Whitman could not watch anymore. He closed his eyes and threw up. Smelling Whitman's vomit sent the other two mobster over the edge, and they also threw up.
Not at all finished with her performance, Vickie dug her claws into Mick's chest an tore away a hunk of bloody flesh. She stuffed that meat into her mouth. With one claw she stroked Mick's limp penis as she chewed on the prosthetic flesh.
After a few minutes, Vickie spat out the fake flesh, turned and quickly slithered away, disappearing into the cedar boughs behind the altar.
In this unique way, we we able to terrify hardened, professional killers. Their terror was genuine. They pissed themselves, went pale, and threw up several more times.
***
Our job was done. We put the naked, bloody mobsters back into our van and drove them to an isolated cove. Removing their cuffs and chains, we dumped them on the beach. We left them a cell phone with satellite connectivity, so they could phone anyone in the world.
We did not leave Mick at the beach. We drove him to Seattle, dressed him in a bath robe and delivered him to the FBI. We didn't stop to say 'hello'. We just dumped him on the street outside the FBI Field Office. An hour later we sent the Seattle FBI Field Director an e-mail from an all-night internet cafe, using the Yahoo address: [email protected] We attached a pdf of Mick's confession, and invited the FBI to respond to the e-mail if they would like the original signed copy.
Jensen felt this was enough. We'd done our civic duty.
Chapter Ten. Good Reasons for Fiction
A famous poet, who spent some years teaching in Texas Public Schools, once told an important lie. A former student introduced himself, so much wanting to be remembered. He held a clear memory of specific interactions the two had when he was ten years old.
With great enthusiasm, he asked, “Do you remember when you helped me fix my bike, and later we wrote a poem about it?”
Unfortunately, the poet remembered nothing at all, except that the funding dried-up and the good teaching job disappeared. Still, she said, in an entirely credible tone, “Of course, Larry. That was a wonderful time.”
My own lies are much bigger, and for that reason I prefer to call them “yarns.” As Van Morrison once sung, “I can spin you a yarn, it's as long as my arm.” I sent my publisher the complete manuscript for The Inevitable Consequence of Ambition.
I told him, “My book is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.” (A standard disclaimer, and I am sticking to it.) I added, “If my writing style leads any reader to believe I am describing actual events, that is a fine tribute to my talent, but has nothing to do with reality.”
Of course, the FBI got hold of a copy, and Agent Wilson called me up. The standard disclaimer had the additional benefit of confounding the FBI. Agent Wilson, said, “But, Lowenstein, you were really there. You really saw Stiles die with a bullet through his brain. You include that in your book. How can you call that a product of your imagination?”
I replied, “I used that historical event in an entirely fictitious context. What I describe, before and after, the Stiles murder is almost entirely made up.” I paused. “Hey, I wouldn't lie to you. You're the FBI.”
I could hear Agent Wilson scowl at me, “So you never actually met that hit man?”
“Oh, I can't really say,” I said. “He told me he was a hit man. But, how would I know? He was probably just a persistent literary critic. I met the real mobster, Benny Whitman under completely different circumstances. We both frequented the same bondage club in downtown Vancouver, BC. He is a cross-dresser. I also made up the part about helping Benny Whitman pee, when we had him tied-up on Bainbridge. I never touched his massive mobster cock.”
I wonder about the psychological reasons which cause fiction to sell better than non-fiction. Our minds seem to require fantasy, escapism, or realms of imagination far removed from our mundane lives. Apparently, reality is not good enough for us. That is one reason we have reality shows which are mocked-up, clever and surrealistic works of fiction.
There has always been money to be made with tall tales. I sometimes marvel at Christopher Columbus, conning the Spanish Royalty to finance his cruise to the New World. That took balls! He sprinkled a few known facts on top a pile of wild speculation and fantasy. And he sold them a great destination package.
As a species, we do enjoy the reality of sports events: Big guys with helmets, muscle and bone thrown together with maximum impact, or Olympic athletes defying gravity, with skill and precision. The fictional part of sports events appears to be the purpose or value of the events. There is monetary value and there is entertainment value. Beyond that, there are many tall tales which imply, “heroic striving for the benefit of all humankind.” That certainly sounds like wacky fiction to me. There is definitely personal striving and personal accomplishment. Professional athletic accomplishments truly do inspire similar striving in younger men and women. But, still I wonder, to what purpose? That same physical energy might be used to build homeless shelters in every city in the United States of America.
Well that's never gonna happen. There's no money to be made with homeless shelters.
Chapter Eleven. Charles Dickens and Hard Times
Derek was locked up again for tax evasion. Skylark went to visit him and reported he was in good spirits and enjoying long, leisure hours in his jail cell. Derek told Skylark, “I always wanted to read the complete works of Charles Dickens.“ The FBI saw no harm in that and provided Derek with very good editions from the King County Library System.
As High Priestess, Skylark had ritual sex with Derek on more than one occasion. She felt generous and tender towards him. She was glad Derek was comfortable and occupying his mind with Dickens. I asked her how Derek had initially reacted to Hansen's death. She said Derek was devastated. Frederick was like a father to him. From sadness, Derek's mood moved into a cold-hearted thirst for vengeance. He wanted to find and punish Frederick's killer. Derek wrote a few letters to Frederick's relatives and located an especially powerful witch in Cambridge, England. Skylark could not remember the man's name. In any case, that witch asked Derek to locate some physical items, hair or fingernail clippings or anything owned by the killer. Shortly after that, Derek broke into the FBI evidence room and stole something. He sent those items to the British witch.
“Derek never mentioned that witch again,” Skylark remembered, “But he gradually grew less cold-hearted and returned to his normal, cheerful self.”
Derek had never mentioned these events to me, the contact with Casterbridge or the break-in. That surprised me, after all we had been through. I wondered why he omitted those details.
Derek was about halfway through, Hard Times, the tenth novel of Charles Dickens, when Westcott got the tax evasion charges dropped.. Westcott simply paid all Derek's back-taxes and told the IRS Derek would behave, and file his returns on time. Westcott thought it was ridiculous for the IRS to rob a hard-working fisherman, to help provide revenue to allow the Congress to save the jobs of a few CEOs of large banks. Of course, no amount of middle-class tax revenue will ever save the budget of the federal government. The next step is printing more money, and hyper-inflation, and twenty years or more of poverty for most of America's 310 million citizens.
***
“I can't help but ask,” I said, as Skylark nuzzled her face into my shoulder, “How was Derek... I mean as a lover? Do I need to feel jealous?”
Skylark laughed, like a silver bell in a garden, “Oh, no, no... Right now, you are the only man for me.” She continued,” I must say though, Derek and I had some wonderful hard times together.”
“Hard times?”
“Often he had no money, but a very hard cock. Whether in Sabbat rituals, or during our occasional playtime, he could launch his magic wand with precision and accuracy!”
“Now, I am getting jealous. I believe the pen is mightier than the magic wand.
”
As Skylark kissed me, all I could hear was the slow, lush romantic brass and string melodies from the Finale of Sibelius Symphony No.5 in E-flat major, Op.82. Without saying a word, Skylark took my penis in her hand and squeezed it lovingly. At last, I said to myself, after years of practice, I am proven to be a successful author, an applauded musician, a scribe of passion! I win the award!
Chapter Twleve. Susan Returns
Not every wife returns home after a year. Not every wife returns home after a year bringing talismans and magick spells from a living sorcerer. As parting gifts to Susan, Benjamin Casterbridge hand-wrote a small book of spells and crafted talismans for her and her husband, as well as myself and Derek.
Benjamin Casterbridge uses a variety of magick scripts. Curiously, Casterbridge writes the symbols upside down and backwards, as compared to other witches and magicians. The inscription above is from the cover of the small spell-book. Susan says the words mean: “Joy and prosperity, long life and protection to all who cast spells from this book.”
Jensen Westcott was overwhelmed with joy having his wife back at home. Casterbridge made two talismans for each of us, one for love and one for protection. Clearly, Susan's love talisman was working.
My love talisman was a three-inch piece of whale bone, with three symbols carved in the center:
I recognized the characters to say, “Sky-bird” and the meaning was obvious. Skylark told me she would like to put it on a chain and wear it between her breasts. I said, “OK.”
Susan was proud to announce that she had, with the assistance of Mr. Casterbridge, written a scholarly book on the lineage of his family. All the branches and distant cousins were included.
There were two full pages devoted to the life and work of Frederick Hansen. The work included examples of the spells and mystic arts for each of the witches in the family, and well as a bibliography to the works of the non-witches. Among the prominent figures were painters, scientists, astronomers, an obscure Beat Poet from Weymouth, and a musical composer of symphonies.
As a child the composer, Christoph Jaufenthaler, lived next door to Richard Wagner, who was two years older than himself. At that time, Wagner was known as Wilhelm Richard Geyer, having been given the surname of his mother's actor and playwright boyfriend, Ludwig Geyer. Christoph and Wilhelm frequently got into fist fights, and Christoph usually prevailed. As the boys grew their talents became clear. However, as adults, they never acknowledged each other's existence. Christoph referred to Richard Wagner as the Mietzewürze (puss wort.) When asked, Wagner would say he never heard of Christoph Jaufenthaler. Wagner developed great skill in acquiring money for his productions, while Jaufenthaler's skills were only artistic.
Therefore, Jaufenthaler faded into complete obscurity. Susan found one published poem from the Beat Poet of Weymouth, Henry Winston Froth:
“I love that brown brown flowing in these
veins, these veins of British Conquest,
I carry them genes, I do, and mix them
with heroin to drown the screams of all
them niggers, them gooks, them Hindoos,
and dark-skinned Arabs
we beat to death for centuries....”
He was not the most cheerful of the Beats, and one can understand his failure to gain popular appeal. Susan felt there was little hope to raise the poet or the composer from the dead and bring their works to public recognition. However, she was glad to have discovered such a diverse group of talents among the descendants of the Dutch painter, Astor Hansen.
About two months after Susan came home, I spoke with her about her scrying experience. I wanted to know if the man she saw in the scrying glass was Buddy Whitman. I brought her a mug shot of Whitman.
“Yes,” she said, ”That is same man I saw, though he was older.” I hoped Susan might be able to explain why what she saw, as Casterbridge was slicing up the poppet, was different from the reality I had experienced. She saw Whitman suffering the effects of Casterbridge's dark witchcraft, not the effects of Derek's knife.
Susan responded, “In talking with Mr. Casterbridge I came to understand, what I saw and what he sees in the scrying glass is not always exactly what occurs in the physical world. Casterbridge said the images are sometimes a visualization in the mind of the scryer, or a possible future which nevers plays out in the physical world. Casterbridge said the essence of the event remains the same, but the details may defer.”
She looked me straight in the eyes, and asked, “You want to know if Casterbridge's black magick caused, or helped to cause Whitman's death, don't you? You want to know if you and the others were being manipulated, carrying out the ritualized death of Whitman according to Casterbridge's psychic instructions?”
I nodded. I was terrified by the implications. “Was I made a living marionette by the power of dark magick?”
“Truly, I cannot answer that question,” she said, “Only Casterbridge could tell you. I personally believe what I saw only presaged the event. It did not cause the event. You and Jensen and Derek caused the event. I was just seeing a vision in advance of your actions.” She paused. “It is a mystery I do not fully understand. I know I was not creating the images in the glass from my own imagination. I had never seen Whitman before. There is no way I could know what he looked like. I looked carefully around the scrying glass, and throughout the room. There were no hi-tech devices, nothing to generate those images.”
”It is possible Casterbridge was creating the images and projecting them into the glass for my benefit. But, that would make no sense. He would not gain anything by convincing me his poppets and needles were causing a man to convulse 3500 miles away. I was not paying him money or offering him a world lecture tour... That fact is, if he is able to project images into a glass, using only the power of his mind, he probably also has the power to make a hit man suffer, as he sticks needles in a poppet. I have no reason to believe the scrying was an elaborate hoax. It did not feel like a hoax. My own mind was active and engaged in the process. Casterbridge looked deathly ill afterward, as if all his life energy was exhausted.”
Susan's comments were of little comfort to me. I wanted to know the facts. I wanted to know the extent of Casterbridge's magickal powers. I wanted to know what role, if any, his magick played in my actions during the past year. Was I acting according to my own personal free will, or according to a powerful external Will? Was I led in a particular direction and motivated to do this or that, by some external powers?
If there was a larger Will at work, perhaps it was part of my own psyche, my own subconscious tied to a larger collective consciousness. I may have been responding, not to Casterbridge's magick in particular, but responding to a larger consciousness.
These questions I may never answer to my satisfaction. They are important because they help define my reality, who I am and why I do what I do. Do I believe in a larger Will, a collective consciousness which has cause and effect in my behavior and in my thoughts and dreams? Am I a vital part of a much larger organism, which includes the entire human species? Do I respond to the collective thoughts and the needs of my species on a subconscious level? How much of me is exclusively me?
Too much to understand all at once. At times like this I reach for a glass and for a bottle of Canadian Crown Royal. I will mull it over.
Chapter Thirteen. Choosing a Reality
To my great pleasure, my publisher defined my revised novel as a “goldmine.” Advance copies generated consistently gushy reviews, which led to endcaps in well-stocked bookstores. Even better reviews followed, and sales soared.
“You nailed it this time, Lowenstein! You've found your alchemy, turning very dull material into gold. I have to say, I knew you had it in you. I'm glad you brought the gangsters into the story, and that bloody sacrifice scene is exquisite. We are cross-selling The Inevitable Consequence of Ambition as a “murder mystery/occult horror” I've already had two offers for the movie rights. Good job, my boy!!”
About
time! Finally I would make some decent money from my writing. I called up Skylark and invited her out to the Seattle Symphony. I felt like a grand success, I was right there with the brass section as they belted-out Janacek's Sinfonietta. Yes! That is exactly how excited I felt! Within a year I'd earned nearly two million dollars in royalties (most of which I added to my comfortable Cayman account.)
With Westcott's encouragement I bought a modest home in his neighborhood on Bainbridge. We spent many enjoyable evenings together on his front porch drinking absinthe or whiskey and discussing future adventures. We talked about going into business together.
***
Jennifer Seriano brought home a tall, handsome Royal Canadian Mountie from the Lower Mainland, and married him in Wiccan style, a handfasting. When the groom jumped the broom, several of his colleagues laughed out loud, but everyone enjoyed the outdoor pagan wedding and feast. It seemed to me, several bridesmaids hooked up with one or more of the visiting policemen.
Mrs. Seriano was overjoyed, having accepted the earlier deception with calm understanding. She now knew both David Stiles and Frederick Hansen invented the reincarnation ritual to protect her and Jennifer. Still, it felt bad having been lied to. The High Priests had used her own religious faith to deceive her. That seemed cruel and devious, but she forgave everyone involved, being so very grateful to have her daughter back. Now, she had two Jennifers.
The Bainbridge Affair Page 7
