmy to the left and connected with a wild elbow to Jimmy's nose.  Jimmy, with a second scream of pain, rolled to his right and kicked as hard as he could in the direction of the wild cat he’d run into.  His booted foot landed directly on the bridge of Sara’s nose, breaking it.  The fight was over; Jimmy sprang like a cat, picking up a heavy wrought iron door stop that had been rolling under his back, leaving a huge bruise.  He pounded it into Sara’s face until it was bloody mush.

Lying panting on the floor with blood gushing out of his damaged nose, Jimmy listened carefully to the sounds of the building above his labored breathing. All quiet; no running feet, no sirens.   Rage exploding, Jimmy blacked out; without any conscious thought, Jimmy got to work.

Jimmy's mind still in a complete insane rage stood over a pile of ripped and torn meat that once was Sara Benson; one time daughter; part time junky as blood dripped from his hands and clothing.  Jimmy blew a large blood clot from his right nostril, hitting and sticking to the bottom of an overturned chair.  Very slowly Jimmies mind was slowly coming down from the rage and centering on self-preservation and escape.  Jimmy stepped over the remains and, for some unknown reason, picked up the bag of groceries off the counter with blood-covered hands and calmly walked out the front door of the apartment without closing it and down to the street.  Mouth breathing from his blood-plugged nose, Jimmy used alleyways and side streets to make it to his apartment, and then, waiting until no one was in sight, ran for the stairway.  Placing the groceries on the table, he reeled into the shower, leaving dripping blood in his wake.

 

It took just twenty minutes; the first person to open their front door immediately smelled the stench of blow opens bowels and viscous fluids.  Walking down the hallway to the open door, Jan Miller fainted straight away at the sight of the explosion of rage and hate.  Her husband, hearing the thud, was fast behind her; not wanting to leave his wife, but succumbing to the most primitive part of the brain to flee; flight took over, and he ran banging into the door frame so hard he fell and crawled to the phone; screaming hysterically into the phone the 911 Operator had no idea what the problem was.  She pulled up the address to the incoming call and dispatched the police without knowing the problem, just that it must be bad.

 

“Don, this is a bad one; I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a pack of wolves tore her apart.”  Detective Bob Williams cautioned Detective Don Hilderman before he entered Apartment 3B.  Even from outside, you could smell the vile stench of death.  The sight that met the two detectives was far worse than the smell.  It sucked the breath from their lungs; floor, ceiling, and walls turned from off-white to pink to dark red, burgundy with dried blood and pieces of stringy entrails sticking to the walls. Viscus chunks sat on bookshelves where they had landed; some leaving red trails as they sank slowly to the floor.  Clearly, a large section of lung hung from the cheap overhead chandelier, caught on one 30-watt bulb; a stalactite of dried blood reaching eagerly towards the floor.  Pooled red, almost black blood escaping the horror and flowing off toward the living room in a now dried river.  Intestines, partly attached to the stomach torn and split; undigested food and feces from exploded bowels covered what once was a small tan sofa.  Detective Hilderman, holding his handkerchief over his mouth and nose, slowly rotated his eyes from left to right, taking in the ghastly scene; far right, next to a blood-stained lamp, like it was part of the collection of blown glass orbs, was one of Sara’s eyes sitting in its pool of mixed blood and intraocular fluid.

Detective Don Hilderman, twenty-seven years with the force, threw up his dinner on his and Bob Williams' shoes, splashing up on both Detectives pant legs.  Eyes rolling, he turned on his heels and ran for the door. Detective Bob Williams held his vomit all the way to the entryway, spewing his stomach contents down the door frame and into the hallway.  Cops from three boroughs jumped and ran out of the way of the two escaping puking Detectives.

The very next morning, a task force was assembled, and Detectives from eight boroughs were out in force talking to everyone in the area.  In short order, they realize that the newest crime scene was smack in the middle of numerous unsolved murders and disappearances.  After a full day's investigation, it was found that they had two different people’s blood.  DNA analysis was ordered ASAP.

 

Jimmy Duke’s apartment sat directly in the center of the pin-up board with a large map of the general area covering and hanging limp off its sides.  Around it were fifteen colored pins depicting either missing or dead people; one was just next door to his apartment.  Jimmy was the main suspect.

 

Jimmy had cleaned up the apartment, getting rid of bloody clothing, shoes, and even the bloody grocery bag.  Its contents still sat on the kitchen table where Jimmy now sat, wondering what prison life would be like, provided he didn’t get the death penalty. He’d even cleaned out all his souvenirs from his other kills and bleached everything in the apartment.  He was as ready as he would ever be for them to come for him

.

The task force had decided that Jimmy was their man; they obtained search and arrest warrants.  The knock came at 11 am on the dot.  Jimmy looked up at his cheap wall clock and was kind of surprised that it took them so long.  The long arm of the law was in slow motion.  Jimmy was arrested and asked for an attorney even before they read him his Miranda rights or asked him even one question.  He was ready for them.

 

Ten hours of searching, down to even peeling the wallpaper off the walls, found nothing.  Not one piece of evidence could be found.  Every inch of the apartment had been carefully photographed, and every item logged into evidence bags.  There was not one thing left in the apartment, not even dust.

 

Two days later, Jimmy was dancing down the street outside the County lockup.  Yelling at the top of his lungs towards the courthouse, “YOU GOT NOTHING MOTHER FUCKERS” Jimmy was the happiest man in the world.  The DNA came back tainted from the Detective’s barf.  The surveillance wasn’t lost on Jimmy; it was a great game seeing and walking up saying hi to the Detectives that were watching his every move.  He’d give them the finger, dancing and laughing in their faces.  They were left with nothing to do but drive away or call to get picked up by the team.

 

Detective Don Hilderman was furious; he’d been embarrassed by his puking in the crime scene.  Arresting Jimmy just to see him released; a stack of bodies five feet deep at his feet.  Even the media had picked up on the story and was hounding him.  He pored over every photo; he’d held in his hand every single item from Jimmy's apartment.  He just couldn’t find a single clue to put Jimmy to the crimes

.

Sitting down to dinner with his wife at 10:15 pm that night, his mind on the case, nothing else.  His wife, talking from the kitchen, was speaking to deaf ears about her day, going to the grocery store, all the little things that kept her busy all day long.  Don felt a pin prick in his mind; what did she just say?  “Honey, I missed something you just said about what you did today…..say it again.” Donna, without missing a beat, started over again on her day; she was talking to no one.  Detective Don Hilderman was out the door heading to the Office; he had his case, and Jimmy was going to jail or the gas chamber

.

With the whole team assembled in the conference room with all the hundreds of pictures and items bagged and logged from Jimmy's apartment, sitting around them on tables and pinned to boards.  Detective Hilderman told the team what he was looking for; members who had taken pictures and logged items jumped into action.  Ten minutes later, they were all standing as Hilderman read the list of groceries from the blood-stained grocery receipt and marked off each item from the picture on Jimmy's table.

 

A perfect match.

 

Eleven months later, Jimmy Duke sat on death row, still wondering why he'd picked up the bag of groceries and taken them home.

 

From the Ramblings

 

t

The Switch

The switch

The switches’ must have come from the big willow tree out front of the house along the driveway.  Only once do I ever remember one breaking.  My child’s memory was the damn things being about three inches thick. Probably more like a half inch really; incredibly flexible.

My brother and I would be marched out to the wood shed like the condemned we were.  If you made a fuss you’d get the switch every inch of the way to the shed. I think it must have hung on a hook out on the covered and screened in deck.  I don’t remember ever seeing it there, but it would just appear as we marched out.  I’m not sure how it was determined who would go first; I think it must have been decided by one’s body language, shuffling feet would get your number up in a hurry.  It was very important to stand very still and quietly while the other got his beating.  No crying out, shuffle of feet; making that mistake would double what you had coming.  Going second was the hardest I always thought; you were expected to stand still, no crying waiting until positions were switched.

I remember one time school shoes were bought and my brother didn’t like his, so he was wearing them outside to help break them in.  We were playing around the woodshed; he put one shoe up on the chopping block and played like he was going to chop it in half.  Double bladed axe went up, came down and cut that shoe almost in half; like a knife through butter.  That was one beating I’ll never forget.

I have no idea where mom was; I’ve thought about it for years, still no idea.  Invisible.

Mom was good; she’d dress us up for school in long sleeves and pants to cover the bruises.  Even in summer with the sweltering heat; long sleeves and pants.

I have to say the worst was when my brother was only getting his beating; I’d stand so still, not even a breath.  Sometimes I’d get so dizzy I’d stumble; that would get you a turn on the switch.

In the before times; From the Ramblings

t

Stormy skies

Stormy skies

You can feel the rumblings in the air like far away thunder.  The air takes on a heavy charged funny electrical smell like hot wiring; moods begin the shift; sideway looks, little subtle verbal jabs; sounds like far off firecrackers echo off the walls and fill the house.   The storm is coming………

My brother and I would run hide in our rooms; spend hours outside trying to put distance from the brewing storm; it’s coming, building massive in its fury; vibrations like earth quakes shake the tiny house; stomachs twist into knots; there is no way to stop it, make a mistake, get in the way and the eye of the storm will focus on you and you alone; so alone.

In the years since I've watch hundreds of thunder storms build, filling the skies with huge angry black clouds, super charged particles dance in closed eyes.  I remember so clearly; voices sounding like thunder, the crack of lightning mirrors a hand hitting a face; the low boom of a body blow.  The tears fall sounding of tiny fragments of broken glass hitting the linoleum.  The distant slam; boom of a door splintering as any escape is denied.

Muted insults like a jack hammer hitting the concrete.  These are my memories; I share at last.

In the before times; The Ramblings.

t

Rose

Rose

 

Rose

Damn, I'm gonna miss that girl.  

I fell in with her by just a fluke of damn luck.  She was dancing at a piss ant dive strip club just outside of Denver, about twenty miles out on a piece of blacktop that only people who don’t want to run the main roads use.  Fucking place was a fall-down drunk joint; not in any city limits, out too many miles on the road to nowhere for the County Deputies to care to drive out to unless forced by a worthless fight call.  

Dudes were passed out on the freaking floor, and it was only ten o’clock.  The parking lot looked like a cheap-ass “junkyard” car lot, with cash sales only, with no refunds.  Every car in the parking lot was at least fifteen years old, with fenders dented on every corner and some along the sides.  What a junkyard; the clientele had to be a bunch of losers, druggies that must have been turned loose by their fat old ladies with heads full of curlers or so dope sick they couldn’t make it down to the dive, or just paroled looking for a drink and a fight, kicked loose from a seedy trailer park or the County lock up.  About every fifth running wreck was an old but nice pickup; even with the dents, the kind that screams “Red Neck” right down to the gun rack in the back window; a couple even sported old, mangy dogs sitting dead, bored in the bed of the trucks.

I’d just come across the State of Kansas, what a fucking place.  I’d been told it was flat as a pancake, but that was a hell of an understatement.  Four hundred miles on my tired old oil-smoking Plymouth Road Runner’s speedo; two quarts of oil every fill up, whether she needed it or not; blue cloud of burnt oil followed us everywhere we went.  

After another three hours across some godforsaken state, my eyes were straining to see the white line.  The night sky was lit with banks of neon lights; they covered every inch of the tarpaper building I could see up ahead on the two-lane highway.  I’d seen those types of joints before, and they begged: “Come on in, have a couple of beers, there’s titties to be seen”.  

I pulled into the dirt parking lot, leaving a plume of dust in the air so high and wide that the next four cars wouldn’t be able to see the neon until they were already passed; I pulled right up to the front door, and it occurred to me that I’d just driven into the sixties like on an ol’ Twilight zone TV show.  If I were a little smarter, I’d have backed out and kept going until morning, driving until I found the next Texaco station where I might just be able to score another six-pack of Bud and a fresh pack of smokes before they cancel my card.

Good sense was not on the menu, so, parking next to one of the better-looking wrecks, I jumped out and headed for what I expected to be a real letdown.  At the front door was a bouncer, a fat fuck, crew cut and over the hill in his early twenties, who looked to be about a decade and a half ago.  Fat fuck said “$10 cover charge” and put up a full ham-sized arm towards my chest to stop my advance.  I kept on going until his hand was on my chest and pushed him back a full step.  Again, he said “$10 cover charge” in his “I’m so fucking fat and scared shitless someone will call me out voice”. I looked down at his hand, and he quickly pulled it off my jean jacket, my favorite jean jacket.  I looked him in the eye and said: “I’m with the band”.  “$10 cover charge,” he said softly for the third time.  I looked at him with my “Are you fucking kidding me look” and closed the distance he made with his retreating step.  Face flushing and taking but another step backward, he wasn’t happy with my aggressive manner and in his face attitude; I was now inside the joint, and the music was obviously from a cheap recording and crap speakers that must have come from one of the dollar stores.  “$10 fucking bucks to cover the band fuck face” I growled in his fat face so close my lips brushed his like a soft kiss.  He jerked back, and I walked around him into the stinking, nasty-assed dive; it was smaller than it looked from the outside.  

There were maybe ten tables spread around the square building and six rickety stools at the shabby, dirty bar.  The place smelled of old beer and older barf with a twist of body odor thrown in; it made you breathe short, shallow breaths through your nose so you wouldn’t get any in your mouth.  The floor was uneven; boards warped and cracked with golf ball-sized holes every foot or so.  It came to mind, “I wonder how a couple of these fat ass losers made it in here without going right through the floor”.  There was a spotlight shining on one giant round ball hanging from the ceiling, looking like it could drop like a stone and kill someone at any moment; it must have been four feet across.  It was made up of broken mirror pieces glued on some sort of round, something. It was hanging in the center of what was supposed to be a dance floor; luckily, they had high ceilings, or the girls would have to dance around the stupid thing.  The dance floor was a half circle and only about ten feet around.  It was raised three feet above the main floor of the bar; broken linoleum tiles and some kind of patch material were all twisted and uneven as much as two inches from one spot to the next.  The thought of seeing one of the girls do a spectacular naked spread eagle fall entered my mind, and I dismissed it with a quick smile and a shake of the head; I have crazy thoughts sometimes, funny ones, but crazy.

I took a seat next to the junky dance floor, still thinking about a spread eagle fall into my arms, when the barmaid, who had to be in her sixties, asked me what my pleasure was.  I smiled my biggest shitty grin and said “Oh, I think you know” followed by a twisted toothy grin.  That was all it took, and she was all smiles and gushing, friendly, I’d just made her day.  “I’ll just take a Bud; no glass needed.” With a wink, she was off. 

My Bud was back in a flash, and I asked her when the floor show was going to start.  “Bout ten minutes or so” was the answer with a toothy grin and a slight toss of what had to be the most dyed hair in America.  She bent over the little table, showing every inch of wilted tits that were so over the hill that the hill couldn’t be seen in the rearview mirror.  I gave her a little nod and dismissed her; her reply was a deep huff, twisting her wrinkled, lined mouth into what used to work as a pout; she was off like a rocket.

Ten minutes turned into twenty, and finally the music picked up a notch or two, and the drunks started to clap and shout; it even woke a couple up from the floor.  Five minutes later, just as I was beginning to think that no one was going to come out, I almost shit myself sitting right there in my hard ass seat with my warm and almost empty Bud in one curled fist; out comes one of the most beautiful women I think I’d ever seen.  I damn near pissed myself right then and there.  She was about five-ten, tits hard as rocks that had to be “C’s” if not bigger, and the thinnest waist under those big bad girls I’ve seen in years.  Thank god no cheap costume was hiding her stomach, those abs; six-pack going on a short case.  Thighs that a bodybuilder would have been proud of; lines of muscles rippling under tanned, perfect skin.  Toned calves; triceps that had to be gym-built; biceps that were groomed to perfection, if not a little large for a medium-sized woman born and raised in heaven.  Her hair was nearly white, it was so blond, free-flowing well past the middle of her back, thick like a thatched roof.  My face ached from the stupid smile on my face.  A hard punch in the shoulder brought me back to the moment; did I want another Bud?  Oh hell yes, yes, yes, yes; another huff was all I noticed as my eyes were glued on what had just walked into my life.

The goddess on the raised floor above me swayed, twisted, and spun; high kicks showing flexibility were just one of the many talents she must possess.  Her movements to the shit music straining from dollar store speakers were probably the best I’d ever seen; smooth, sensuous, perfect.  “Perfection of movement and rhythm” was what my brain was saying.  Perfect smile; teeth so white that the flashing light from the spotlight off the mirror ball reflected blinding white light from her teeth into my eyes.  Eyes an incredible deep sea blue.  Why were my eyes watering so? I was in the presence of an angel from heaven, and my mind was not thinking pure thoughts, as the front of my pants would attest to.  In an instant, her bit was up, and she left the floor as quickly as she had appeared. I found myself standing at the edge of the dilapidated stage, it was all I could do not to jump up on the stage and follow her like a moth to a flame.

 Somehow, another Bud had appeared in my fist and was almost gone; magic. 

I sat there stunned for more than just a few minutes without noticing that another dancer had taken the stage and was trying to get someone to realize she was working her ass off, spinning, kicking, grinding it out, just trying to get noticed.  I wasn’t the only hard dicked patron in this shit hole sitting there with glazed-over eyes, dizzy light-headed from what we’d just been blessed to see; it sure wasn’t the beer and a half I’d drank or even the joint that was smoked out on the road.

I left a twenty on the table and started looking for a way into the back rooms, where I had to find my angel.  Off to the right side of the bar were the doors going to the shitter’s, Men’s, or Women’s; hidden off to the left of the opening was a single recessed door with peeling paint that at some point in the last millennium looked to be red.  It had an “Authorized Person’s Only” sign hanging by a bent nail on the upper half of the door.  It was leaning heavily to the left since someone hadn’t even put a single nail in the center of the sign.  My heart was pounding as I twisted the knob and found it to be unlocked.  I stepped through the door into a dark hallway sporting maybe six doors at random spacing down both sides of the hall.  I silently closed the door on its rusted hinges without a squeak of protest and put my ear to the first of four doors without hearing a sound coming from inside.  The fifth door on the right, I could hear the faint movements of a person, and I gently knocked.  A sweet woman’s voice called in response, “Come in.” I opened the door and looked straight into a mirror against the wall, no more than six feet away.  The reflection was that of my angel from heaven in body powder and nothing else.  She was pulling her blond wig off and didn’t act as though she even knew I was there, staring at her naked reflection in the mirror.  She made no move to cover up, only turned and said, “Oh…. I saw you in the audience…. Did you like my performance?”  “I loved it,” I croaked; somehow, the sight of her perfect breasts and body had taken the air from the room.  She wasn’t blond, but strawberry blond, and the rug matched the curtains perfectly.  The color was more strawberry than blond, but not to the point you’d call her a redhead.  She was breathtaking even in the foul, dim single sixty-watt light bulb over the dressing room mirror.

I realized I was standing in her dressing room where I wasn’t supposed to be with a raging hard on and she was completely naked; I noticed the weirdness and said “I’m sorry my name is David and I just wanted to talk to you after the incredible performance you just did” She waved an arm dismissing my compliment, making her right breast raise and bounce with the jester.  “Yes, you are David from Chicago…. I’ve been waiting for you.” With that announcement, her nipples raised to full erection; she didn’t seem to notice.

“They call me Rose, that is the name that I use here, I have no other I know”.  She made another dismissive wave and turned back to the mirror again, working on wiping clean the makeup from her gorgeous face.  As the colors came off, her incredible beauty increased.  The makeup was covering and taking away from her natural beauty.  I stood transfixed by the sheer beauty that was before me; she was becoming more breathtaking by the minute. 

“How do you know that I’m from Chicago?”  “I just came into this crap bar less than an hour ago”.  Another dismissive wave sent chills up my back as I again watched her breast make its journey up and back to the natural position. 

“I’ve been waiting for you, David of Chicago.”  “I need a ride to my people, will you take me there, David of Chicago?”  What do you say to the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever laid eyes on, and she asks you five minutes after meeting her to give her a ride, plus that is the direction you’re going anyway? 

‘Ummmmm……… Of course”…

She had her bag packed; one small suitcase that was no larger than the standard airline carry-on.  She finished cleaning the paint off her face and tossed all her makeup, which wasn’t much, into the suitcase. With a click, she shut it and headed out the door.

“Wait; don’t you have to get your check or something from dancing?” as I raced to catch up.  She’d already made it down the dark hall and was going through the “Authorized Persons Only” door.  She spoke over her shoulder, not slowing down, “Nope, my time here is over, and my debt is paid.”  Across the barroom floor with a wave to the bartender and past the fat-assed bouncer with no more than a slight wave of her hand.  Standing just outside the shit house door of the tavern slash strip club, she surveyed the parking lot as though she would know which my ride was. 

To my dwindling surprise, she walked to the passenger side of my Road Runner and waited for me to open the door for her.  I wiped the surprised look off my face and opened the door for her; as she got in, she said, “We need to go West, David of Chicago.” 

I got in the driver’s seat and left a cloud of blue oil smoke and dust in the air; we headed West through Colorado towards Idaho; she was asleep within two minutes and lay her head against my shoulder.  Her strawberry blond hair covered her face, but the slow, delicate breaths told me she was fast asleep.

Two hours later and a hundred and fifty miles later, she woke and told me she had to be at the meeting place no later than June 21st, the summer solstice, and fell instantly back to sleep.  At dinner our first night I asked her where we were going and she handed me a satellite photo of the Middle Sister Mountain in the Cascade Range in Oregon.  We had two full weeks to get there.  That was all the information I was going to get; she changed the subject, gave half answers, and laughed when I asked her for more details on why she had to be at the Mountain on the summer solstice.

Our time passed in a flash; traveling, eating, sleeping, and making love every night.  I fell completely in love with my Rose.  After the first day, I didn’t ask any more questions; I was so mesmerized by Rose that anything she asked or said was taken as a fact.

June 21^st came to us as we were making love, wrapped in twisted sheets of the Best Western in Sisters, Oregon.  It was a small resort town with too many gift shops to count.  We woke at 8:00 am the morning of the summer solstice.  Rose was wired higher than a kite; there was no comforting her, and the thought of calming her down was not an option.  She rushed me into the Plymouth and off we went towards the Mountains.  She sat in the passenger seat with her legs crossed up in the seat.  The only thing holding her in the seat was the shoulder strap.  Her eyes were closed, and she directed me left or right as we came to a crossroads.  We left the blacktop and headed higher on gravel and then dirt roads.  Dirt roads turned into logging tracks, which the Roadrunner just couldn’t make up.  This didn’t faze Rose; she just instructed to back up and go right at the bottom of the road, never opening her eyes.  After several missed turns and logging roads, she suddenly said, “Stop; this is as close as we can make it.”  She leaned across the seat and gave me a long, hard kiss on the lips.  “Goodbye, David of Chicago, I will see you again, and we will be lovers once again, forever.”  She reached into the back seat, grabbed her small luggage, and jumped out the door.  “I will see you again, David of Chicago; I will send you a message when I’m coming back.”  Without a second look, she was gone into the brush of the Middle Sister of the Cascade Range.

I’m telling this story now because today in the mail I received a postcard with a strawberry-colored rose on the front and a message that read “Tomorrow, David of Chicago, June 21^st, the summer solstice, I will see you then.” Signed “Rose”

I’ve waited forty-seven years for my Rose to return.  I can’t wait to see her.

From the Ramblings

t