Category Archives: Salvadore Ritchie

Sperm

Hour 1: Legacy of Brutality

 

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As I reach into old age I find my mind becoming more abstract, able to reach the subcutaneous nodes that transmit invisible information which makes the earth churn. These nodes told me Ed Samson’s sperm was weak. I could smell his spray. Perhaps that’s why he groped. He was a gaunt second string cartoon character that was always just off screen. That’s not to say he was entirely second string. To the contrary, his playful voice demanded the fill of any void that might exist in any space. Given we were meeting in an empty hotel room outside a snow driven Omaha, there was much to fill. This would go far in explaining the popularity of his conspiracy radio show.
+++++Watching Ed hustle to the door drew my eyes down to his mound and rod. His cheeks could have been blushed from the cold, but I knew it was from weak sperm. There were no stars in this boy’s seed.
+++++“Mr. Fitch?” He shuffled backpacks and leather bags around to reach my hand, “It’s such a pleasure. An honor!” His boney fingers lightly gripped mine. His palm was moist.
+++++I pulled back enough so as not to be obvious, but a wet palm is undesirable in any situation. It was all I could do not to smack him in the mouth, reach into his pants and indulge in some rough trade. The membranes that toggled my transmissions were overloading me with his scent. Maybe it was the mysterious wisdom that’s found between everyone’s legs that drives me to such exotic nests.
+++++“Hey, sorry.” Ed wiped his hands on his pants. “Nervous, and I gotta pee.” He shuffled in past me, clicking and clacking; he dumped his bags of equipment on the bed. “I’d hate to take a black-light to this dump.” He scuttled to the bathroom and urinated without closing the door. “What a Dump!”
+++++His noise was the first defense to inhibit the embarrassing places. I retired to a flimsy table next to the only window in the room. I dreamt of hogtying the boy, watching his pink flesh bloom to purple with each click of a zip tie. Must this bird aspire to such provocations? The poor boy didn’t realize he was a canary in my coal mine.
+++++Ed zipped up without washing and marched out and put his hands on his hips. “Man, it’s really you. Shit man.” He tossed his coat on the bed. My briefcase was partially covered.
+++++“You really have earned your name ‘The Ghost’,’ cause that’s what you really are. My producer, Teddy ‘Bubbles’ Peroni said you were a myth, but then I got a hold of Tony ‘The Trunk’ McGowan. We call him ‘The Trunk’ on account of his big dick, at least that’s what my wife says. Long story, whatever, anyway, we crossed referenced some of the material in his book ‘Hollywood and the CIA connection’ with some of the notes he kept out for legal reasons and then we chased down this chick only known in the alternative media community as ‘BQ.’  And man she had a tale to tell…”
+++++On he went with leads and covert meetings and lookouts and skip-tracers. He spun his balls of twine. I wanted to slam my train into the mud of his shallow well. My membranes centered on images of sharp claws in crowded bathroom stalls.
+++++“…but this mega freak in the conspiracy community known as ‘Concussion’ sent me this weird text and BAM it all came together…”
+++++He applied his trade as if I were an audience member. I tuned him out, marveling at the nimble way his dead grey fingers assembled his equipment. Laptop, microphones, what I assume was a mixer, all plugged in and turned on within two or three minutes.
+++++On the computer went. “…and that’s when you called me. I knew, that you knew, I was getting close. Not to brag, oh ok, I will a little, but if there is someone to find, I will find them.” He raised his fist, “Take that Bubbles!”
+++++I saw no reason to tell him everything he just passed to me was mostly drivel. I knew very little of this pack of ragamuffins he twirled with. I watched him long enough to know he best expressed himself by chronic masturbation in his wife’s closet. I will say we did record some of his meetings with his contacts and we did follow down those that seemed of interest, but nearly all turned out to be hairy palmed lycanthropes with Peeping Tom compulsions. Most we already murdered.
+++++“This is so awesome.” Ed’s equipment appeared to be set-up. The laptop was on, the microphones were in front of each of us.
+++++“How do you mean, Sport?” I positioned the microphone closer so I didn’t have to lean down.
+++++“This. Me and you here in the middle of the night, like a secret meeting like one of those old spy novels. Like a detective movie or something. I don’t know. It so, uh,” he waved his hands back and forth as if they were irritated claws, “you know.”
+++++“Clandestine?” I offered.
+++++Ed snapped his fingers and pointed at me, “YES! Holy shit, yes.” He took out a beat up old notebook brimming with sticky notes and spare pieces of paper. He wrote CALNDESTINE in the corner of one of the sheets marked ‘The Shit.’
+++++The conversation faded while he touched his screen.
+++++“Like I said over the phone,” Ed’s claws reanimated above his head, “anything here gets too crazy or sensitive, we can like, fix it, edit it later.” He smacked his hands together and rubbed them. “Ok, so we are all mic’ed up. I say we let this thing fly and then you can let me know what you are comfortable airing. My reputation is good in the conspiracy community because I respect the wishes of my guests.” Again, went the talons. “After all I’d like to have you on again and really like to get some contacts from you.
+++++“Let’s see where the course of the interview takes us.”
+++++“Ok, so rock n’ roll.” Ed tapped the record button on his screen.
+++++He leaned into the microphone, “Welcome to the Ed Samson ‘After Midnight Lizard Lounge Conspiracy Show!’ Bringing you the best cold cuts from the conspiracy stew! On this week’s show I have a major guest.” He stopped for showmanship, biting his lower lip. “I have tried for years to get this man. He is known in conspiracy and alternative media circles as ‘The Ghost’.” He stopped again. “His real name is James Resell. Mr. Resell thanks for being on the show.”
+++++“You are persistent, and have an interesting audience.”
+++++“Thanks. You know the funny thing is many guests over the last few years mentioned you. It was never direct involvement, but if it was something significant your handle was always around it. Some denied you even existed. But I keep notes and transcripts. So I cross-referenced and finally came to the conclusion you did exist.” He chirped a victorious giggle at the break of each statement.
+++++“Your research drew me out, practically summoning me.”
+++++“I know, right!” Ed was engrossed by his scribbled notes and scraps. He seemed satisfied by a particular page he had stumbled on. “Ok, so James let’s get right to it, can you tell us how you got started in this business of spying, government cover-ups, psyops, or anything else you have been alleged to have been involved in.”
+++++“The very beginning?” I asked.
+++++“Oh, please” he earnestly giggled.
+++++I leaned closer to the microphone. “The beginning started in naval intelligence. I’m a graduate of the Naval Academy in Annapolis. Vietnam was well underway by the time I was in-country. My training concentrated on psychological warfare. I was already published in a few journals for subconscious pattern influence and their possible applications in combat populations.  Although my career just started, I rapidly developed a reputation of being ethically flexible. Naturally I was assigned to a unit that was working on a coherent design for inducing a repeatable trauma process for mind control. We started experimenting on the cultural fears of the VC particularly in reference to their understanding of the afterlife. We used the VC to start building a consistent process, later we rebranded it as ‘Trauma Therapy.’ Trauma Therapy, at its most basic element is to break down subconscious defenses by pattern association and queues that evoke fears of violence, then install and rebuild the psyche with the desired behavior.  Soon after, we were given the green light to format those processes for universal application. To know if indeed these processes were in fact universal we applied them to our own troops and found their efficacy to have merit.”
+++++“Wait, what? Our own troops? Americans?”

 

Hour 2: Welcome to the Lucifer Process

 

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Ed fumbled around his bulbous notebook, finding an open space and wrote over faded pencil entries. “Ok, so if I’m to get this right these psyop exercises were successful in your opinion?”
+++++“Yes. Eventually, very successful.”
+++++“I’m trying to understand the state of mind you guys had. I’m trying to understand taking some of our best trained, fiercest warriors and breaking them down and essentially destroying them. Making our soldiers unable to complete basic missions by fucking with their heads seems counterproductive. You admit the suicide and homicide rates skyrocketed on those you experimented on.”
+++++“Trauma.”
+++++“What?”
+++++I paused and watched him purposefully. I waited long enough for his eyes to bend from mine to his paper. “The key word is trauma.” The membranes that toggled my transmissions were swollen. Was Ed distracted by my repetitive tickle?
+++++His eyes drifted back to mine. “Trauma? How so?”
+++++I went into a torturous lecture on the application of Trauma on populations as being the primary method of governance throughout all of human history; Repeating the word ‘trauma’ over and over.
+++++“Trauma steers populations. The trauma process, once understood, is quite simple. Behavior can be predicted, corralled and controlled. Now imagine the application of trauma tailored to an individual.”
+++++Ed put down his pen. “I didn’t think of it that way. Violence is something to be avoided and is really uncool.”
+++++“That avoidance is what gives it such power.”
+++++“But you need moral and ethical constraints.”
+++++“Are you forcing the world into your acceptable framework or accepting how the world really is? Perhaps that’s the friction in your life coming to the surface, Sport.”
+++++Ed’s lips loosened and again his eyes bent from his notebook back to me. They communicated early fear. What a lovely fragrance.
+++++I envisioned my membrane penetrating a deep thrust onto his substrata. “Our objective was to take those with the strongest convictions and firstly isolate them and then begin Trauma Therapy. In the final analysis we correctly assumed what was going to be the natural conclusion.”
+++++“But, but you destroyed soldiers.” Ed’s bravado was dissolving to a whimper. “How is that an advantage to any intelligence organization?” Now was the time to shake his ship.
+++++I am a thin, old man hardly able to frame my suit, but I establish the role of captain and tourist early and without the ignoble bravado of physical strength. Ed was already subconsciously sea sick.
+++++I leaned back, pushing the mic away. “It’s true, most responded poorly to the early iterations of Trauma Therapy. Adjustments were made. Successes eventually took hold. Mind control was achieved. That was the beginning of a new era of psychological warfare.”
+++++“This is some heavy shit. “ Ed tapped the play button the screen, pausing the interview. “Is this all for real?” He rubbed his face and temples.
+++++“Yes.”
+++++“Before airing this can I have someone back some of this stuff up.”
+++++“Before the evening is out you will have no doubt about the methods we employed.” I tapped the table in a melodic count.
+++++“Ok.” My statement maneuvered Ed into visible disorientation. ”Sure, but I need their numbers.” He hit the screen again. “So James, I think we have an idea of what you were up to in the late sixties. How about we skip forward a little and get into your post Nam period. The early 70’s.”
+++++I tapped the table in a count that could have lasted forever.
+++++The emptiness of the room invited me to continue, “I found myself in the states again. In D.C., I taught our methods and their outcomes at the Pentagon. I wrote papers on their possible domestic applications. The Pentagon and other agencies were very interested in creating balkanization in the various populations that comprised the American public. If you take that state of mind then it’s much easier to let creativity into your methods.”
+++++“But,” Ed dropped his pencil. His head tilted as if learning a second language. “I don’t understand?”
+++++I wanted to toggle his transmission. I wanted to reach under the table and grip his mound until his face could smell carpet. “I’m talking about corralling a domestic population with the surgical use of trauma. A very simple chronology I’m walking you through.”
+++++Ed wanted to say something but instead fumbled with the pages of his notebook.
+++++“What is it? You can ask me.”
+++++After three tries he mustered the courage “Are you using my show for disinformation?”
+++++“Are you uncomfortable talking about trauma? Would you like to stop the interview? I could get my briefcase – “
+++++“No.” I knew he wanted it to end but he was tugging between fear and his undying curiosity. “No, how about we talk about you dropping off the map for about ten years? I can’t account for anything real during the mid-70’s to the early eighties. I have a chronology, but it sounds so out there. I don’t know. It’s really weird.”
+++++“You mean the killings?”
+++++Eyes now warped from the realization that he is alone in a room with someone who’s well had no bottom, Ed’s tone whittled to a tiny plea. “What killings?” He opened his phone and scrolled through it. “Were you an assassin?”
+++++“Not an assassin, more like council that used death as leverage.”
+++++Ed gently set his phone on the table and shut his plump note book. “Oh.”
+++++“Keep that jaw opened long enough something might come in it, Sport.”
+++++“What?” It was in his eyes. Somewhere at the bottom of his well he found me playing in his mud. I was there the whole time.
+++++“In ‘74 I had enough of the academic side of psyops and was getting antsy to get back into the field. I like to churn and burn my prize, so to speak.” I exaggerated my gaze from his lips to his stomach and then back. “I spoke to my superiors about my inclinations. They were disappointed but understood. Given the bureaucracy that rules D.C. I formally left government and started a new life as an independent contractor. It was a few weeks later I took a lunch with a private outfit that were headed by a few of the fellows I served with in Vietnam. To my surprise my papers and lectures made quite an impact on an array of factions that comprised the clandestine world. “
+++++Weakly Ed raised his hand, “Can we take a break?”
+++++“How about a little later, Sport?”
+++++“Ok.”
+++++“The lunch was a success. We talked about new methodologies coming on board in population control by psychological warfare, dividing the public and breaking down group continuity as well as exciting methods of remaking an individual psyche. A lot of this new work out there echoed the work we had only begun to master in Vietnam.”
+++++“But how does this play into you being a death counselor?”
+++++“I can show you how it works. How about allowing an old man a moment of pride and show you some of his mementos? Let me get a few things out of my briefcase and give you something you will find valuable.” Kittens play with their prey. This old cat knows when it’s time to eat.
+++++“Oh, sure,” Ed’s head barely gyrated. He swallowed and wiped his forehead.
+++++Not wanting to appear rude despite knowing you are in danger is the prime weakness from which most predators rely upon. It is the warring force in the human psyche, civilized decorum versus primal survival instinct. Instinct usually loses out especially when you want something from your hunter.
+++++I went over to the bed and opened the briefcase. Inside it was a zip tie shaped like a lasso large enough to swoop down over Ed’s neck.
+++++He arched his head over but didn’t dare to turn and face me. Curious are the switches in the subconscious even when every receptor in your brain is screaming to get out. He could have turned, or run, or thrown a chair at me. Instead he opened a notebook page with a sketch of a big eyed owl and a post it note of a chicken salad recipe that required apples.
+++++Know this, the mastery of a task has to collect and build, like the powder on a moth wing. I was a pair of wings taking off. In a fluid motion, I applied the zip tie over his head and onto his neck with a rip and pull.  One, two, three, all within a second, maybe two, the tie chocked off any air or blood from intruding. I stepped back as Ed sprung up, kicking the chair behind him. Immediately those boney fingers pulled and jerked at a clear plastic that was designed to never tear. The fear and heavy gasps of a subject were now common to me and no longer excited the snake of my better judgment. I simply watched the dance as he cleared the equipment from the table then fell into it, collapsing it. He and the broken table landed on the floor.
+++++From by briefcase I took out a pair of handcuffs and a rubber mallet. “Sport, did you know you are dying because there is a zip tie around your neck?”
+++++Curling around like an earthworm on a June sidewalk his hands pulled, his torso thrashed to no avail.
+++++I leaned over Ed, “would you say this moment of Trauma Therapy is rapidly changing your perspective on a lot of things?”
+++++The tie was doing the requisite compress around his neck. Eyes wide from shock, everything turning red and purple. His hands still pulled, but the body was relenting.
+++++I took the mallet and struck his stomach with it and threw it on the bed. The strike came in with just enough force to shock his hands into straightening out long enough to roll him over and apply handcuffs.
+++++“Sport, would you say that your curiosity about those that work in the dark have finally borne fruit?”
+++++I reached into my briefcase and took out a pair of garden clippers I found that cuts zip ties fairly well. The familiar open mouth lock indicated he would soon lose consciousness. Before he went under I made sure I wanted him to think these were the last words he would hear, “Ed, before you die, know that the nightmare curiosities that have consumed you in this pursuit of the darkness have led you to this moment, have led you to me. Understand, I am the natural conclusion to your life. I am your savior.”

 

Hour 3: Awakening

 

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A wise man once told me that it was earthly things by which we find the divine. At the time I found great comfort in those words because it’s the earthly things by which we are bound. If by some small chance we can glean divinity in anything that surrounds us then there is a chance of a momentary release in all the things of this world. In old age, I’ve grown beyond this philosophy. The topography of my life experience has shown that anything divine is actually in a state that is forever outside this world. But sometimes for brief instances it can pass through in the form of something we can understand. Sometimes the divines delivery system comes in the form of talent, often times it comes in the form of trauma.
+++++Ed was in the presence of the divine. He was like most; unable to understand the purpose of its appearance and the impact it would have on him the rest of his and his family’s lives.
+++++“No more! No more!” Hands cuffed behind him, propped up against the night stand, Ed leaned against the feral mattress that smelled of stale body fluids. Already the trauma had changed him, moments before he wouldn’t have dreamt of burying his face into a mattress with such a reputation. “Please! No more!”
+++++No more, No more, they always say something like that.
+++++I imagined Ed would want to do something drastic to Tony McGowan for his rhino sized penis and the subsequent pleasure it gave Ed’s wife.
+++++“Sport, if you keep your voice up I will have to quiet you. This is your last warning,” I stood over Ed, with a picture in my hand. “This is as nice as I’m going to get. Look at the picture.” Again, I smacked him across the face. ”NOW!”
+++++Cheeks puffy, loose lips and hair soaked, Sport took in the picture.
+++++It was a professional grade photo of Tony McGowan’s bodiless head, mouth open, like an iced carp.
+++++‘NO!” The musk of his fear sprayed me to point of dizzy pornography. Fear, sex and death are kissing cousins. I say incest is best, keep it in the family. I never considered myself attracted to those that needed the tender caress of a ham sandwich, but he hugged fear with such abandon the entire scene made me reconsider my proclivities. Sometimes I do my best work below the waist.
+++++I tossed the picture on the bed. I then took off both of his shoes. Off went one sock, I balled it up and jammed it into his mouth before the second word could escape.

 

Hour 4: The Enemy. The Family. The State.

 

I had Ed on his stomach contemplating a little role play. “Sport, how about we pretend to be a couple of sailors looking for a good time? I hear role play is good for relationships. How about letting your captain push your button?”
+++++I almost missed Ed’s phone vibrating from under the debris of the broken table. I turned Ed over from his stomach to face me. At this point he was openly blubbering with the sock halfway out his mouth.
+++++“It looks like someone is reaching out to you. Too bad we couldn’t set sail, maybe another time,” I threw off the pieces of the table until I found the phone, “It’s the better half.”
+++++Ed jerked his head up and through the wet sock, I could hear him scream Mo, Mo, Mo. Translated as No, No, No.
+++++I answered the phone. “Is that you darling?”
+++++On the other end was a woman’s hysterical voice. What she was saying meant nothing. I was more interested in Ed’s reaction.
+++++“Sport, I can take the sock out so you can speak to her. But no more screaming. Deal?”
+++++Ed shook his head a hard yes.
+++++I ripped the sock out. I put the phone up to Ed’s ear with the voice on the other end still talking
+++++Shaking more but still holding it together Ed sprinkled in a few Yes’s and Ok’s.
+++++“This phone is getting heavy, Sport. You almost finished?”
+++++“I understand, No, No, don’t do anything. No, no, police.”
+++++That was my queue. I took the phone back and walked away from Ed, “shut up and listen.”
+++++The other end kept blabbing hysterically.
+++++“If you don’t shut up this is the last sentence you are going to hear before a handful of people storm your home and brutalize you and your children in a fashion that can only be described a flamboyant.”
+++++The line went silent.
+++++“Silence is good. Silence means you are listening. The envelope you have with photos of your daily lives I would hope needs little translation. We know your habits, your children’s schools, your mundane secrets. All of this is designed for you to understand that you are now a part of the team. Think of it as Amway or a winning lottery ticket. After I hang up you will not make another call or text or email this evening. No communication. If you are lucky your husband will not arrive in a box and your children will not explore the intestinal tract of a boar.” I gave Sport a reassuring nod. “By the way, I sent McGowan’s severed cock to his mother. First-class. Hopefully it will still be warm upon arrival. Maybe she could tuck it in and give it a goodnight kiss.”
+++++I hung up.
+++++“She will call the police!” Ed said in a manic froth.
+++++“I fully expect her to. My god Sport, after all this woman has done for you, one would think you wouldn’t have rolled on her so fast. Would you do the same to me?”
+++++“NO!” Ed shrieked.
+++++“Of course not. Loyal to a fault. Besides, your whole life is riddled with ridiculous conspiracies. Who could believe you?”

 

Hour 5: Bonding

 

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Ed openly wept, rubbing his newly freed wrists. I leaned closer, shifting my seat so our knees were practically interlocked. His head came to rest on my shoulder.
+++++“Have you ever been around a truly talented person?” I asked.
+++++“I don’t know,” defeat enveloped his voice.
+++++“It’s such a profound thing you would know.”
+++++Ed’s crying slowed but he still shivered.
+++++“I never knew what real talent meant and how profound it was until I found a little beat-up coffee shop around the corner from my apartment. It was only by happenstance I wondered into that coffee shop one afternoon. It was years ago. I walked in unaware of the noise around me concentrating on the tasks of the day.” I could feel Ed’s crying stop, now engaged in my story. “I ordered my cup and while waiting for it I turned around and right then I saw this delicate woman with a beat-up electric guitar and a cheap amplifier sitting on a chair. Maybe a third of the customers listened to her. I listened to her. It was that moment I understood talent. All my years doing the things I did against my fellow man, not once did I hesitate, but it was in that ridiculous place I was frozen. She was probably 40. She had the steady fever of someone that knew life. Her song had a soft sorrow in it that towered over her and really towered over the rest of the world. I could see it in bright, almost blinding colors. The beauty almost made me ashamed. It’s funny saying that, but it’s the only way to put it. I realized that talent is not within the individual, it passes through the individual like a divine breath. It was such a fragile moment that once her song was over I rushed out of the shop so as to catch my breath.” Ed moved his head slightly I stroked his cheek. “You see Sport; this force was around this woman. She alone could have moved the entire planet to her will. That’s what talent is. I came to understand that she was simply a vessel for talent.”
+++++Ed sniffled. He lifted his head up, eyes red, hair tussled.
+++++“Trauma works the same way. Trauma is the hateful parent of talent. It affects the audience in much the same way. It makes the audience see things in a way it hadn’t before. It cannot be undone. Once exposed to either fruit you are forever changed. You are opened to the possibilities of the human endeavor. You either move inward or burst outward with an understanding that was not in you before, but passed through you. Like talent, trauma passes through and uses the vessel and trains the audience to see new possibilities.”
+++++Ed meekly nodded his head knowing he had the first inklings of what trauma had to offer.
+++++“Sport, you now see the word differently. You survived. What a blessing.”

 

Hour 5: The Shape of Floating Friends

 

I’d like to think over the years I’ve been able to ease into my work with a tender touch. I care for those that work for my group. Then again, I think wisdom is pride repurposed for aged. That said, I think experience has its merit. Maybe two decades ago I might have approached Ed’s case differently. Maybe taking his family hostage and having them call him in fear and agony every week until I was assured he would keep inline. But I knew Ed better than he did. My experience was to Ed’s benefit.
+++++“Sport, I need you to repeat it back in your own words.”
+++++Ed, on his knees, gathered his equipment from the floor. “When you contact me it will be a request for me to say something on air, a phrase or a set of words. Sometimes, you will have me interview a guest.”
+++++“I like that. You’re a quick learner. You will be handsomely compensated. Don’t fret; we will only be in contact once or twice a year.” I closed my briefcase and stood up. “You and I are lucky.”
+++++Ed stopped, “how?”
+++++I walked over to the door, “We both do what we love.” I reached into my coat pocket, “I almost forgot.” I took from it an envelope and tossed it onto the bed. “Welcome to the team.”
+++++A first breath of cold air into my lungs always excited me.

 

The Note:

 

Dear Ed,
+++++All these years you dug for the real truth. Now you have part of it, but you are on the path.
+++++Embrace it.

+++++All the Best,

James

Dusk and The Velvet Rope

I was caught in the last spasm that seized my body up and drained it of air. The belt around my neck had locked into an eyelet, but the additional leverage of being pulled over the closet bar by Karen with both of her hands, gave an extra jerk needed to take me to that point of birth, death, dusk, a place where my seed could cross any velvet rope. My free hand looked like the claw of a hulk as I squeezed Karen’s tiny neck and forced it harder against the wall. My other hand gripped my sex weapon until it was spent. In the same tango, our eyes rolled and tongues bobbed.  Together we let go. She crumpled to the closet floor as if a mannequin extracted of all the magic that made her human.  I fought the belt and fell to one knee trying to get it off. Feeling the darkness closing in, I pulled one last time and got free. I sucked in a deep breath through the pantyhose over my head. The pantyhose Karen had been wearing all day. Smell was one of the first things to come back and she was something I enjoyed smelling the most. It was also the reason why before our ritual I would apply her lipstick to my lips and put her worn pantyhose over my head.  The two smells together were finer than fresh bread.
+++++We both hacked and coughed.  Eventually we both got up from the floor.
+++++I hummed to myself in a satisfaction that was dissipating quickly. Life was withdrawn for just a moment and popped back, the visceral things of the senses danced on the palate of my cock with a quiver. Now I was hungry. I thought about a ham sandwich.
+++++“At dusk I can see amber in the sky.” I said absent mindedly. I tore off her pantyhose, lipstick smeared across my face. My thoughts had moved onto what condiments I would have on my sandwich. Mustard. Maybe relish. I was like a new man.
+++++Mascara had streaked down Karen’s face. “I can’t see amber, or anything.”
+++++I started doing some jumping jacks. My half erect pecker bounced up and down.
+++++“Can’t we just fuck like normal people?” She said as if defeated. Her creamy skin glowed like fairytale dust. Her lips were flushed from erotic asphyxiation. Her dark hair was as hypnotic as black magic.
+++++“You know you can never go back to that. I’m jumping in the shower.” I said.
+++++“I’m going to make you pay for this.” She said meekly, as if casting a spell empowered by her words, not her delivery.
+++++I went into the bathroom.
+++++“Maybe,” I turned the shower on, “but I’ll take my chances.” I felt the spray of the water and waited until it heated up. “Besides, you wouldn’t want your daughter to end up in an orphanage.” The water was getting warmer. “Maybe leave her to the tenderness of Robo? She looks like you. He would see that every day. Would he be tender to her? “I jumped into the water.
+++++I knew I had transformed Karen Shinaski. Normality, I knew she didn’t mean any of it. I had perverted her to the point that she was shape shifting into something completely new. I saw the moment it began. It was from a recent session where we were at that most critical of stages I like to call dusk when she surprised me and let go of the belt and started violently masturbating herself. I was able to keep my hand around her throat and choke off all air. The belt around my neck still locked in its eyelet, fell off the bar. Her eyes rolled, tongue bobbed as I gripped her throat harder. And yet more violently she churned. I too matched her ferocity by doubling down on the jerk of my sex weapon.  With the belt around my neck, eyelet locked, not letting any air or blood in we achieved dusk together. We became one by way of deconstructed sex, without words, but rather a series of hand gestures; a pact on a closet floor with blood and belts. Immediately afterwards she crawled to the toilet and vomited. She wept openly as if morning the loss of an important mask. Not daring a glance in the mirror, she said she was falling in love with me. I was reshaping her, bending her wire hanger out of place. From then on there was a certain kind of fragility about her, like a crack in her foundation. I couldn’t pinpoint the source of her weakness but it was there and it was beautiful. Perhaps now her third eye was opened. Perhaps now her amber would shine.

 Mickey Jones

It was hard keeping Mickey’s head up because he was bald and sweaty and jerking all around. He was tied to the four corners of the room with clear fishing line that was cutting deep into his wrists and ankles, but that was the least of his immediate troubles, because Mickey’s right foot resembled a ruptured goiter.
+++++Robo was down at Mickey’s smashed knob pointing a three foot long piece of galvanized pipe at him. I was sitting on a chair trying to hold his head up. Robo insisted that Mickey witness each of the swings that his right foot had endured.
+++++“Now we move to the left!” Robo shook from rage. “I’m going to turn your feet to mush before this is over!”
+++++The first swing on Mickey’s right foot had broken with a crack. The second swing had the bones shattered, so the skin took on the smeared gape of a leaning flesh snowman. By the third, his foot resembled a contorted squash. On the final swing, the squash was breached like a waterlogged corpse had pushed onto a rocky shore. The shattered bone and meat looked like insides of a pomegranate. Now his left foot was in danger of the same fate.
+++++Robo took aim.
+++++Mickey vomited on himself as if blurting a foreign alphabet.
+++++It was moments like those that I tried to take it all in, immerse myself in the experience and enjoy the bright colors, and sounds that swirled around, but inevitably and without my consent, my invisible third eye, or as it has been put in popular culture my “mind’s eye” would open and conjure up a stealer of fun, a demon if you will. I could feel my eye open, crumbling the crust from its sleeping lashes.
+++++I shrugged off my thief, determined to not have this moment taken from me.
+++++I was instructed by Robo that anytime I saw Mickey’s eyes roll to hit him with the smelling salt to bring him back. Every time he was revived it was barely a second or two before his mind reregistered what was happening and he would start screaming all over again.
+++++My own strength was draining as I shoved his head up for the second round of enhanced interrogation. I too was now covered in sweat and some of Mickey’s blood had splattered on my face. I relished the taste of his blood in my mouth.  Normally, I would have dissolved into ecstatic violence frenzied rapture, but my third eye was open. It was like looking through a telescope where I could see a distant place that the thief, the demon resided. It had manifested itself into its familiar form.  A form that was so evil that it could turn mirth into hatred, a form I could only describe as a well hung, ill-mannered circus bear. He wore a red fez and plaid cummerbund.  The bear was there in the far corner of my third eye trying to steal this moment from me because the bear knew despite the joys of savaging a person for the sake of a broader purpose, this session’s ultimate goal was the first step meant to undo me.  Oh, I could see him, dangling his human looking cock. Mocking me.
+++++Mickey’s own eyes were blood shot. I think during the course of our encounter he had bit his tongue because blood seeped out from his lips. “AHHHHHHHH!” That was all his lungs could muster.
+++++“That’s right!” Robo leaned himself back, arms spread out as if bearing his soul to the divine forces of the shadows and let out a primal surge of rage and hurt, “YAHHHHHH!” He thrust the pipe over his head again.
+++++“Anything you want!” Mickey opened his mouth wide, “AHHHHHHHHHH!” He tried his best to let out the agony that was pulsing through his splayed, mushed right knob.
+++++Robo restrained himself from the swing he was readying. He stopped the early arc of its downward motion and backed away a step.
+++++“Anything!” Mickey drifted off again.
+++++Robo nodded to me.
+++++With one hand still holding Mickey’s bald head up, the other hand dug another packet out of my jacket and popped it open.
+++++Mickey came back with swollen eyes and pink teeth. He cried and hiccupped in pain, ” I C-C-Can Tell you anything you want…”
+++++Two minutes later we stormed out of Mickey Jones’ Auto Body shop, our suits and faces drenched in Mickey’s blood. This stomping march was all in full view of Mickey’s entire staff of mechanics. His stunned and terrified employees had no doubt heard their boss’s cries of agony, but were wise enough to know when Robo Shinaski showed up to your place of work with a three foot piece of pipe it’s best to find something to do and hope you aren’t accidentally pulled into the doomed orbit of Robo’s gaze.
+++++The blood on my face and hands was drying and starting to flake. Inside my third eye my ill-mannered bear grew in size and cartwheeled, and wagged his cordwood man dick at me. Bastard.
+++++“Stop at the warehouse! We need a power saw!” Robo slammed both fists down on the dashboard. “O’Shaughnessy is dog food!”
+++++I had no idea that revenge was such a surprisingly explosive motivator. In Books and TV the urge for revenge is usually explained as a slow process, something that grows deep inside until it fills you up and leaves room for nothing else. It’s a process akin to militant weeds overtaking a flower bed. Its roots are found in some distant act of betrayal. It builds, grows and takes hold until finally you are forced into action. While I find that this line of thought has merit, I was finding out revenge does not work this way with everyone.
+++++This was evidenced by how my boss, Robo Shinaski, was reacting to the murder of his wife Karen (the one I was sharing dusk with) and kidnapping of his step-daughter.

Background

For more than three months, Robo had known that there was a traitor in his organization that was skimming cocaine off of his uncut supply and selling it on the side. He had dispatched a small cadre of spies to the underworld to see what they could find. Mickey Jones’ name came up repeatedly as one of the main street dealers working for this traitor’s shadow crew. But more disturbing was the bit of Intel that somehow these small acts by the traitor were tied to a much bigger scandal in Robo’s organization. Robo had been waiting to hear the identity of this mystery traitor and also more on what this “big” scandal was, but a few days later his wife was found bound by the feet and wrists, with a noose around her neck. A housekeeper found her hanging in her daughter’s room. There was a ransom note that said they had his step-daughter and that they wanted $200,000. Somehow, Robo was convinced that this was related to the traitor and the “big” scandal.
+++++After smashing his foot, Mickey Jones had given up O’Shaughnessy as his distributor. He said O’Shaughnessy was the one that was working for the traitor. Now Robo wanted to know who the traitor was and how many people were working for this person. He was sure this would lead him to the murderers/kidnappers.
+++++“Stop the car! Now!” Robo banged his fists against the dash and pointed to a strip mall parking lot. “There, now! Now!”
+++++I squealed the tires over two lanes of traffic amid the volley of car horns and tire screeches behind us. We bounced into the parking lot.
+++++“Stop!”
+++++I slammed my feet to the brake. The SUV rattled and bucked forward like a rodeo stud. Robo swung the door open and barreled towards a group of landscapers that were tending to a pack of square boxwoods that surrounded the strip malls front sign. He reached the group at such a speed and without warning that the foreman sitting on the back of a flatbed truck had no time to react to Robo’s roundhouse to his face. The pace of the swing was so graceful and powerful the only evidence it happened was the foremen being knocked off the truck to an unconscious state onto the pavement. Next to the foreman was a gas powered concrete circular saw. Robo hardly adjusted his balance from the punch when he grabbed the saw and stormed back to the SUV.
+++++“Forget the warehouse! Let’s grind O’Shaughnessy!” Robo held the massive circular saw, metallic teeth gleaming from recent use, as if he were the star in some twisted horror movie. Dry blood flaked on his face. “Go! Go!”
+++++We squealed out of the parking lot into traffic again.
+++++This takes us back to my earlier musings about the nature of revenge. As stated previously, revenge is something often associated with a longer, more diabolical process that must build to a frantic boil. At least that may be the impression of those that have yet to be exposed to the atmosphere of revenge. Before this incident it was the impression I assumed. I had thought by seeing firsthand his wife hanging dead next to a ransom note that indicated a child’s life was at stake that Robo would have at least spent some time weighing the possible outcomes of any action he committed himself to. Granted, Robo was a man of action and sometimes violence. However, part of the reason that he was feared, respected and trusted in the underworld was that he weighed all options before acting.
+++++Obviously I was wrong about how he was going to react.

Dick O’Shaughnessy

Robo’s body shook, the arteries in his neck bulged. The throttled metallic buzz of the circular saw had reached such a frenzied crescendo it drowned everything out including the slanted glaze of Robo’s crazy eyed screams. It was as if the saw had worked itself up over the possibility of bloodshed to the point that nothing could control its rampage.
+++++Dick O’Shaughnessy was still alive, but soured in pain. His feet hung an inch above the floor of his garage. His arms were above his head, tied together with twine to a rafter. One of his body guards lay dead nearby with a shot to the face from my Glock. Blood pooled around the corpse.
+++++Robo took the circular saw into overdrive and brought the grinding blade close to Dick’s face.
+++++Dick tried his best to turn his head away.
+++++The relentless churn of the blade calmed just before it touched down on Dicks cheek. Robo pulled it back and away. He took his hand off the throttle. Although the blade eased to a slow stop, the purr of the engine stood as a reminder that the beast had been temporarily caged but not permanently put down.
+++++My ill-mannered bear has sensed the rapid evolution of the situation which was coming closer to my own exposure. He had long sense moved from his usual distant corner and now dominated everything my third eye could see. In fact the demonic creature had come so close to my third eyes retina I could feel his course fur and smell his sulfuric presence. I rubbed my real eyes.  His wet nose and hot breath, I could feel on my neck. His gigantic member thumped against my leg. Was there no limit to this macabre brute?
+++++“You aren’t going to make it Dick,” spittle popped from Robo’s mouth, “that’s a done deal, but your family might! It’s your call!”
+++++Dick’s wife stood on a stool with a noose that hung tight around her neck, her hands bound with twine.  The purr of the circular saw was directed towards her. Robo hit the throttle again.

Three Months Earlier

I was dropping off some supplies at the warehouse when I came across Karen’s Mercedes. It was backed in with the trunk open. I walked around to it and out of habit was about to close it when I saw six bricks of Robo’s coke in there.
+++++Right then Karen came walking from the back in a tangerine dress that hugged her hips and allowed her bust to dip at just the right point in her step. In each hand was a brick.
+++++She dropped them both upon seeing me.
+++++“I love a woman that likes to dig her own dirt.” I said with a smile, arms crossed, leaning against the car.
+++++She tried to bribe me with money; since she was the traitor, she had more than a bank. I told her that I wanted only one thing and I wanted it on demand. I didn’t have to get into specifics because she thought she knew what it was and gleefully agreed. Her claim was that she had planned on bedding me anyways. She said I may have been the help, but there was something familiar about me. Maybe it was in some other life, another time, I thought. It was all I could do not to laugh at the mundane ways she said she could satisfy me as she circled like a little pixie shark. Bright fangs, an amber bling was glowing all around her. It was the glow of the divine. She exuded it. I just wanted to bring it out more.
+++++Next was the torrid topic of our secret sex contract. Because I was keeping this episode from Robo I was now putting my own life at risk. I demanded a counter balance.  By verbal contract I demanded she go where I was going to guide her, beyond the velvet rope into the dusk.  But if she violated our contract that no matter what I would resort to punishing everyone around her including her daughter, meaning if she tried to flee or say anything, pain would be swift and immediate. And that was the easy way out, because only the dark forces from high above knew what Robo would do to her. By the nature of my threat I was putting all of our lives at risk. It was because of this danger I knew she would keep quiet and endure the dusk until I could tease the amber from her spirit. Surprisingly, she beamed, almost giggling at my vapid, fruity, new age bullshit sounding type of sex, because I had asked for something so small for silence. I was getting ripped off. At least she thought.

Dick O’Shaughnessy

Robo was feeling playful. He pulled the raging circular saw up close to Dick’s wife. I think she was chanting or praying. Her eyes were closed and she was mouthing something.
+++++I think Dick was pleading and screaming, I couldn’t hear, but he was thrashing around like a stunned swordfish on a bloody deck.
+++++The roar of the murderous machine was so loud I was beginning to wonder if I would ever be able to hear anything else.
+++++As he lifted the saw within one inch of her stomach Robo looked back to Dick with a maniac’s smile splattered all over his face. It was the smile of the insane, the irrational. He looked at Dick and shook his head yes.
+++++Dick replied by shaking his head no. He started weeping.
+++++Robo, still smiling mouthed the words, “in half.”
+++++Dick mouthed the words, “anything you want.”
+++++I was now in trouble.
+++++What did Dick know? Had Karen told him everything? Something? Anything? For Robo to find out there was a traitor was not much of a feat. The proof was in the drop in supply. But I was going to take care of that for Karen. But what was the “big” scandal that Robo got wind of? Was Dick going to tell Robo that I was somehow involved? Was he going to tell Robo that his wife and I did unforgivable things? Had Karen sold me out?
+++++I Reached into my jacket and took the safety off my Glock.
+++++My well-hung, ill-mannered circus bear was for the first time in my life in the room with me. Fur and breath, girth and balls, he was in the far corner of the garage. He must have been invisible because no one acknowledged his existence.
+++++The circular saw slowed to a purr.

24 Hours Before

Robo was at the dentist getting a crown put in. That gave me more than enough time for a quick poke at dusk. I let myself into Robo’s house thinking that getting Karen to choke me on Robo’s bed would make me erupt to the point of convulsion.
+++++“Hello?” I wanted to make sure the housekeeper wasn’t home. “Anyone here?”
+++++No answer. Not even from Karen. I thought that was understandable considering she hated herself because I had turned her out. That was fine; I actually liked it more when she had that look of revulsion. Most relationships are based on a certain amount of revulsion and contempt. Sexualizing and indulging in what sickens you about your partner releases you, opens you to the torturous pleasure only cuckolds and the humiliated know.
+++++I made my way upstairs by instinct. At a minimum I was going to snag some of her pantyhose to sniff if she wasn’t home.
+++++“Karen?” I peeked my head into their bedroom. It was empty. I dug through her hamper and took three different shades of lipstick I found appealing.
+++++I made my way to her daughter’s room. Every now and then, you can sort of feel if a room has someone in it. I haven’t pinpointed why this is the case; Perhaps something about the atmosphere in and around the room changes. Maybe it’s something about the magnetism one soul has for another, or it could be a long buried survival instinct that we shrug off as just a feeling or hunch. But I was so sure that Karen was in her daughter’s room that just before I went in I unzipped my zipper and pulled my manhood out. I applied some lipstick and pulled over the pantyhose.
+++++“I don’t have a lot of time…” With my cock out, lipstick and pantyhose on, I swung open the partially opened door.
+++++I was speechless.
+++++Karen was hanging by a noose next to her daughter’s bed. I was so shocked; I circled her lifeless body, mouth agape, my cock still hanging out, pantyhose still on. I couldn’t recall how many times I circled or how long I was there but I did manage to backup into a dresser. My bumping into it caused a single piece of paper to float effortlessly from its counter. The paper was so ghostly I cast my gaze away from Karen to watch it gently hit the carpet. It was then I noticed the name “Robo” at the top of the page.
+++++In a dreamlike state I kneeled down and picked up the paper. Over and over I read the short suicide note that spoke of all the things she did. It spoke of all the things we did. She spoke about a sickness I had introduced her too. It had spoiled her soul. The sickest thing of all was her love for me. It was a love that made her dirty and no amount of soap could help her feel clean.  She begged Robo to leave her daughter alone. She was safe with her Nana. She pleaded that he accept her suicide as punishment enough and that her daughter and mother be spared.
+++++My eyes darted from her body to the paper and back. I was frozen. My throat dried and tightened. I folded up the paper and stuffed in my pocket. Still in a dazed panic I rolled around the room knocking over things looking for another piece of paper and something to write with. The only thing I could find was an indigo crayon and some yellow construction paper. Long forgetting that I was still wearing lipstick and pantyhose over my head, I scribbled some gibberish about a ransom. I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t care about anything but getting out of there, but before leaving I bound her hands and feet to help with the authenticity of the murder scenario. The only thing I wanted was just some time to think this all out, but Robo wasn’t giving me that.

 Dick O’Shaughnessy

The concrete circular saw rattled as Robo approached Dick. As if recalling the panic from when I found Karan hanging dead I pulled out my Glock. Could this be it? Could this be it! I thought about Robo standing over me with that grin, circular saw in hand, diving in and out of my guts. Did Dick know everything?
+++++Robo shut the saw off and kicked another stool over to Dick so he could speak in comfort. Dick motioned for Robo to come in closer. A little closer. A little bit more.
+++++I watched in shear horror as Dick whispered in Robo’s ear. I was waiting for a sign. For some sign that Dick had given him the critical bit of information required to put it all together.
+++++I waited. There was more talking and nodding. Then more and more. Robo nodded. It was then that Dick paused and smirked at me. It was a sick bastard kind of smirk. Robo’s back stiffened.
+++++I could feel boiling hot lava from the pit of my stomach gush up into my throat. I felt a dizziness swirl all around me. All I thought about was the gore that surrounded the day and how all of that was my inheritance. Life, death, dusk – the distant velvet ropes that I would soon cross alongside Karen. Her scent, I could smell it. A lonely pirate satellite transmitting messages to my third eye helped me remember a place I was at long ago, where it all started. It was a place between the dying late afternoon light and the coming night. We all make the choice. I had long made mine. I simply couldn’t accept the responsibility, but wanted the spoils.  I understood the circus bear now. He was neither friend nor foe, merely a guide for the inevitable path that was before me.
+++++Still in the corner of the room, dick and balls, fur like dead husks of a failed crop, his breath like a hot death. He lifted his claw to Robo and O’Shaughnessy.
+++++How I wished I could taste her lipstick. I was calm now.
+++++Robo had started to turn around when I opened fire on them both. I fired over and over while their bodies contorted and jerked from each hit. I fired until they were full of burn marks and blood stains.
+++++I couldn’t tell if Dick’s wife was screaming or not. I kept my gun clutched as I stumbled out of the door that brought me into the kitchen. Hardly able to keep my balance I barreled forward without looking up. My feet struggled to move and my eyes blurred.
+++++Through the haze a swift crack to the bridge of my nose came in hard. It filled my eyes with tears. I went down.

 Knocked Out

When I came to I was face first on Dick’s lawn. I lifted my head up from the moist grass and soil. My hands were bound.
+++++Karen’s promise was coming to fruition. She had crossed those velvet ropes and so would I. Her spell had long been cast and now I was to face all of my sins. I realized I loved her as well, but I didn’t feel dirty at all. I missed what we shared. My third eye had closed. No more transmissions. How I wished I could have seen the dusk just one last time with her. How I wanted to twist the coat wire to my doing just once more. The soothing cold of a steel gurney and the click of a cold closet was now my inheritance.
+++++Parked on the street was an armored personnel carrier with the letters ‘SWAT’ painted on the side.
+++++I let my head rest once again. I thought about how comfortable the grass was.