by Baker, Alex
FRAILTY
Soulburn
A special thanks to Steve, Canyon, and Meredith. Call it fate. Call it coincidence. Without the three of you, this book doesn't happen.
Copyright © 2012 by Alex D. T. Baker
PART ONE – BROADS & BARBELLS
1
“Sarah Whent...Amazing Woman.” Sarah Whent, a thirty-something, athletically built, straight-haired brunette was making her way down a hallway in the Southern Suites apartment building. Wearing a tight-fitting costume resembling a one-piece bathing suit, she fumbled through her purse for her keys, cursing the restrictive fabric. Although, she had to admit, the outfit had garnered her plenty of attention, including a man who had offered to let her tie him up with her lasso. The bottom of the costume was covered in white stars, set against a background of purple. The top was red and revealing, especially given the ample size of her breasts. On more than one occasion Sarah had caught herself checking a mirror to make sure she had not had a wardrobe malfunction. A giant, white A started in-between her breasts and terminated at the gold belt around her waist. Knee length, high-heeled boots and suntan pantyhose had complemented the ensemble nicely and accentuated the curve of her legs, but they had also made keeping her balance precarious, which caused her feet to suffer. Large, silver bracelets and a tiara finished off the look.
“Amazing blisters is more like it,” she muttered to herself as she paused, just past a set of room doors, to rest her aching feet. Maybe I should just take these things off now.
“Amazing Woman?” asked a slurred voice, catching Sarah from behind.
Startled, Sarah had not recalled seeing anyone along her way, but it always seemed her luck to attract the unwanted. She clutched her keys in one hand and purse in the other.
Coming around to face her, the twenty-something man, sported a nappy t-shirt and knee-length shorts. The scruffy hair, unshaven face, and stench of inebriation lent clear evidence to the binge he was on most of the time, or at least this weekend. Weekend parties in the building certainly were not uncommon.
“Your Halloween costume - it's Amazing Woman, right?”
Sarah regained her composure and glanced down at her costume feigning ignorance to keep from encouraging the man – while still keeping sight of him.
“Oh, um, yeah - Amazing Woman.” She said hurriedly as she walked past.
Too drunk or too ignorant to sense the disinterest evident in Sarah's reception of him, he pursued her with enthusiasm. Almost stumbling into her, he held one knee up in the air while pointing at a tattoo. “See, look! I have you, um – her - on my leg!”
“Why me?” she muttered under her breath. Rolling her eyes, Sarah maintained her deliberate stride.
Still on her heels, though, the drunkard peeked over her shoulder, angling for attention. “You into cosplay?”
“What?” Sarah stopped abruptly in front of apartment 102. She had no idea what he was talking about and no desire to find out.
A concerned voice cried across the hall, seeking to diffuse the situation. “Everything okay, Sarah?” An elderly, balding gentleman, standing in front of his apartment door, was captivated by what was unfolding. Cradling a bag of groceries against his sleeveless sweater, his demeanor made it clear that he had no intentions of leaving without an answer.
Sarah gave her neighbor an appreciative wave to put his mind at ease. “It's fine, Walt. Thanks.”
Giving a skeptical look, Walt entered his domicile and slowly closed the door behind him.
“So, you wanna hang out, or what?” blurted the alcoholically oblivious drunk, undaunted by the old man's attempt at intervention.
“Uh, no.” Sarah retorted sharply.
“Wanna smoke some weed?”
“That would also be a 'no'.” Sure, why don't we go get stoned when I just told you I didn't even want to hang out with you, moron. With that, Sarah pushed into her apartment. “I think that's my cat calling,” she said, slamming the door in the man's face.
The clueless drunk stood there staring at the door, as if his inability to accept the obvious would cause her to change her mind and join him.
“Um, okay, goodnight, Amazing Woman.” Concentrating on his footing, he staggered away. “Wow...Amazing Woman.”
As he made his way down the hall and around the corner, a shrouded figure, having observed the sequence of events unnoticed, looked on.
2
The two Halogen front porch lights at the Reiner house, situated in the suburban neighborhood of Rustic Mills Estates, provided one of the few bright spots at night in the cul-de-sac. Illuminated by its radiance, the costumed couple, returning late from a yearly Halloween party, prepared to enter the home.
Kate was proud of her Red Siren outfit and confident that the spandex and Lycra material had adequately showed off her toned body. Normally, going as a superheroine was not her style, but in a room full of women who thought they were the goods, she assured herself that the attention would be on her.
The costume had come packaged with red tight shorts and a sports bra top in red, with the letters RS in black on the left side of the chest. Kate had made her own adjustment, having her mom, who was handy with a needle ad thread, run sheer black nylon up from the top of the breasts, around the neck, and flowing down the arms in sleeves. The package had suggested red, calf-high combat style boots, with black trim, as the proper accompanying footwear. It seemed way too butch for Kate, so she had opted for black heels.
Roofy's large, muscular, Russian frame loomed over his wife. Looking over her attire, he was sure she had made the last-minute swap to dressing as a superheroine only because his friend, Sarah, went as Amazing Woman. “Was good party tonight, no?” Roofy's thick Russian accent broke the uncomfortable silence that had lasted through the entire ride home.
“Mm-hmm,” Kate said, opening the door. Inside, in the foyer area, she tossed the keys on a small table set against the inside wall.
“I can't believe you went as another wrestler, Roofy. So original.” She started for the stairs.
“It was good costume, I think,” Roofy replied, ignoring the belittling comment. Given his immense physicality and former career as a wrestler, it had seemed the perfect choice. He had worked a program with Claw, a large masked competitor in UWA, and they were close to the same size. The studded, leather headpiece, was meant to portray a menacing appearance, but hunched over, as if physically accenting the meekness in his voice, Roofy did not feel too tough at the moment.
Totally dismissing him, Kate walked off up the stairs.
“Many good costumes there.”
“I'm going to bed.” She continued up the stairs.
“Kate, you want to...”
“I have a headache.”
Roofy removed his mask and let it dangle from his hand, as he watched her legs trail off. In contrast to the defeated feeling he had, the fresh air felt good on his head. The mask was obviously not supposed to be worn for hours on end. He had become uncomfortable half way through the party, and his short, sandy blond hair was still damp with sweat.
The party had been a highlight for Roofy for a long time, but now, he found it was growing more and more uncomfortable each year with Kate there. Things had not always been this way, or maybe they had and he was just too naive to notice. He had met Kate shortly after he had joined the UWA and left Russia. It had been a lonely transition, not knowing anyone or speaking the language. She worked as a marketing representative for the arena he performed in twice a week while in the UWA training league. It was easy to believe that she was just attracted to him and wanted to help him adjust to his new life. Then his wrestling career ended and the steady, considerab
le income dried up. He had been reduced to working store openings and autograph signings, and Kate, who had quit working, was forced into working again. The more comfort they had given up, the more resentful she had become. There was very little companionship left between them, and he was not even sure where, or with whom, she spent most of her time. Honestly, Roofy was not sure he even cared.
Picking up the keys, he walked through an opening to his left and into the dark living room, where he had dressed before the party. He discarded his Claw costume over the arm of the couch, put on the jeans and t-shirt, that read “Hard Iron Gym” in a circular design, grabbed his jean jacket, and walked out the door.
Roofy's bright red, new model Cobra Mustang rumbled slowly down the street, headlights illuminating neighbors' yards as he went. A few houses away, awash in the soft aura thrown from an interior light shining through an open car door, a teenage girl caught his attention.
The pure white teddy, wings, and halo that the girl wore seemed to glow. Roofy stared at the costume, unaware of the fact he had lifted his foot off the accelerator, causing the vehicle to slow. Eyes crawling their way up her body to her face, he found her staring intensely back at him.
In an instant, the moment was over, and Roofy's car trailed off into the night, leaving him to think about her wry smile.
3
Sunlight poured in through a window at the head of the Reiner bed, casting an ornate shadow in the shape of the black iron headboard. Lying partly covered in the sheets, under a licking assault by a tail wagging, medium-sized Cocker Spaniel, was Roofy.
Jolted out of his sleep, Roofy began rubbing the dog with one hand, while rubbing his own forehead with the other. Although his drinking had not been heavy the night before, it was enough to have left him with a slight hangover.
“Khorosho...khorosho. I am awake.”
Leaving the dog to stand on the bed, Roofy got up and put on a pair of exercise shorts.
“It's about time you got out of bed.” Wearing a tennis outfit and hair back in a ponytail, Kate stood just inside the bedroom doorway, hand on her hip and fuming. The t-shirt Roofy had on the night before dangled from her free hand. “Just where were you last night?” she berated him again.
Roofy ran a hand sheepishly through his hair. “I went to bar.” Despite her outfit, he was sure any exercise she had experienced that morning was not from playing tennis.
Kate held up the blood stained t-shirt, shaking it for emphasis. “And where the Hell did all of this blood come from? It looks like a tampon, for Christ's sake, Roofy!”
“I was leaving bar...”
“Which bar, Roofy?” she blistered.
“It is Mundens. Outside of bar was crazy fan who recognize me. He yell, 'Hey! Mr. Apocalypse'.” Mimicking the man in his story, Roofy waved his hand. “The asshole throw that shit on me,” Roofy added, while pointing at the shirt Kate had thrust out in front of him. “Then he run off and yell 'Rule the ring, Ruskie'.”
“And you did what?” she belittled, with the bloody shirt hanging from one of the hands on her hips.
An uncomfortable silence settled into the room. Roofy, averting his eyes like a scolded child, watched as the dog, sitting at the end of the bed, nibbled on his fingers. When did he start letting himself get treated like a dog? Actually, their dog made out better than he did. He had been so strong, physically and emotionally. His hard life in Russia had shaped him that way. Now, bending to the endless tirades, the frustration was building up.
The lack of a response was all the answer Kate needed. Rolling her head back in a demeaning manner, she continued the verbal assault. “Oh...my...God! What bullshit! What a pussy! Mister big, bad ex-wrestler.”
A tremor rippled through Roofy, the force of it surprising him.
“You should stop, now,” he rasped, hands shaking.
“Or what?” Kate mocked, almost as if she awaited a punch line.
Like a dam breaking loose, a wave of intensity and evil intentions flowed through Roofy.
“Or this!” With the yell, Roofy lunged forward and clothes lined Kate clean out of her shoes. Her feet flew into the air, sending her back to the floor with a loud thud. Behind them, on the bed, the dog yipped in surprise at Roofy's hulking form.
Apishly, Roofy grabbed Kate by the hair with one hand and pulled her to her feet. He had his other hand pointed up to the air, as if playing to a crowd in a wrestling match. The dog watched from the bed, its head tilted slightly and tail wagging. Kate was disheveled and did her best to beg off another attack.
Despite her efforts, Roofy delivered a big chop to her chest. As the smack echoed through the room, he yelled, “And this!” with his mouth wide open in over-exaggeration. Without missing a beat, he turned and smacked the side of the dog, which looked unsure of what was happening.
“Tag!” Roofy grabbed the dog by the tail and swung it in a wide arc through the air.
With a loud “Woof”, the dog connected with Kate's face.
Discarding the animal, Roofy climbed over the foot board and on to the end of the bed. Standing up, he had both hands raised in the air.
Determined, he jumped and landed an elbow drop on Kate. Her legs and arms flailed from the impact. The dog lay off to the side, with feet sticking straight up in the air.
Roofy got to his feet and stood triumphantly, straddling the fallen Kate. Flexing his muscles, he let out a loud “Oh Yes”.
“Well?” Kate's voice pulled Roofy out of his hallucination. She stood in the same spot, hands still on her hips, with the bloody shirt still dangling in her grip.
As Roofy puzzled over what had just happened, Kate said, “That's what I thought,” with a smug tone of superiority. She threw the bloody shirt at him and walked out of the bedroom.
The door slammed shut, leaving Roofy standing with the shirt hanging from his head and covering his face.
Walking towards the door, he tossed the shirt over his shoulder and to the floor.
The dog watched Roofy exit the room, jumped down from the bed, and began sniffing the shirt.
4
In his twelve-plus years of being the on-site repairman for the Southern Suites Apartments, Randal had only had to open an apartment for the police on three occasions. The first was for a domestic dispute. The second was to forcibly remove a tenant that had violated the rental agreement. The third was the call he had received an hour ago to assist the Richmond City Police Department with a missing persons call. Now, instead of spending his evening watching reruns of his favorite reality hunting show, he stood in front of apartment 102 with two policemen.
One of the officers knocked on the door. “Police Officer. Sarah Whent, please open the door.”
“You smell that?” Randal said, catching whiff of the pungent odor seeping out into the hallway. He scrunched his nose, wishing he could light a cigarette to help kill the smell.
“Go ahead and open it.” Detective Laura Stenks ordered with weight and authority. She gave a command, and any officer in the department snapped into action. It was a perk she enjoyed thoroughly in her position, which, thanks to her drive, she had acquired by being catapulted through the ranks with great speed and ease. Her promotion had created hard feelings, but that was not something she was concerned with, unlike the duty officer dress code. As soon as her new title was in place, she had foregone the cookie cutter uniform the department provided an allowance for and opted for a work wardrobe of shorter-than-knee length skirts, form-fitting blouses, push-up bras, and pumps. Although it crimped her fashion style, she was still required to wear the standard issue body armor vest, when investigating possible hostile situations, and duty belt, which contained a number of pouches for extra magazines, handcuffs, a radio, and a holster with her firearm in it. The word “Detective” was displayed in white letters on the back and front of the vest, but she had her eye set on “Captain”. She took the radio from her belt and relayed a message, “This is Detective Laura Stenks reporting on the missing person call at Southern S
uites. No answer at the door, but we do have the smell of decay. I'm giving the okay to enter.”
A voice crackled back through the radio, “Roger that.”
One of the officers motioned towards the door. “You heard the woman. Let's get this door open.”
Randal sifted through the ring of keys that he had carried in one of the many tool pockets of his permanently stained, dark blue coveralls.
“I'm worried something has happened to her,” Walt's concerned voice called out from across the hall. The slightly balding, older man, in a white, button-down shirt, brown slacks, and a sleeveless sweater, stood just outside his open apartment door. “Haven't seen Sarah in days. Not since Halloween.”
“You're the one that called?” Laura asked, redirecting her attention to the neighbor.
“That's me. Name's Walt Simkowicz.”
“I'm going to need to ask you some questions, Mr. Simkowicz.” Laura took out a small notepad, bound in fake leather, and a pen.
Behind her, the repairman had opened the door to apartment 102, and the stench of death wafted out.
The two officers, firearms and flashlights in hand, prepared for entry. They flanked the open apartment door and, following department procedures when in the presence of a superior officer, gave the required call out. “Detective, we're going in.”
Laura acknowledged the officer and basked in the stature of command. It was all about the control but control was not derived simply from rank. It transcended that. As a woman gifted with naturally striking looks, she had learned early on how powerful physical attraction, combined with a dominating personality, could be. A quick study in manipulation, brought on as a result of her childhood, it was a necessity to be in charge. Being in control meant not being hurt.
Entering through the apartment door brought the two officers into a den. They had been partners for a number of years and knew this drill all too well.
