Thunderstones

Prelude

It was a bad night for a bicycle ride. But, the twins had never learned to drive and no one at the church had offered to give them a lift to the rosary. They had no other option but to don their identical yellow rain slickers and pedal the five miles to St. Anthony’s.

To the locals, it was a familiar sight. The twins had been riding their bikes rain or shine on the streets of Amberton for over three decades. Many residents had witnessed them grow up—those retarded twins who seemed destined to remain in eternal childhood.

Most people recognized them as the twin bag boys at Benson’s on Main Street. Those who attended St. Anthony’s Church knew a bit more about them. They were from a big Catholic family. The dad was a popular football coach. The mom worked at the church rectory. The oldest brother was a renowned pediatric oncologist. The youngest sister was valedictorian of her class at Stanford.

At 22, Cheryl Miller grew up seeing the twins almost every day of her life. Seeing them on their bikes—always riding single file with a four to five foot distance between them—was both amusing and comforting. As an only child, she wondered what it would be like to have an identical partner in life.

As Cheryl sat at the intersection waiting to turn left, it seemed much later than 6:30 PM. The sky was black and the rain was coming down hard. When she saw the twins approaching on the other side of the busy intersection, she immediately felt an unusual wave of dread. Their yellow slickers were whipping in the cold winter rain. Both were pedaling hard yet moving at an unusually slow pace.

Suddenly, the rhythm of the rain was interrupted by the bass of a stereo system. The truck didn’t even hesitate at the red light. The twins had just entered the intersection as the shadowy vehicle roared past her.

“NO!” she screamed. But, no one could hear her. The truck struck the lead twin dead on. Both the bicycle and the rider were propelled down the dark, wet street. The truck pulled forward slowly, stopped for a moment beside the lump of yellow vinyl in the street, and then sped away.

When the police draped the body with a sheet, Cheryl knew that one of the twins was dead and the other one’s life would never be the same. It was easy for her to ignore her own horror knowing that a single careless act had caused so much damage. The surviving twin sat all alone on the curb, tightly clutching his brother’s slicker and rocking back and forth. She tried to talk to him, but he was clearly inconsolable. The cops couldn’t even get him to sit in a cruiser out of the rain. Back and forth, back and forth. The rocking was really starting to creep her out.

Cheryl waited almost 30 minutes to give her statement to the police officer.

“All I can remember is that it was a large, black truck. The driver was listening to Bad Brain's Pay to Cum. And, oh yeah, there was a big Batman sticker on the rear window.”

Who’ll Stop the Rain?

Still falls the rain - dark as the world of man, black as our loss - blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails upon the Cross.

~Edith Sitwell

Rain. After seven straight months of drought, it had to rain tonight. Leslie pressed his forehead against the window of the 737 and stared despondently at the lights flashing across the wet tarmac. It was very dark and the water on the window made it difficult to tell how hard it was coming down. A couple of baggage handlers hurried past in yellow slickers. It looked nasty out there. The thought of waiting for the shuttle bus and the long soggy trek through Parking Lot B solidified his bad mood. Exactly where did he park his car? Was it in section 2 or 3? He’d written it down on the envelope that contained his original plane ticket, but that disappeared somewhere in the hotel room.

Thinking about the hotel instantly made Leslie itch. He tried to inconspicuously scratch his arms and chest through his JC Penney dress shirt. The Rubenesque woman in the seat next to him noticed and attempted to shift her ample ass a little farther away—about 1 cm was all she could achieve. Leslie felt offended by the attitude he discerned from the woman’s posture. After all, he had to endure a four hour flight with her elbows poking over into his seat area. Plus, she smelled like Vicks Vapo-Rub. Stupid broad in an ugly polyester pantsuit. Where did she get off? Leslie started scratching with unabashed vigor.

“Bedbugs,” he said with a sneer. His seatmate let out an audible gasp and tried to eke out another millimeter of distance between them.

Her squirming amused Leslie for a minute or two, but his thoughts soon turned back to the cause of his current pruritus. How could you get bitten by bedbugs at a five star hotel? The room looked immaculate and The Chateau Ricard has a stellar reputation. Leslie’s company usually did not provide such ritzy accommodations, but with a convention in town, there were no reasonably priced rooms available. Leslie certainly couldn’t afford the place on his salary—less child support—and he was quite pleased with his good fortune. Three nights at a boring sales conference were transformed into a holiday. Of course, something had to ruin it all. The concierge was quick to apologize and offered a full refund for the night, no questions asked—it didn’t seem like the first time he’d dealt with the issue, that’s for sure. Apparently, there was some kind of nationwide bedbug epidemic. At least that’s what Jane in H.R. said when he informed her about his vermin-inflicted rash.

“Oh, that is disgusting!” she exclaimed. “The same thing happened to Joe Bennett at that seminar in Reno last month, and he was staying at the Rolling Hills Inn.”

Other than her condolences, Jane had nothing more to offer. She was totally useless—incompetent, actually. Leslie was thinking about the child support order she botched up. Payroll had been taking out twice as much money as the order required. It took Jane two months to correct the error, and when he asked for his money back, Jane informed him that he would have to get it from his ex. Of course, that would be like trying to get blood from the proverbial stone. Jane expressed faux sympathy, but indicated quite clearly through her inaction that she had no true remorse or any intention to do the right thing.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do.”

When Leslie tried to press the issue, he was quickly reproached by his boss, Rick, who just so happened to be banging Jane’s younger sister, Becky.

“I’m concerned about your…career, Leslie. We have to make sure that we get along with all of our co-workers. You know, good customer service starts right here in-company. Blah, blah, blah.”

Rick was the epitome of the absentee manager. He delegated all of his own work and ruled the department with a Draconian fist. A handsome, athletic, divorced 48 year old, he had two goals in life: play as much golf on the company dime as possible, and bed every attractive and semi-attractive female in the clerical pool. So far, Rick had been quite successful in achieving both goals.

Leslie often wondered what Rick was like in high school. He could picture him strutting across campus in his letterman’s jacket, winking at cheerleaders, running his thick fingers through his thick chestnut hair, and taking every opportunity to bully a weakling—a weakling like Leslie used to be in high school. How many swirlies and wedgies did Rick mercilessly deliver to freshmen? They had to number in the thousands. Of course, the boss still metes out the wedgies with regularity, but now they’re in memo form. Jerk.

It took too long to get off the plane. People were milling about like they had all the time in the world. Ms. Pantsuit had a great deal of difficulty pulling her bag down from the overhead. It was clearly too large to be a carry-on. Leslie wondered why they didn’t make her check it. The damn thing is probably stuffed with four dozen identical pantsuits, he thought. The woman let out a loud fart while giving her steamer trunk the final tug down. Her ass was aimed right in the face of a boy of about six or seven.

“Gross!” shouted the boy, contorting his face and furiously waving his hand in front of his nose. “That lady FARTED in my FACE, mom!”

Leslie laughed out loud and Ms. Pantsuit shot him a nasty look. Leslie shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “That’s why I always refuse the peanuts. They cause gas.” The woman’s only response was another nasty look.

Leslie reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell. Other passengers were already chatting away on their phones. Clearly, they did not wait until landing to turn them on. Leslie wondered if they really did cause problems with the operation of the plane or if that was just some bullshit the airlines put out to scare people into behaving in-flight. Talking on the phone in an enclosed area is just bad manners, he thought. Who wants to listen to some bitch prattle on about her pap smear results six inches from your ear? In any case, he just wanted to check to see if he’d missed any calls. He did. There were two calls from his son. He would wait until he was in the terminal to check his messages.

At the arrival gate, Ms. Pantsuit was hugging her equally unattractive husband, or boyfriend. What a surprise, he was also wearing polyester. When the woman saw Leslie, she pointed in his direction. Her husband squinted toward him but clearly couldn't figure out who his lady was trying to identify in the crowd. They went back to hugging, and Leslie called his voice mail.

“Hello, Dad, it’s me Caleb. I just wanted to let you know that Batman has been parked in your parking space the entire time you've been out of town. I told the landlord, but they didn't do anything about it. Sorry, it’s pouring here and there’s no place to park. Hope you had a good trip. See you when you get home.”

“Goddamn BATMAN!” muttered Leslie, as he headed out of the terminal, into the rain.

Hi, Neighbor

He who is drowned is not troubled by the rain.

~ Chinese proverb

The 101 was a mess of slowly moving taillights for as far as the eye could see. It took almost 3 hours to travel the 60 miles from the airport to Leslie’s Amberton apartment.

“That son of a bitch, Batman,” Leslie cursed aloud. “Asshole keeps parking in my parking spot every time I’m out of town.”

Leslie didn't know what pissed him off more: the fact that Batman parked in his assigned spot, or that the jerk-off kept tabs on his comings and goings enough to know exactly when the space was vacant. Leslie had never actually seen the owner of the big, black Ford F-350 in the flesh. He knew that he was a Batman fan from the winged sticker on the rear window. Batman was also an In-N-Out Burger aficionado. Leslie knew this not only from the bumper sticker on the truck, but from the pile of fast food garbage that the scumbag had left behind the last time he commandeered the space.

As he drew closer to home, the thought of the F-350 sitting in his parking spot made Leslie more and more agitated. He imagined that Batman was likely a muscle-bound, goateed, wife-beater-wearing redneck. He clearly had a small dick, judging from the size of his truck and his anti-social behavior. Batman had to be compensating for something.

Leslie also imagined all the things he could do to Batman’s vehicle, should it be sitting where it did not belong when he arrived home. A little sugar in the gas tank for you, Caped Crusader? How about some holes in those expensive tires, Dark Knight? Leslie had once read on a website that some raw chicken parts blended with milk could be carefully poured into the outside air vents of a car. After the mixture sat rotting in the air ducts for a few days, the stench inside the car would be unbearable—and irreversible. The thought brought a little smirk to his otherwise scowling face.

Leslie’s apartment was in an up-scale building. The rent was high, but it was conveniently located near his office. All residents of the Tierra Linda Apartments received an assigned parking space under a carport. A single-car garage could be had for an extra $100 a month. Leslie didn't see any sense in spending $100 to put three walls and a door around his Toyota Prius. It was far from a luxury vehicle, and besides, he didn't have a spare Ben Franklin to throw around.

Leslie’s assigned spot was at the end of a carport and was considerably wider than the others. He postulated that was the likely reason Batman preferred to park his dually there. It was almost wide enough to accommodate the ostentatious monster of a truck.

It was still raining steadily when Leslie rolled into the complex. It was almost midnight and he wanted nothing more than to throw his suitcase through the front door and stagger off to bed. But there it was—in parking space G-13—the goddamn Batmobile. “Motherfucker!” Leslie stopped his Prius and stared at the truck for a full fifteen minutes, and then he took an angry spin through the parking lot in search of a free spot. Of course, with the rain and the late hour, there wasn't an empty spot in the entire complex.

There was a space out on the street, a full block away from Leslie’s apartment. Cursing all the way, Leslie lugged his suitcase out of the trunk and headed for his front door. The rain actually started to come down harder as soon as Leslie began walking. It was pouring down in sheets, and in less than a minute, he was soaked to the skin. The foul weather gear he’d brought with him on his trip was a thin windbreaker and that was buried somewhere at the bottom of his suitcase.

By the time he got to his apartment, Leslie was angrier than he had ever been in his life. It was worse than the time in sixth grade when Steve Chesik stole his Halloween mask. That little bastard got a pencil jammed through the palm of his hand as payback. Batman was clearly looking for some of the same treatment. Leslie really wanted to hurt somebody—bad. Standing at his door, keys in hand, he glowered at the truck in his parking spot. Through the rain, he thought he saw a figure standing behind the F-350’s front fender. It was difficult to see clearly, but it looked like somebody wearing a yellow rain slicker.

“Hey! Hey you! Is that your truck, asshole? You’re in my fucking parking spot!” Leslie started moving quickly toward the figure in the slicker. Whoever it was retreated behind the truck. “Hey! I’m talking to you, shithead!”

Leslie ran completely around the vehicle, but he found no one anywhere near it. Had he imagined seeing the man in the raincoat? He bent down and looked underneath the truck—nothing there but wet asphalt. He couldn't have gotten past him without being seen. “Maybe he really is Batman,” Leslie said out loud to the rain. He was answered by a loud clap of thunder.

Leslie paused for a moment when he noticed that the Batmobile had been recently wounded. The deep white scratches, mangled grill, and broken headlight, were evidence that the truck had certainly been in an accident of some kind. He ran his hand along the grooves in the black surface of the hood—paint transfer.

Leslie’s first real job out of college was as an insurance adjuster for Old Farm Insurance. He spent three miserable years investigating auto accidents of all kinds, from fender benders to deadly head-on collisions. During that time, he found interpreting the physical evidence to be pretty easy. He’d lost count of the number of times people claimed to have hit a deer only to find the transfer of reflective paint and sharply creased dents that could only have come from a collision with a road sign.

He was already sure the Batmobile had not hit a sign or another vehicle. Whatever it had struck left behind nearly six inches of damage and matte paint before being propelled forward by the impact. It was all about physics. Equal and opposite reactions and all that shit.

Leslie knelt down to get a better look at the chrome grill. The horizontal metal strips had been twisted and broken by something of equal strength—metal on metal. Wedged between the pieces of jagged chrome, he found a triangular piece of fabric. It appeared to be canvas coated on one side with yellow vinyl. No. The Batmobile had not hit a deer—unless deer wear yellow raincoats.

Then, he noticed that the truck’s passenger side door was slightly open and the cabin light was on. He opened the door all the way and looked around inside. The truck’s interior was a pigsty, littered with fast food wrappers and empty energy drink cans. It smelled like a mixture of cigarette smoke, piss and beer. “Well, no surprises, here, you filthy fuck,” Leslie grunted.

Leslie climbed up into the cab, hesitating for only a moment when confronted with the disgusting mess inside. What the hell, he thought. He couldn't pick up anything worse than the bedbugs from The Chateau Ricard. He opened the glove box and immediately found the vehicle registration—and a 9 mm handgun. “Well, well, well. I guess bad boys really do have bad toys,” he said, recalling another stupid sticker affixed to the Batmobile’s rear bumper. Leslie pushed the gun into his waistband and held up the registration for closer inspection. Apartment number 609 was going to have an unexpected visitor this rainy evening.

Retribution

Never attempt to murder a man who is committing suicide.

 ~ Woodrow Wilson

Buckley Dennison was in bad shape. He was alternately shoving his shaved head under a running kitchen faucet and taking huge swigs from an extra large Monster energy drink. Buckley needed to sober up fast. He’d just killed a man; of that much he was certain. What he didn't know was what the hell to do next. How long does it take for your blood alcohol level to get back down to normal? He didn't feel drunk at the moment, but he was pretty sure a Breathalyzer test would give him a ticket straight to the State Penitentiary for a very long time.

Buckley toweled off his scalp with a filthy dishrag and staggered over to the window. He pulled the blinds apart slightly and peered out at the rain-soaked parking lot. His truck was still parked in his neighbor’s spot. He hoped the owner of the fruity little Prius would be out of town for another night, but he didn't really care that much. What could that pussy do about it, anyway?

He could call the cops. The thought worried Buckley for a minute then he remembered that the Amberton P.D. rarely responded to complaints about stolen parking spaces and loud music. They had more important things to deal with—like search for a hit-and-run driver. Maybe no one got a good look at him, he thought. That woman in the Mustang looked right at him, though. She might have even gotten his license plate number. No…if she got the plate number, he’d already be going through processing at the County Jail. But, she probably gave the pigs a really good description.

Batman! Buckley had a brief moment of clarity and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. There’s no way the bitch missed his Batman sticker. He had to get that thing off his truck tonight. Why did he put that thing on in the first place? He didn't even like Batman, but Lori said she thought it would look cool on his F-350 when she spotted it at the swap meet. “Oooo, sweetie, that would look sooo bitchin’ on your truck!” Lori purred. What the hell, he thought. If it got him laid, it would be worth the $4.00.

Buckley started going through his kitchen drawers and came out with a rusty potato peeler. No, that wouldn't do the job. He dug around a little more and found a dull chef’s knife. That would have to do. He was looking for his leather jacket—the one with the Flogging Molly logo on the back—when he heard a loud pounding on his door. Shit, he thought, I’m totally fucked. Buckley crept silently up to the peephole and took a look. He was surprised to see the Prius Pussy standing on the other side of the door. He pounded again.

“Hey, open up! I want to talk to you! I know you’re in there, shithead!” Leslie shouted at the top of his lungs. “Open up, or so help me God, I’ll kick your fucking door down!”

Buckley couldn't believe his ears. He didn't think Prius Pussy had it in him. Did he really just call him shithead? Normally, Buckley would have been more than up for the challenge and cheerfully kicked this old guy’s ass down the stairs, but his current situation made it necessary for him to proceed with a bit more thought and caution. The last thing he wanted was to bring attention to himself—especially from John Patrick Law—and he needed to get that sticker off his truck.

“Uh, excuse me, mister,” Buckley shouted through the door. “Sorry—my bad. I’ll come move my truck right now, okay?”

Leslie was stunned. The last thing he expected was a remorseful tone from the fellow who had been brazenly misappropriating his assigned parking space for the past six months. Is that it? Really? Just like that, Batman was going to move his truck, and all was going to be right with the universe? Instead of relief, a new surge of rage coursed through Leslie’s veins. Batman wasn't going to get off that easily—not by a long shot.

Leslie backed away and took up position around the corner and just out of view from the peephole of apartment 609. When the door opened, he saw a young man of about twenty, with a shaved head and wearing a leather motorcycle jacket over—what else—a white wife-beater.

Batman was over six feet tall and looked to weigh at least 250 pounds. The weight did not appear to be all fat, however. The outline of well-defined muscle tone was evident even through the jacket. He was also wearing black jeans and steel-toed combat boots.

A thug—just as Leslie predicted. Batman was exactly the kind of guy that he despised: a swaggering, rude, inarticulate Neanderthal who lived only to bully and torment his fellow man. Leslie smirked at the predictable wallet chain, and he also observed something in Batman’s right hand that didn't surprise him—a large knife. So, that’s the plan: act nice and then come sneaking out to cause mayhem. Typical.

“So, what the fuck are you thinking about doing with that knife?” Leslie hissed as he moved around the corner, directly between Batman and his doorway. “Thinking about slashing my tires or some other un-neighborly shit?”

Taken completely off guard, Buckley swung around with the knife at the ready. He was a seasoned street fighter and had used a knife to defend himself before. He would have lunged at Leslie, but something stopped him dead in his tracks—the gun.

Leslie had the 9 mm pointed directly at Buckley’s mid-section. “Drop the toad sticker, shithead,” he said, motioning downward. “And get your hands the fuck up.”

“Hey, listen, man, I wasn't going to do anything to you, I swear…”

“Drop IT!” Buckley did as he was told. “Hands UP!” Buckley complied, and Leslie booted the knife off the landing.

“Now, move your ass back in there!” Leslie motioned Buckley into his apartment. Once inside, he pointed toward the sofa. “Keep those hands up and sit down, if you can find a place to sit in this rat hole!” Leslie glanced around the filthy room. The sofa, floor, kitchen counters; every flat surface was covered with fast food wrappers and empty paper cups. “Lovely digs you have here, Batman. Is there anybody else here with you? Let me guess, you live here all alone.”

Buckley shook his head in the affirmative. “Yeah, man, there’s nobody else here. Come on, you have to believe me, I wasn't going to do anything with that knife. You just scared me, that’s all…”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Leslie had walked over to the window and was peeking out the blinds. “Sure you’re alone? How about your buddy in the rain slicker?

“Who?” Buckley was taken aback. Did this guy know about the hit-and-run? How? Suddenly, his temples started throbbing and his vision began to blur. He felt like he was going to throw up.

“Your little pal in the yellow raincoat, douchebag. He’s inside your truck right now, rockin’ out or something. What about him?”

“Inside my truck?” Buckley started to stand up to get a look through the blinds.

“SIT DOWN!” Leslie shoved the barrel of the gun into Buckley’s face. “Yeah, there’s a guy sitting in the passenger seat of your truck. The door is open and the dome light is on. He’s rocking back and forth…”

“I don’t know who it is—probably someone ripping me off.”

“Ripping you off, huh? Maybe we should call the cops? What do you think?”

“No! There’s no need to call the cops, dude.”

“And why is that? Could it have something to do with the accident you had with a bike?”

Buckley’s mind raced. This guy did know about the hit-and-run. It didn't make sense. “Bike? I didn't hit a bike. It was a deer. Out on Forest Drive. It just jumped in front of me…”

“Oh, please!” Leslie laughed. “Do you know how many times I've heard that bullshit? And, what happened to the fuckin’ deer? It got up and stumbled into the woods, right? Dumbshit. It is obvious from the damage to your front end that you hit someone on a bicycle or a small scooter. Did you really think you could get away with something like this?”

Leslie glanced through the blinds and noticed that the man in the yellow slicker had left the cab of the truck. He was now standing beside the vehicle in the rain. “It looks like your friend is getting tired of waiting for you. I think we should go downstairs and let him know you won’t be joining him tonight.

Small Talk

As they approached the figure in the yellow slicker, Leslie realized it wasn't a stranger. It was one of the twins, the Mettler Twins. He’d gone to school with the brothers since kindergarten. For the past few years, he saw one or both of them every weekend at Benson’s where they worked as bag boys. They always said hello and asked about Leslie’s dad—who they certainly hadn't had any contact with since the old man retired to Sun City, Arizona 15 years ago.

“Hey! What the hell were you doing inside my truck?” shouted Buckley. The twin quickly ducked back inside the cab.

Leslie didn't understand what a Mettler Twin would be doing hanging around a dirtbag like this guy. They clearly didn't run in the same circles, unless Batman sang in the church choir on Sunday and helped the Amberton Women’s Club with their flea markets. The Mettlers were both hard-working, religious guys who kept to themselves.

Leslie knew their names, but couldn't tell the twins apart. As he and Buckley got closer, he shouted out, “Hey! Which one are you?”

“I’m Georgie, Leslie Davis. Do you still have that Rocky and Bullwinkle lunch box? I really liked that lunch box. Your mom made you bologna sandwiches, and she used Oscar Mayer bologna, not the cheap kind.”

Buckley was fidgety and looked like he was considering a run for it. Leslie kept the gun close to his body, but still pointed directly at Buckley’s gut. “Put your fucking hands on that fender, sport. I’ll drop you before you get five feet,” Leslie whispered.

Leslie wasn't surprised that Georgie knew his name. The brothers seemed to remember everyone they went to school with on sight. He leaned inside the cab to get a closer look at the twin. “Damn, you've got a good memory, Georgie. I forgot all about that lunch box. I wish I still had it; probably worth a fortune on eBay. Oscar Mayer—that’s the good stuff. What the hell are you doing out here?”

Something didn't seem right, and Georgie’s routine small talk—the same lunch box/bologna conversation they always had at Benson’s checkout—was giving Leslie the creeps. Buckley looked like he wanted to crawl out of his skin, but he kept his eyes down.

“Georgie? You okay in there?”

“I’m waiting for Buckley Dennison.” Batman snapped to attention and Leslie grabbed hold of his collar. The younger man was very strong, but Leslie had little trouble holding onto him. Ten years of judo lessons evened out Buckley’s size advantage.

“And why are you waiting for this lowlife, Georgie? Where’s your brother Ralphie? Is he working the late shift at Benson’s?”

“Buckley used to be a good boy. His mother works at the county hospital. She cried when Buckley had to go away for selling drugs. He came home last year and his dad bought him this truck so he could do construction jobs.”

Georgie rocked back and forth in the cab of the truck. The rain started coming down even harder. Leslie felt the drops hit his face, even under cover of the carport. Georgie stared straight ahead. He seemed mesmerized by a hula girl figurine on the dashboard—it was also rocking back and forth.

“How do you know all that?” Buckley demanded. He pushed against Leslie’s grip and tried to move toward the frail, balding man in the truck. Leslie reminded him who was in charge with a sharp poke to his kidneys with the Glock 17. Buckley kept squirming.

“People talk. They tell us things and we remember them,” Georgie replied. “Buckley’s mother was Ralphie’s nurse when he had his operation. She remembered us from school. You probably remember Debbie Raines too, Leslie? You took her to junior prom. She sure was pretty. Remember? She wore a powder blue dress that matched your tie and cummer-bund.”

Leslie was stunned. Yes, he’d taken Debbie Raines to junior prom. That was 30 years ago. How could Georgie remember something so seemingly trivial?

“Debbie married Danny Dennison at St. Anthony’s right after they graduated from Amberton High,” Georgie continued, his voice sounded tinny—almost robotic. “Danny owns Dennison Fence Company now. His dad, Big Dan, died five years ago. Danny and Debbie got a divorce last summer. They don’t come to church anymore. Danny is an alcoholic. He’s in AA. Been sober for three years—except for that time at the Elk Lodge last February…”

“Shut up!” Buckley shouted. “You’re a goddamned FREAK! Stop talking about my family like you know us!”

“Buckley’s girlfriend Lori got pregnant,” Georgie continued. His rocking intensified. “She moved out three weeks ago because Buckley got drunk and hit her in the eye. Last week, Buckley bought a gun from Johnny Navarro. He paid Johnny $300…”

“SHUT UP!” Buckley screamed. “How in the fuck do you know that? There’s no way that you can know that!”

“People talk,” Georgie replied. “We listen. You’re not the baby’s father. That Cuban kid, Rick Diaz—he and Lori got together when you were in jail…”

“You’re a damn liar!”

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Buckley shoved past Leslie and lunged for Georgie’s throat. Leslie brought the butt of the pistol down on the back of Buckley’s skull two times and he crumbled onto the wet pavement. Georgie calmly turned toward Leslie and locked eyes with him, just as another crack of lightning broke through the clouds. In the brief flash of light, Leslie saw that Georgie’s shirt was completely covered with blood, and his Benson’s name tag appeared to have a chunk of something that looked like flesh dangling from it.

“We need to take him upstairs, Leslie Davis.”

Brain Food

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

 ~ Albert Einstein

Georgie was only about five foot four and probably weighed less that a buck fifty by Leslie’s estimation. He certainly never worked out at any of the local gyms. Nevertheless, he was remarkably strong. Georgie had no problem lifting Buckley’s legs and helping Leslie carry the much larger man up a flight of stairs. When they reached the landing, the neighbor across the hallway opened her door and peered outside. “Is everything okay out there?” she asked. The middle-aged black woman had a can of Miller Lite in her hand and was wearing a flannel bathrobe.

“Sorry, lady, he’s just drunk again,” Georgie replied without missing a beat. The men carefully laid Buckley down on the landing.

“This shit’s gettin’ real old,” said the neighbor lady, rolling her eyes. “I had to call the cops on him twice last week. Beat up his girlfriend. He peed on my front door. Peed on it. Are you his father, mister? You should really get that fucking kid into rehab, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Oh, believe me, ma’am, that’s the next thing on my to-do list,” said Leslie with a dismissive wave, while Georgie fumbled with the door to apartment 609. “Thanks for your concern.”

Once they had Buckley stretched out on the filth-strewn sofa, Georgie perched himself on a bar-stool and started rocking again. “Buckley is a very bad boy, Leslie Davis. He drinks and drives. He sells drugs. He kills people.”

Leslie couldn't believe the mess on Georgie’s shirt. It looked like half a brain's worth of gray matter was smeared across it. That’s when it donned on him: the damage to the grill of the Batmobile, the gore on Georgie’s shirt. “Did that bastard run over Ralphie?”

Georgie shook his head and started to sob. Leslie realized that he had never really looked at either of the Mettler Twins very closely before. Even when they had a conversation at the market, he tried to avoid eye contact with them. He had always considered them to be gentle, passive and completely harmless. Now, looking at Georgie’s contorted face, he had a different impression, an unsettling feeling deep in his gut—like an alarm sounding.

Leslie had never noticed the condition of Georgie’s teeth. Most of them were broken and crooked, and they all appeared to be sharp and pointed—almost as if they had been intentionally filed. Georgie held his hands up to his face. The skin stretched across his knuckles was as white as any Leslie had ever seen—almost translucent—and blue veins appeared to be throbbing just under the surface. The twin’s hair was thin and greasy, with strands hanging into his green eyes like unhealthy gray tendrils.

With the rain slicker off, Leslie was surprised to see tattoos covering both of Georgie’s forearms. The designs were tribal and very intricate. One depicted an inverted cross with a headless corpse hanging upside down from it. He would have never expected to see such ghastly ink on someone who was supposed to be so devoutly religious.

Leslie looked at the unconscious thug on the sofa and felt nothing but disgust. “Don’t worry about this piece of garbage, Georgie. Buckley is going to spend a very long time behind bars for what he did to Ralphie.” Leslie flipped open his cell and started to dial 911.

Leslie felt something hit him hard from behind. Then, everything went black.

When he came to, Leslie found himself quite securely bound, hands and feet, with duct tape. The empty fast food bags and wrappers surrounding his head and the stench filling his nostrils told him that he was on the floor of Batman’s apartment.

“I’m sorry I hit you, Leslie Davis, but I couldn't let you call the police. Buckley Dennison has to be punished our way—mine and Ralphie’s. He’s a bad, bad, BAD boy.”

Leslie twisted onto his side to look in the direction of Georgie’s voice. He opened his mouth to speak, hoping to implore the simpleton to untie him and listen to reason—but what he saw filled him with complete horror and disbelief.

Georgie was standing over Buckley’s body with a large spoon and a mixing bowl. The top of the man’s head was missing and the sofa was soaked with blood. Georgie was scooping large portions of Buckley’s brain into the bowl. A meat cleaver was lying on the ground a few feet away. It was covered with blood and pieces of scalp and bone. Leslie felt faint. He choked back vomit. This couldn't possibly be happening, he thought.

“Georgie! What did you do?” The little man had to be crazy with grief. That was it. The shock of seeing his brother killed was too much for his fragile mind, and now he was completely unhinged. It was a psychotic break of some kind, Leslie thought. “For God’s sake, Georgie, stop what you’re doing and let me loose!”

“All in good time, Leslie Davis.” Georgie shuffled into the kitchen with the bowl. Leslie heard what sounded like the loud whirling of a blender, but he couldn't see anything around the corner, except piles of trash on the floor. The blender noise stopped and Georgie soon emerged from the kitchen area, gulping thick, gory goo from the glass container. “First, I have to take care of Buckley Dennison.”

“What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bastard?” Leslie was on the verge of complete hysteria. “Help! HELP! Somebody call the cops! HELP!”

“Oh, calm down, Leslie Davis. You've always been so melodramatic, just like that time you got your teeth chipped on the teeter-totter in third grade. You’re such a big cry baby. Wah! Nobody is going to call the cops. Buckley’s neighbors are used to loud shenanigans, it seems, but if you don’t shut up, I’ll have to hit you again.” Georgie wiped the gore off his chin with his shirt sleeve. “Ralphie was the first to drink brains. He started with puppies and kittens. He said it helped him remember things. I didn't want to do it at first, but when I saw how smart it made my brother, I didn't have any choice. I couldn't let Ralphie get smarter than me!”

“Drink…brains?” Leslie struggled to free his hands, but they were wrapped in at least a half roll of duct tape. “That’s fucking crazy shit! Who could even imagine doing something like that?”

“Yes, I don’t know what made Ralphie think of it, really, but he said The Yellow King told him to do it. He prayed and prayed for a way to make us as smart as everybody else and our King finally talked to him one day after Sunday school. He made Ralphie special, so don’t make fun of him, Leslie Davis, or else you’ll make me…mad at you.” Georgie was almost finished with his gruesome beverage. He set the container on the floor, perched himself on the bar-stool, and started rocking in earnest again.

“Of course, our Lord isn't the same one we used to worship in Sunday School. That God left us for dead when we were babies. He threw us away like trash. The Yellow King takes care of us. He loves twins…and thunder and lightning. That’s why I was able to find Buckley so quickly. He could never escape me in the rain, the fool.”

“The sacrifices are necessary, of course. We found that it works better with humans than animals. I felt bad when we killed those two little girls in Carmen Springs and sweet old Mrs. Myers next door, even though Ralphie said it was okay, if it pleased The Yellow King. It made me sad, but it helped make us really, really smart. After that, Ralphie and me agreed to only take the brains of bad people. Remember Larry David Allen? He killed his sister, and me and Ralphie killed him.”

“Larry Allen didn't kill his sister, Georgie. She died in a plane crash in Texas.” Leslie was in shock, but he believed that if he kept Georgie talking, it might buy him some time. “Half the town went to her funeral, for Christ’s sake.”

“That’s what you think, Leslie Davis. That’s what everybody thinks, but Larry’s sister is buried under the concrete slab in his basement!” Georgie stood up and unbuttoned his blood-soaked work shirt. His pale white chest was decorated with the image of a bloody, double-sided axe and a Kraken-like creature surrounded by bolts of lightening. “The Yellow King told Ralphie all about it. He told Ralphie lots of things. There's more than one universe, Leslie Davis, did you know that? And sometimes things happen in other universes that are just like here, and sometimes those things are just a little...different. Sometimes, they're A LOT different.” Leslie felt the duct tape start to tear a little on his left wrist. He worked his hands slowly, back and forth, hoping Georgie wouldn't notice the movement.

The pint-sized maniac was getting agitated, and Leslie decided not to mention the fact that Larry Allen’s house didn't even have a basement. Of course, Larry did disappear under mysterious circumstances. Leslie always thought he ran off to escape his financial problems. Now, it was apparent that he simply had his brains turned into a protein shake by a couple of crazy, bloodthirsty freaks.

“Lots of people do very bad things and no one ever knows, except me and Ralphie. We know everything. Remember Father Dutton? He stole money from the collection basket at the church. He kept it in a shoe box and used it for drugs and boy prostitutes.”

Leslie seemed to remember something about the priest who disappeared after police found him cruising Sunset with a teenage runaway and a pocket full of crack. “I thought Father Dutton was shipped off to Costa Rica by the Pope or something.” He wanted to keep Georgie talking and distracted while he worked on the tape.

“No, we drank Father Dutton’s brains and blood. Ralphie made a stew out of his guts, too. That tasted awful. I do like ass meat, though. I think I’m going to cook Buckley Dennison’s ass for dinner tonight.” Georgie disappeared back into the kitchen and started rummaging around in the cabinets. “I wonder where he keeps his skillets…”

Leslie finally worked his hands free from the duct tape and was surprised to find the 9 mm was still stuck in his waistband. Georgie went to all the trouble to tie him up and didn't even bother to take the gun.

"Have you ever heard of Carcosa, Leslie Davis?" Georgie continued from the kitchen, over the sound of banging pots and pans. "I've never been there, but The Yellow King took Ralphie there once. There are two moons in the sky in Carcosa...or is it two suns? I don't remember, but it doesn't matter. I'm going to go there someday soon, and no one will ever find me."

When Georgie walked back into the living room, he was holding a large iron frying pan and a steak knife; clearly intending to harvest Buckley’s rear-end for supper.

“You lose, you cannibal FUCK!” Leslie took aim and fired.

Incredibly, the bullet struck the skillet and ricocheted into the wall. Leslie got off two more shots but they also failed to hit their mark. Leslie couldn't believe how fast Georgie was able to move. He screeched like a demon as he went right over the top of Leslie and out the apartment door.

The neighbor lady waddled out onto the landing and was presented with a clear view of the bloody carnage in apartment 609 through the open doorway. “Call 9-1-1!” Leslie yelled in her general direction. She screamed at the top of her lungs, dropped her beer, and retreated behind her own door.

Leslie was able to pull himself to his feet and hopped toward the door. He got to the landing just in time to see Georgie pedal around the corner on his bicycle and disappear into the rain. He didn't have an opportunity to get off another shot. It didn't matter, he thought. The cops wouldn't have any problem picking him up. Just look for the blood-covered lunatic on a white Schwinn beach cruiser.

Side Order

Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as that natural fear in children is increased by tales, so is the other.

 ~ Francis Bacon

“They went to the Mettler Twins’ studio apartment and found all of the evidence—body parts in the freezer, an altar made out of bones—the typical Dahmer shit. The worst part was the “cauldron” they constructed. That’s the thing that’s supposed to give practitioners of black magic their powers. It’s like a big stew pot, except it’s covered with human skin. The Mettlers kept it full of fresh body parts and magical charms—I don’t even want to know what was in there exactly. Lord only knows how those bat shit-loony twins got mixed up in ancient pagan religion shit. Crazy bastards.

They found tunnels dug into the hills behind the apartment, too. I heard they went on for miles and no one has even explored the full depth of them yet—hell, who would want to? Not me. There has to be some bad ju-ju in those tunnels. Bad, bad ju-ju.”

“Damn, Leslie, that’s a helluva story,” said the grizzled bartender, as he swabbed the counter with his rancid bar towel. “I never get tired of hearing it.”

“Yeah, well, Doubleday advanced me 150,000 bucks for that story, Ray.”

“Good for you, buddy, but I heard they never caught that nut-job, Georgie Mettler. Doesn't that scare you a bit?” Ray held the bar towel up to his nose, gave it a whiff, and decided it was still good for a few more runs across the bar.

“No, I never did anything bad to Georgie. I don’t think he’s holding a grudge.” Leslie pushed his glass forward and motioned for another shot of bourbon. “If anything, I kind of helped him get his revenge.”

“I guess that makes sense,” shrugged the bartender. “I’d have a hard time sleeping, though—I’m just sayin’.” It was 11:30 PM on a Thursday night, and the only other customer in the place was a rummy at the other end of the bar, carefully nursing a beer.

“Who said I ever sleep, Ray? I can’t close my eyes for more than 15 minutes at a time. Those twins killed at least 20 people. The cops knew they had a serial killer on the loose, but they never suspected the Mettlers. Who the hell would have? They were flying so low under the radar; they probably would have never gotten caught.”

“Jesus, that’s a bitch, Leslie. I guess that’s why you moved up here to Portland, huh?”

“Yeah, Oregon is about as far away from Amberton as I was willing to go, but it doesn't matter much. There have been sightings of Mettler everywhere from Manitoba to Mexico—all false leads, of course. My theory is he killed himself far back in those tunnels behind his apartment. No one will ever find the body.” Leslie socked down the bourbon and slammed the inverted shot glass down on the bar. “Take it easy, Ray. See you tomorrow.” The bartender grunted and waved without looking up from the bar-ware he was polishing.

Leslie threw down two twenties and walked outside. Duchamp’s was in a seedy part of Old Town Portland, and his car was parked in a lot about a block away. It looked like rain, but it always looks like rain in Portland. He really hoped it wasn't going to hail—it was certainly cold enough, though. The throngs of homeless people who inhabit the area were already hunkered down in doorways and whatever other makeshift places of shelter they could find. The streets were virtually deserted.

As he approached his car, something caught his attention near the shuttered food carts across the street. It was a bicycle. A white Schwinn beach cruiser. It appeared to be chained to a street sign. “Nah, it couldn't be…” he muttered. Portland was filled with impromptu street art and there were white-washed bikes chained to posts all over town. Somebody told Leslie they were tributes to cyclists who were hit and killed by motorists. That was probably all there was to it, but something about this area was setting off his creep alarm big time.

During one of his many late night binges, Leslie listened to Ray tell the tale of two tragic deaths that happened at a hot dog stand in this particular food cart pod. First, the manager was found stabbed to death. The cops thought it was a botched robbery, but the man’s body was excessively mutilated and some of his organs were allegedly missing.

A month later, one of the cooks, some ex-con named Reilly something-or-other, was found dead underneath the Burnside Bridge. He was apparently in the process of drinking himself to death with a bottle of over-proof rum; fell and cracked his skull open. Bits of his brains everywhere. Rumors started to circulate that the hot dog cart was haunted and people stopped eating there. Ray postulated it was some kind of Manson-style plot formulated by a group of rogue Vegan/Anarchists. In any case, the cart closed soon thereafter.

Leslie cautiously crossed the street. The bike looked like Georgie’s, but there was a flowery basket attached to the front of it. Not a likely accessory for a serial killer’s ride, but then again, with Georgie Mettler, anything was possible. A shiver went down Leslie’s spine and then the hair stood up on the nape of his neck. Something was wrong here.

He considered going back to the car to get his gun. The money he got from the book publisher enabled him to start a new career as a private detective—something he always wanted to do. He had a license to carry a concealed weapon, but he usually just left his gun and holster locked up in the trunk of his car.

Tip Top Hot Dogs proclaimed the decaying sign on the converted Scotty trailer. The entire structure was no longer a viable, tow-able trailer, with a permanent lunch counter completely surrounding the thing. Leslie saw what appeared to be a basket of French fries sitting on the counter. “What the fuck?”

He also spotted what appeared to be new, unopened bottle of Heinz Ketchup next to the basket. A memory instantly flashed across Leslie’s mind. The Mettler Twins always shared a basket of fries at Lotta-Burger every evening. It was part of their regular routine when they worked at Benson’s. He used to see them there all the time…

Run!

Leslie sprinted for his car. The .44 was locked up. He was certain he was going to need it. Just as he reached the Prius, lightning cracked across the sky and rain poured down in a torrent. Something was propped up on the windshield. It looked like a small box…with a handle on top.

Aftermath

“So, it looks like suicide, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. Stuck the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. You said he spent most of the evening in the bar down the street?”

“Yup. Bartender said he’s in there every night drinking up some money he got for a book deal. Says the guy seemed pretty depressed most of the time. Divorced.”

“No shit? Depression, booze and a gun. Never a good combo.”

“Damn, that’s quite a mess he made, there, Jules,” said the young police detective. “What is that, a .44?”

“Yeah, magnum. Took the whole goddamned top of his head off, and blew a hole in the sunroof, too. I guess he wanted to make sure he got the job done.” The crime scene investigator was scribbling notes on a clipboard, the sleeves on her lab coat were rolled up just enough to reveal a small portion of the intricate tattoos on her forearms.

“Jesus, brains splattered everywhere. How can you stand it?”

“Oh, you get used to it after a while. When I was in med school at Stanford, dissecting brains was my favorite thing, actually.”

“Jules, you are a real sicko.”

“Tell me about it, Detective Tyler. Tell me about it.”

“What’s inside the Rocky and Bullwinkle lunch box on his lap?”

“A baloney sandwich, that’s all. One baloney sandwich.”