The Last Church

by Richard Lee

  I was involved in a lot of fights from that day on. Unfortunately I was often the loser. I remember my dad telling me that the school principal had called. He seemed worried for me. So I came clean and told him why I was getting into fights. I thought he was gonna yell at me or give me a big talking to, but instead he took me to karate. From eight I learnt karate from a wise (but wimpy looking) Japanese man. This guy was old. At least seventy and it was hard at first to understand his English. The language was forced out and he used many words that I didn’t understand at the time.

  I decided to go to karate class, for my dad. I wasn’t very interested. I mean, how could this little wimpy guy teach me how to fight? For all I knew, the guy probably got beat up every day, just like me.

  And then I saw him fight.

  I was at the park with my mom and dad. Mom wanted to have a picnic and Dad...well, I guess he was pussy-whipped. Whatever Mom wanted, she usually got.

  Dad spotted him first and pointed him out to me. Mr. Fujisaka was with his wife and daughter. I didn’t know he had a family. I guessed it was his daughter, she was a bit younger than Mom and had a baby of her own. I thought she was babysitting or something like that, ’cause the baby was very white. I was nine at this time and I didn’t know anything about interracial marriages. And wasn’t interested.

  There were a lot of Asian people at the park. When I asked Dad why, he said something about the government wanting rich people to move here and spend money. He didn’t like it. He said, “The government is all superior,” in a loud voice with his arms spread open. I didn’t think so. Superman was all superior.

  A while later a group of skinheads walked through the park. They saw Mr. Fujisaka and started calling him names and spitting at him.

  I don’t know why, but the Fujisaka family kept saying ‘sorry’ all the time. From somewhere, this guy (I found out later that he was the father of the baby) went face to face with the leader. Each of them was yelling at the other. Then the daughter got up and tried to drag her husband out of the way. And then a guy next to the leader punched her. Then it was all on. The husband was throwing punches this way and that, not doing too much but doing his best. And slowly Mr. Fujisaka stood up and took ’em out. And he was fast. From that moment I wanted to be like him. I wanted that power. All the skinheads were on the ground, holding their stomachs and such and swearing revenge. My karate teacher just gathered his belongings, packed up the picnic stuff, and walked away with his family. I don’t think he ever saw me, but I was amazed.

  I just finished reading an article about serial killers and how they chose their victims at random. It got me to thinking. How can someone pick a victim? And I suddenly started remembering about my young school days.

  Apart from No Neck and his girlfriend, I haven’t made a wish. There’s something I want, something important. Something only the book can give me. Revenge.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Journal entry 1-3

  Am I buzzing or freaking? I’m not sure. Both words probably mean the same thing. Either way, I like it. Like it? Hell, I absolutely love it. The thing about this feeling is that it doesn’t kick in until after the act. I don’t care what those other books out there state. The feeling comes later, when you’re well away or you’re back home with your feet up on the coffee table and a glass of hot coffee in your hand. It always seems to come when you meet somebody or bump into a friend or when holding a glass of some kind of liquid.

  One of two things happen when you meet others; one, you look dead guilty of something as if your mother had just caught you beating the meat, or two, you end up with wet spots on your clothes.

  Another thing I have yet to find in a book. The more you commit an ‘act,’ as it was, the less of a thrill it becomes. You gotta spice it up a bit, add more fun to the mix. You know what I’m saying? Well, probably not. Might explain that more fully later on. Seeing as how I read my own journal, I won’t forget to add a bit here and there so I don’t forget the good times. The fear I induced or the power over others I felt.

  But hell, it took a long time to get to the point mentioned above.

  I remember the first time I baked a cake. I was about twelve at the time and Mom and Dad were off somewhere. Even now, I don’t know where they went. I remember waking up early morning and hearing the car drive away. At first I thought it was a visitor leaving, until I crawled out of bed and saw the garage open and empty.

  I didn’t think much of it. There was no breakfast waiting for me, and with it being a Saturday, I sat down and watched cartoons. After they finished I went to my room and changed into jeans and a tee shirt, grabbed a football and ran outside to play a game of rugby against myself. Living in the country you’re kind of isolated. And besides, I didn’t have any friends who didn’t live in town. I had one school friend and he was my best friend. He wasn’t very well liked either. We met at karate class and sort of hooked up at school. Shit, it’s amazing how kids become friends and later in life, no longer know each other. John and I were the only kids the same age and height in the class, so we got to spar against each other a lot. He was a bit of a wimp, afraid to physically hurt someone else. His contact punches were soft and his contact kicks fell short. Whereas mine didn’t.

  I seem to have lost track for a bit. I’ll tell more on that bastard later.

  Anyway I was playing around in our large backyard when I saw Mrs. Bentley drive past. She was the local busybody, often caught listening in on people’s telephone lines. Back in those days we still had what was called a ‘party line’ system, where each house had a certain ring. For example, my parent’s house had three quick short rings, very simple to remember. One long ring followed by two short rings was the neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Tills. They were a nice couple...There I go again, losing track.

  Mrs. Bentley, who must have been at least four hundred years old, drove past, waved to me and slowed down to look in the garage. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think I saw her smile before she turned her head and drove on, going faster than she had before. I didn’t think too much about it at the time.

  I kept playing outside until I heard the phone ring. The strange thing about a party line is that even when you know the call is not for you, you listen to find out to whom the call is headed for. I knew the ring but not the people.

  It got to the point when I thought I was going to die of starvation if my parents didn’t show up soon. It was already three o’clock. I threw the ball on the ground and headed inside.

  Certain I would be dead within the hour from starvation, I wandered into the kitchen intending to make a sandwich. I quickly discovered that there was no bread, butter, scones, or buns. There was nothing in the freezer I knew how to cook. A search through the cupboard produced little of use. But I did find a chocolate cake mix. All I needed was water or milk, and finally there was something that I had plenty of.

  I read the instructions carefully. The box said I had to wait forty minutes for the mix to rise and it must be baked slowly. But damn it, I was starving. I thought if I made the cake half the size and baked it at double the temperature it would be done quickly. And then I could eat and survive until Mom came home.

  I realize now, thinking back, how much I missed them. I needed them, not just for food but for company also.

  I tried to bake the cake. I was excited. It was the first time I had ever tried to cook on my own. Dad usually kept me away from the kitchen. “It’s a woman’s place,” he used to say, “and son, to save yourself from future torment, never go there except in dire cases.” I looked at him confused and he added, “Do you remember last month when Mom asked if that fancy new dress made her look fat?” I nodded, yes.

  “You didn’t answer. You went for a drive and came home when I was in bed,” I stated clearly.

  “It’s the same thing,” he said. “Torment.”

  I repeat that I tried my best. My brainwave of an idea caught fire in the oven. Little flames at first, which I thought was normal, until th
ose flames started flickering bright orange and yellow, and heaps of black smoke poured from the oven and filled the kitchen.

  Quickly I turned off the stove and pulled out the burning mess with a tea towel. The cake was black as coal on top and mushy inside. Still, I was starving and thought it wasn’t that bad for a first attempt. So I ate what I could. Most of it was stuck to the pan because I had nothing to grease it with.

  Then I puked on the kitchen floor.

  Flour was everywhere. It covered not only myself, but the counter and floor also, making a small island around the vomit like a castle mote. Cake mix was amongst the flour, along with water and some milk I spilled. The oven door was open, letting the last of the smoke drift into the kitchen. I wanted to open a window, but vomiting had taken most of my strength.

  I looked at the mess, knew Mom was going to be super angry, Dad as well. He would probably give me a taste of his belt for doing this. Shit, I didn’t care at the time. I just wanted Mom and Dad to come home quickly.

  Trying hard not to let it happen, I started to cry. Not a great big sobbing feast, but little quick breaths cut short and tears reddening my eyes. I sat there with my legs drawn to my chest and head on my knees and tears tickling my nose until my parents finally came home. It was growing dark outside when they finally arrived.

  Headlights pulled into the driveway and I heard the car crunch to a sudden halt on the gravel driveway outside the front door.

  Mom came running in. Dad quickly followed. She saw me and I looked up at her. Red eyes and watery nose, looking lost and lonely, I suppose. She scooped me up and hugged me tighter than ever and surprisingly Dad joined the hugging. Mom was crying for some reason that I was too young to understand and Dad was solemn faced.

  It turned out they had called Mr. Tills when they realized that whatever it was they had to do was going to take a lot longer than expected, and he had agreed to come look after me. But, there had been an accident. Both he and Mrs. Bentley had died in a head-on collision. She was driving too fast and rounded a loose gravel corner and her car slipped onto the other lane at the same time that Mr. Tills was cornering.

  In short, the point I was trying to make was this, my first cake making was a total disaster, as was my first planned killing.

  Choosing my first victim was easy. I just pick the person who was the biggest bastard to me in school. I picked the first person that came to mind. Jerry McDee.

  He was a complete asshole. He thought he was the god of everyone. In short, he was the school bully with his sights locked on me everyday. John sometimes asked why I let him treat me the way he did. I was fifteen years old and a second-degree black belt. John was only a black belt. He didn’t have what it took to reach higher and he seemed happy training and sparring with me. I truly believe that he is one of those people who study and train hard, just for the art of karate.

  I told him that if Jerry McDee ever did more than push or threaten me, then I would slam his ass into Hell. I kept the fights secret. What John didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Jerry McDee caused me more pain than any of my karate classes. He made me feel low and dirty and forced me to do things I would never have thought of. Yeah, I know, I could’ve beaten the shit out of him with ease. But he had a kind of power over me, I can’t really explain it, even now I don’t understand it. That kind of power is awesome, because no matter how much I wanted to raise my fists against him, I couldn’t.

  Now I have the dagger, things are different.

  The high school bully had turned into a fairly nice guy. After I found his address in the telephone book, I spent three weeks watching him. He was doing well financially, jogged every morning at six, and had a wife and a young child. I watched him go to work, return home and play with a kid just learning how to walk. He would roll a ball to the kid who would stare at it until he fell down.

  His wife was beautiful and she doted on both of them. Jerry McDee had to die. I hated him more than ever now and on reflection I do believe I was jealous of what had become of him. I expected a fat guy in a yellowing tee shirt, a week old beard and living in a state-owned house. Never in my dreams had I considered him successful. Assholes weren’t meant to be a success. I mean, isn’t that against some kind of cosmic rule, or something?

  I decided to kill him on Friday.

  I watched his moves and he had a very straight routine, one I didn’t see him stray from. Every morning at five thirty, he awoke and dressed instantly in running clothes, a pair of track pants and a loose sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a large chunk cut off from the neck area.

  He would stand at the door and stretch for around ten minutes, sometimes longer. He would always be watching his watch. At six, he was off, taking long strides down the driveway. He would return at exactly seven o’clock. I never saw him use a key to enter the house on his return.

  Friday came and I wanted revenge and justice. I wanted his blood. But it was raining. Not very hard, it was more a mist that threatened to become heavier later on in the day. I didn’t think he was going running today. I arrived a little after six, and lo and behold, there the fuck-wit was, stretching.

  I parked my car, a new BMW I had bought with my lottery winnings, on the opposite side of the road. He looked at the car as he jogged past. I had parked it in the same spot for the last three weeks and he must have thought a new neighbor had moved in because he didn’t even glance at me, just the car. Maybe he wished to own one like this? I don’t know and at the time didn’t care, ’cause he’d never get the fucking chance.

  I waited in the car until he had rounded the bend in the road and was out of sight. I checked the dagger in the back of my jeans and slowly walked up Jerry McDee’s driveway.

  Nerves racked me. My knees were weak and my hand shook. I thought all the neighbors were watching, but with hedges on both sides, I doubted they could even see what I was doing. The paranoia didn’t leave until I turned the knob and the door swung silently open.

  I closed it just as quietly and locked it. I was surprised to find myself facing the opening to the kitchen. And an amazing kitchen it was. It looked like something from the future. It had two stoves that cooked by light and an Internet connected fridge and microwave and many pots and pans hanging from hooks connected to a rack high up near the ceiling. I wondered how they got the pots down until I saw a light switch with a sticker reading, Rack Up. And below the switch was a sticker reading, Rack Down. The kitchen had a counter, which faced the living room, with big screen television and huge speakers sitting on a shelf next to a small MD/CD player and radio.

  I gently opened the door opposite the kitchen entrance and was in the bedroom. Jerry’s wife lay on her side, sleeping. Her breathing was soft and quiet. The house was huge and yet the bedroom faced the driveway. It was a strange design and I wondered what was in the rest of the house.

  Jerry’s wife moaned in her sleep and kicked off the blankets. She wore a see-through silk thing and suddenly I was no longer interested in the house.

  I checked my watch. Thirty minutes had already passed. Damn, that was fast. Then it came to me, the perfect revenge. Get a taste of his wife and let Jerry deal with all the problems that came with it. Let him stew for a month or so as the cops pissed around and found nothing. There’s a lot of heartbreak and anger there. Wait about a month. Let him get back into his favorite routine and then, watch him die.

  Now that sounded like revenge.

  Jerry’s wife was enough for now. She didn’t look as though she could put up a decent fight. Just in case, I decided to let her see the dagger, it might take the fight out of her.

  Did I say she was beautiful? I think so. She had soft golden hair, China Doll complexion, nice figure although a tad on the thin side. Her skin was golden brown, a sign of many hours bathing in the sun. And her body looked tight. She obviously trained every now and then. A woman who kept herself fit, ate right and took pride in her appearance. I was about to destroy all of that.

  Walking to the bed, I pulled
out the dagger and jumped on top of her. She awoke with a fright and I sat on her stomach. I drove my fist into her mouth, then her right eye, and finally the side of her face. The skin on her cheekbone split. I dragged the dagger across the blood and the hilt expanded.

  Jerry’s wife lay there still as could be. Her left eye was wide in fear, but the other one was puffed up, swollen closed. Her bottom lip swelled also. She tried to speak, but I covered her mouth and said, “Some things are just meant to be.”

  Isn’t that a great line? It just came to me, seeing her like that and knowing that whatever forces there were in this cosmos had fucked me over.

  Some things were meant to be. And revenge tasted sweet.

  She didn’t move when I cut the see through thingy down the middle. I didn’t need the knife for that but I didn’t want her to start fighting once I had put it aside.

  “Open you legs,” I told her.

  She shook her head.

  “Fine, I’ll just cut them open.” I raised the knife and her legs parted. “Put you hands behind your head,” I commanded. She did. Using my knees I forced her legs wider. Her snatch was beautiful, just like her, and my cock was pressing so hard against my jeans I thought it would rip through.

  I unzipped my fly and rammed my member in. She arched her back and screamed. I grabbed the pillow and covered her face with it as I thrust in and out as hard and as fast as I could and exploded in her a few moments later. It was the fastest fuck I’d ever had.

  Zipping myself up, I saw blood dripping down her pussy lips. The dagger was pulsing and I realized I had sliced her stomach after I had covered her with a pillow. It was a deep cut and I noticed her lovely chest wasn’t going up or down. I felt for a pulse. After a moment, I climbed off the corpse.

  Everything went silent around me. My ears throbbed like they were blocked or popping in an airplane. One sound made it through my senses. Only one sound and it was amplified ten fold. It was the unexpected sound of a key sliding into a lock, followed by a click, which boomed through the house. The sound was thunder exploding in my ears.