Hipster Noir

My first mistake was taking Elwood at his word. He always was a big, fat liar. My second mistake was believing, even for a minute, that something would turn out good for me. Hell, that wasn’t even a mistake...it was a joke. I sure hope somebody got a good laugh out of it: Jesus, Buddha, Xenu, whoever the hell is in charge of this shitshow. I hope they had a really good time at my expense. I hope they busted a gut. I really do. At least there’d be some meaning behind it all, even if my life turned out to be nothing more than lowbrow entertainment for some sadistic deity. Maybe ol’ Elwood knows the answer, huh? That stupid stoner is probably laughing harder than anybody.

That morning started out like any other morning. I woke up at about eleven and discovered I’d passed out in my clothes again. I was still in my Navy pea coat and I was missing a shoe. I tossed my apartment upside down and sideways but couldn’t find that goddamned Keen loafer to save my ass. I found it later, stuck in a muddy planter next to the carport. I probably never even realized it came off my foot. My hunter green Outback was parked perfectly, though. I have to give myself some props for that. Right between the lines. Dead center. The keys were still in the ignition and there was a parking ticket on the windshield from wherever the hell I illegally parked the night before or the night before that.

Sometimes, I wonder what I’m like when I’m blackout drunk. Am I mean? Witty? Maybe I speak with a charming British accent. That would be cool.

Have you ever been to Portland, Oregon? Easiest damned city for a drunk to live, in my opinion. It rains all the time in my shitty burg. Nothing else to do except drink. Happy hour starts at three o’clock and it seems like everybody I know has their boney ass parked on a barstool at some point during the day. Drinks aren’t cheap, but they’re usually strong. Two dollar pints of PBR are always available when the funds are low. Ten bucks can get you well on your way to a good time. Twenty can guarantee it. Forty can get you in trouble--get me in trouble, anyway.

Portland. Nothing but gray skies and black hearts. Somebody told me once that when the settlers came West on the Oregon Trail, only the biggest losers and Johnny Come Latelies ended up in Portland. All that loser DNA concentrated in one big clusterfuck of a gene pool between the Willamette and Columbia Rivers. I think that’s a pretty solid theory. Elwood’s family arrived in a Conestoga wagon in the 1800s. Most of their descendants went out in a blaze of stupidity, just as I’m certain Elwood will someday.

The landscape that is now the city of Portland was once covered with pristine, old-growth forest. When the population started to boom, the forest was clear-cut to make room for housing developments. That’s where the nickname “Stumptown” came from. Did you know that? Portland was literally covered with stumps. I think the whole town is haunted by ancient spirits who suddenly found themselves ejected from their primordial home. The place is cursed and the genetically defective miscreants who live there can feel the vindictive retribution of those pissed-off ghosts deep in their soggy, rain-drenched bones.

I was born in Portland, so nobody can cry foul on my opinion about the town and its people. I’m one of them, after all. Elwood is a Stumptown native, too, and my best friend since kindergarten. I really can’t remember a time when he wasn’t in my life. Elwood was always just there. Mucking everything up. Truthfully, I don’t really recall much about my childhood. High school is kind of a blur, too. Scattered memories come back to me from time to time, but none of them are particularly pleasant or interesting, so I try to concentrate on the here and now. Of course, my here and now is pretty crappy, too. Elwood made sure of that.

As I was saying, that morning was like any other morning, except it was my day off. I work, or I should say worked, as a barista at Axelrod Coffee Roasters in Northeast. The pay is minimum wage and tips. Yeah, I think you already figured out that I’m not what you would call an over-achiever. I earned just enough money to pay the rent for my low-income studio, and get my drink on. I like to tell people that I’m a poet slash songwriter, but that’s really just a tall tale for the ladies. Offbeat, historical trivia is what’s really my thing. I’ll admit it, I’m really more nerd than hipster. The flannel shirt, pencil-thin mustache and knit cap I sport are de rigueur for any single, twenty-four-year-old male hoping to get occasionally laid in Portland.

Elwood works as a busboy at Duchamp’s Steakhouse downtown. Elwood. Let me tell you about Elwood. He’s about five foot five with a mangy mop of bright orange hair. That’s his natural hair color, by the way, as unnatural as it looks. He keeps that hair tucked underneath a gray and white trucker hat, which is his sole, lame attempt to try to look hip. Elwood isn’t hip. He’s the epitome of non-hip. Smokes weed like a human bonfire. He has a medical marijuana card to treat his depression or CTE or something or other, which is a crock of bullshit. The dude is smarter than I ever gave him credit for, and he certainly pays attention to everything going on around him. Everything.

Duchamp’s is located on the ground floor of the old Excelsior Hotel. The Excelsior was built in 1872, by probably more than a few of Elwood’s redheaded ancestors. At the time, it was considered an architectural marvel. Its impressive brick and marble edifice welcomed heads of state and the best-heeled visitors to Portland before the turn of the last century. The suites on the highest floors had unobstructed views of the Willamette River, and the elegant restaurant on the ground level was staffed by European chefs with pedigrees that would impress even the most refined traveler of the day. I learned all of this on a walking history tour of the city. I can’t tell you exactly why I love this kind of crap, but I do.

In its heyday, every major reception, event and benefit were held at the Excelsior. It was the place to see and be seen among Portland’s elite. Gentleman Jim Corbett once put on a boxing exhibition in the hotel’s Grand Ballroom, and although no actual U.S. President is believed to have ever slept in the Presidential Suite, famed British actress Lillie Langtry reportedly spent several nights there in 1893.

That walking tour was sure worth the forty bucks, right? Am I right?

I always likened the old building to a mausoleum. Almost 140 years after the Excelsior’s grand opening, the place was dank, moldy and in significant disrepair. The fine silk wallpaper, the rich hardwood moldings, the expensive, Italian marble floors; all long gone or rotting away. The basement was the worst, or perhaps the best, depending on how you look at it. A damp, roughly hewn locker in the basement was where the wine and liquor bottles were stored. As the lead busboy and a frequent closer at Duchamp’s, Elwood was charged with restocking the bar. Of course, Elwood spent most of his time down in that basement smoking pot. Apparently, he did some other, more odious things down there, too.

Many restaurants had opened and closed in the space that was once occupied by the Excelsior’s five-star eatery. The basement was like a mass grave for the failed businesses, cluttered with piles of old fixtures and furniture dating back to god-knows-when. Duchamp’s was the latest attempt to revive the building and the neighborhood to some semblance of its former glory. Sadly, grandiose plans to restore and transform the upper floors into high-end condos never came to fruition and the restaurant was struggling to survive.

On his first day of duty at Duchamp’s, the manager gave Elwood the grand tour of the basement and treated him to the obligatory ghost stories. Of course, the place was haunted—-had to be—-it was a creepy basement in an old, run-down hotel. However, the creep factor at the Excelsior was seriously magnified by the fact that the basement was a bona fide, verified entrance to the notorious Shanghai Tunnels.

The Shanghai Tunnels were a legendary series of underground caverns that linked numerous restaurants, bars and hotels with various houses of debauchery and dens of iniquity during the lawless days of Portland’s early history. Brothels, opium dens, gambling parlors—-all could be easily and covertly accessed by captains of industry, politicians, preachers and other respectable members of society who did not wish to be seen indulging in the sins of the flesh.

Let me know if I start to bore you. I could go on forever about this stuff.

There was also a much more sinister aspect of the tunnels and the reason for the name “Shanghai”. It had nothing to do with the fact that they were buried beneath Portland’s Chinatown, and everything to do with tales of unfortunate young men who were slipped knockout drops and subsequently dropped through trapdoors into underground cells, where they waited to be shipped off as unwilling crew members on merchant ships to China. The tunnels were said to be haunted by the restless spirits of those men, forever seeking vengeance against the pirates who stole their very lives.

Duchamp’s owners opened the basement up for “ghost tours”, hoping to lure in some customers. I was one of the first to sign up for a tour, but like most of the tourists, I was extremely disappointed to discover that the tunnel entrances were long sealed and I would be exploring a dirty basement storage room instead of the actual tunnels. Still, I was always fascinated by the history surrounding it all. I often wondered what it was like for those young men. One minute they were belting down a few shots of rotgut, hand up the skirt of a skanky prostitute, no doubt, and the next minute they were dumped down a deadfall and sold into white slavery. That had to be one helluva hangover. How many fellows were dragged feet first through the Excelsior’s basement and into those tunnels? The arched entryways are still there.

Newer brick was used to wall up the ancient brick access points to the tunnels; a haphazard array that stood in stark contrast against the 19th Century craftsmanship of the original construction. Chunks of sloppy mortar appeared to ooze out of the ragged cracks. It appeared to be the work of a drunk or a madman--or more likely Elwood’s toothless great grandpappy.

Elwood came over to my apartment just after I finished cleaning the mud off of my shoe. His trucker cap was pulled way too far down on his forehead to look appropriately ironic, and his Edgar Allan Poe t-shirt was so last year. As usual, I wasn’t very excited to see him, but he was very excited and quite animated. That piqued my interest enough to listen to what he was babbling on and on about.

Elwood told me that he discovered an entrance to a long-forgotten section of the tunnels. It was filled with all kinds of historical artifacts that appeared to be untouched for decades. Shoes, hats, and even cases of liquor that had to date back at least as far as the Prohibition Era. He didn’t have to say much more. I was dying to see for myself.

We took the MAX downtown and disembarked at Pioneer Courthouse Square--the unofficial center of downtown Portland. A small group of anarchists in Guy Fawkes masks were preparing for an afternoon protest march. It would have been fun to join them, but I had some postmodern archeology to attend to. I made a mental note that Postmodern Archeology would make a great name for a neofolk band.

It was a short walk to Duchamp’s from the square. It was raining, of course. We just pulled up our hoodies and walked on with scrunched up faces. Only tourists use umbrellas in Portland. Locals know there’s no sense in trying to stay dry. Eternal dampness permeates every soul in Stumptown sooner or later.

Elwood took me through a service entrance in the back alley and straight down a rickety, wooden staircase to the basement of the Excelsior. He had two large Maglites waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Looking back, I realize how odd it was for Elwood to be that prepared. This was a twenty-four-year-old man who still relied on his mom to get him up in the morning. A grown-ass man who could so easily forget that he was supposed to meet his incredibly cute girlfriend for drinks on a rare Friday night off. As we proceeded into the farthest reaches of the basement, I started to feel a little uneasy. Seriously, the little hairs on the back of my neck started to tingle.

“The entrance is just a few feet ahead there,” Elwood exhorted as if he could sense my growing apprehension. “And I didn’t even tell you the best part. There’s a safe!”

“Seriously?” I replied. “What kind of safe?”

“It’s really, really old, and it says Wells Fargo on the door. It isn’t locked and there's all kinds of stuff inside!”

“Wells Fargo?” I exclaimed. “Wells Fargo?” I had to see this for myself.

We finally reached a small opening in the brick wall that looked to be recently created. The hole was barely large enough to crawl through.

“They were doing some plumbing work down here and the workmen busted open that hole. It leads right into the tunnel I was telling you about. Don’t worry, I made it through and back, no problem.”

I turned around and saw an odd, quirky smile on Elwood’s face. He rarely smiled. I took it to mean that he was really excited about what he’d found. Poor chump was way too stupid to understand the historical importance of this discovery. An old safe hidden in the recesses of the Shanghai Tunnels? It’s contents had to be in the very least curious, and in the very best scandalous!

“Wells Fargo? Are you sure the safe had the words Wells Fargo written on it?” I asked as I shimmied through the narrow opening. “That’s what it said, absolutely,” assured my diminutive, ginger companion.

Once through to the other side of the hole, I found myself in a narrow, dusty tunnel that was barely high enough to stand in. I’m six feet tall and the ceiling was only about an inch above my head. Elwood had plenty of headroom. He skipped ahead of me like an excited elf.

“Come on, man! The safe is right up here!”

“Wells Fargo, huh?”

“Yes! Wells Fargo!”

We reached what appeared to be another fresh opening in the wall. There was a pile of old bricks nearby. Elwood stopped at this larger hole and waved his Maglite toward the pitch-black interior. “It’s right over THERE!”

I shined my light inside, but I didn’t see anything but dust and cobwebs. That’s the last thing I remember before I woke up here. When I came to, I found a Kryptonite bike lock around my neck that was firmly attached to the brick wall. Elwood was on the other side of the opening, bricking it back up! “Elwood! What the hell are you doing?” I was in full panic mode. Pulling and tugging violently against the lock around my neck, I realized that I was about to suffer the same fate as that poor schlub of a cognoscente in Poe’s Cask of Amontillado!

“You don’t even remember what you did, do you?” Elwood muttered as he troweled wet, uneven mortar between the bricks he was stacking. “What kind of a piece of shit sleeps with his best friend’s girl and DOESN’T EVEN REMEMBER IT?”

That was the first time I had ever heard Elwood raise his voice in anger. Frankly, I didn’t know he had it in him. He didn’t say another word as he finished his grim project, no matter how much I cursed, implored and screamed.

That was two days ago, and I’m feeling myself grow weaker with every agonizing, slow-passing hour. I know I don’t have much longer to live, and I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m getting what I deserve. I won’t be joining the ghosts in these tunnels because I know there really aren’t any such things as ghosts and spirits. There’s no afterlife and there’s no salvation. All that exists is the here and now, and like I said, my here and now is pretty crappy.

I do remember meeting Elwood’s girlfriend, Dori, at the Little Pony Bar for a drink. I also remember thinking how cute she looked in that polka dot vintage dress and how upset she was when Elwood didn’t show up for their “date” again. After that? Who knows? I’m a blackout drunk, remember?

Even as the terror of my inevitable, pitiful demise begins to sink in, I still can’t help finding some amusement at the irony. I also can’t help wondering what an urban archeologist will think when he or she opens this impromptu crypt 100 years from now. What will be more interesting? The skeletal remains attached to the wall with a bike lock...or the Wells Fargo safe in the corner.

Pickers

Rusty stood back from the open engine compartment of the '72 Ford pick-up and admired his handiwork. It had taken almost 13 months to get the old truck restored and here it was, finally purring like a kitten. Well, it was running, anyway. Fiona would have to eat some major crow, he thought. What was it she said? Oh, yes, “You just wasted $500 on a piece of junk that will take up space in the garage FOREVER.”

“Hey, babe!” Rusty shouted through the open garage door. “Looks like FOREVER ended today!”

Fiona walked into the garage, pulling a vintage apron over her head. “What was that? Hey! Look at that! You actually got that damn thing running!”

Rusty stood in front of the truck with both hands on his hips, in a Superman pose. His patched overalls were thoroughly covered with grime, and the tattoos on his forearms were completely obscured by grease, all the way up to his elbows. He gathered up his long, red beard and tossed it back over his shoulder like a cape.

“I am HANDIMAN! Fixer of gadgets, repairer of gizmos, and restorer of classic Ford F-100's!”

Fiona rolled her eyes and moved in for a closer look at the old engine. “Well, Handiman, I'm thinking there must have been some divine intervention involved right here. That and the $2000 in new parts you finally had to spend.”

There it was. It only took Fiona about 30 seconds to bring up the money. She ALWAYS brought up the money. That was her thing. Rusty created and Fiona funded. Although it was a big reason why their relationship—both personal and business—was such a success, Fiona's focus on the money was a major source of irritation for Rusty. The implication that his art, creativity and craftsmanship should always consider the bottom line was exasperating and sometimes infuriating. This time, he was in such a good mood, he let it go without escalating into the usual argument.

Rusty knew why Fiona was so obsessed with money. She grew up dirt poor in a trailer park in Fontana, CA, the youngest of seven kids—fathered by five different men. Her mother was a reformed drug addict and all of Fiona's siblings spent a significant amount of their upbringing in foster care. Fortunately, Fiona's mom got into a 12 step program by the time her youngest was born, but it was never a happy, stable family life.

At seventeen, Fiona was “discovered” by a modeling agent while working at a Hot Dog on a Stick kiosk in the Fontana Fashion Mall. The agent, Mrs. Rumkey, was a typical modeling lesson scammer, but she had enough knowledge and sense to recognize the special quality that Fiona possessed—the quality that made the camera fall in love with her.

Success as a high fashion model provided Fiona with a ticket out of the trailer park, and when that brief career ended, her obsession with saving money and investing wisely kept her from ever returning to Fontana. World travel gave her a Continental flare and an eye for art. Living for years in hotel rooms provided a natural progression into her second career: Running high-end, artistically unusual, architecturally unique bed and breakfast venues.

Rusty was an artist. Not a painter or a sculptor in the traditional, classically trained sense. Rusty created his art from junk. Fiona often called him the “Dumpster Savant”. When most people would see nothing more than a rusting pile of old pipe, boilers and car parts, Rusty saw a fantastical, steampunk desk...or bunk beds...or hot tub. It wasn't difficult for Rusty. He literally grew up in a scrapyard. Homeschooled by his strictly religious mother, Rusty had few friends his own age and very few toys to play with. Possessing a seemingly limitless imagination and an endless supply of junk, Rusty started creating amazing contraptions and awesome Rube Goldberg-esque playthings before he was ten years old. By the time he was twenty, his incredible, repurposed artwork was getting national attention.

At six foot, four inches tall, and with a massive red beard that reached his belt buckle, Rusty was an imposing figure that many people shied away from at first introduction. Fiona only noticed his friendly blue eyes. The meeting was at one of Rusty's art installations. It was an full-size Spanish galleon—a pirate ship—made entirely from scrap metal. Fiona was amazed at the structure, but of course, her interest was mainly a financial one. She was looking for a unique, artistically unusual idea for the construction of the spa at her new B&B. Something steampunk—with real steam. Rusty's work seemed perfectly suited for the look she was hoping to achieve.

The spa project turned out to be more successful than Fiona had ever imagined. Rusty certainly had more inspiration than usual. He had fallen head over heels in love with his patron; a willowy, beautiful ex-model who was 10 years his senior. The spa was not only Rusty's finest artistic creation, it utilized the ultimate in green technologies and environmentally friendly resources. The B&B was featured in almost every major travel magazine, not to mention a piece in Time, and was an incredible financial victory in every way.

Fiona was equally taken with Rusty, and she would be the first to admit that his ability to make junk into large sums of money was a big factor in her initial attraction to him. He was also nothing like the feminine, narcissistic men she encountered in the fashion industry. Rusty was all man. He was big, strong, and he made things—useful things with his own hands. He was like a cross between King Midas, Paul Bunyan and Thor.

Fiona was also impressed with Rusty's honesty. Growing up surrounded by drunks and junkies made for some complicated trust issues that no amount of therapy could repair. There was something comforting—and oddly sexy—about a man incapable of telling an untruth. Fiona was also amazed by the fact that Rusty had absolutely no use for a mirror. She never saw him look in one, and when they first started dating, she couldn't even find one in his house. The fact that he was so ruggedly handsome and had no clue, made Fiona feel like she had a naughty, little secret that she would never have to share with anyone.

“Okay, Handiman, I'm going back inside to finish that shepherd's pie we're having for dinner. You better start getting cleaned up now...dinner's in an hour.”

“Come here and gimme a hug!” Rusty said with a drawl, lurching toward Fiona like Frankenstein. “HUGS!”

Fiona gave a playful scream and ducked under the greasy arms. “Use SOAP!”

Rusty stood back to admire his work for a few more minutes. The truck was a find, no matter what Fiona thought. The body was in almost perfect condition, even though a family of squirrels had taken up residence in the engine compartment for many years. Incredibly, there was barely a dent in the truck bed and hardly any rust.

The interior was another story. Squirrels, and probably rats, had chewed away the upholstery and most of the dashboard. It was and ugly mess and the restoration would probably cost another $1200. Rusty was a pro with a wrench or a wielding torch, but he'd never worked on car upholstery before. Nevertheless, he was confident he could make it look better than new.

Rusty turned off the engine and opened both of the cab doors. He decided to pull out the benchseat, just to see if any part of it was salvageable. The seat certainly didn't give any resistance when he pulled it free. It wasn't even bolted down. Several of the springs clattered onto the garage floor in a cloud of dust and rust when he set it down. Rusty bent down to inspect the area where the seat used to be. There were a number of old coins. $0.76 worth. Hey, Fiona will be glad to know about this little windfall, he mused.

There was also something else on the floorboards that the seat had been covering. Rusty picked it up for inspection. It was a dusty, old cigar box. Red Dot Cigars. 15 cents each. Wow, this was interesting, he thought. The box was tied shut by an old piece of jute twine. Rusty pulled out his pocket knife and cut off the string. He wondered what was inside. Clearly, the cigar box had been hidden there. For how long? Rusty gave the box a shake. There was definitely something in there.

Rusty decided to do the opening under a little more light. He placed the box on his workbench and turned on the trouble light that was hanging from the rafters. He was getting excited. This was the kind of thing that made picking worthwhile. Every once in a while, you uncovered a real treasure. A sudden twinge of guilt hit him. Fiona would probably enjoy the unveiling as much as he would. Maybe he should wait until after dinner, or go get her now.

“Hey, babe! Come out here and see what I found!” No response from the house. Fiona was probably in the bathroom. He headed inside to get her.

Trinkets

“Wait until you see this, sweetie, an old cigar box was hidden under the seat of the truck! Really old and tied up with twine!” Rusty wasn't good at hiding his enthusiasm. He was as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning.

Fiona followed Rusty into the garage, where they both were suddenly confronted by strong acrid fumes and a plume of heavy black smoke.

“Oh, my God, Rusty! Did you set the garage on fire again? What the hell?”

The smoke was emanating from glowing red embers on Rusty's workbench, from the very spot where he left the cigar box. Rusty bolted for the fire extinguisher that was hanging on the wall next to the garage door. He quickly sprayed the embers until they stopped glowing. Rusty was an old hand at putting out fires.

When the smoke and fire retardant cleared, Rusty was amazed to see there was absolutely nothing left of the cigar box. Only a black, greasy burn mark remained, along with two odd, metallic objects. Rusty bent down to pick up one of the objects, but found it was still hot to the touch.

“What the hell are those things?” queried Fiona. “Why did they catch on fire?

“I have know idea, babe, but they used to be in a cigar box,” Rusty was totally perplexed. He really wanted to take closer look but was naturally a bit apprehensive. What if the things were toxic or something? They'd already breathed in a good dose of nasty smoke.

Fiona started to cough. “Ack! That smoke is bad! I'll turn on the fans.” The garage workshop was very well-appointed with tools and adequate ventilation.

Rusty found a pair of wielding tongs and gingerly picked up one of the objects. He located a paint brush and dusted off the soot and fire retardant. It appeared to be an amulet or crest of some kind. It was flat and circular in shape, and about four inches in diameter—about the size of a large jar lid. The design was very intricate. It looked like an octopus, or some kind of squid. The face looked humanoid, with two large eyes.

“Babe, look at the eyes on this thing. Are those diamonds?”

Fiona moved in for a closer look. “Wow, if they are diamonds, this is a valuable piece of jewelry, Russ. They have to be at least three carats! What kind of metal is that?”

Rusty continued brushing at the black metal and tried to scratch it with his fingernail. “I've never seen anything like it. It's black, but it doesn't appear to be painted. It's too heavy to be gold.”

Fiona turned her attention to the second object. It was about the size and shape of a stick of butter. It appeared to be made of the same black metal, and the visible sides were covered with some kind of writing—runes, actually.

“Give me those tongs!” she snapped.

Rusty obeyed and Fiona poked at the object. She nearly jumped out of her skin when the thing emitted a buzzing noise and started to vibrate. The runes began to glow red, in contrast to the black metal surface.

“Holy fucking shit! This thing is alive! Rusty, get a box!”

Rusty searched around for something that would fill the bill. One thing for sure, it needed to be a fireproof box. That's when he remembered the little firesafe in the office. They only kept their passports and tax returns in it. Hey, if it kept fire out, maybe it could keep fire IN.

Rusty ran inside and returned with the firesafe. He held it open at the edge of the workbench and Fiona knocked the object inside. It glowed and buzzed furiously, until Rusty slammed the lid shut. After the box was closed, the noise suddenly stopped. Rusty shook the box. The object rattled lifelessly inside.

Rusty and Fiona looked at each for almost a full minute without speaking. Rusty went back to the other object that remained on the workbench—appropriately inanimate.

“This thing looks really, really old, Fiona. It's like an...artifact or something. We're talking real Indiana Jones kind of shit.”

Fiona shook her head. “I'm thinking more like Exorcist kind of shit.”

To be continued...

Her Beautiful Man

In order to preserve your self-respect, it is sometimes necessary to cheat and lie.

~ Robert Byrne

It wasn't that Cheryl didn't love Martin. He was once her very best friend, but marrying him had been a big mistake. Martin worked hard and made a decent living at the software company, but there was just no passion in their relationship. She thought she could learn to get over the twinge of disgust she felt whenever Martin touched her. Father Dutton said that with time the passion would come, but he certainly turned out to be the wrong person to ask. What could a pedophile priest know about passion between a man and a grown-up woman? Of course, no one knew about Father Dutton's unwholesome proclivities, until he was literally caught with his pants down.

The latte she picked up at the drive-thru espresso bar tasted like dirt. Cheryl wondered why she continued to patronize the place—the quality of the beverages was so hit-and-miss. She considered going back and complaining, but she was in a hurry. That's where they get you, she thought. Everyone is in such a hurry that nobody goes back and complains. Besides, the barista with all the facial piercings looked like the kind of kid who would spit in your coffee if you complained, and she certainly didn't want that.

She checked her make-up in the rearview mirror. Cheryl was quickly approaching her 24th birthday, but she still had the youthful appearance of a teenager, especially when she had her hair up in a ponytail. What did Martin say this morning? “You know, I read that a woman is twice as likely to be raped if she has her hair in a ponytail.” What an ass, she thought. He didn't even look up from his computer screen—too busy playing World of Warlocks. She had gotten up in a particularly good mood, and her husband had to throw in his typical morning buzzkill. She silently responded to his admonition with her middle finger. He didn't see it. He had goblins to kill.

She adjusted the mirror and turned her head to the side. The star shaped tattoos behind her right ear were visible whenever she put her blond hair up. As much as she hated to admit it, her mother had been right; Cheryl regretted getting the tattoos, especially since Martin had an identical set on his neck. They had just turned 18 and Martin talked her into getting the body decorations as a permanent declaration of their friendship. Now, the tattoos seemed more like a brand—a symbol that she was forever Martin Miller's property.

In spite of the tattoos, she was satisfied with her appearance. She was wearing a new bodysuit that showed off her perfect little figure. She wondered if he was going to be in the gym this morning. He hadn't been in for several days and she was beginning to fear that he had moved away or found another place to work out. Walking toward the main entrance of The Body Shop, she was delighted to see him on the Stairmaster: her Beautiful Man.

Jack Benson, Jr. was the undisputed leader of his amateur cycling club: The Portland Cyclones. A natural athlete, like his father and grandfather before him, he was born with the body of a Greek god. He had just finished an early morning ride with his exclusive set of training buddies, but he felt he still needed to work out a few kinks in his quadriceps. The Tour of Cascadia was coming up in three short weeks and Jack wanted to make sure he was more than ready for the contest. The Tour was the home field race, so to speak, and a member of the Cyclones had brought home the yellow jersey every year for the past three. An hour on the Stairmaster was just what was needed, according to the complicated training schedule he had devised for himself.

Jack noticed the cute little blond the minute she walked into the gym. He had noticed her several times before, in fact. This morning she was wearing a red leotard that left very little to the imagination. Great, he thought. I'm already having a hard enough time concentrating on my workout. She was showing her ID to the girl at the front desk, and he had a perfect, unobstructed view of her tight little frame. She certainly did have a gorgeous body. She looked young, though, maybe 17 or 18. “Seventeen will get you twenty,” he said aloud.

“What was that?” said the pinch-faced matron on the next Stairmaster over. Jack was listening to his iPod and didn't realize how loudly he'd spoken.

“Oh, nothing. It's just a rap tune I'm listening to. Sorry.” Jack pointed to his headphones. The older woman scowled at him disapprovingly.

“That misogynistic garbage is demeaning and promotes violence against women...”

“Sorry, I can't hear you. Headphones.” Jack pointed toward his ears again. “Seventeen will get you twennie—bumpin' wit you hunnie!” His rap was atrocious.

The woman gave a loud “Humph!” and went back to watching a soap opera on the flat screen monitor mounted on the wall.

During the exchange, Jack had lost sight of the cute blond. When he looked up again, he was surprised to see her climbing onto the treadmill directly in front of him. Great, he thought. This workout is going to be totally worthless.

Cheryl prayed that she had gotten her Beautiful Man's attention. It was worth the sneer the girl at the counter gave her. Of course, she knew wearing a skin-tight body suit to the gym was ridiculous, and every woman in the place was looking at her like she was some kind of pariah. Screw them. As she trotted on the treadmill, she wondered what he was thinking. Is he looking at me? She was certain that he had noticed her on previous occasions. They shared a smile at the drinking fountain the other day and she hated herself for being too timid to say hello.

What was she doing? She was a married woman—a newlywed, really. She had taken a vow to honor and cherish Martin, and here she was parading around in a revealing outfit that she had purchased for the sole purpose of attracting another man. Her cheeks suddenly flushed, but not from shame. She was excited and the thought that her plan may be working gave her a thrill that she had never before experienced.

Cheryl started to get restless. This is taking too fucking long, she thought. When is this guy going to make a move? She decided to take matters into her own hands. What the hell, here goes nothing.

Cheryl dropped her towel onto the running treadmill and it shot backwards. With near-perfect choreography, she reached back for the towel and pretended to stumble. One step, two steps, three steps back. With a stylish pirouette, she reached the back of the treadmill and was looking directly into her Beautiful Man's gorgeous hazel eyes. “Oh! Excuse me! How embarrassing!” she exclaimed, as she crashed landed against the Stairmaster.

“Whoa! Are you okay?”

“Oh, I think...I think I hurt my ankle.” Cheryl limped away from the machines, and Jack was off the Stairmaster taking her arm. It worked.

“Hey, let me give you a hand.”

Game Time

“Oh, honey, are you sure you don't mind? I haven't seen Becky since graduation, and this little trip to Cannon Beach sounds like soooo much fun. Just us girls rummaging through the antique stores...” Martin interrupted Cheryl with a grunt and a dismissive wave. He was busy leading a raiding party against a clan of Orcs that had been giving everyone in his guild a hard time for the past two days.

Son of a bitch, she thought. I could be standing here butt-naked and he wouldn't even notice. Jack would notice, though—boy, would he notice.

Cheryl felt no love for her husband at that moment and absolutely no regrets about the romantic rendezvous she was planning with Jack. They had reservations at the Sea Breeze Inn and Spa. Every room came complete with a custom hot tub and a king-size bed. Three days in a private room with Jack's sculpted, athletic body—her nipples tightened at the thought.

Of course, Jack had a bike race on Saturday morning. She would spend most of the day browsing through the quaint shops in town. Jack would bring back the trophy and Cheryl would give her champion a special prize that night.

“What the fuck is up with you? Are you high or something?” Cheryl was so engrossed in her fantasy that she didn't notice Martin get up from his computer chair. He was carrying a beer and a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and was on his way back from the kitchen.

“Huh?” was the only reply Cheryl could muster, as the vision of her lover's muscular form slowly faded from her mind.

“Huh? I swear to God, Cheryl, you are a total numbnuts. I asked you three fucking times to get me a beer and you just sat there with that dumbass grin on your face. Don't go spending all of my money at those fruity antique stores. I can tell that's what you're dreaming about. We can't afford that kind of bullshit right now.” Martin interrupted his own tirade with a loud belch.

Martin was wearing threadbare flannel pajama bottoms that had probably last seen the inside the washing machine a month ago. His “Black Goat of the Woods” t-shirt hadn’t been off his torso for three days. He had never been a handsome man, and the thirty extra pounds of pudge that he’d added to his mid-section over the past few years did little to improve his appearance. Cheryl couldn’t believe she shared the same bed with this slob.

“I'm paying for this trip with my own money, you asshole!”

“Yeah, like you ever made any money on your own. You've been livin' on somebody else's dime your whole life.” Martin put on his headset and parked himself in front of his computer monitor again. Leaning back in his chair, his too-small t-shirt hiked up over his hairy gut. He absent-mindedly picked a large piece of lint out of his navel, brought it to his nose for a sniff, and summarily flicked it to the floor.

“Red Leader 6, this is Blue Leader 3. Looks like you took out that nest of Orcs over in sector 19, but they're regrouping in the Shadowlands. FUCK! Didn't you see those guys coming up the battlement on the north tower? STUPID FUCKERS! I can't even get up to get myself a beer! Thanks a lot, Cheryl, you stupid ditz!”

Cheryl started to answer with a few epithets of her own, but she realized that he couldn't hear her over the Orcs' battle cry. Martin was right about the money, she thought, but he didn't have to be such a dick about it. He made good money as a computer programmer—more than enough to furnish their apartment with something better than the IKEA crap he loved so much. It was his idea that she move in with him and quit her job at the restaurant. He didn't like the idea of her parading around in that skimpy uniform. He was obsessively jealous and possessive before they got married—now, he didn't give a crap what she did. Well, she'd be doing Jack this weekend. What do you think about that, you chubby fuck? Cheryl smiled and kept the thought to herself.

“I'm going out, jerk. I'll be back by dinner.”

“Hey! If you're going to the store, bring back some more Cheetos and a 12 pack of PBR. Some of the guys from work are coming over for a LAN party tonight. Remember—PABST. I don't want those cheap-ass losers drinking up all the good beer. DAMN IT! Reggie! Didn't I tell you to move those archers into position at the gate! FUCK! We're all going to get killed by that Uber-Demon again! You prick! You're out of the guild! Go back to level 50, you butthole!”

As soon as she was out the door, Cheryl ran to her car; mainly to escape Martin's loud, expletive-filled droning, but also to get to Jack's apartment before he got home from work. She had new g-string panties on and was eager to see the look on his face when she peeled off her jeans. Martin could go to the store and pick up his own goddamn beer.

Cheryl found the key to Jack's apartment just where he said it would be—behind the fichus in the corner of the landing. When she started to put the key in the lock, the door slowly moved inward. It had been slightly ajar. Jack must have forgotten to close it all the way. That's not like him, she thought.

“Hello?” Cheryl found herself feeling very tentative about going any farther than the entryway. “Jack? Are you home, honey?” There was no answer. Cheryl left the front door open and slowly entered the living room. From there, she could see most of the one bedroom apartment. “Hello?”

A quick check of the bedroom and bathroom satisfied Cheryl's apprehension. There wasn't anyone lurking about inside Jack's place, and everything appeared to be in proper order. She shut the door and situated herself on the couch. She tousled her hair and reapplied her lipstick. What the hell, she thought, as she pulled off her sweater and jeans. I'll make sure Jack is really glad to see me. What a perfect surprise for her Beautiful Man.

Jack's apartment wasn't the typical bachelor pad. It was tastefully decorated—he admitted to paying a professional to do the job—and there wasn't a single piece of cheap, Swedish furniture to be found. Of course, the prints on the wall depicted sports and outdoor scenes, but they were behind glass and in expensive frames. Martin's idea of room decoration consisted of a WWE poster pinned up with two rusty thumbtacks.

Cheryl picked up a newspaper and glanced through the headlines for a few minutes. She checked her watch—5:15. Jack was usually home by five sharp. What could be keeping him? She exchanged the paper for a copy of GQ that had been carefully positioned on the coffee table and switched on the faux Tiffany lamp.

She was starting to feel stupid and self-conscious lying around in her underwear. She went to the desk to get the cordless phone. That's when she noticed that the computer was on. A session of World of Warlocks was running on the 24 inch LCD monitor. What the fuck?, she thought. Jack never plays computer games. That's a Martin thing... She felt a sick turning begin in the pit of her stomach. There was a yellow stickie note on the screen. Written in deliberate block letters: PLAY ME, OR LOVER BOY DIES.

Suddenly, the phone rang. Cheryl screamed. Her twitching fingers hovered above the handset. What if it's Jack? What if it's...someone else? The realization that Jack may be in trouble and in need of help pushed Cheryl beyond her fear. She picked up the phone and forced herself to take a breath. “H-hello?”

“Sit down and put on the headphones, bitch.” The voice sounded mechanical, as though it was being disguised by some kind of electronic device. Cheryl felt another scream start to well up from her solar plexus, but she managed to somehow keep it inside.

“Who the hell is this? Marty? I know it's you, you BASTARD! What did you do to JACK?”

“What did you do to JACK?” The voice mocked her with robotic sarcasm, followed with a sinister, tinny laugh. “I don't know anything about any Marty, but I know your pretty boyfriend won't live another minute unless you sit down and put on those headphones, Cheryl. And don't even think about doing anything stupid. I'm watching you.” Cheryl turned toward the window. The drapes were drawn.

“I know what you're thinking. The curtains can't keep me from seeing you. Those sure are some skimpy panties you're almost wearing. Does your husband know that you're running around practically naked in another man's apartment?”

Cheryl instantly felt violated. He could see her—but how? There had to be a hidden camera somewhere in the room. That would be no problem for Martin to install. He was a freaky genius with everything electronic. Cheryl grabbed a throw that had been carefully draped across the back of the couch and tossed it over her shoulders.

“Hey, that's not fair. I was enjoying the view,” said the voice. “I guess I'll just have to be satisfied with this...” Instantly, the computer screen switched to a video of two naked bodies undulating on a four-poster bed—Jack's bed. It took a minute for Cheryl to recognize the people engaging in the exceptionally athletic love-making session.

“You FUCKER, Marty! Stop this right now! You're SICK! What did you do to Jack?”

“What did you do to JACK? Wah! You're such a whiner, Cheryl. Really, I don't know how Marty puts up with your incessant hissy-fits, and then there's the whole cheating whore thing... most fellows find that to be a big turn-off. But I digress—SIT DOWN AND PUT ON THE HEADPHONES!”

Cheryl tried to think of a way to summon help, but quickly decided she was out of options. She knew she could simply run from the apartment and call the police, but something told her that if she did, Jack would never come home again. She sat down at the computer desk and put on the headphones. “Now what?”

As soon as the words passed her lips, a computer animated character walked onto the screen in front of her. She had watched Martin play World of Warlocks enough to recognize the pudgy figure of a Witcher Guide, elf-like creatures charged with escorting newbs—newcomers to the game—through the first 10 experience levels.

“Greetings, harlot! I am Doritrios the Elder, and I've been expecting you!” The pudgy male figure changed into a scantily clad female and then into a black cat. Witcher Guides had the annoying ability to morph into any character or object. Cheryl had almost forgotten how irritating they could be. “Are you ready for your first quest?” the cat purred.

A dialog box appeared on the screen: Accept Quest? Below the question, there were two checkboxes marked simply: YES and NO.

Cheryl checked yes and the screen went momentarily blank. When it came back on, Cheryl found herself watching a cut-scene video. A young man on a white stallion was proceeding alone into a dark forest. Behind a large boulder at the end of the path, two ogres could be seen laying in wait for him. Cheryl couldn't help noticing that the muscular, regal young man looked a great deal like a computer-animated version of Jack.

“Prince Jacobian looks a lot like your sweetie-pie, doesn't he?” hissed the tinny voice through the headphones. “Watch what happens next!”

As the prince approached the ambush, his horse let out a tentative snort and stopped a few steps in front of the boulder. “Onward, Klapacius! We have demons to slay!”

“What a dumbass!” said Cheryl's tormentor. “His horse has more sense than he does!” Instantly, the ogres sprang forth from their hiding places and approached the prince.

The camera aspect of the screen moved back and slightly upward. Cheryl recognized that the game had entered battle mode. She would now have to engage in some selective strategy to defeat the ogres, using weapons, magic spells or any special powers her character had come across during quests. The Weapons Menu opened and Cheryl was disappointed to see the prince was only equipped with the most rudimentary sword and a mace. There were no spells in the Magic Menu. This would be a difficult fight. The ogres both had heavy armor and huge battleaxes.

Cheryl selected the mace and directed her mouse at the ogre with the blue armor. The prince took two looping swings and missed both times. The ogre's ax hit it's mark solidly, however, and the prince's Lifeforce Meter instantly dropped to half. The red ogre advanced quickly and his single blow killed the prince immediately.

“Oh, that was a terrible effort,” said the tinny voice, sounding truly disappointed. “I really thought you'd defeat at least one of the ogres.”

“FUCK, YOU, ASSHOLE!” was the only reply Cheryl could manage. “Only nerds play these pathetic RPG's!”

“That may be true,” hissed the voice. “But losing this game has some serious consequences...”

The computer screen went blank for a moment and then displayed a video of a man duct-taped to a chair. The chair was situated in a corner constructed of cinder block walls. Rusty pipes jutted from the ceiling. A basement? Cheryl didn't recognize the room. A large piece of duct-tape covered the man's mouth, but even with the face partially obscured, Cheryl did recognize him.

“Jack! Oh, my God, Jack! What the hell are you doing to him?”

The camera registered the shadow of a door opening and closing just out of range. There was a look of wide-eyed terror on Jack's face and he began struggling violently against his bonds. Cheryl soon found out why.

A stocky man wearing a hockey mask entered the frame. He was also wearing a filthy, blood-stained butcher's apron, black rubber gloves, and carrying what appeared the be a rusty hacksaw.

“No! What the fuck? What are you doing, you crazy bastard?” Cheryl was hysterical. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO JACK?”

The man in the hockey mask grabbed Jack's right index finger and jerked it upward toward the ceiling and then back further toward his wrist. The hand was taped to the arm of the chair with what appeared to be a half roll of duct-tape. All of Jack's fingers were exposed and vulnerable. The index finger was obviously broken when it was bent backward. Jack's whole body shook with spasms of pain.

Suddenly, with Cheryl still dumbfounded by the assault she had just witnessed, the man in the mask went to work on Jack's finger with the hacksaw. It only took half a dozen furious swipes with the blade to remove the digit. Blood showered the hockey man's apron and splashed across the floor. Jack's silenced scream was still evident in his frantic, ever-widening eyes.

A large, tiger-striped dog entered the frame. Cheryl recognized it as a Bullmastiff. Marty hated dogs. He was actually quite terrified of them. A German Shepard bit him in the face when he was nine years old and he still had visible scars from the attack. No way was Jack's torturer Marty.

The man in the mask whistled a command and the monster of a dog stood obediently at attention. With a quick flick of his wrist, the man tossed Jack's finger to the dog. The Bullmastiff was clearly well-trained and exceedingly well-practiced at the trick. He didn't miss the catch, and the finger was devoured instantly.

Cheryl screamed for what seemed like an eternity. This just couldn't be happening. Some degenerate was forcing her to play a video game and the penalty for losing was having to watch her lover get hacked to pieces and fed to a dog... The computer screen went blank and Cheryl felt like she was going to pass out.

“Shush, shush, shush, you stupid little twat. If you don't shut up and calm yourself, the next thing I'm taking is lover boy's HEAD.”

To be continued...