Chapter 1 (A preview for the curious)

                                "I would like to thank you all again for coming tonight. I look forward to talking with you next week at the same time. And don't forget, the meeting has been changed to conference room number two oh eight so we’ll meet there next week." Steve-Bob flashes a youthful smile that belies his adulthood as he uses his sausagy digits to gather his notes, curriculum and other assorted papers. "By the way, I wish you all a careful drive home, watch the wet roads everybody," he follows up as the small assembly of drones slowly disincorporate and each person begins finding his own way in life again, one trudging footstep at a time. Joy radiates from Steve-Bob's tall frame as he tries to connect with each lost soul by way of handshake or friendly pat on the shoulder and a gracious 'thank you' or 'good night'. This group has a bit of promise, Steve-Bob thinks, reflecting on the many anger management groups he has spoken for in the last couple years. Groups like this remind me why I continue on this path of servitude. They make it all worthwhile.

                                With his seminar closed and his heart open, Steve-Bob embraces the warm cotton that fills his chest and finishes gathering his charts and worksheets, bundles them neatly into his black canvas briefcase and wheels about on his heel to the door only to find the way blocked by a looming figure holding a long, slender weapon. Joy and fulfillment drain from Steve-Bob's face along with his blood. The warm cotton in his chest freezes, sending chilling tingles to the furthest reaches of his large body and he is suddenly aware of an electrical hum from an unknown source.

The figure does not move.

Steve-Bob's mouth begins to compensate for the immediate dryness and the dams break, allowing the saliva to flow. The blood drains to his hands now, making his fingers heavy which nearly prevents them from holding anything. As the handle of the briefcase begins to slip, the friction in his hands remind him of the tangibility of the moment and he knows this isn't some dream and reaffirms his grasp on the bag. "H-Hi there," Steve-Bob musters, "I'm sorry but the seminar is over."

No response.

"There um…there will be another one next week. You can come to that one if you like."

Nothing.

                                Oh god! A chill shakes his spine into submission. This is it! This man is going to kill me! What did I do? His mind begins playing a high speed slideshow of the human mutilation and autopsy photos he had to endure during his training for emergency responder. Each of these bizarre slides replace the generic victim's face for Steve-Bob's own, providing there is a face left.

                "Hello?" Steve-Bob manages to stumble, but still...nothing. The hum amplifies and suddenly, Steve-Bob realizes that he is required to be absolutely anywhere but inside this room at this time. "L-Look guy, I um...I am just on my way out. So, uh...so do you need something?"

                A nod from the stranger. Finally! A response. He raises his hand and offers forth the end of his weapon with dirt traced knuckles to reveal a bristled head. A broom? Oh lord, how stupid! "Hey sure, fellah. I’ll be out of your way in just a second, just let me get my things together and I'm through with this room." Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid! He's just a janitor. Come on, get it together! With his spare hand, Steve-Bob gathers his tacks and the flyer for next week's seminar and heads through the door, shuffling past the cleaning man and his tool. The janitor grins crookedly. Did he just scoot closer? Steve-Bob's meaty back scrapes the door frame and his largish belly brushes awkwardly against the janitor and his broom. Creepy! "Good...uh....good night." Without waiting for a response, Steve-Bob heads down the hall as fast as his long, meaty legs can take him without seeming too obvious that he feels like a hen trapped in a chicken coop with a fox on the loose. He listens as he high paces down the hall but can hear no footsteps other than his own and, once getting to the lobby of the large building, he relaxes his momentum long enough to stop at the community bulletin board to post his flyer for next week's class. With one frantic scan back toward tonight's class, Steve-Bob hurriedly stabs the paper onto the board and darts through the front door, nearly plowing down a small elderly woman trying to make her way inside. "Excuse me...” he exclaims apologetically, “…excuse me"

                                Fresh air fills his lungs and thaws the cotton that once felt nearly warm enough to heat an igloo. Okay, get it together, he coached himself, it was a janitor...nothing more. Not everybody is out to get you. Calm down. With one last curse toward his anxiety attacks, Steve-Bob composes himself and heads down the street, feeling more confident with each stride. He heads out on foot toward his final destination before going home and by the time he makes it to St. Paul's Church of Eternal Joy, the memory of the creepy janitor is all but gone, replaced by the comfort and safety that the towering edifice of old world religion instills within his breast. From the pointed roof, down to the statues of the holy mother at the base of the stone steps, this building serves as a spotlight in the dark of today's society. The ancient architecture of the brickwork and the stained glass windows set the premises apart from the uniform of the modern construction, reminding Steve-Bob that there truly is some stability in this ever changing world.

                                Steve-Bob begins to climb the steps of the church as the doors atop the steps swing open and a woman nearly as tall as Steve-Bob makes her exit from the building. Her hair is cut close and curled and, despite her slightly advanced age, she still carries a figure that increases the heart rate of many. Steve-Bob knows her well, many times having to remind himself that his thoughts of her are immoral and most likely unappreciated but he never can stop looking fondly upon her. "Good evening Evellyn." His words covered in satin.

                                "Oh..." she says with a start, "Hiya Stevie B. I didn't realize you were going to be here this late," she pauses with a glance deep into the church. He knows she makes little nick names for everyone whose name she can remember but he can't help but feel just a little special any way. She turns back to Steve-Bob, "So, is there...is there anything I can do for you?"

                                Thou shall not covet another man's wife. That wasn't a come on line. Thou shall not covet another man's wife. Come on Steve-Bob, say something. She's waiting. Was it a come on?

                                "Stevie B?" her demeanor is pleasantly impatient.

                                "Uh...No Evellyn. I'm just...is father Nichols still here? I wanted to talk to him about my day." She listens patiently as he continues, "I made so much progress and I think I'm really starting to touch people."

                                With a graceful step to the side, Evellyn motions Steve-Bob inside, "You know he is. I think he's still in the back chambers but he will be out momentarily." She smiles as Steve-Bob skips up the stairs and thanks her before going into the building. Can this guy really be in his thirties, she questions to herself as she continues aloud, "See you Sunday Stevie B."

                                "See you then Evellyn. Good night." He races back out as she's making her way down the steps, "Hey Ev, um...would you like me to walk you home?"

                                "That's thoughtful of you Stevie but, well, I drove here and my car is right at the corner," she awkwardly jabs her thumb just behind her. The two meet glances and each fidgets with uncertainty until Evellyn closes the conversation, "Okay, good night Stevie B."

                                "All right," he shoots a school boy smile, "Alright then, goodnight," he offers as he walks back inside, allowing the thick oak doors to close behind him.

Charlie

The surrealism of dusk has passed and the infinite empty of night is becoming painfully present. Uneasiness is rocking me to my feet in my would-be antique store I call a living room. I know this cannot continue and I have to take action before the claustrophobia crushes my body. I give another shake of the matchbox in my hands to hear the rattle of a dozen skinny little pyromaniacs, which serves to confirm my growing resolve. It is time to ask my uninvited guest to leave.

From the thick mustiness of my front room I make my way past the mantle to the doorway, which leads to where I have eaten so many meals with my family. The dining area is easily twice the size of the living room but it has afforded no space as my own reality has pressed in on me from all sides. I take pause before entering this room, struck to a standstill by the only light in the house, which is coming from the kitchen entry across from where I stand hidden by the evening's darkness. My eyes swim in their sockets. There he is! Just sitting there, in my home! Resting his filthy elbows on the small table in my kitchen, taking in the infernal cancer from his cigarette. I don't know this stranger but I'll be damned if he isn't Charlie Manson! I have to remember to breathe again.

I shake my matchbox.

Taking the first step into the dining hall seems to be the most difficult decision ever but I manage to put into motion the concrete poles I had once called legs. My steps don't take me closer to the kitchen but deeper into the dining room. Now is not his time, not yet. Each step I take does brings me closer to the moment of truth and further from the warm comfort of what I used to consider the safety of my comfortable life but my body is following the plans of a secret mission my mind knows but will not tell me. Finally, I make it to the edge of my dining table. This is the corner where my two boys would sit, constantly playing the game of one-upmanship. "I'm already to level twelve."

"Oh yeah? Well I rode a wheelie for half a block today"

Gone. That game will never be played here again.

The table as my guide, I walk silently and deliberately from the only light in the house to the darker corner of this room. Why does there never seem to be any colors of life in the bleak grays of darkness? These next two chairs often sat empty with only each other as company but always hoping for the company of others. My trek across the room is taking an eternity and there suddenly seems to be thousands of chairs in my way, scattered ever so gently about the perimeter of the table. I shake my matchbox. The rattling pyro sticks sparked not flame but fear from under the table. With a slight bend, I can see directly underneath to a pair of desperate, cornered eyes. Inhuman eyes, eager for freedom and I know they belong to one of the two German Shepherds the stranger brought with him. This poor beast, like his brother at the end of the table is worn and dirty with patches of hair missing and signs of life missing. These frightened dogs could easily be mistaken as homeless people reincarnate. I continue walking.

Across from me now is where my girl would sit, next to her Grammy, not my mother but my wife's. I didn't care for her much then and I don't suppose I miss her now but my daughter loved her so much.

I shake my matchbox.

It feels as though a lifetime has come and gone but I make it to the end of the table. In some way, I guess a lifetime has come and gone. I guess a few have. I sat here with my wife, the king of the castle and his queen. This is where I would often sit proud, knowing that it was due to my protection and care that the evils of the world would not, could not permeate and defile the sacred sanctuary that we called home. It was here that fate was so often waiting to prove me wrong.

I shake my matchbox and look down. The two pathetic excuses of life look up at me from scarred and beaten faces. I kneel down and hold out the matchbox. Their quivers work to push the fear off their seemingly sandblasted coats as it comes to me in pulsating waves, nearly knocking me off my perch. Suddenly, it comes clear that our captor has his own matchbox, the one he carries to keep his habit ablaze. Maybe he shakes it before he beats his dogs. Maybe he holds it as he swings the hammers at the end of his arms.

"I'm sorry," I plead as I set the box down in front of these two chained slaves and slowly wrap them only in compassion. These poor animals don't even feel alive. My arms are telling me, as I hold them, that this must be what it feels like to pick up animal carcasses from the highway and for the longest minute in my life, I just hold them. I talk to them quietly, soothe them, and swear to give them freedom.

For these two, I regain my resolve and stand. This is it. I tell my self repeatedly, this is it. Our Charlie must die. On the back wall of this dining area, near the entry to the living room, there is an inset cubby where my wife and I felt placing a stereo was a spectacular idea so that we could play music while the family ate. That is where my gun is. That is where retribution is. The fear of death will give even the clumsiest oaf a military class stealth level and I find that I am no exception as I steal my way to the cubby. From here, I can catch glimpse of Charlie. Still he sits there, enjoying the calm before the storm and I know that time is nearly gone as he puffs away on the time bomb in his mouth.

Wait. What about the neighbors? What will they hear? I can't bring my drama to their doorstep. Will they call the police? Is prison in my cards? NO! This is self-defense. This is survival. I know that's a lie. The burn in the back of my throat doesn't taste like survival but of hatred. Pure and rancid hatred.

I need music. I need loud distraction. I must have the ending spelled out like the climax of a movie. Mostly, I need something to drown out the ability for witnesses to clarify how many shots emitted from within this Hell. My hand closes around the cold comfort of steel as I slip my favorite Monster Magnet CD into the changer and demand it play.

The bony chill hand of Death slides up my spine and my peripheral senses tell me that Charlie has disappeared from the kitchen and materialized directly behind me! Possessed by a cyclone, I turn and fire. The burst of noise from my weapon beats the beat of drums to any nearby ears but the bullet sails into the void of nothing. Oh god. I was wrong! My eyes slice the room apart, ripping through the gray of darkness. Nothing.

I have to swallow my heart before I can move again but once I do, my eyes like homing missiles zero in on the yellow wash of the kitchen doorway, being blocked by his silhouette. I didn't realize anyone could be so evil that he could even imprison light! His presence invades this room just as he did the very first minute he walked into what I used to call a life and by sheer will, he thrusts invasion upon me. My chest is on fire with the pain of pressure. I can't take this eternal instant of panic and stumble backward. I realize my feet want to run the other way and I find myself falling. I may never stand again! With blind hope, I fire a shot at the kitchen doorway. The pistol's kick burns in my elbow just as lightning strikes the back of my head from landing where my feet used to be.

My senses all assault me at once! Oh god! He's right on top of me! How did he move so fast without making any moves at all? His silhouette blocks out any light the kitchen would give as comfort. He has become a specter of the underworld, a shade that descends mercilessly upon my throat, nicotine stained nails excavating my collar bone as his dirt caked hands feel for my throat. The drums and guitars from the CD player suddenly get as frantic as my pulse and I feel his ruthlessness shaking my neck and taste his acrid breath spill out onto me! My arms are pinned to the ground by his knees from behind torn and crusted jeans. The pain shoots like my gun should but never gets to the receptors in my brain as it gets backed up just like my blood, waiting for his hand made dam to break from my throat but it never does.

As my vision and the hauntingly frenzied whirl of Monster Magnet fade, a half groan and half scream escapes my captive throat which is muted only by the haziness of an impossible distance. This instantaneous, yet endless primal cry carries me into black oblivion. Through this, the only image that tattoos my mind is that of Charlie's two broken dogs, yet, even in the last fleeting moments of consciousness, even those two poor beasts slowly leave.