Insanity

by A. R. Braun

  D.J.musician: You’re not going to kill me. I know karate and am armed and dangerous.

  Crazyforfun99: D.J., two words--sniper rifle.

  He trembled.

  This can’t be happening!

  Then anger ran through his brain like fire.

  Damn SOB. I’m not going to take his shit.

  D.J.musician: Two words to you, asshole--machine gun!

  He waited, glancing at the computer’s clock. It was 11:00 a.m. and the sound check didn’t start till 12:00.

  Crazyforfun99: Jeez, lay off the caffeine!

  He squinted at the message. Perplexed, D.J. let go of the mouse. Shaking his fists at the screen, he longed to get out of the chat room.

  D.J.musician: I do lay off the caffeine, that’s why I can worship the devil without going insane. I’m putting a spell on you. You need to be stopped.

  I don’t really worship the devil, but this guy needs a scare.

  Crazyforfun99: Stop it! I can’t feel my arm!

  D.J. chuckled.

  That’ll teach him.

  Then he heard his neighbor, Sally, calling up, a plump, fun-loving gal he sat outside with sometimes because she told a lot of dirty jokes . . . and D.J. was hot for her eighteen-year-old niece.

  King barked, scratching the wall under the window.

  D.J. lifted the window, shuddering as the cool, spring breeze wafted in. “Hey, Sally,” he yelled down. “What’s up?”

  Sally smiled, her clothes flapping in the wind, and he could tell a dentist had taken the top row of her teeth out. She’d talked about getting dentures. The sun quit hiding. Sally put a hand over her eyes to ward off the glare.

  “Hey, D.J., Jane in six-oh-four died this morning,” she yelled. “We’re having a prayer service tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. Want to come?”

  He sighed, shaking his head. “What a flipping shock. Jane was about ninety, right?” he yelled back.

  “She was ninety-four!”

  “I’m not interested in prayer,” he added.

  “Okay.” Sally turned to leave, then swiveled on her heel. “Oh, by the way, watch out. My cousin Carla’s boyfriend got out of prison today! Bob in three-oh-one says he saw him in the neighborhood earlier.”

  “If he comes after me, it’ll be the last thing he ever does!” D.J. hissed and shut the window. He was too distracted to ask Sally where her cousin lived. Whoa, Carla? Sally’s cousin having the same name as his online pal had to be a coincidence.

  Damn Jesus freaks. It’s a little late for a prayer service. Besides, how can she witness after all those dirty jokes?

  Wait.

  Jane had died, as he knew everyone would someday.

  It’s a day of reckoning.

  And a dangerous ex-con lurked somewhere in the neighborhood.

  D.J. had grown up in church, and he knew the truth. Every night as he waited to fall asleep, worry about dying while unconscious, followed by waking up in hell, vexed him.

  Now I have a sniper after me.

  Crazyforfun99: It’s Carla again. Ron’s gone. He went to work.

  He harrumphed.

  D.J.musician: Why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?

  Crazyforfun99: Does it matter? I wanna par-tay! You said you’re in a band. Where are you playing tonight?

  D.J.musician: You live in Tampa?

  Crazyforfun99: Duh! I’ve seen you walkin’.

  D.J.musician: No shit. How old are you?

  Crazyforfun99: Does it matter?

  D.J.musician: It matters to me.

  Crazyforfun99: FYI, I’m twenty-two, just like on my profile. Satisfied?

  D.J.musician: We’re playing at Crabs and Firewater, tonight at midnight.

  Crazyforfun99: I’ll be there.

  D.J. mused. He wanted all the fans he could get, but this situation, it was Star-Trekian.

  D.J.musician: Carla, what’s your boyfriend’s last name? He’s dangerous, and I think I should call the cops. The guy threatened to shoot me.

  The sun hid behind the clouds again. Thunder rumbled. King ran out when the door clicked open, then slammed shut. The scent of the enticing quarter pounder and fries wafted over to him.

  Crazyforfun99: Can’t give you his name. He’ll kill me. Oh God, he’s home! Man, he lost his job again, and on the first day!

  His heart pounding so vehemently it exploded against his ribcage, D.J. doubted his courage. He looked outside.

  Was there a figure squatting at the window and holding a rifle in the house across the street?

  D.J. heard a sound like rocks hitting sheet metal, and his window shattered. Blood dotted the computer screen, then soaked it. A spike of pain racked his head as he tumbled onto the floor, losing consciousness.

  Then the realization came.

  Carla lives across the street, the lady I saw swimming in her pool. And Ron’s her ex-boyfriend, the one who just got out of prison!

  Insight or Perception?

  Jake Haggardly cursed the day he was born. The divorce had rocked him. It had destroyed his formerly good heart.

  Oh, great, another day of this crap.

  He stumbled into a shit, shower, and a shave. Hacking through his morning cigarette as he sipped a cup of bitter black coffee, Jake grabbed his work tools and headed for his car, then stopped on a dime.

  No, I shouldn’t feel this way. Thank you, Lord, for another day.

  He threw his shock of brown hair out of his eyes and rubbed his beard stubble; it wouldn’t be long before it was a goatee. The sun glistened into a blinding light as its rays merged with his white Ford P.O.S.

  At work, when Jake queried his clients, prosperity smiled on him. All his customers tipped him.

  Grinning, he drove home in a better mood because God had blessed him, and greedily sucked up the A/C. After dumping his equipment at home, Jake headed to the store and purchased booze and cigarettes.

  It’s beer-freaking-thirty.

  At home, Jake gagged from the rancid smoke that only soothed his addiction. He savored the sweet and tangy flavor of Bud Light Lime and then moved on to the black-licorice taste of Jagermeister.

  Jake turned on a porno movie without stopping to think. He grabbed his vaginal sex toy and relieved his itch.

  Lesbians are every man’s dream.

  His phone beeped. Jake’s girlfriend, Kyra, wondered why he hadn’t been returning her calls.

  I should talk to her, but, God, she’s ugly. Time to ignore fatty four-eyes again; she was just a phone sex trick.

  Finally thinking, Jake headed out the door to go to church. In the hallway, a wrinkle of a man with hippy-dippy hair waved, saying hello.

  “Shut up, you poseur,” Jake cried.

  He walked away from the man, who’d risen his eyebrows and stared open-mouthed. Jake’s favorite group was Mortification.

  He cruised into the fellowship hall, put nothing in the kitty, went through the food line—passing on the fruit and vegetables—and sat alone at a table.

  Was it time to mortify lust? Not hardly. Jake stared at the high school girls.

  Hot, that one—long raven hair, and she’s taller than most schoolgirls. No, the blonde is the best. Who needs a tall chick? She’s stacked.

  He came to himself.

  I shouldn’t do that. Quit looking; I know better.

  After he’d had seconds and thirds—so much for his body being his temple—Jake made his way into the sanctuary. He yawned through the hymns. When they finally ended, Jake sighed as he sat in the hard pew, then accidentally fell asleep.

  An elderly man nudged him awake. Jake rubbed his eyes, ashamed of what he’d done.

  The man smiled. “You missed the sermon, son. It’s time to go home and watch the ball game.”

  Jake yawned. “Thanks.”

  It’s a good thing he woke me. What a stupid, dorky old bugger, though.

  Jake zipped up his hoodie against the chilly night air and strolled to his home. The amber streetlights silhouetted his ex-wife, Sheila, a sweet-f
aced blonde. She walked alongside her lesbian girlfriend, a short woman with glasses named Cassandra.

  If Sheila was going to go gay, at least she could’ve picked a pretty girlfriend so it would’ve been hot; but, no, she picked a troll.

  He considered apologizing for being an argumentative, violent husband for the whole year and a half they were married.

  No, that’s all I need, getting back with her and being evicted from my new apartment when she goes off. She sweats the small shit.

  Sheila turned her head his way and her mane mimicked the movement. “Hi, Jake.”

  Jake sighed. “Hi . . . I guess.”

  She held up a ring featuring cubic zirconium on her left hand. “Look, Cass and I are getting married.”

  He tried his best to forge a facial expression that made her out to be from another planet.

  That’s what you get for giving up on your husband.

  Once home, he slammed the door, turned on the Playpen channel, and finished his bottle of Jagermeister. Jake muted the TV and listened to his iPod Shuffle. Stumbling to his room, he knelt at his bed. “Father God, thank you for all the blessings today, especially the money. Now I lay me down to sleep . . .”

  Wow, those schoolgirls! Sunday morning, I’ll introduce myself. He shook his head as he decided to continue with the prayer he knew by heart. Stop it.

  “. . . I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” He pulled back the black Sofia Vergara bedsheets and slid into the soft and comfortable bed. As soon as Jake shut his eyes, the room spun. He bounded up and worshipped the porcelain god.

  After gargling with sweet-flavored mouthwash to get the horrid puke taste out of his mouth, Jake dragged his feet back to bed and fell asleep.

  He woke at 3:00 a.m. with a pain akin to someone shoving a knife into his heart. Jake’s left arm went numb. He sat up, shaking. “Good Lord, help me. Heal me of my heart attack!”

  God didn’t.

  Oh, Lord help me: radical acceptance.

  Jake found the strength to resign himself to his eternal reward. He sputtered, wheezed, stuttered. “Oh, Lord, I forgive everyone. Take me to . . . eternal paradise. This world had . . . nothing for me!”

  The light faded. Jake closed his eyes.

  He traveled down a long tunnel, the cold making him feel hollow. Jake saw a light. Upon closer inspection, the figure issuing the luminescence resembled Jesus Christ—a man with long hair and a beard. He wore a white robe. Jake smiled as he inched toward God until a hand grabbed him by the neck and pulled him back.

  When the hand, which sported claws, released him, Jake turned around. The serpent laughed at him and spat fire his way. The flames consumed him.

  He opened his eyes in his cryptic cell to hear the screams of billions of people in horrid pain. Jake’s shriek added to the cacophony as fire encapsulated his soul. The heat caused searing agony he’d never imagined in his wildest nightmare, making both his skin and blood boil. Charging through the flames, demons appeared. They had three tails and horns down their backs, in their noses, and on their tails; hairy skin that was brown, green, and red all at the same time; plus glowing red eyes. They threw Jake onto the coal floor. The clawed fiends ripped at his flesh, rending it.

  Jake’s never-ending nervous breakdown, which felt as if his mind was squirming with insects, confounded him.

  But I was a Christian!

  Apparently not.

  Simulacrum at the Sanctuary

  Feeling silly, Jerry walked through the chilly streets of the small city of Macomb, Illinois, on Halloween. He wore a glow-in-the-dark Jason Voorhees mask strapped to his head and carried a rubber machete. A bored thin man just exiting the halcyon days of youth, he winced as a young couple gawked at him.

  “Jason is cliché and stupid,” the woman with collar-length brunet hair and a slim body said after they’d passed him.

  “Endless sequels: boring,” her medium-build blond boyfriend agreed.

  Jeez. I’m not trying to be cool, but the kids will love this costume.

  As if in answer to his thought, a trio of thin raven-haired teen witches with short skirts, striped socks, and buckled click-your-shoes-together black heels shot him the sign of the horned one.

  “Nice costume, dude,” the nubile girl in front cried.

  Jerry smiled. “Thanks.”

  Better not return the compliment. She’s too young for me.

  Jerry walked on, smiling as a trick-or-treating chestnut-haired tyke attacked him with what looked like a plastic She-Ra sword. He chuckled, mock-attacking her back with his “machete.” The child giggled. The girl’s chubby, sweet-faced mother ignored the whole affair.

  He didn’t know how he’d celebrate Halloween. The crowd at the bars seemed apathetic to any man not rich and minus a car or a motorcycle. A hopelessly single book geek that hadn’t garnered much success with women though he’d tried, Jerry continued his desultory gait.

  He came to a gray-brick Methodist church that had a huge white sign over the door with red letters that read: HALLOWEEN SERVICE AND PUNCH PARTY. He stared thoughtfully, for if Jerry believed in anything, it was God.

  Maybe they’ll be kind enough to care about me.

  Couples in costumes climbed up the stairs, along with blond, redheaded, and dark-haired tykes dressed as witches, Merida, SpongeBob SquarePants, fairies, and Ghostface. The men, with medium to large builds—some with thick black, brown, or grey hair and some with bald crowns—dressed as Frankenstein, The Mummy, Pinhead, Popeye, The Wolfman, John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, and President Obama. The blond, raven-haired, redheaded, and gray-haired women—most chubby, but some slim—sported costumes as diverse as Cleopatra, Princess Leah, Hermione, and even Freddy Krueger.

  Or should that be Frederica?

  The motley bunch made Jerry feel foolish, for outside of the mask and dagger, he just wore a blank black T-shirt and jeans, with white high-top Chucks.

  Jerry followed the crowd into what looked like a gymnasium. The din of conversations and contemporary Christian music assailed him. A mirrored wall, bright disco ball, and strobe lights made everyone look as if they were in a funhouse; couples slow-danced to “Butterfly Kisses” while ‘tweens hopped on the dance floor. For a few seconds, Jerry pulled his mask on top of his head. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he winced at how plain he looked—short hair, a regular nose, blue eyes, and medium-sized lips—like any other cookie-cutter army draftee. He pulled the mask back down.

  He moved to the punch bowl and ladled himself a plastic cup of the concoction. When he took a swig, he could’ve sworn it was strawberry wine. It had alcohol’s bite and made him light-headed.

  What the hell?

  A curvy amber-haired teen with dimples and blue eyes, clad in a Little Bo Peep costume, grabbed the ladle and poured some punch in a cup, missing the mark a bit and spilling a little back into the bowl. “Ladle-ay-hee-hoo!” she chimed in a chirpy voice, seeming a bit wobbly in her heels. She flittered away when Jerry stared.

  Had that child just acted drunk?

  A smiling man dressed as a biker with his hand outstretched walked up to him. His hairy chest assaulted the eyes. He sported nothing but sunglasses, a black leather vest, black leather pants, and boots. The wrinkles around his eyes gave away his middle-aged status. “Nice to meet you. Are you new here?”

  God, he looks ridiculous. If it weren’t for the long-haired wig (if it is a wig), he’d resemble one of the guys in The Village People. Oh, I’d better keep that to myself.

  Jerry moved his mask to the top of his head and shook with him, the man’s grip like a vise, no limp fish. “Thank you, sir. Yes, I’ve never been to this church before.”

  The man released Jerry’s now throbbing hand. “I’m Paul Forrester, an associate pastor. And you are?”

  “Jerry Dalton.”

  “Well, Jerry, glad you came. We knew this Halloween party would bring in new people.” Paul grabbed the la
dle and poured himself of spot of punch. He took a sip and locked eyes with Jerry. “Ah—hits the spot.” Paul looked down at his own garb after noticing Jerry gawking. Then he pinned Jerry with his eyes. “This actually isn’t a costume. It’s my old biker outfit. When I first came here, I looked like this.” He chuckled.

  Jerry joined in on the revelry. “Awesome. Do you still ride?”

  Paul nodded. “But I traded the old motif for short hair, polo shirts, and slacks.” Paul sighed. “Did you drive here?”

  Jerry shook his head.

  “Live in town, do you?”

  Jerry tried to block out the almost deafening conversations of the rowdy bunch, along with the laughter of children. “Yes, I was out prowling the streets, looking for something to do.”

  Paul cocked his head. “Work in town?”

  Jerry nodded. “I’m a prep cook at Applebee’s. I start Western Illinois University in the fall. I should’ve gone when I was eighteen, but I was a bit rebellious back then.”

  Paul chuckled. “You and me both.” He shot Jerry a serious glance. “Have you been saved?”

  What? Why do you think I’m here, dip?

  Jerry nodded. “Jesus is in my heart.” He searched his mind for something to say that made sense. “I’m a new convert.”

  “Well, you’ll still sin. It’s important that you know that.” Paul gave Jerry a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got some good Sunday school classes. I’m teaching a new one on false religions. Right now, we’re studying Wicca. Hey, stop by the church office Monday morning. I’d love to discuss this with you a bit more.”

  I really like this guy. A biker, friendly; seems like buddy material.

  “Sure; sounds good,” Jerry answered.

  Paul ladled another drink and turned to leave, waving. “You have a great time tonight.”

  Jerry waved back. “You do the same.”

  Looking over the crowd, Jerry was discomfited by hopelessness. No one else introduced themselves.

  A wrinkled, brown-haired woman in glasses stepped up to the microphone. She was clad as, what, one of The Golden Girls? “All right, everyone, it’s time for the service.” The speaker system gave her voice reverb in the large space.