Dew hung his head, shaking it. “There is something bigger going on here, man. Something bigger than you or I. Something more than just your revenge.” Dew looked at Mal who was on one knee, still cradling his groin, moaning. Then he turned back to Travis. “But I will find out, I promise you that.”
Travis could feel his blood soaking through his shirt and coating his chest. His vision grew blurry. “He killed Sally. Please…,” he begged.
“No,” Dew said softly. “He was just the weapon.”
Travis struggled to get up, to kill his wife’s murderer, to finish what he started. But his body wouldn’t cooperate. His struggles amounted to no more than some pathetic spasms. Eventually he stopped trying but his body continued to convulse in a fit of sobs.
Travis closed his eyes and fell back into Dew once again. Dew leaned down and whispered something to the dying man and then waited. After a few seconds Dew asked, “Do you see it?”
Travis gave a weak nod and in a choked whisper said, “Yeah.”
“Good,” Dew replied and quickly snapped Travis’ neck.
Dew stayed there with Travis nestled into the crook of his arm for a minute. The demon was lost in thought. Too much was happening and Dew was losing himself amid the chaos. This was supposed to have been a night of fun. But ever since he’d heard Travis screaming from inside that room in Painfreak he had this gnawing feeling the night had turned to shit and wasn’t going to get any better.
This should have been simple. Some fun, then give the guy what he wanted, then return to The Pit and wait for some other revenge-crazed tool to summon him. After all, he was the demon of revenge, and so many have been hurt and want payback. Dew was the last hope for many of them. So many people have tried to summon him: hurt husbands, betrayed wives, bruised egos, etc. But so few actually called forth Dew. Most of them were jackasses, but Dew always gave them what they wanted in the end. No tricks, no false promises, not like the bastard who fooled him so long ago and led him down a path of lies—a path leading so far from the one place Dew wanted to be but would never see again. He wished he could make Lucifer pay for what he had done. But the sad thing was, even the demon of revenge couldn’t make the devil pay for his lies and betrayals. What a fucking bitch, Dew thought. He sighed openly still lost in his thoughts until he felt a firm tap on his shoulder.
Dew snapped back into reality and found himself looking at Mal who appeared to have recovered from Travis’ ball attack, although his face was glowing red and covered in sweat.
“So, big boy,” Mal said, “we gonna get rough and tumble or is this over?”
“Back off,” Dew stated coolly. And Mal did.
Dew stood up bringing Travis’ limp body with him. He cradled the dead man in his arms and carried it over closer to the building Mal had dropped from. He laid Travis down gently next to a large piece of rubble from the explosion. Then he turned around and headed back toward Mal.
Mal waited patiently, but was obviously on alert. Dew stopped a few feet from Mal. Mal gave a what’s up motion toward Travis’ body.
“It’ll look like he got hit by a piece of building and that’s what snapped his neck,” Dew answered.
Mal nodded knowingly. “Gotcha. So back to my previous question…”
“Neither.”
“How so?” Mal asked.
“We aren’t going to fight and this is far from over. You have something you shouldn’t and I wanna find out why.”
“So what, you think we’re partners now or something?”
Dew shrugged. “Or something.”
Mal shook his head. “Look, man, you’re all big and scary and shit and could probably come in handy bigtime, but I work alone.”
Dew stood to his full height—a menacing sight indeed—and crossed his arms defiantly. “Not anymore you don’t. I have a lot of questions I’d like answers to and I have a feeling those answers lie along your path, so I’m walking it with you. Besides, you want revenge. I am the demon of revenge. Seems like a perfect match.”
Mal thought for a second then nodded. “Okay.” Then he looked around. “Seem odd to you that a building just blew up and there’s no one around?”
“That’s one of my questions. It would seem someone of power is working behind the scenes here, giving you enough time to get away.”
“Gregory,” Mal whispered.
“I don’t know who that is exactly, but I’m sure I’ll recognize him when I see him.” Then Dew began to walk away from the building. “But I think we need to go.”
Just then Mal heard the faint peal of sirens in the distance. “Shit.”
Dew kept walking and Mal ran to catch up.
“What did you say to Travis back there before you…you know?” Mal asked.
Dew did not look back, but instead stayed focused on getting away from the scene behind them. “I told him to picture his wife and to make his own heaven. And when he did, I ended his life. Now he will be with her for eternity locked into a happy place where she was never murdered.”
Mal found himself looking down at the ground as they walked. “You know… I… I really am sorry about that. It’s the only thing I feel bad about. It was my first…”
“I don’t want to know,” Dew interrupted. “Doesn’t matter. You were a weapon, manipulated. And I promised Travis I would find out who’s pulling your strings.”
“Pulled,” Mal corrected.
“Pulled.” Dew understood. “So, now we go find your ex-puppetmaster and get some answers.”
“Just as long as I get to kill him,” Mal stated seriously.
Dew gave an amused snort. “You’re a cocky little fuck, ain’t you?”
“Yeah, and I’ll be even more so when I enter the gates of Heaven and start kicking everyone’s angelic asses.”
Dew found his breath stuck in his chest for an instance. He had planned on killing this fucker once he got some answers to his questions. But something told him that there was truth in the little killer’s words. And if so, then maybe there was a chance that Dew would see his home once again. He calmed himself down without letting Mal see any change in him.
“So that’s your plan?” Dew asked nonchalantly.
“Yep,” Mal replied confidently.
“Guess I’ll have to wait to kill you then.”
“Fuckin’ A!” Mal said without missing a beat.
The two walked into the night, the sound of sirens behind them and the promise of sweet revenge hanging heavy over the road before them.
—
Sleeper Angels Awaken
The old man emerged from the shadows of the alley and took in the destruction. He had sensed the power and was drawn to it. He looked up, up and up at the decapitated building and felt sorrow for the loss of an old friend.
Something caught his eye and he watched as it descended from the sky slowly floating down, dancing on air currents.
The old man heard the sirens blaring long before the police car came speeding around the corner followed closely by a monstrous fire truck and even more emergency vehicles. But he didn’t take his eyes from the sky. Instead, he remained stone still in the middle of the street even as the police car barreled toward him.
Shock crossed the face of the police officer as he realized someone was standing in the street amid the smoky debris. He only had a split second to act. He jerked the wheel hard and went into a sideways skid and out of the driver’s side window he saw the fire truck hurtling toward him. The officer’s eyes went wide with panic as he heard the red behemoth’s tires squeal atop the pavement and saw smoke rise from the melting tires. All the officer could do was close his eyes and wait for the…
With a slight wave of his hand, the old man brought the potential disaster to a grinding halt. Everything around him went motionless and the harsh sounds of emergency vehicles were abruptly extinguished. Now it was just the old man and what he was watching drop out of the sky. He waited patiently and after a minute more he held out a hand and let the glowing whit
e feather land oh so softly into it. He held it out before his face for some time, taking it in and a small tear ran down his wrinkled cheek. “I am sorry, Jericho. You deserved better than this. I had hoped for your assistance in the task before me. But I waited too long. I will make amends to you, old friend. This I promise.” And with that the old man wiped the tear from his face with his coat sleeve then slowly opened his jacket and gently placed the feather inside a hidden pocket.
He closed his jacket, turned to the men and their vehicles frozen in time, all with expressions of panicked horror lining their faces. He sighed deeply and then was gone.
Neither the police officer nor the fire fighters in the cab of the fire truck knew what had happened. All they knew was that they had been a split second away from catastrophe, but now they sat safely in their respective vehicles breathing heavy and letting nervous laughter drift out their windows.
The police officer, still shaking, was the first out of his car. The fire truck driver followed suit. They met in the middle of the street and exchanged anxious looks while shaking their heads. Neither knew what had happened. After a few more seconds of uncertainty, both men shook off the images of their deaths and went into action that years of training had worked into their DNA. They had a job to do.
Neither would ever mention what had just happened again. It was just too damn weird.
««—»»
Harv’s 24 Hour Diner — BEST EATS ON HIGHWAY 57. Of course Highway 57 was what the Johnsonians called it. It was actually 57th Street. Ran North to South between Johnson Rd. and Johnson Ave. Exactly three-tenths of a mile long or short, what have you.
Back in 1957, the Johnsonians, well 35 of the 127 of them, all God-fearing citizens, met to decide the name of the new street that would connect Johnson Rd. to Johnson Ave.
The meeting lasted exactly two hours, thirty-four minutes and twenty seconds. The minutes of the meeting will verify this, and they are exact. Jonnie Mae Willims kept the time as she was the only person in Johnson to have a stopwatch. This is the primary reason she was assigned the task as secretary of the meeting.
See, Jonnie Mae, whom everyone called Jamie, had recently received this watch from her uncle, Thomas Jay Willims. Thomas Jay, who everyone called Toe Jam, was in Switzerland “broadening his horizons.”
So, now Thomas James Willims was exploring the world, and getting the hell away from Johnson, GA where everyone called him Toe Jam all because of Suzy Simmons who spoke with a lisp. Everyone in fourth grade had made fun of her lisp. One morning, Thomas had decided he would win points with the guys by ridiculing Suzy during roll call. When Miss Hanson, with the legs of a goddess and the face of a mule, called Suzy Simmons’ name, Thomas quietly repeated her name as Suzy would say it. The name came out wet and silly, and Suzy retaliated quickly with a loud, “Shut the hell up, Toe Jam.” No lisp, very clearly. Suzy would be sent to the principal’s office, very proud. Thomas “Toe Jam” Willims would be scarred for life. Now he was in Switzerland where no one would call him Toe Jam, ever. And as far as anyone knew, he was the only Johnsonian to ever go to Europe just for the Hell of it.
Of course there was the Cratch boy back in ’42, but he went with the Marines and never came back. And it was this reason that Mrs. Cratch, had offered up her opinion as to what the new road should be called. Everyone at the meeting knew what she would say. “The Samuel Cratch Memorial Lane,” she said with the dignity of a queen.
“We’ll add that to the list, Mrs. Cratch,” Mayor Trumble said with a patient smile.
And so it was added to the list just as The Samuel Cratch Community Center, The Samuel Cratch Park, The Samuel Cratch Public Library and countless other buildings, streets, etc. had been over the years. All submitted by Mrs. Cratch in the hopes of honoring her son who died saving a fellow soldiers in the time of war:
Dear Mrs. Cratch,
It is with much regret that I must inform you of the untimely passing of your son Samuel. We here in the 103 had come to know Samuel, who we called Scratch, as an excellent soldier and close friend. You will be proud to know that Samuel died while attempting to save a fellow Marine. It was this selfless act that proved your son a true Marine and American. We will miss Scratch, and share in your sorrow at this most unfortunate time.
May God be with you.
Sincerely yours,
Major Timothy Hawkins
United States Marine Corps
Semper Fi
The entire population of Johnson, at that time being 73, came out to Momma Cratch’s house and joined her in mourning her brave son who died dutifully in battle.
Of course there was no battle. Or so the people of Johnson discovered when a fellow 103rd came to town to see where his buddy Scratch hailed from. Tommy Shimble had found himself at Sloppy Mike’s Tavern on the west side of Johnson Avenue. Tommy had been there the night of Samuel Cratch’s undignified demise. And after a few hours, a few beers, and a few shots of Jack, Tommy let everyone in the bar in on the story of Scratch’s death.
Apparently, Corporal S. Cratch, better known as Scratch to his buddies, had been playing a rousing game of leap-frog with Gretchen, a two-hundred-thirty-pound Germanic blossom of a woman. And a prostitute. They, Scratch and three other soldiers of the mighty 103, had rented a room in a small inn, whose name was loosely translated by one of the mighty 103rd as The Bloated Pigmy. In this room, they had also rented the company of a few of Berlin’s finest ladies of the evening. Four of them, with a combined weight pushing close to a half a ton. The boys were in for some fun.
Someone, after too many strong German beers, had the idea of playing leap-frog—naked. No one objected. The game lasted only five minutes, but to the Swedish husband and wife in the room below…well, you can imagine.
Anyway, Scratch’s three buddies each had fallen into romantic entanglements with the large love of their choice. They rolled and writhed and oozed on the floor while Scratch was content with the oddity of being so far from Johnson, GA, in the middle of a quaint inn in Germany, playing leap-frog with an overly plump German prostitute. He continued to be content in his contentment.
Eventually, Scratch stood with a grunt and proceeded to mount Gretchen’s wide backside, amazed at the dark hairy chasm of her ass, and propelled himself up and over. He landed hard, and felt the room spin around him, the beer in his stomach threatening to coat Gretchen’s landing area. He steadied himself and prepared for Gretchen’s bulk to press upon his young Georgian back.
Gretchen giggled as she squatted, placed her hands heavily upon the cute American GI’s skinny ass and jumped.
The room spun again for Scratch, his right knee, which he hurt falling off a tractor when he was twelve, but lied about to the Marines because he thought it would never bother him, buckled, then snapped. He went down hard. Gretchen went down hard. There was another snap. The mighty soldiers of the 103 laughed, and Corporal Samuel Cratch, better know as Scratch to his buddies, collapsed with a broken spine under a mass of German flesh better known as Gretchen, passed out on top of Scratch. Everyone went back to sins of the flesh, and come the next morning, three of the mighty soldiers of the 103rd had a lot of explaining to do to Major Timothy Hawkins, United States Marine Corps—Semper Fi.
Everyone sat open-mouthed as they listened to Tommy. He had managed to down a few more shots of Jack and was feeling pretty good as he finished his story with a loud, “I swear to God, that is the whole truth and nothing but the truth.” And just as he was about to finish with a resounding Stan Laurel nod, Joseph Hayes Josephs came up behind Tommy and cracked him in the skull with a pool cue. Tommy fell hard.
The people from Sloppy Mike’s Tavern left Tommy Shimble alone and naked out on Highway 15 (it’s a real highway, they didn’t just call it that) with his wallet taped to his ass with duct tape and a note taped to his hairy chest that said, “Never come back!”
He never did.
The people in the bar that night knew Mrs. Cratch. Hell, everyone did. And they all loved her
dearly. Every year in honor of her boy, Mrs. Cratch would throw a huge picnic. She was so proud of her son. And no one wanted to hurt her. So that’s why Tommy Shimble was quietly escorted out of Johnson, GA.
But, as it is in small towns, everyone eventually found out about Samuel. But to their credit, they kept the truth from his mother. And she in turn kept throwing her picnics. And the townspeople all loved her, but for some reason couldn’t bring themselves to honor her son, even to make an old woman happy. So it was when she proposed that the new road in Johnson be named for her son, it was voted down. And Mrs. Cratch, still with the dignity of a queen, smiled slightly and said, “Well, maybe next time.” And those around her would nod and agree, that yes, maybe “next time” would get it.
And finally that “next time” came and this time it wasn’t up for a vote. No, see Momma Cratch owned a lot of land. When she got too old to tend to the fields, she decided to sell off little parts of her land. With the money she received, Mrs. Cratch started a home for wayward girls—a place for runaways, homeless, pregnant women and prostitutes. She called it The Samuel Cratch Hospice.
After the dedication, Momma Cratch quietly snuck out the back, got in her car and drove to Atlanta where she got on a plane to Key West and never came back to Johnson, GA again.
Johnson Bugle, July 8th 1977
When asked where Mrs. Cratch had gone, Gretchen Krause, coordinating supervisor for the new Samuel Cratch Hospice, replied simply, “I don’t know.”
««—»»
So Momma Cratch finally got what she had wanted for so long. Not the library, nor the park, not even what was now Highway 127. None of those bore the name of Samuel Cratch.
Tales of the Fallen Book I: Awakenings Page 10
