“What do you mean getting into? It’s the land they want, pure and simple. You are playing games again, woman, because if you are, I’ll bring a group of dogs here and rip you apart. I’m tired of this—”
She interrupts, “Calm down, boy, it’s nothing. Talking out of my ass again. There isn’t much to do here. You’re the only visitor I’ve had in a few months, and that’s a good long time. You hear me. A good long time.” The farmer’s daughter starts eye-fucking the contractor. “So, tell me, you got a wife, a girlfriend?”
The contractor clears his throat and lies the papers in front of the deranged woman. He opens the bottle of whisky and takes a shot. Then he chases it down with beer.
The woman daydreams for a moment. She thinks of the male prostitute that visits her. A male prostitute by the name of Scotty. Scotty Myers. He’s twenty-one and a law student. She thinks of throwing him down on the floor, cutting his pants open with her knife, then straddling his face. He usually asks for a clothespin first. It helps with god-awful smells that seep from the woman’s body. However, she still straddles the young man. She straddles him good. After she orgasms, she pats him on the buttock, then calls him her bitch. The crazy woman begins drooling from her mouth as she looks over the large contractor.
“He you go, four papers waiting for your signature.” The contractor reaches in his black Johnny Cash style shirt, then throws a Montblanc pen on the table. “Sign.” He looks her over nervously then gulps down rest of his Miller. He must drink out of fear and desperation. He wonders if she wants to fuck him, close the deal. His stomach starts to cramp. The smell between her legs hits his nostrils. He tries not to panic. He tries to keep things cool. He thinks of a last means of escape. Vomit on the table may necessary. He wonders if he can drink her under the table before she uses that knife on him. From her reputation at the roadhouse. No man can out drink here. The contractor gulps as he squirms in the chair while opening another beer. He thinks if he drinks, she just might finally sign. Sign, you bitch! he thinks. Please God, make her sign. Maybe I should feed her some of those ’Ludes. Get her high, sign, then pass out. Just one of those pills and make this dirty smelly bitch sign. I’ll be in your debt forever, good Lord, he thinks. No contractor in Southern California has been able to break this woman. I just may be the first. The contractor continues watching her sign. His eyes twitch. Sweat begins dripping from his forehead and upper lip.
“Alright, here ya go, two more signatures,” he says. The contractor grabs the double shot of old 49er and shoots it down. The farmer’s daughter gleams at him with approval. It makes him sick inside. The contractor takes the shot then goes into mild convulsion. He almost vomits right on the floor. The farmer’s daughter finally finishes signing. Thank God, the contractor thinks. Thank God almighty. I’m forever in your debt, oh Lord, he thinks.
“Congratulations, you’re a very rich woman.” He sighs deeply.
“That’s a word not in my vocabulary. What the hell you mean rich?”
“I’d be kicking it in South of France if I were you. How about Nice?” he says.
“Nice? What kind of place is Nice? Everyplace should be called shit by my account. I am not going anywhere, even when I’m gone. I’m not leaving this place, ever!” The contractor quickly gets up from the table; the chair almost falls over.
“I’ll be seeing ya.” The old farmer’s daughter grabs him by the wrists.
“Wait, cowboy.”
“Yeah,” he says nervously.
“You mind staying for a bit. Get your drink on. Fool around. I got some slow batch bourbon and some blow. The bourbon’s a hundred years old. Been saving it for a wild stud like you.”
“I would, but I have to get going. My son’s got soccer practice. I got to get back to the office.”
“Socker practice? What’s socker practice? Kids sit around socking each other. Shit, the world’s gone mad.” She laughs cynically. “Get it? Kids socking each other? No? Ahhh hell.”
“Next time, I must be going.” The contractor looks over the deranged woman, shaking his head.
“Well, ok, but you don’t know what you’re missing, honey. There’s much more than meets the eye.”
“I’m sure I’ll regret it.” The contractor says.
The facial expression of the farmer’s daughter suddenly changes. Her mood grows dark and distant again. Her eyes turn back to a gray lifeless color. She stares at him through the front screen door then speaks to herself.
“Regret it. Oh, regret they will. The pain to come. The suffering. You will regret it alright, all of you, bunch of murderous thieves.” She watches closely as the contractor quickly drives the black SUV out of her sight.
The old farmer’s daughter walks back outside to her covered porch. She sits down in the old rocking chair with an Indian symbol on the headrest. She opens a can of a Coors and lights a pipe full of dope. She takes a long good drag, then grins. She speaks to herself again.
“Regret it they will alright. They will… all right. Regret it.” The older farmer’s daughter rocks back and forth in the rocking chair. Back and forth. She knows she will never leave this place. She is comfortable here. This is forever where she will stay. There is no way these fuckers will ever get rid of me.
After the pipe of dope, and a few more beers, she walks towards the barn and enters. She walks inside the barn and looks around. For a moment, she hears the grinding of the machine, and her dead mother’s corpse behind the grinder. She then hears the laughing of voices and a child calling for her. She claims to be Amber her little sister.
The farmer’s daughter feels faint, and her heart begins to race. All the feelings and emotions she felt the night of the murders consume her. She starts to cry, knells down and screams atop her lungs.
“Leave me alone!!”
The taunts and insults end in laughter. They tell her to do it. Do what we say, and the torments will end. Do what you say, and you will be with your family again. Forever.
She takes a ladder and rope and runs to the old tree her grandfather taught her about. “Souls and spirits of dead people live in there.”
She places the ladder and sets the rope. She climbs atop the ladder and places the noose around her neck. "You can’t hurt me anymore. No more.
She takes out her whisky flask and takes her last drink. She thinks of her brother ad sisters in the afterlife and is now ready to join them. She jumps off the twelve-foot ladder like a diver would in an Olympic sized swimming pool. The break is clean and direct. She will never feel pain again, as long she lives eternal with her family…
Chapter Five
A stucco wall in front of private planned unit development reads Blackhawk Hills. The neighborhood is comprised mainly of two-story Mediterranean style homes of good quality. They show excellent maintenance and pride of ownership. Most of the driveways have oversized sport utility vehicles and watercrafts. There is a community park with basketball courts, park, basketball diamonds, and picnic areas with barbeques, tennis courts, and walking trails. Most of the day you will see mothers walking their children in four-hundred-dollar strollers with headphones, and $300.00 exercise outfits. The community is very private, and the association fees are expensive. So are the Mello-Roose taxes. Blackhawk Hills also has their own private police. They teach young and old, the concept of free energy, meditation, segregation, categorization, and binoculars.
Cindy, 14 years old, frail and pail complexion. She wears librarian style glasses, pony trail, jeans, and a baggy sweatshirt. She walks with little confidence. She has few friends because they are all “stupid.” She’s browbeaten on a daily basis. She walks with her head downward, thinking about her future. She despises her community. It is boring, judge mental, self-serving and full of intellectual losers. It’s just another day. Another day in hell for Cindy. The only thing she looks forward to is her bedroom. Bedroom and Kenwood turntable her brother Steven bought her for Christmas. Cindy likes Miles Davis, Nina Simone, Marvin Gaye, Sex Pistols, Bauhaus,
Ramones, and Rolling Stones. Only the first ten albums ‘Black and Blue.’ It reminds her of Scot Myers, the older pervert that lives on her block. He always stares at her with binoculars and breathes heavy when she walks by. Cindy walks with her Sony Walkman. She listens to ‘Under My Thumb’ It’s a fall day, four days before Halloween. She likes Halloween. She feels it is the only time she can put on a costume and project to the others who she really is.
The homes in the neighborhood display Halloween decorations. Cobwebs on porches, carved pumpkins, stickers of ghost and goblins, witches, and ghouls on windows. One neighbor’s house has a coffin on the lawn, with a bloodied fake arm hanging out from its side. She thinks it looks cool. She hopes someone will dress like Michael Myers and chase then throughout the neighborhood. That would be better.
Cindy walks by one of the homes noticing a scarecrow body lay on a lounge chair. It has a large pumpkin head, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, and garden hoe stuck in its head. Cindy looks at the prop and grins. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Cindy stays late after class. She helps Mrs. Williams with the yearly Halloween play. The golden sunlight shines through the trees and fall leaves lay in front of her with each step. The onshore late afternoon breeze blows over her body, offering relief from stress of her day. She thinks about her mom and dad. Most of all, her father, Frank. Will Mom and Dad fight tonight? Will she have to seek refuge in her bedroom again? Or, will I be walking on eggshells. Sometimes when she’s home she hears her father’s car enter the driveway Sometimes, her skin tingles, she is nervous. She knows her father has had a bad day. She knows that he was drinking, with that assistant at work. The sexy one with black hair and D-sized boobs, and stiletto heels.
As she walks, a side gate of one of the neighbor’s home makes a banging noise. It shuts and opens by itself. Then the gate slowly opens again. Cindy stops for a moment and stares at the gate. The gate stays shut for a moment, then slowly opens, making a creaking noise. Cindy snaps from her daze and continues her daily walk. She hates when this happens. Things like this happen in the neighborhood all the time. She dares not tell anyone. They might put her at Lake School with all the psychopaths. In the distance ahead of her, neighbor April is drawing on the side-walk, singing an old nursery rhyme.
Cindy listens to April singing as she walks toward her.
“One little, too little, three little Indians. Four little, five little, six little Indians. Seven little, eight little, nine little Indian. Ten little Indian boys.”
Cindy stops and looks at the portrait of colored chalk on the sidewalk. The portrait shows five Indians. A father, a mother holding her baby, and two younger boys.
“Hi, Cindy.”
“Hi, April.” Cindy curiously looks at the drawing. “Whatcha’ doing?”
“I’m drawing pictures, thinking about Halloween.”
“So, you’re a Halloween fan.”
“No, I love Halloween. Halloween is the greatest vacation on earth. Even over Christmas.”
Cindy chuckles. She has known April since she was in diapers and she baby-sat her some nights.
“So, you don’t like Christmas, even the gifts? Not even Santa Claus?”
“I do, but it’s not the same. I always meet new friends on Halloween and there isn’t candy on Christmas. Not like Halloween. And peppermint, it sucks.”
“So, what are you going to be this year?”
“An angel.”
“An angel, how appropriate.”
“What does that word mean?”
“Well, it means you are an angel.”
“That’s what my mom says.”
“What are you drawing?” Cindy kneels and looks over the drawing on the sidewalk.
“People.”
“What people?”
“A family. They sure like it when I sing. The boys talk with me all the time. Sometimes they watch me when I sleep, they say.” Cindy looks over April with a look of concern. As a child, she witnessed people staring at her when she slept.
“Ok, well, see ya.” As Cindy walks away, April begins singing again. As she walks, the nursery rhyme echoes in her head. It seems to escalate the further she walks. Cindy walks then turn around. She hears the singing; however, April is not in sight anymore. Cindy suddenly feels uneasy and nervous again. She thinks someone is watching. Or is it Frank coming home drunk again, and angry he lost $100,000 dollars.
Tim, the school bully, rides up on a skateboard, knocking Cindy’s books from her arms. The headphones and Walkman fall as well.
Tim does a power slide, then skates back to Cindy. He does a three-sixty and tail tap. He jumps off the skateboard and forces himself in front of Cindy’s face.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here? If it’s not the four-eyed freak” You headed for a nerd meeting or something? Or I know, you’re rushing home to pop zits on your forehead. Ugly face, stupid ugly butt."
“You’re such a retard Tim. Can’t you find something else to do? Get a life. Better yet, go drown yourself on your surfboard, you loser.” Timmy begins circling Cindy on his skateboard, taunting her.
“Hey, don’t bother dressing for Halloween. Just stay yourself, Ms. Butt Ugly.” Maybe you should stay home and eat poop sandwiches. Don’t answer the door. You’ll scare everyone to death."
Cindy shakes off the insults, bends down, and picks up her school books. Timmy continues with the insults.
“Fat butt, ugly butt-face. You’re so ugly, even pumpkins are scared. So ugly, when everyone passes by, they close their eyes. That way, they don’t go blind.” As Tim continues his insults, the sound of a V8 can be heard in the distance. Tim looks, and panic strikes him. He rides away as fast as he can.
“Hey, Tim. You forgot the most important thing. No one likes you, asshole. No one! In fact, we all hate you. You hear me, Tim? Everyone in the eighth grade hates you!” Cindy adjusts her glasses and regains her composure. “Gosh, I wish the little shithead would die.”
Tim looks at Cindy one last time as she gives him the middle finger. Tim falls on the pavement right after. Cindy laughs. Steven, Cindy’s older brother, drives up in his 1968 fire engine red Camaro Super Sport.
“Hey there, squirt, you need a lift?”
“Yeah, sure do.”
Steven reaches over and opens the passenger front door. Cindy plops down on the bucket seat and sighs with relief. Steven hits the gas. The rear differential shrieks down the street, leaving a cloud of smoke. Steven is seventeen years old. He is Cindy’s older brother. The one Cindy adores and look up to in the family. A senior in high school, Steven doesn’t stay at home much anymore because of his relationship with his father. He always says when he’s eighteen he’s gone. He and his girlfriend will travel throughout Mexico, Africa, Emerald Isle and Hawaii, surfing, and living off the land. This upsets Cindy. They have always been close. Steven is the only person she can trust. Steven miraculously shows up when she’s in need of support. He always does and always will.
"What’s up? Why you so late walking home? Is that little snot nosed brat messing with you again?
“No, he’s not.” Steven can see his little sister is agitated. Cindy quickly changes the subject. “I’ve been helping with the school play. It’s twice a week.”
“Play? Which one? I thought you just finished up a play. Wasn’t it that Oklahoma crap?”
“He’s not messing with me, don’t worry. He brothers everyone, not a big deal, and besides, he’ll get his payback someday.” Cindy places her hand out the window. "The play is ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hallow.’
“That’s a good story. One of my favorites.”
“I don’t like talking about it though.”
“Why is that? What’s the problem now?”
“The problem is, I tried out for Ichabod’s girlfriend; I didn’t get it.”
“Let me guess, Tara, right?”
“Yeah, Tara. She always wins the role I want, since the third grade. Pisses me off.”
Steven laughs aloud. “Don’t worr
y about Tara, she’s a headcase. When you’re not around, she hangs with the wrong crowd, smokes dope; you know some of the older guys she’s been with.”
“Yeah, but she’s still my friend, I’ve known her since the first grade. Is this yours?”
“Take it.” Cindy takes a can of coke in the center console of the car.
“Trust me, little sis, she won’t be around forever. When you get older, you’ll find out who your true friends are.”
“Yeah, wish I am older now. How I wish.” Cindy takes down the vanity mirror in the Camaro. She looks at her braces. “Tim is right, it’s because I am ugly, I get stuck helping with light and sound. It really sucks. The actors are not even good. They forget their lines all the time. Oh, it’s so irritating.”
“Hey, first of all, you are not ugly. And, there’s nothing wrong with light and sound. That’s the most important part of the production. Look at the cool movie you like, you know ‘Blade Runner.’ That production is known for light and sound. Nobody will hear or see anything without you. At least nobody that’s important. You have a lot of power, little sis” Steven smiles and nudges Cindy gently on the arm.
“Yeah, well, whatever.”
“Whatever?” I think it’s cool. Can’t wait to see it."
Steven’s muscle car pulls up to the house. It’s a large two-story house, around four thousand square feet, with a three-car garage and two big balconies. The address of the home is 446 Blackhawk.
Steven looks at the home and stops. He revs his engine hoping Frank will hear.
“Well, kid, I’m out of here.” Steven has a disgruntled look about his face.
“Steven. Why aren’t you ever home? Where do you go all the time?”
“I’m usually hanging out with the guys. Steven pauses for a moment, then takes a cigarette. Ok, I’ll tell you. I’ve been with Kim most of the time. Her parents are cool, and don’t mind If I crash on the couch. The problem is, Dad starts bitching and complaining about everything. It’s constant, I’ve had it with his bullshit. He doesn’t like her tattoos, he doesn’t like her family, her brother plays in a punk band. The shit goes on and on.” Fuck it. If he doesn’t accept my life, I’m out of there. Me and Kim are talking about heading towards Seattle anyway. Then moving to Hawaii
The First Culling Page 5
