Dark Reality 7-Book Boxed Set

by Jennifer and Christopher Martucci

  Chapter 14

  Eugene traveled less than fifty miles to his destination and after consulting his GPS navigation system confirmed his arrival at a clapboard house that had been converted to a tavern. Colonial-style with heavily timbered framing, a gabled roof and central chimney and doorway, the architecture suggested construction in the 1700s and meticulous maintenance. Eugene’s extensive education enabled him to perceive such subtleties.

  The Rider Motorcycle Club was inconspicuous looking from the outside. To the untrained eye, it looked like any other biker-friendly hangout: a neat row of motorcycles aligned in front, Harley-Davidson and American flag decals affixed to the doors. The bar was identical to any other that favored motorcycle riding clientele. But Eugene knew otherwise. He knew its inhabitants were far more vested than the colors they donned, that they were united by hate, by fear.

  Eugene despised the fearful.

  He parked his Hummer in the gravel-filled lot alongside the building and strode the front door. He tried the door and half expected it to be locked due to the virtually nonexistent light in the narrow windows. When the handle turned and he pushed open the door, he saw a sparsely populated clubhouse of sorts. Drab and dimly lit, the interior of the saloon was not consistent with the exterior. It displayed a weathered bar area with stools, a pool table and roughly six round tables. As he looked about, Eugene guessed that every surface would be sticky, grimy. Filthy humans, he thought. He inspected the space further and thought it deserted save for the faint sound of music coming from an open door to the rear.

  Light poured from the entryway illuminating pictures along the walls. A mustached man with slickened black hair stared out angrily from behind his glass enshrinement saluting with his right arm extended straight ahead at shoulder level while his banded left arm held his hat across his body. Eugene had never noticed how much Dr. Franklin Terzini resembled Adolf Hitler until the present. Hitler hung alongside Ku Klux Klan photographs, and Confederate and Nazi flags draped on the walls.

  Voices loudened from beyond the doorway and footsteps approached quickly. The inhabitants of the bar had become aware of his presence.

  Five men moved through the doorway, one brandished a pool cue. All had smoothly shaven heads, all were heavily tattooed. Eugene wondered why they, or anyone else for that matter, would voluntarily mutilate their bodies with such atrocious shapes and colors. Having childish pictures drawn on one’s flesh was a premise so ridiculous, only a human could have thought it up. Yet, so many humans did. It was as if one had decided it was a good idea and the rest followed suit, like a flock of wretched sheep. Eugene posited that it was this very behavior that was the ruination of mankind, their inability to think rationally, and for themselves. Instead of self-guided learning and exploration, they wandered aimlessly incapable of any form of originality.

  Eugene longed to execute them where they stood for their unoriginality, their pathetic need for acceptance. They strode through confidently, clad in matching leather vests over denim jackets with a red and white patch bearing a Greek mythological figure of a winged harpy at its center on the breast pocket. Just below the patch was a Greek cross with the four ends of the arms bent in a clockwise direction. Also known as a swastika, the insignia was the clearest indicator of white supremacy in Western countries. He fought to suppress laughter at the notion that the idiots with corresponding haircuts, identical outfits and similar ink drawings disfiguring their skin, actually considered themselves superior to anyone, living or dead. The idea was preposterous, pathetic.

  He watched as the men stopped in their tracks as soon as they saw him. They said nothing, just looked on in silence. Eugene did not speak either. He simply stepped up to a stool at the bar and sat, waiting to be served.

  A burly, barrel-chested man in his mid-forties walked behind the bar and stood before Eugene.

  “I’ll have a draft beer,” Eugene ordered and placed money on the bar.

  The bald and brawny biker looked quizzically at him then set about retrieving a glass and filling it. Eugene divided his attention between the man before him and the mirror. The reflective glass enabled him to keep an eye on the others that milled about. They were all well-constructed humans, hearty-looking and substantial. Eugene could not wait to engage them. He could feel the tension mounting in the room, could smell it in the air.

  He spied one of the men move at his back. A tall man with pale eyebrows and a swastika tattooed on his throat approached the seat beside him. He ordered a beer from the barkeep as well.

  “I’ll have what he’s having,” Neck Tattoo said then trained his gaze on Eugene.

  “You know this is a private club, right pal,” he stated more than asked.

  “I do,” Eugene answered flatly staring straight ahead.

  “You don’t look like a member from another charter.”

  “Because I’m not; do I look like a bald-headed fool who has people scribble on my skin for entertainment?” Eugene interrupted.

  The man with the neck tattoo became visibly agitated; he appeared to be calculating his next move. Eugene fought back a tremor of excitement.

  “What’re you doing here then?” Neck Tattoo said between clenched teeth.

  “I thought it was Ladies Night,” Eugene stated calmly and turned to face the man with the neck tattoo.

  He discerned the look of surprise on his face. The man with the neck tattoo was clearly not used to defiance.

  “Ladies night,” he spat with confusion lining his features, then looked to the barkeep.

  “Yes, Ladies Night,” Eugene affirmed as he turned and looked at the rest of the men in the bar. “Is it not? Because all I see in in front of me are six little bitches.”

  Eugene loathed the use of colloquial lingo and profanity but felt it necessary in his current circumstance; low-functioning humans related to such debasing language, and responded strongly to it.

  “Bitches? Why don’t you take off those glasses and that cap, asshole?” the man ordered as he stood up and faced Eugene.

  “Why don’t you try and take them off me?” Eugene responded calmly.

  At that, the bartender produced a shotgun he’d likely grabbed from beneath the bar, cocked it and pointed it directly at Eugene.

  Eugene disdained armaments of any kind. He believed weaponry was reserved for the weak and cowardly, and in this instance, the unoriginal. He abhorred how human beings clung to their shiny guns, falsely comforted by the power they erroneously offered.

  “You think you’re fucking funny pal?” the man with the shotgun asked.

  “I say we waste him and throw his body in the river,” Neck Tattoo said.

  “You walked into the wrong bar asshole,” a voice said behind him.

  Eugene smiled; a full, teeth-baring smile. Neck Tattoo jerked his head back, shocked.

  “Oh, I’m in just the right place,” Eugene replied as he immediately snapped his hand forward and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun aiming it away from himself as the bartender pulled the trigger.

  The weapon discharged with a thunderous boom and blasted against Neck Tattoo’s chest, a bloodied crater left in its wake.

  “What the fuck!” one yelled.

  “Kill that mother-fucker!” another rallied.

  Eugene then yanked the gun, pulled with the entirety of his might, as the barkeep refused to relinquish his grip.

  The shotgun and the barkeep sailed over the bar. Eugene maintained control of the gun and landed the burly barkeep on his back. Stunned and in a prone position, the barkeep did not have time to react to the enormous booted foot that crashed down against his neck crushing his windpipe and severing his spine instantly.

  With the shotgun in his hands, Eugene aimed it at the remaining four men.

  A hush befell the motorcycle club.

  The identically dressed hairless humans adorned with inky symbols about their exposed flesh began to produce an enchanting aroma. Their scent perf
umed the air. Eugene pushed back the rising exhilaration within him, wanted to delay his enjoyment. He turned his head to one side, away from the Neo-Nazi club members, to savor the smell of fear briefly.

  As he did so, the men became emboldened. They stepped backward, awakened from their stunned silence and immobility.

  “Oh, I bet you wish I didn’t have this gun,” he said.

  Eugene proceeded to eject the residual shells from the shotgun and threw the emptied weapon behind the bar.

  Seeing his gesture, the men exchanged quick glances then charged. Eugene smiled as he caught the first man in stride and grabbed him by the back of his head and slammed him face-first into the bar. As his upper body bounced back ricocheting off the worn wood of the bar, it revealed crushed and distorted features crumbled and misaligned from impact. Blood bubbled from his nose and mouth as he wheezed his final breaths.

  Eugene wished he could prolong the man’s death, extend his anguish and suffering and gaze in his eyes as life escaped him. But such luxuries could not be afforded.

  He allowed himself a fleeting glance at the dying man as a biker rushed him from behind. The man dropped his shoulder as he charged, making plain his intention to tackle Eugene to the ground. What the foolish, testosterone-driven human motivated by emotion did not anticipate was Eugene’s lightning fast reflexes.

  Eugene caught the supremacist in the seconds before his shoulder smashed into his body and hurled him over the bar. His body slammed against the glass behind the bar.

  Bottles of liquor placed on ledges along the length of the glass crashed to the ground as the mirror itself exploded, showering innumerable shards of reflective glass in every direction. Dichroic slivers rained to and fro like dazzlingly deadly daggers.

  The rusher remained unmoving in a pile of broken bottles and bloodied glitter. Eugene was certain he had not survived the impact. If the Neo-Nazi biker somehow retained a modicum of vitality, Eugene would not be able to enjoy its evaporation.

  Two others remained. One still held his pool cue and descended upon Eugene immediately.

  Eugene turned just as the stick was being swung at his head. He reached up a massive hand and grabbed at it, snapping it in half. He turned the cue in his hand aiming the splintered and jagged edge outward then thrust it into the man’s abdomen. The stick passed through with the ease of a knife passing through warm butter and jutted out from his lower back giving him the appearance of a grisly human kebab. Color drained from the impaled man’s face as he bled out. His features twisted in shock first, then pain. Eugene wanted to stay with him, to watch his lifeblood leave him and enjoy his slow death. But he did not have time for such a luxury. Another remained.

  The last man standing did not exhibit fear outwardly, but his body chemistry suggested otherwise. Eugene detected the vaguest whiff fear-tinged sweat.

  With his head gleaming in the overhead lighting like a pallid spectral dome, the remaining man projected bravery. Eugene doubted any human could be foolish enough to still believe he was capable of posing a challenge to him. He wondered how, despite his display of obvious superiority and power, the man remained delusional and believed he had a chance at survival.

  “You don’t scare me, asshole. I’ve killed bigger than you on the inside,” he declared defiantly.

  Eugene guessed his bold talk was more for his own encouragement than intimidation. Prison references did not impress him, it simply indicated that his poor attention to detail and overall sloppiness had gotten him caught and subsequently incarcerated.

  The man moved toward him swiftly and swung at him. Eugene allowed the punch to connect with his face and land against his jaw. When the blow barely registered any pressure, he was promptly disappointed. He thought the man would have more power. He ought to have more power. He was not shoddily constructed or laden with excessive body fat as most other humans were. He was tall and muscular; a formidable specimen by lesser, human standards.

  Clearly heartened, the man struck again. The strike collided with Eugene’s nose and shattered his sunglasses. The man paused and regarded Eugene’s feline eyes and finally displayed fear.

  Satisfied, Eugene spoke.

  “My turn,” he said calmly then lashed his fist forward at full force into the man’s ribs,

  Bone surrendered readily to his strength, collapsing and crumpling on contact.

  The man howled out in pain but his scream was silenced by Eugene’s balled fist striking his jaw, fracturing his face and mangling his features. The man fell to the floor unable to catch his breath.

  Eugene felt the excitement swell inside. Only this time, he did not deny himself. Rather, he picked the writhing man from the floor by his flaccid neck and rewarded himself with an unadulterated view of his death.

  The man stubbornly clung to life. Eugene began to apply steady and deliberate pressure to his throat, squeezing just hard enough to prolong his passing as he suffocated, slowly.

  As Eugene dropped the man’s lifeless body, a powerful ripple of pleasure flowed through him, rose and crashed like a colossal wave breaking in a frenzied sea. His body tensed at once and held momentarily then released gradually.

  Gratified, Eugene scanned the room, appreciating the carnage. He realized that his time spent regenerating in Dr. Franklin Terzini’s laboratory did not hinder his performance or dull his razor-sharp senses; he hadn’t lost a thing.