WICKED AWAKE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual names, characters and places are entirely coincidental. The reproduction of this work in full or part is forbidden without written consent from the author.
Electronic Edition
Copyright 2020 Merrill David
Dedication
This book is dedicated to those unfortunate beings who found themselves at the Great White concert in the Station nightclub in West Warwick, Rhode Island, on February 20, 2003. About three years prior, I lived in a rental house around the corner from where this tragedy occurred. I knew at least one of the victims, as well as one of the survivors. As a fan of that band, I probably would have been at the show myself, had I not moved out of state a few months earlier to chase a job opportunity. God rest their souls and may their families and loved ones find peace…
Part 1 - Trials and Tribulations
Modern humans are characterized by their erect posture, bipedal motion, and manual dexterity. They are equipped with larger, more complex brains than their predecessors - brains that feature a particularly well-developed neocortex, prefrontal cortex and temporal lobes - all of which enable high levels of abstract reasoning, language, problem solving, sociality, and culture through social learning. These characteristics contributed greatly to the evolutionary success of the homo sapiens.
But what does it really mean to exist in this world as a human? Most would unequivocally agree that every human life span contains some percentage of felicity and anguish, with many choices to be made along the way. These ultimatums may lead to more celebratory events and/or pitfalls, depending upon which path was chosen.
Granted, one is unable to choose their starting point or rooting grounds, by whom or in what location they will ultimately be nurtured and grown. Depending on where your spin on the wheel-of-fate lands and places you, and the conditions and tribulations attached to your existence, you undoubtedly will resultantly endure some amount of physical and emotional pain and suffering in your life span.
The human existence is like a vast stretching spectrum. Some may be monumentally blessed with riches, fame, and glory while others are quite satisfied with the simplicities of life. These qualities are quite commonplace and often under-appreciated; the ability to breathe freely and unassisted, to not just see beauty in nature with the eyes but also to recognize and appreciate such actively, to sense changes in the environment such as a breeze on a balmy summer afternoon; to be able to think and strategize, capable of feeling emotions and expressing the same.
Many humans are content to exist in the simplest terms possible, satisfied to be able to enjoy these simple comforts of life. They thrive on being good persons, exuding of character and caring for their fellow man.
But to others the desire to be the greatest, to dominate, the possession of power - consumes them. They launch their quest for that which they seek, risking all they possess and at whatever cost possible. Some, upon realizing their goal is unattainable, destroy those who possess the prize so that person may no longer have what the desperate man cannot.
Each human at one time or another will peer between the cracks in their virtual fence to catch a glimpse of what exists on the other side. Some are searching for fame, riches, or glory while others lust excellence and relevance. The strength, power, and immortality they seem to lack appears in yonder yard much like grass that appears greener; the fruit from that orchard across the way manifests itself to be riper, juicier, and tastier.
Most possess the wisdom in knowing they can always fertilize their grass to brighten its sheen. They may plant and nurture new fruit bearing trees that may yield a harvest equal to or even rivaling that of their neighbors. This comforts them and they move on with their current existence.
But there will always be those that continue to overindulge and attempt to reach through that crevice in the divider, hoping to grasp that for which they long. Some reach their trophy with a few minor scratches but without suffering excess harm.
Others get their wrists snatched and find themselves being pulled through the partition only to be violently attacked by seemingly mindless dead folks who ultimately chew out their throats and then snack upon their well-developed neocortex, prefrontal cortex and temporal lobes.
And then, there is a minute percentage of society who are quite amenable to the concept of exchanging everything up to, and including, their lives for the opportunity to be celestial, Godlike, supernatural.
And so,the decadence and decomposition of man begins….
Chapter One - Listen to the Blowflies
Earle Cabell Federal Building and U.S. District Court, Downtown Dallas (Present Day) It was January 18th in what the locals call “the Big D,” the city of Dallas, Texas. Along with its neighbor to the west, Fort Worth, the two combine to make up the giant urban center known as the “DFW Metroplex.” Dallas is also the home of the Earle Cabell Federal Building and United States District Court, located in the downtown area at the corner of Commerce and Griffin.
It was 1:35 p.m., and outside the temperature was 50 degrees Fahrenheit - a typical early afternoon temperature for the month of January in this region. Anomalous , however, were the large black masses slowly passing in the midday horizon. These were not nimbostratus clouds or flocks of crows. They were not balloons, nor banners being towed behind small, singleengine planes, advertising Crazy Ray’s prices at the Furniture Warehouse. These were insects of some sort - large masses of them.
They had been spotted throughout north Texas and had made their way into Dallas County over the last few weeks. However, the masses went unnoticed by most and got no attention from the local news media whatsoever. These were blowflies, and they had a story to tell, but no one was listening.
Inside the Cabell Courthouse, in the courtroom of the Honorable Presiding Judge Curtis J. Parker, a murder trial had been ongoing for the past nine weeks and was about to conclude. The man sitting in the defendant’s seat was one Jacob “Jake” Hathaway. He was a large Caucasian male, at 6’3” in height and weighing in at 230 pounds, with brown hair cut in a military or crew- cut style, and crystal blue eyes.
He wore a black and white horizontal striped Dallas County Jail prisoner jumpsuit with a ballistic vest over the top of that to protect his upper torso, should he be shot at. Even in this attire, it was apparent from all the onlookers that Hathaway’s physique comprised solid muscle, with very little body fat.
Hathaway had always taken pride in his body and had trained hard, accruing his sculpted muscular mass through years of hard work and weight training. Not nearly as strong as his core was Jake’s mind. Throughout the years, he had acquired a case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, a condition which made it difficult for his mind not to wander during times such as this. This was a moment when he would have been best served fully concentrating on the circumstances unfolding.
Jake began to take a mental voyage, visiting the time his story began:
Born on July 15 thirtyfive years earlier, Jacob “Jake” Hathaway was the first offspring of Charles and Clara Hathaway. Five years later, Jake’s brother Richard (Rich) was born. Jake’s parents, Charles and Clara, were devout Catholics, and they raised their sons J acob and Richard in the same manner, sending them to Catholic schools throughout their early impressionable years. The boys were taught everything the public-school kids learned, while also studying and memorizing prayers, religious concepts, making bi-weekly confessions, receiving their first holy communion, and eventually earning their confirmation in their late teen years.
This happy middle-class family of four lived in the small town of West Greenwich, Rhode Island. This was a quaint New England town o
f about 6,000 residents and was one of the least densely populated towns in what was the smallest state in the United States.
West Greenwich was in Kent County, along the western half of the state. It was about a twenty-minute drive south of Providence and about thirty minutes east of Connecticut. Residents on either side of that Connecticut / Rhode Island border found that where you were situated in relation to that line played quite a powerful role in the way your life eventually played out for you. Much of your life was predetermined for you and depended greatly upon which side you grew up on. It was somewhat of a Mason/Dixon line for this neck of the woods.
If you were on the Rhode Island side, you lived in a state where one could drive from one corner to the farthest end in less than an hour. In the “Biggest Little State in the Union,” you were very likely to root for Boston Red Sox baseball in the spring and lounge on the sands of your favorite ocean side beach in the summertime while enjoying an ice cold Del’s lemonade.
You would be fond of the fall foliage yet grow tired of the annual parade of leaf peepers, and then bundle up for the harsh winters while consuming bowls of steaming clam chowder and rooting for the New England Patriots football team. You were also considered to be a “New Englander”, and you washed down your Maine Lobster and blueberry pie with Sam Adams’ Boston Ale, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Being a New Englander, particularly a Rhode Islander, was like belonging to an elite private club, a fraternity whose members had their own beliefs, language, phrases, culture, and accent.
There, submarine san dwiches were called “grinders,” water fountains in the elementary school were referred to as “bubblers,” athletic shoes were “sneakers,” and if someone claimed something was “wicked” they weren’t calling it evil, they were using the word as an equivalent to "very," only stronger.
If you were living on the west side of the line, in Connecticut, you behaved like and held yourself to be more like a New Yorker. You most likely spoke with a thick accent, that bad attitude and quick temper New Yorkers are rumored to possess. You had to ride those dirty subway trains and be loyal to one of those big city sports teams (but you still had to decide if you would be for the Yankees and Giants or the Mets and the Jets). Your pizza was thinner - and you loved living inthe New York groove, listening to Billy Joel’s 52nd Street album repetitively, with a good dose of Sinatra mixed in as well.
When Jake was in his early preteen years, his grandfather on his mother’s side, Grandpa Bill, moved in with the family after suffering a major stroke which limited his mobility and selfreliance. Grandpa Bill, “Pops”, had a completely bald head caused by Father Time; no shaving was involved as would become a fashion trend later with men actually taking razor to scalp for the very same look. Pops wore dark framed glasses and utilized a four-legged walking cane to traverse about the house. He was a Camel brand cigarette chain smoker and a boxing guru.
As a young adult Bill boxed as an amateur and after that he trained some of the up and coming youth at a local gym that his good friend owned. Bill was a great fan of local Rhode Island boxer Vinny Paz, previously known as Vincent Pazienza, an Italian-American former world champion in the lightweight and light middleweight classes. However, Paz was probably best known as the "Pazmanian Devil."
Now that Grandpa Bill’s training days at the gym were over, young Jake became his new personal boxing prodigy. Punching a speed bag, skipping rope, and jogging around the neighborhood under the watchful eye of his Pops, Jake’s after-school activities consisted of training and working on these exercises, with an occasional smidgen of homework mixed in.
Jake would always treasure the time spent training with his Grandpa Bill - inspiring him to eventually work his way up the ranks until he was boxing competitively in his early teens. Jake would enter boxing tournaments down at the closest YMCA in North Kingstown where, at the age of 15, he met his best friend, a red haired and freckle faced white kid named Jimmy Griggs.
Jimmy Griggs hailed from the nearby town of Exeter. He was not blessed with the size and athletic ability that Jake possessed. However, where Jimmy may have lacked talent and girth, he made up for it in aggression and effort.
Jimmy’s father was a Rhode Island State Police Trooper, he was tough and disciplined and he always raised his son to instinctively act with a similar mindset. Jake and Jimmy had much in common. They shared a passion for pretty girls (and covering their bedroom walls with posters of the likes of Heather Locklear and Heather Thomas). They were both huge Sox and Pats fans (however Jimmy’s favorite professional sports franchise beyond compare was the NHL team, the Hartford Whalers). They dreamed of someday riding in or better yet, owning the cool fast cars that they read about in the magazines, and they were all about the rock music of the times; rock bands such as the Scorpions, Van Halen, Whitesnake, Dokken, Ratt, Great White, Guns N Roses, and so on.
But their favorite band of all derived from England and was known not as much for their hair like the previously mentioned bands as they were for their psychedelic lyrics and sound. The music group was Pink Floyd. The two teens particularly admired “The Wall,” an album the band released in 1979, which was followed up by a movie based on the same.
The main character in “The Wall,” a rock band lead singer named Pink, found his walls and world closing in on him as a result of his combined drug use and mental health issues. Pink lost his father (killed in World War II) at an early age, and as an adult rock star he experienced suffocation due to the swarm of stalking fans constantly smothering him and seeking a glimpse of the star.
When the boys were 16 years old, they enjoyed hanging out together on the weekends and enjoying the outdoors by swimming, playing baseball and basketball, riding bicycles, and so on in the summertime. Playing ice hockey, sledding, and skiing occupied much of their time in the winter months.
On one Friday night in July, the teens decided to go camping on an abandoned piece of property not far from the Griggs’ house, and on the edge of Beach Pond. They pitched a large tent and built a healthy campfire from available kindling the elder pine trees had discarded during the December solstice a year earlier. Being young, adventurous, daring, and dumb, they decided it would be cool to down some beers that they had ‘appropriated’ from the mini fridge in Mr. Griggs’ grungy garage/man cave.
Around 1:00 a.m., and after they had consumed about four Narragansett beers apiece, the duo decided to commandeer a canoe leaning against a nearby stack of four-foot fireplace ready logs and set out rowing into the dark, to the deepest midpoint of the murky pond.
Then, as if they had not already made enough poor choices that evening, Jake excitedly requested, “hey dude, you wanna hear something really loud?” Slowly, with his right hand, he pulled a surprise out from the front pocket of his blue jean jacket. Jimmy’s eyes got large as he noticed that in Jake’s hand was a quarter stick of dynamite, otherwise known as an M80.
“Oh, hell yeah, man -let me light it!” was the reply from the smaller, even more intoxicated Jimmy.
Jake handed Jimmy the explosive and a small red Bic lighter. Jimmy sparked the rusting lighter and held the flame to the wick of the waiting M80. The wick hissed as it caught the flame and the ember gradually worked its way toward the mini powder keg.
Jimmy yelled “WOO HOOO!!” He moved his left arm back and prepared to launch the explosive forward with a baseball pitcher’s type of motion. But just before he could release the explosive, he clumsily struck the bill of his ball cap with his left hand, causing the boom stick to fall down into the collar of his green and white Hartford Whalers hooded sweatshirt.
Jimmy was slow to decipher the magnitude of what had just happened, and by the time he realized his mistake and struggled to remove the M80 from his shirt, it was too late. The gunpowder sparked and BOOOMMMMMM!!!!! The small red stick exploded just centimeters from Jimmy’s skin, causing a large chunk of his neck to be ripped from his body as massive amounts of blood gushed underneath his Whalers shirt.
The now unconscious lad was thrown into the water, having suffered extreme trauma to the left side of his neck and his lower chin area. Jimmy sank like a rock into the cold lake, and Jake did not hesitate to jump in after him.
Being dark outside and the water being quite diluted, Jake found it hard to see and navigate in the cloudy depths of water below him.
He called out loudly, yelling “JIMMY!!! WHERE ARE YOU?? JIMMY!!!!”
Young Jake tried to rely more on his sense of touch, feeling around with both hands in an effort to locate his buddy, but to no avail. The search was fruitless.
Jake abandoned the capsized canoe and as quickly as he could, paddled back to shore and ran all the way to the Griggs’ house about a quarter mile away.
Jake pounded on the front door and was quickly greeted in the doorway by Trooper Griggs. “Jake, what’s wrong? Where’s Jimmy?” Sobbing and in a panicked frenzy, Jake disclosed the details of the incident in the lake. Trooper Griggs threw on some sweatpants and a jacket and raced back to the scene, with his footlong metal law enforcement Streamlight brand flashlight in hand to aid in the search for his son.
A countless number of fellow police officers, firemen, and caring neighbors responded to help in the search. The inquiry would continue for hours, stretching into the daylight hours and until all involved were exhausted and unable to continue. In the end, the expedition was all done in vain. Jimmy was nowhere to be found.
Authorities returned days later and dredged the body of water to reveal Jim my’s lifeless, blooddrained body in the dungy depths of Beach Pond. The Medical Examiner’s Autopsy Report would later indicate that the cause of death was not drowning - rather it was exsanguination, or death by excessive blood loss, which did Jimmy in.
Jake always felt guilty about and second guessed the events leading up to Jimmy’s death. What if he had not suggested that they drink some beers and suppose he had not provided the M80. What if Jake had just brought some Playboy magazines instead? The boys probably never would have made it to the water and would have been content in downing some cold ones and ogling Miss July in the centerfold.
Wicked Awake Page 1
