by Alan Spencer
“And we can share the food on each other’s plates.”
He cleared his mind before falling asleep. “You’ve given me a lot to think about it, cow poke. Good things. I think I’ll stick with my original plan when you go do your movie. I'm going to write my book. A memoir.”
“You’re not going to publish it, are you?”
"No, this is only for me, though God knows someone would pay to publish it. Once I write it out, I’ll read over it, and that’ll be it. It’s therapeutic. A woman from the Bingo club said writing things helped her deal with her obnoxious husband. She said it was like yelling at the pages, and she could be as colorful with her language as she wanted to be and nobody’s feelings got hurt.”
“Are you still going to all your clubs?”
Brock listed them off his fingers. “Yeah, the Bingo club, the book club, the support group, oh, and the movie club."
“Looking for work is my hobby,” Hannah said, her posture suddenly erect. Brock knew she was picturing herself on a horse riding with a rugged, well-built cowboy, into the sunset after a shootout outside of the saloon. She had been in dozens of westerns in her heyday, from the late 60's to the early 80's. “Acting and you are all I want, Brock."
Brock brought her in close, kissing her lips. “Listen, I want you to do something for me, and I'm serious.”
“Anything."
He whispered to her before going to sleep, “I want you to kill each and every one of those dust devils before they take over the world.”
Hannah drove home shortly after waking up the following morning, saying she had calls and preparations to make with her agent. Her sister would be concerned if she didn't check in as well. Brandy was a small claims court lawyer, and she had witnessed her sister's battle with drugs from the beginning to the present. Brandy despised Brock, but if they were thinking about marrying each other, he was determined to grow on the woman. He would prove himself redeemable, or in the very least, a changed man.
Brock thought about the prospect of marriage. Fifty-two years old, and he hadn’t been married once. His dad convinced him not to take that option when Brock was working full-time on his variety show backstage as a production assistant, and eventually climbing the ranks to be assistant director and producer, the jobs granted by a heaping dose of nepotism. Gene would say to him, “You’re in the perfect position to tackle the most pussy ever in the history of pussy. Why get married, like your old man? Be smart, kiddo."
Brock had followed the man's advice. He dated on and off for years, meeting women at parties. He went beyond his father's show to produce a number of mildly successful movies, including Hannah’s last feature, Desert Shootout in 1985 that bombed. It wasn’t long after that his father died, and his world became that deplorable mansion and the longest track of cocaine history ever told.
By marrying Hannah, he'd gain a sense of permanency. He was wiser now. He had cleared the wreckage of his life. Those comforting thoughts vanished once he returned to his room and sorted through the mail and discovered Angel's letter.
HEAD ON A HOOK
Angel Richards was indeed a severed head suspended in the air with a meat hook jammed up into her neck. The rusted and cold steel tip tickled the back of her throat. While the man with the golden axe went to work doing God knows what, she observed various tools hanging from the wall opposite her head. Each item was suspended from rusty nails: hacksaws, pinch clamps, fifteen different hammers with various heads, a table saw with an enormous blade jutting out like the quelled spine of a metal beast, and many varieties of common tools, but there were also components of the collection that were unusual. She was puzzled by the hinges, gears, pulleys, springs, and alien tools that had no obvious purpose.
From the half of the room she wasn't hanging in, the man with the golden axe swung his weapon of choice, that golden killer, that vicious axe, over and over again. The sound of bones breaking and blood flecking the wall repeated. The man growled under his breath, "Never wanted this. They have me where they want me, don't they? I do all the work. I'm so sick of this work! You started this, I didn't. You're using me to keep this damn game going."
Through a mouthful of blood, the victim, who she assumed had been dismantled limb from limb, screamed: "Ga-raaaaaaaaagh!"
"Don't." The axe man twirled the axe in his hands, letting his arms rest a moment between swings. "Stay calm. I'll have you back together in no time. I'm really good at it. I'm the best. I promise you I'll put you back together and you'll be better than ever."
It wasn't long before the victim went silent.
Dead?
She didn't know.
Angel wasn't certain if the axe man was addressing her. "They always overreact. Why can't they learn it's only temporary? Telling them isn't enough. Telling them is never enough."
The man dropped the axe onto the concrete floor. Then he went to work picking up the dismembered pieces. She heard the dripping of fast-flowing blood, then the plastic thuck of something being dropped into a bin until each body part was accounted for.
Angel would've screamed if she had lungs when the man with the golden axe's hands caressed her face with his cold and red hands.
He spoke in a rasp, "I'm going to fix you next."
ANGEL'S LETTER
Brock,
I got your address from a friend, and I hope you don’t mind me writing you. It’s been years, and I hear you’ve sobered up. I struggle with it all the time. I relapse a lot, but I’m convinced I can’t move forward without talking to you first. Maybe if I learned how you did it, I could beat this too. In any case, I need to see you, Brock. Can you visit me? I’ve included a map and directions to where I’m staying. Come as soon as possible. I promise we’ll have a serious talk. We might argue. No, we will argue, but I promise we’ll catch up on old times too. I can’t believe it’s been two years since I last saw you. I don’t want my last memory of my brother to be at rehab. The place I’m staying is scenic. It's calming. I’m on another sober kick. Three weeks sober. What amazes me, no matter where you are, somebody has a drug connection, even in the middle of nowhere where I’m at now. I need help, Brock. I’m ready to start over. I know we’re not best friends, or even act like brother and sister, but maybe we could try to salvage something. What do you say?
Angel
* * *
It had been instinct to rip open the oversized manila envelope when Brock first saw it, especially when he caught Angel Richards’s name on it. The letter left him standing by the table uncollected. The mood went from sky high to slum low.
It’s your fault she’s still a cokehead.
You did this, and you left her.
No, she left you.
We failed each other.
Brock clutched his head and sat down, feeling dizzy. His fault or not, her life was in turmoil. Knowing that, his conflict wasn’t if he’d see her, it’d be what he would say to her when he finally arrived in Blue Hills, Virginia.
Brock couldn’t sleep that night. He lay in bed and images and memories would play out in his mind. He tossed and turned long enough that he gave up on sleep and walked to the kitchen table with his brand new spiral notebook and began writing his thoughts down, the tell-all memoir only he would read.
There’s no order to this confessional, so I’ll just start writing, he thought.
So he started writing.
Poor Angel is in some place in Virginia. She wants me to meet up with her. I’m so nervous. I have to go. I have a few things to take care of tomorrow but it'll be fine. A road trip will get my mind off of my mind. It’s better than doing a puzzle alone at the apartment.
What can I bring to the table to help Angel? ‘Stay busy,’ wow, that revelation will knock her on her ass. No, I’ll make her move in with me. She can’t leave until she’s two months sober. Then four months sober. That's what I'll do. Yeah right. That won't work.
"This isn’t going to be easy. She’ll want to claw out my eyes. All the shit I’ve done to her."
Brock couldn’t pin down his thoughts any longer. It was already three in the morning. In a few hours, he would wake up, plot out his trip, and then figure out just how he was going to help his sister.
Angel had gained sensation in her body again to an extent. Her fingers would bend and straighten, then curl up again because of the razor sharp agony cycling through her defiled body. Not defiled, she realized. She was laying flat on a steel gurney as the man with the golden axe pivoted her body, flexing her limbs. Testing them. She kept hearing the squeak of hinges, springs loaded into tight crevices, ratchets turned, and nuts and bolts tightened and greased up...
BLUE HILLS, VIRGINIA
9 Days Ago, an Hour After Piedmont Cemetery Melted.
Something didn't feel right, and Martha Bonnard's instincts were keen when it came to bad feelings. Something just didn't feel right. For starters, her back was sore. The ache was a nag between her shoulder blades. The muscles were tender, as if she'd just undergone surgery. She didn't feel like this last night. Whatever had happened, it occurred overnight. It occurred without her knowledge. Martha wanted to check her back in the bathroom mirror when she heard the crack of Bernie's rifle ring out.
"Stay the hell out," Bernie shouted, poised in front of the open bay window in the living room. "There's nothing here for you. What's ours is ours!"
"Bernie what's happening? Why are you firing your gun out there?"
Three shots fired in succession, then Bernie re-loaded. "I told Ray to stay out of my yard. I warned him. I stood my ground. I warned the dumb bastard. Told him I was a damn good shot. He'll take that to his grave. I'll have to check his pockets when the coast is clear. Hey, he's dead. It's not stealing. Why let it go to waste?"
Her husband was muttering nonsense to himself. Bernie was in his bath robe. The cloth at his back was soaked in traces of blood in the shape of a square.
"Honey, put the gun down. Why are you shooting out the window? You're making me nervous."
"You stay back, Martha. I can't trust anyone. You'd kill me too. People like you would do anything for money. I'm not being taken in my own home."
"Bernie, listen, you have to calm down—"
"You take another step, I'll cut you down! You're like the rest of them. They're all thieves. I was about to take my morning walk, and I saw it happen. Everybody's out of their minds. We'll all be slitting each other's throats soon enough. I'm not dying for anyone. Not them, and not you, Martha, so if you don't mind, take that wedding ring off of your finger. Place it on the coffee table. Then I want you to give me the key to the lock box, and that's if you haven't already taken everything from it already. It's my money. I worked for it. You were a fucking housewife all your life. You should be the first to die. It most certainly won't be me."
The intensity in Bernie's words was downgraded when she looked at her hand. Her wedding ring was gone. It stayed on her finger at all times. In the past, it took soap and a good yank to remove it, the band was so tight. But it was gone. She didn't take it off. So where was her wedding ring?
Martha suddenly smelled the reek of death cross her nose. The foul odor traveled inside through the front bay window. It was a cloud of ugly yellowish air. She heard voices on the wind. Subtle voices, but each owned individual character. Martha's Grandmother, then her best friend who died two years ago from cancer, and her high school sweetheart who lived in town (who she always harbored a fancy for long after their break-up) who passed away because of a drunk driving accident, each of their voices said what she needed to hear in that moment. The pain in her back was explained, as was the blood on Bernie's robe, as was Bernie's need for her wedding ring.
Not that he'd be getting it!
Someone else crossed their yard, and Bernie unloaded three rounds into their body. Martha didn't give him a chance to re-load. She jammed the steak knife she stole from the kitchen through the back of his neck and out his trachea. Then she stole Bernie's rifle and pushed him out of the bay window.
She had to protect herself.
Nobody was going to take what was hers.
PLANNING A TRIP
Brock checked the Internet for Angel's location in Virginia. She was staying at a bed and breakfast called the Piedmont Inn hidden near a series of foothills connected to the Appalachian Mountains. The website bragged of its isolated locale. "Twenty miles of seclusion in each cardinal direction, this tourist spot is known for its crisp, clean air and renewing scenery."
Maybe the high altitude has cleared her head, he thought. Or maybe the air's thin enough, she's gone crazy enough to contact her brother again.
He checked the Internet for directions, trying to choose the best route to get there from lower Beverly Hills. He could fly out, but he decided the next two months were going to drag themselves out without Hannah to kick around or any work to do on the TV show. He had also heard of a writer named Wynona Wild who only wrote while traveling on the road. She would stop at hotels, bed and breakfasts, rest stops, or any place that would let her park her vehicle, and write. She had written an article about how the open road gave her the best ideas. Wynona's mind was as open as a stretch of country back road. He liked the idea enough to adopt it as his own. His memoir had to be written, and this was the way he'd do it.
Brock rented a Land Rover from U-Rent-It-Automobile service since he didn't have a vehicle of his own. He couldn't afford the payments with the tax debt he owed the government. He required goodies for the trip, what consisted of a pound of licorice, four Snickers bars, a bag of cheese curls, and a family size bag of M&M's. Afterwards, he hit an ATM machine for cash. He could pick up the rental vehicle tomorrow morning. He would've drove out to Angel today, but he had a few loose ends to tie, namely visiting his support group and asking advice from a knowledgeable friend about confronting his sister.
He was still at a loss on how to first approach Angel. What do you say, Sis? Are you keeping your nose clean?
Afraid he'd get to a bad start with Angel, he decided to take the bus out to Sun View Rehab Clinic and ask Dr. Schmitz, the woman who practically saved his life by dishing out tough love and understanding. The doctor would have solid advice about Angel.
Brock walked a block to the bus stop. The bus was just coming down the street. Getting on for a ride, it wasn't long before he caught sight of Gene Richards' old mansion. The iron bars around the property and the extended lawn made the three-story lavish house appear so far out-of-reach to the average citizen. The mansion was the reason why he had such an enormous debt. He had to take out a bank loan just to make the repairs on the mansion so the realtors could sell the property. Angel had literally flown the coup and vanished off the face of the earth, so that left him with the responsibilities, the paperwork, and the financial burden of their father's estate. Up to now, that’s why Brock kept such a cheap living situation despite descent paying work. The bus made his stop, and Brock got out and walked two blocks to the Sun View Rehab Clinic. He didn't have an appointment. That was one thing he didn't think about on the way there. He'd have to wait to speak to Dr. Schmidt.
Inside the resort-like building with swimming pools, elaborate sun decks, an outdoor workout center, and a nature trail around the perimeter, Brock didn't have to wait very long for help. The receptionist said Dr. Schmitz would be ten minutes, so he sat in the waiting area with his legs crossed staring out at the swimming pool. Ten people were sun-bathing, nervously lighting up cigarettes, or clutching their heads in their hands as if working off a massive hangover. He could see the beginning of the living quarters down the hall. He had stayed in room 14 during his tenure at Sun View. Not wanting to face up to the memories he created here, Brock prayed the doctor would arrive soon and convince him that he didn’t ever have to face this kind of reality again.
Before Dr. Schmitz arrived, a familiar woman walked up to him. Her name was Liza. He couldn't remember her last name. She had a cruel heroin habit. Liza had acted alongside some of the greats in Hollywood as a co-star, then she went
through a stint of unemployment, and when her agent dropped her, that's when she plunged herself completely into drug use. She had checked herself in recently, he thought, noting her chalky white skin, bluish lips, and deep set eyes, and how she clutched her track marks on her forearm as if shielding them from rogue needles. She was wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans with holes at the knees, the back of her black hair suffering from bed head. She froze on Brock and snarled. Before he could defend himself, she was sitting in front of him, her hands on his knees to anchor him in place.
She interrogated Brock. "So did you fall off the wagon, Brock?" She didn't let him respond. "I've seen you on that show. It's lame, even for you. You're like a bottom feeder. Who else did you drag down with you this time? I haven't seen Angel in a very long time." Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, a deathly show, but it was only her combing her mind for the right words. "'Pale as snow, pale as snow, she sucked him off to get some blow,' isn't that what they used to say about Angel? Don't talk, it's my turn to say something. You'll get another job because Daddy will always save you. Dead or alive, he'll look out for you. I've heard all about you from Dr. Schmitz. You're a success story. Put you on a poster, or some shit. You'll go to elementary schools and tell the kiddos 'Say no to drugs, kiddies, or else you'll end up washed up like me.' Don't forget what you did to your sister. I might be a heroine junkie, but I never dragged anyone down with me. Fate lets the bad people prosper and the good ones suffer. You don't deserve to be sober. You don't deserve to bop in and out of here as if rehab was an option.
"Remember what you used to be, Brock? The first time I saw you, you had your face stuck in a toilet puking your guts out, and then you shit your guts out. God, it makes me laugh picturing you change positions on the shitter. You were one powder-puff looking sorry excuse for a human being, like Casper the shitting ghost, and looking at you now, I see right through you. You're trying to find Angel, aren't you? You're going to reclaim your life. Start over. Fuck you, Brock, for even trying. Angel hates you. She told me she hates you. She always will."
