Wolf Howling

by Brian van Brunt

  Samsara

  Wolf Howling

  Samsara: Wolf Howling

  Copyright © 2018 by Brian Van Brunt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any printed or electronic form, without the prior written permission of the author, except for certain non- commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher, Light Rising Publishing.

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, products, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  My deepest thanks to Cynthia and Jon for coming to my rescue with layout, the audiobook, and Web design. To Melissa, Sarah, Lara, Bethany, and Amy; your edits and suggestions helped make this book a better project. Also to Melissa, thank you for your edits and timeless advice on stabbing murder practices.

  Light Rising Publishing

  www.lightrisingpublishing.com

  Design & Layout

  Cynthia E. Gomez Light Rising Publishing

  Cover

  Original cover painting “Black Cat in Alley”

  by Sean Friloux www.seanfriloux.com

  Cover design by Austin Albany

  Photos

  Brian Van Brunt

  Illustrations

  “Side-Eye Rabbit” and “Cassandra’s Neck”

  by Bethany Van Brunt

  “What Big Teeth You Have”

  by Emily Van Brunt

  Margin Art by Emily and Bethany Van Brunt

  Printed in the United States of America.

  This book contains mature themes, descriptions of graphic violence, sexual content, and harsh language. Reader discretion is advised.

  Dusk

  Chapter 1

  New Orleans, Spring, Tuesday 4:45pm

  She finally found him, sitting on the curb in front of Rouses Market. He had eluded her for a long time. She knew he had a few regular spots and was checking those first, amongst the rabble of the Quarter. Sinclair was a creature of habit and this fact made her life easier. She strolled by his apartment and saw his cat; she knew from past visits if Faulkner was in the window, Sinclair was not in the apartment. His furry little familiar stuck by his side when he was home.

  She wore a tank top with a lightweight brown linen chemise and dust colored tights. Her dirty blonde hair was tied back in a mixture of dreadlocks and a tangle of waves. She blended into the city; at a glance, she was just another homeless street kid passing down Decatur in the early summer heat of the Big Easy.

  One time, she had found Sinclair inside a bar on Frenchman Street. He was listening to jazz while sipping a gin and tonic with too many limes, as always. She remembered laughing at that; he was like some kind of pirate in danger of catching scurvy. Him and those limes. Twice, she found him spinning back and forth on a diner stool of the Crescent City Grille at the low end of Bourbon. Another handful of times, she found him in the back of the Jackson Square Cathedral. Yet today, he wasn’t in any of these places.

  She knew him well. She had spent time following him. It was part of her assignment. She knew Sinclair lost himself in music and drinking, those infamous distractions of the city. Which was why the two of them had been at this for so long. His lack of focus.

  She tugged at Oliver, her big, speckled, hound dog, as he trailed behind her. He sniffed a bit too long at some unknown bit of trash on the sidewalk. She pulled on the worn rope leash and he came to her side. Her outfit and dog fit the motif of the city. They both blended in, as she was required to do. Just part of the gig.

  She crossed down Saint Ann on the way to Bourbon. Colorful rainbow flags hung at the end of the street against a backdrop of flickering gas lamps outside the Hotel de Lion. She turned left onto Bourbon and walked past Paradise Lost. No Sinclair today. She knew this was another favorite spot of his. Probably because of the blonde, large-chested bartender. Yet another one of Sinclair’s problems. He was drawn to distraction at every turn; this trifecta of music, women, and booze. She had this fear he would never figure things out. She sighed and continued down Bourbon to St. Peter’s. Then she had a sudden inspiration and tugged at Oliver’s rope, leading him to another spot where he might be.

  She followed her hunch and thought about the last time she lost him for so long. She had finally found him in the old church, Our Lady of Guadalupe. He was in the shrine at the back; just sitting there and looking at the flames of the candles. God damn tortured artists. They were exhausting.

  She was tired, bone tired, and was more than ready to move onto her next assignment; she was weary of Sinclair. On top of that, the heat and humidity of this modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah had lost any brief charm it had once held. This made his lack of motivation and direction drain her even more.

  She turned the corner and saw him. Of course, here he was. He sat on the curb like a damn homeless person. She sighed again and made an unpleasant comment under her breath about tortured artists. Maybe her next assignment would be someone a little more exciting, or at least in a better climate. Anyway, time to get this going. Oliver sat down obediently at her side. She knelt behind Sinclair.

  And it began again.

  Chapter 2

  New Orleans, Spring, Tuesday, 4:45pm

  I found the note when I woke up at one o’clock in the afternoon. I know, I know, it’s the afternoon; but I slept in. I do that sometimes. Don’t be a fuck about it.

  I’m at my desk in Monroe Hall overlooking the university quad. Outside, the campus is green and bright, full of cypress trees. It’s a warm spring day. I look at the trees closely and I can’t be sure; the movement is difficult to see from this far away. It probably isn’t them. Not this time…probably. Valentine and Mr. Conrad aren’t around.

  I found the folded sheet of paper tucked underneath my door; she must have left it for me sometime early in the morning. Like the bitch had some right to come to my door after I went to sleep. She just slid it underneath like it didn’t matter. Which, of course, is the problem really; that it didn’t matter, not to her. I didn’t matter. Not to that fucking bitch. Not anymore. Probably not ever, now that I think about it.

  See. But I do matter. She should know that. I’ll make her see that. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I do that sometimes. Just stay with me. It’s not that hard. Don’t be a fuck about it. My next class is the History and Systems of Psychology. It starts in twenty minutes. I won’t be attending. Not today. Today is a special day. That fucking bitch made it a special day. Yes, she did.

  I read the note, again. My ‘Dear John’ letter, if you will. That’s just a figure of speech, you know. Because my name is not John. My name is Albert. Not even close to John. Anyway, I finish reading it and I start over again. It’s short, 100 words exactly. “I treated you bad.” Well, at least she got that part correct. But the goddamn hubris of her to write this. I read it once more and then I go away. I disappear for bit. When I come back, the note is all ripped up. Just scattered bits of paper on my desk. Which, if I am being honest with you, is a surprise. My desk looks like a goddamn mess of confetti, like someone had a parade. But there isn’t a parade today. And I don’t remember how it got ripped up. That happens sometimes.

  The paper bits litter my otherwise SPECTACULARLY clean desk. I write that word in all CAPS for emphasis. Just for you. You should know this about me—I like to keep things clean and in order. The world is fucked up enough, so this really is the least I can do. Take a fucking minute or two and do things the way they are supposed to be done. It’s not so hard with the right dedication; the right sense
of purpose. It’s right there in The Book of Albert. Chapter 1:2, “Preparation, after all, is the first commandment.” Too bad most people don’t take the time anymore. America ain’t so great again after all, is it?

  Amid the ripped paper, a single word is visible, not completely torn like the rest of the mess. Just one word and it looks up at me. The word is RIGHT. She made it all lowercase, but I put it in all CAPS here, again for emphasis. Just for you, so you know it’s important. I want you to see what a goddamn fucking whore writes like. I want you to understand what happens next. How she lit the fuse. How she primed my pump. Right? RIGHT.

  My fingers find some solace as I reach for the hardwood stick I keep next to my desk. I set it across my lap. It’s slightly thinner than a broom handle, but just as long. I find the wood soothing as my fingers tighten around it. I’ve had it for a long time. We’ve seen some action together, the stick and me. Mr. Conrad has gotten a smack or two over the years, that beady-eyed mother-fucker. Valentine, not so much. That cunt gives me the willies.

  Anyway, as I was saying, there’s a loyalty between the stick and me. Like Excalibur for Lancelot, Santiago to the old man. It’s a deeper commitment, spanning decades. Unlike how long that bitch Olivia lasted. I had her for two months. I’ve had my stick for much longer than that.

  And listen, you have to know her name. That’s why I said it. I won’t say it again. I won’t give her the satisfaction. I have a new sound for her name now. I prefer BITCH and FUCKING WHORE. But that can get confusing. So here you are. My narrative device to you. I told you her given name. End of the last paragraph. You can read it again if you forgot. I won’t say it again. I’m trying to not be a fuck about it, I just thought you should know. Let’s move on.

  I sweep the torn paper into the trashcan and make a mental note to empty it later. I don’t like a mess, even in the trashcan. There’s a pile of books organized by ascending size stacked neatly at the corner of my desk. That’s how I like to do it. It’s ordered that way and soothes me some. A flyer for Pirate Alley Ghost Tours sits tucked between the books and the lamp. I allow it to be there because it has significance, an exception to the rule, if you will. On the top of the book pile is my favorite book. It’s small, with a red and black cover, and is face down. I can see Mr. Sinclair’s face staring up at me from the back material.

  I rest the stick on my lap and pick up the book. I like the way it feels in my hands. Firm and soothing. Reassuring whispers. Words like “BESTSELLER” and “NEW YORK TIMES LIST 10 Weeks Running!” are on the front cover. If I’m being honest with you, I’m still mad at myself for reading it so fast the first time. Just took the whole thing in one big gulp. I didn’t know. I should have savored it; relished it. But I just took it all at once, skipping Professor Carter’s Introduction to Sociology to read it. No big loss, though; not like I missed the class. I say this out loud to my empty room, “Well, I wouldn’t say I was missing it, Bob.”

  That’s from a movie I like. I’m telling you this because sometimes I get thinking so fast I lose people that I’m engaged with. And I’m engaged with you, aren’t I? It’s important for an author to engage their reader. I don’t want to lose people, so I slow down. This allows them to keep up. They say some fish never stop swimming. Just always moving through the water. My mind is like that. Always moving and never at rest. Listen, don’t be a fuck about it. It’s just the way I am.

  Sinclair’s book is an inspiration to me. More than that really. It’s my goddamn Mecca. My own personal Jesus. I’m not sure why it took me so long to find my path, to see my compass swing true north, but when I read that book, I knew. It gave me a sense of purpose. All my suffering suddenly had meaning, things came into focus.

  Like it says in Chapter 5:13, “Travel in my footprints on the beach; I shall carry you and you will never be forsaken.” Reading Sinclair’s book was like reading the note the BITCH slid all sneaky-snakey under my door. I went away for a little bit and came back with this spark of inspiration. I had the most fascinating ideas. The book helped me assemble the bomb; that BITCH lit the fuse. I set the book back, facedown, on the pile where it goes.

  I’m laughing now. I feel like that is important for you to know. It’s an unsettling low chuckle. It’s ‘cause I’m thinking about that movie again. No, I wouldn’t miss attending class today, no sir. How much could I miss it, really? You should understand that as well. Everything at this school is dumbed down for the good ol’ boy network. Fraternity keggers and playing football gives those special few a green wave of privilege into cushy jobs around Louisiana. I’ll be fine catching up. Probably could teach the class if I needed to.

  I pick up the stick again and tap it on the floor and think about that BITCH. I can’t believe that goddamn snatch thinks she can just end it with me. Tap. Tap. Tap. She just thinks it’s as easy as breaking up through a ridiculous Dear John letter? I’m Albert, bitch. Tap. Tap. Tap. She knows that. I find this entire day unsettling. Though, it’s unsettling in this kind of apocalypse meets the rapture way. I’m not sure if you can understand, but that’s how I’m feeling. Like I’m shedding something and there is this bright, white-hot peace underneath it all. Like burning bush shit. Swallowed by a whale. I’m on a journey and I’m sliding down the chute pretty damn fast.

  I put the stick down and place both my hands across the smooth, clean desk. It’s been built for sturdiness and longevity. I can feel my thoughts moving in the water. Sleek and legion. They do that sometimes. When it happens, the smoothness of the wood calms me down some. All part of the larger plan. And with this BITCH, it’s not like I hadn’t expected it. She was recruited like the others. Sly bitch. Black goth-haired, sly bitch with saggy tits already at nineteen. Who has saggy tits at nineteen? The first time she took off her bra, they just sagged down. And that’s what my erection did as well, I’ll tell you that. And you should know this as well, she was a drunk. A fucking drunk. And really that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? Just a total lack of goddamn dedication to anything. A lack of INTENTIONALITY.

  Except writing that note. That was one thing she apparently had no fucking compunctions about. Setting pen to paper for my little fucking treat. Slipping it under my door like some kind of sneaky snatch snake. I like that alliteration. Sneaky Snatch Snake. That is her to a goddamn T. Eve munching on that apple started the whole machine in motion.

  Did you know it wasn’t an apple? It doesn’t say that anywhere. People are these fucking retarded lemmings just following the herd. Could have been a tomato or fucking banana. But apple is our collective delusion. Another example of the collective shit people swallow and then ask for more with a stupid grin on their faces. Mindless sheep, the whole lot of them. Mindless. Fucking. Sheep.

  I’m getting worked up. I can feel my needle going into the red. I need to keep my cool. I pick up the stick. It’s calming as I touch it. Bells ring outside from the tower on the quad. I trace the number nineteen on my desk with my finger. You won’t understand that, so I won’t even try to explain it to you. It’s about the bells and the tower. But what I’m about now is Ms. Saggy Tits. Ms. Sneaky Snatch Snake.

  And listen, I don’t want you to get this wrong; I am not some worthless pile of shit feeling sorry for myself. There is no doubt I’m better off without this BITCH pulling me down to her level of feminine foolishness and folly. She was never worth my time. She meant nothing to me. Means nothing. Drunk fucking WHORE.

  Yet…yet….there’s a balance that has been unsettled. And this will not do. There needs to be a reckoning to set things right.

  I wonder how much she knows about them. If Valentine and Mr. Conrad told her to tempt me and tease me. To draw me to the bait and then YANK. It’s how they work, waiting until I needed her the most, until that point when I finally considered feeling something for the BITCH. That’s when Valentine’s hook was set, piercing me. This is exactly the kind of bullshit the Sneaky Snatch Snake would engage in with me. God-damn puppet of the sharks.

  But the joke is on her
, right? Because I always held a little back; a little in reserve. Best to keep it that way. Best to always keep a little in the reserve tank. Slipped that damn hook.

  So, history lesson time. I don’t think you will understand all of this, but I’m trying to give you some context. Don’t be like all those fucking millennial masses out there who can’t focus for one single goddamned minute. This helps build the arc. Helps you understand some. Don’t be a fuck about it and just keep reading.

  My father was a mean drunk. He used to joke with me about sharks in the bathtub. That’s where this all started. The bastard must have thought it was funny at the time. Between you and me, I think it’s fair to say that I disagreed vehemently with that particular assessment of that fucker, my father Lou. He would turn off the bathroom lights and hum the Jaws music. Just to add a little dash to the mix. Just to make the terror rise to the point of Cthulhu. Insanity and chaos in a swarming mass of darkness. Did I mention I was five at the time? Father of the year, Lou was.

  The prick’s mean streak was only out-shadowed by his creativity. One of the fucker’s gifts, I suppose. Lou was always able to come up with better ways to scare me when he had been drinking. Once, he actually opened a can of tuna fish and put it behind the toilet. I remember that particular bath in vivid detail. The whole place smelling like fish. My fear oily and dark as it rose to a fever pitch.

  At first, I would scream. I’d scream with all I could muster. That didn’t help. My mother worked double shifts like Chinamen ate rice, as that prick Lou would say. So, she wasn’t there. And good old Lou? Well, I think he liked it when I screamed like that. I think he got off on it. So I learned to just keep it all inside. Not to give him that satisfaction. But at first? Well, yes, I screamed. Screamed like I was on fire.

  Hey. Don’t you be a fuck about this. Don’t start feeling sorry for me.I’m fine. You just need to know this because this is important. This is how I first learned about them, Valentine and Mr. Conrad. I’m not gonna make Lou out to be some kind of midwife to my terrors, but he goddamn well unlocked the door that showed them the way. The same as Sinclair. Well, not the same. Sinclair showed me what was in the light; Lou just gave birth to Valentine and Mr. Conrad.