Shelling found himself sitting in the middle of nowhere, taking in the glory and majesty of the great outdoors. This was what his intention was anyhow, but the reality was, he didn’t get it. He had long wondered about the obsession that so many proud Americans shared about nature. He had even set up a tent, tried his hand at fishing, and drank a suitcase of Genuine Draft by a bonfire. Yet, no matter how hard he tried to get bit by the camping bug, it only confused and puzzled him further on how so many women adored this shitty lifestyle. Even after coating himself in aerosol spray, he was eaten alive by all the different species and breeds of insects. They ruthlessly swarmed around him, ignoring the ineffective deterrent he had wasted money on. If the sun wasn’t blazing only on him, trying to give him carcinoma, it was showering failure. However, when it rained, it either poured like an Old Testament plague, or it drizzled just enough to be annoying but unrefreshing.
“You know what? Fuck this. Fuck this! I don’t need this shit,” he said aloud to himself, as he threw the empty Coors bottle at the falling sunset. “Fuck the FBI! Fuck my dead nephew! Fuck Dawn Moon! Fuck every vicious bitch who got her kicks from ripping my heart out! And fuck my life! Fuck it! Fuck this!” he shouted, as he struggled to get on his feet, only to lose his balance half way up and collapse on the ground beneath him.
APRIL 8, 1979
PALM SUNDAY
“God blesses those who work for peace. These, my friends, are the true children of God,” the priest said, quoting Matthew 5:9. By peace, the priest covertly meant piece…as in piece of ass…taking notice of the four eye-catching, young women visiting his fraudulent Mass.
Joy, Maria, Bonnie and Emily are sitting in a restored Catholic church that would have easily impressed the most hardened agnostic. The religious building had cathedral interior, antique pews, crimson-colored carpet, and majestic stained-glass windows that looked like they were donated by the Vatican itself. While keeping busy not listening to the priest, the witches are fiddling with the palms. When I say palms, I’m not referring to their hands, but the green and bendable bamboo that were handed out to everyone attending Mass. They notice that everyone is playing with them and shaping them into crosses.
“You need to make your crucifix before the palms dry out,” one elderly patron said, taking notice that the girls were idly holding them and therefore not respecting the tradition.
Joy glanced at her three peers, grinned wickedly, and came up with the blasphemous idea of making their palms into an ankh instead. “Let’s fuck with this old hag,” Joy suggested in a whisper. “What do you say, girls? Let’s have some fun with this.”
Maria fondled the palm and fidgeted in her seat, as she grew progressively pissed with her bamboo splitting on the ends, which made it significantly difficult to manipulate and mold it. Frustrated, she throws hers on the ground, immediately getting a hostile reaction from the rest of the congregation.
“Those palms are blessed, young lady!” one man called out, as if he could mysteriously hear the damaged palms hit the floor. “You don’t throw blessed palms away, you heretic! You burn them, so that the ashes return to Heaven!”
Joy throws her head back and cackles loudly, while her equally amused girlfriends cover their mouths and make an earnest effort not to burst out laughing. They find it silly that these palms are viewed as sacred, much in the same vein that most Americans regard their nation’s flag, which they also find to be quite preposterous. It’s here, at this moment, that the prized queen of deceit comes out of her pleasant flashback.
Joy is sitting in the seat next to her glorified religious guru. She and Mathias were moving down the highway in a black hearse that they had ripped off. Their coven was dead and murdered, Joy having brutally butchered them, using knives and guns instead of her infernal Arae powers. Joy had left sole survivor, Emily Bryant, with the hope that this abominable apostle could convince the pragmatic authorities that Dawn had been the culprit. This, however, made little to no sense, considering that Dawn’s signature never came in bullets or blades. Agent Shelling was not fooled by Emily, but interrogated her only to extract a series of whoppers from her lying lips. He knew better, and wasn’t gullible enough to fall for someone who plainly lacked credibility. That was all over with now, freeing Joy and Mathias to conquer the world as a diabolical duo instead of a complicated coven. The Moving Sidewalks song, Crimson Witch, plays over the installed radio, as Joy and Mathias both bob their heads to the psychedelic tune.
Cheri is clothed in a head scarf, wrap dress, and platform boots. She drives behind a car, which has rear tags that say, Virginia is for Lovers. She notices these license plates while ELO’s version of The Move’s 1972 song, Do Ya, plays over her radio. She impulsively cranks up the volume to try and drown out her distressing thoughts with the loud music, but then quickly turns it back down, out of concern for Wolf’s ear drums. She pulls her Van up to a popular restaurant and once she parks, she grabs her steering wheel with both hands and tries to talk herself through the flood of chaos in her head. She had turned the Van around several times, not able to decide on or commit to one direction. There is a forked stick, which Cheri had tied to the hood, with rope that reached around the entire front of the vehicle. This made her Van look corny rather than groovy, but she believed that the wooden hood ornament would magically guide them in the right direction. She also trusted in something that could only be described as an inner compass leading her on where to go, which would also prove to be significantly disappointing.
“I have no idea where we’re going. I suddenly wish I had been born an Indian, like Dawn, but…” Cheri stopped the pessimism, noticing that her despondent energy was negatively affecting Wolf. “We will emerge victorious,” she said aloud, in an effort to both console Wolf and convince herself, through positive thinking and attitude. “But first we must refuel.” Wolf was just as hungry as she was, so he had no complaints about her spontaneous decision to stop.
Cheri orders a Watergate Salad and a tall glass of tap water, while Wolf waits in the Van with the windows rolled down. She battles her inner demons of doubt and inadequacy, while struggling to keep her strength. Her bones, joints, and lower back were in sheer agony. Being separated from Dawn had taken a real toll on her health, but not nearly as much as it had on her heart. Cheri more than missed her, and love wasn’t a big enough word. She needed Dawn and all that this codependency entailed. She hated herself for having used her, but was determined to make things right, even if it meant giving her own life to save hers. She regretted ever playing her, and now found herself in a game that she should have known she couldn’t win.
As Wolf looks out of the passenger window, that Cheri had thoughtfully left rolled down for him, he spots a passing couple who aren’t nearly as courteous. They are quarreling belligerently, as they walk briskly to his brand-new car.
“I can love Jesus, and not want kids, asshole! Just because I don’t drool over the rancorous ritual of marriage, like you do, doesn’t make me an antichrist. What kind of a name is Hollis, anyway? Sounds pretty gay to me,” Brooke asked her toxic boyfriend, who somehow managed to be a highly respected member of their community. Not only was he a man of influence and authority, but he had the police department in his privileged pocket.
“You’re aching for a breaking, Brooke,” the two-faced minister threatened, as he struggled to keep up with his much younger, ravishing playmate.
He was panting and out of breath, not because she walked faster than him, but because he was overweight and out of shape. This cuck was dressed like a little boy, in a blue sailor shirt that didn’t quite fit him. Hollis Hillman was a special kind of preacher that liked to accuse anyone who disagreed with him on anything, to be a ‘Calvinist,’ which was the highest insult in his warped, little mind.
“Why did I ever sleep with you?” the former astronaut asked her, huffing and puffing as if they had just fucked.
“I don’t know, Hollis. Why did you? Oh, that’s right, it was because I let you shove a
silver spoon up my nubile, 15-year-old, ass.”
“I certainly wasn’t tantalized by that sublime heart you don’t have,” he answered bluntly, after stopping and bending over to grab his trembling knees, which felt like they were about ready to give out. “I should’ve known you’d prove to be a goddamn Calvinist.” While he sounded as if he were trying to cough up a lung, she walked the rest of the way to the wheezing man’s car. Suddenly, she picked up on the fact that she was being watched. Spinning around in anger, she caught glimpse of and made visual contact with her admirer.
Brooke had cast a bewitching spell over Wolf as he watched her turn to look him in the eye. He wasn’t attracted to her in the least, as he could smell the perfume of evil on her, but still…he couldn’t bring himself to look away. Something about her made it impossible to resist staring at her. And as she offered him a wide smile, he saw her pearly whites eerily turn into razor-thin fangs. Her enchanting brown eyes changed to a piercing yellow color, but not like his. Her eyes were distinctively feline. This image of her burned into Wolf’s memory, as he watched her scratch the word, pussy, into the side of the man’s Mercury Cougar, using nothing but her fingers. Wolf, as enthralled as he was by her, shut his eyes just for a moment, hoping that when he reopened them, she’d prove to be an optical illusion.
As he relaxed his blinked eyelids, he saw that the malevolent mirage was gone. Just as he took a breath of relief, he was startled by Brooke popping up on the driver’s side of the Van. She was staring back at him now, through Cheri’s window, still with that spooky Cheshire grin. Her eyes were wide open, and Wolf’s hair stood straight up on its ends, as if he had been struck by lightning. Wolf closed his eyes one more time, and this time, when he opened them back up, Brooke was gone. No trick this time. She had disappeared without a trace, and Wolf wasn’t complaining. Brooke had given cats a bad name, just like too many Christians have done to Christ.
Out of nowhere, a stunning woman came up and sat across from Cheri at her booth. This naked lady had long, straight blonde hair; not dirty blonde, but a shimmery, fairy blonde. Her head was dressed with a crown of beautiful flowers…flowers which were immune to death or decay. She was very easy on the eyes, with aerodynamic features and the body of a Sunset Blvd stripper. However, as beautiful as she was, she didn’t hold a candle to Dawn…at least not in Cheri’s eyes. The only thing that let Cheri know that she wasn’t human was the woman’s tail. She had the tail of a cow, which came out of her backside, just above her butthole. She spoke to Cheri in rhymes.
“Don’t continue this journey,” she warned Cheri. “I know you care for the Cherokee whore, but this pursuit will not fare well for you. It will end badly, and only bring grief and gore.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” the curious Cheri asked the pretty intruder, while she held her fork in front of her, in mid-shovel, and glared at the odd woman who had interrupted her meal.
“My given name is, Huldra. I have no home to speak of. I am despised by God, and have no man to love. I can live my life in eternal beauty and be the desire of every male. Or, I could have sex, gain the strength of ten men, and lose my tail.” Then, as abruptly and as strangely as she had inserted herself into the picture, Huldra got up and walked away from Cheri’s booth.
“Okay, that was weird,” Cheri said to herself, out loud, before going back to dining, as if nothing had happened and no warning had been delivered.
Cheri scooped a handful of the pistachio-based pudding in her hand, and began rubbing it all over her face. She could feel the nuts and mini marshmallows massage her skin, as she washed herself in the acidic pineapple juice. Some patrons stared at her as if she was a certifiable nutcase, while others gazed upon her as if she was simply enjoying her meal by playing with her food. When management saw what she was doing and noticed the scene she was making, he offered her a free steak to take with her, on the condition that she immediately leave the establishment and never return. Cheri brought the doggy bag back to Wolf and let him feast on the juicy rib-eye, while she got them back on the road. Wolf never mentioned the creepy cat-lady that he had briefly encountered, who had nearly scared the shit out of him.
As Cheri climbs into her Dodge Van, little does she know that she is being watched. A serial rapist, who had caught glimpse of her at the last gas pump, had been following her ever since. He drove a 1965 white El Camino with two black stripes on the hood. Her stalker bore a slight resemblance to actor, Burt Reynolds. He had severe slow-transit constipation, so he didn’t need to take many rest stops. He also carried a CB radio in his car and had truckers tip him off on where her Van was, when and if he had lost sight of her. He was foolishly tracking her, having no inkling that she traveled with a protective timber wolf. He figured it would only be a matter of time before the right moment would present itself, and he would have his opportunity to take advantage and have his way.
Before Cheri and Wolf got back on the road to resume their quest, she pulled into a different parking space, which was in front of a somewhat shabby theater. As she and Wolf entered the cinematic venue, the employees immediately got nervous at the sight of Wolf. The manager quickly approached her, but before he could ask her to leave his entertainment business, she made eye contact with him and hypnotically overpowered his feeble mind.
“My friend and I just want to watch a show,” she said. “Let us in, and we will leave after we’re done.”
“Of course, mam,” the dimwitted manager replied. “You and your wolf are welcome. Please accept my compliments. Give her anything she wants!” he ordered his speechless staff.
Within minutes, Cheri and Wolf were in the dark theater, waiting for the show to start. Cheri had chosen the movie, Grease. The film had actually been released almost a year before, but this theater was in the habit of showing films that had been out for a long time, at a discounted price. The counter refreshments, however, were another story, which made it all the more satisfying for Cheri, who was given whatever she asked at no charge. She sat in the isle seat to be next to Wolf, who shared her humungous tub of popcorn that was covered in salt and imitation butter. There were only a few other people in that theater and once they saw Cheri and Wolf, they wound up watching them instead of the picture. Cheri and Wolf enjoyed the musical film, and soon found themselves near the end. They watched the scene where Sandy and Danny both decide to change who they are for the one they love, so that their love will be returned. Though this wasn’t the greatest message, it made Cheri think and seriously consider doing the same. She could never change her heritage, but she was determined to change in whatever ways she could.
Meanwhile, Dawn is stark naked, still confined in the same damp prison with the other snatched captives. She had been sold by the batshit, Richard Ramirez, to an underground black market. She hadn’t had a shower since being bathed and violated by the traffickers, who had roughly scrubbed and molested her, and then rinsed her off with a fire hose. Her body had been deloused, gang raped, beaten by police batons, bruised, and weakened from dehydration and starvation. Because Dawn had been robbed of her strength, she had surrendered all hope of being spared from this dilemma. If she refused to do what they demanded, they would make her suffer, and she knew she was in no shape to fight. If she submitted to everything they told her to do, it would show them that she was weak, which would only make their job easier and more fulfilling. No matter what she did or didn’t do, she would be punished and forsaken. Dawn fought to keep her head above water, but it was becoming more and more difficult.
Sitting in her dark cell, she had a ton of time to let her thoughts wander. As she waited for the persecutors to come for her again, she came to a revelation that she had somehow missed until now. Mathias (aka: Alexei) was born with a German name, but never claimed to have, nor was ever heard speaking with, a German accent. Reuben, on the other hand, bragged about his thick German accent, which he never once showed any evidence of. As Dawn’s mind drifted back to her brief romance with Reuben, she wondered how she never
picked up on this before. This, of course, only credited her love for Reuben, as a detail like this wouldn’t have escaped her otherwise. How did she not notice that Reuben never used any broken English? She couldn’t remember there being any German slang or dialect mixed in with his American language. His W’s sounded like W’s, not V’s. He didn’t make his V’s sound like F’s, or his Th’s sound like Z’s. She also realized that his D’s should have sounded more like T’s. His R’s should have been soft to nonexistent. Come to think of it, Reuben didn’t have a German accent at all. Was she crazy? Was he? Had he been delusional or deceptive? Was he even German? She couldn’t even recall him clearing his throat or sounding like he was coughing up flem? Did he lie to her about who he was or where he was from? Or, was he simply an unhinged lunatic?
“Well, we did meet in a mental hospital,” she said aloud to herself, as if to explain anything that was a bit ill-advised or illogical, with where and how they had been introduced.
Dawn also thought about how instantly they had fallen for each other. Their connection had been an immediate one, which she also chalked up to them being in a psychiatric ward. Did she regret her time with Reuben? Not in the least, or in any shape or form. Their courtship had been unorthodox and unconventional, and there were things about Reuben that made little to no sense, but she knew their love had been real. Nothing about their relationship, as peaked and peculiar as it was, had been a ruse, and that was why she was still so hung up on him. He genuinely loved her and she him, and that was all that mattered to her. Nothing would ever change that or take that away from her, not even her own disturbed mind or his premature death. He may have been a crackpot, a nutcase, and a madman in every other way, but his love for her wasn’t a pretense or a charade, and that was all she needed to know.
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