Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water, so to speak.

To whom it may concern, I’m not sure why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s because my stomach is in knots, well, it was. Maybe it’s because I miss the headlines, the old adage that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I think that’s it, I miss the press; I miss being the lead story. Now that I watch the news everyday I guess I feel like I’m much more interesting than the tripe that they march out every night and call news. But that’s because I’m very different now than I was before, I’ve changed an awful lot in the past two years or so. And I have one person to thank for that, Dr. Jasper. You see Doc is a man that emanates energy, the kind of person that you’re drawn to on a cellular level. Every time I was around him I felt as if he would break my leg as soon as look at me. His arms were tree trunks attached to a stone faced mountain of a chest. Doc’s face, always a mask of emotion that never betrayed what was floating beneath the surface. His curly blonde locks begged to be played with and I did, often times at my own peril. But perhaps, thinking back on it now, the good doctor felt that I betrayed a certain predatory instinct, a certain venomous side of me that must be dealt with kid gloves. I moved here to Binghamton, New York during the winter months and must say that I had trouble adjusting to the heavy snow. Every drive down the mountain upon which I lived always seemed to grip my chest with an icy fist and make my breath come out in short, wheezy gasps; I’ve never been a relaxed driver. It was on one of these frigid jaunts that I lost control of my van and slid off the road into some trees, one rouge limb broke through my windshield and tore a gash into my forearm. The police came and I must admit that I stifled certain urges. The men in uniform were kind and escorted me to the hospital where I met Dr. Jasper for the first time. I heard him before I ever saw him; the squeak of his wheels on the polished linoleum floor announced his approach. The wheelchair caught me off guard, but it was his crystal blue eyes that grabbed me next and held me with an animalistic power. I felt that if I looked away first, the beast would tear me limb from limb. He cleaned my wound with a gentle touch and wrapped me up in a clean bandage. I resisted the impulse, and not for the last time, to run my fingers through the newborn baby bird down that was his hair. I sat in my crippled van in the hospital parking lot for hours that night and felt as if I’d been away from home for far too long. The doctor appeared at just after midnight, using a special lift to enter his late-model minivan. I followed him home, gritting my teeth as my van fought to find purchase on the snow covered back roads. The doctor had a modest home set far off from the road so when I pulled my van onto the shoulder I was able to approach the house through the dense night covered trees. I watched him wheel through his house, preparing a small snack for two, then something odd happened. Dr. Jasper wheeled down a hallway; I had to crane my neck in the stifling cold in order to keep him in view. He reached high above his head and pulled a cord, the attic door swung down from the ceiling; a young boy was tied to the retractable ladder and he hung upside down. Something came over me then, I raced for the back door and found it open. Snow fell away from my boots in big white clumps as I sprinted through the kitchen into the hallway. The doctor had a scalpel in hand and was carving away a piece from what I could now see was a dead young man. Dr. Jasper smiled up at me from his wheelchair, “I thought I’d make us a little snack.” That predatory aura flowed off of him in overpowering waves. I smiled back at him, “I was starting to feel a little hungry.” You see I myself have killed many times sense arriving in New York, but for whatever reason the hunt had lost some of its flavor. And so I overcompensated, became more brazen, bold; snatching victims in broad daylight from busy parking lots filled with holiday gift seekers. I would keep them alive for days at a time, sometimes two or three tasty treats at once. Looking back on it now I know that I wanted to be caught, I wanted to be back on page one. But it didn’t happen, the authorities were more interested in terrorists, not missing persons. Ever sense the super virus ran its course there have been a lot of persons who have turned up missing or dead and that suited my work just fine. So when Dr. Jasper offered me a bite to eat that first night, I knew that my instincts had been right, we were cut from the same cloth. A week passed and I visited Doc, as I became fond of calling him, often. Soon thereafter we started abducting together, I moved in with him and we delighted in each other’s unusual tastes. I will not recount here the things we did, they were personal, between both he and I and I would be betraying his memory if I were to describe those sick, twisted, delicious tales here. But still, I was changing, starving, but for something different. I was no longer interested in the torture, the death; no I was hungry for Doc’s attention. I helped him abduct and kill, but only because I felt like it brought us closer together. It made him trust me more, want to be with me more, it made him love me. No, for a while I wasn’t interested in the news, I didn’t want to be the news, I didn’t even want to eat, all I wanted was Doc. But then I think he became aware of my disinterest and he distanced himself from me, worked later hours, we abducted even less and I came to loath him for his absence. Didn’t he understand that we were perfect for each other? Couldn’t he see that he would never find anyone else like me, anyone so accommodating. I understood him, his wants, his desires; I made his life better in every single way. Yet he could just ignore me, as if I were some annoying fly, an insect. But he underestimated me, his disinterest fueled my anger and it changed me one last time. Doc came home and I confronted him. I screamed at him, cried, threw tings at him and that animalistic aura radiated from him again, but this time it was directed at me. I lunged at him and he struck me square in the face with one block-like fist. My nose, destroyed, bled in white-hot rivers. His scalpel sliced across my back and I stumbled into the kitchen. His wheels squeaked after me and I fumbled with the utincle drawer. I spun at him with a steak knife and we stared at each other, the love was gone, perhaps it had never been there to begin with. The adrenaline coursed through my veins and it felt, new, fresh, like a sweet shot of chocolate. With wonderful zeal I tore at him, my knife cutting away and it felt good. My muscles released with pent up frustration and I felt alive again. Usually killing really did a number on my body, like working out after you haven’t done so in a while, but not now, no, now it was relaxing, enjoyable. I fell upon Doc in a bloody embrace, I buried my knife in his belly and he punched his scalpel into me with less and less enthusiasm as his life slowly poured away. I whispered into his ear, told him about my family, my killings from before, told him about what he had given up. Doc died in my arms and I did what only seemed best at the time. You see Doc was fascinated with legs perhaps because his had not worked in such a long time, so he ate the calf and thigh meat from his victims. Once I came along, I began to prepare the meat for him, in casseroles, stews, and sandwiches. And so I cut what little meat there was from Doc’s shriveled legs and packed it away in a small cooler. I tended to the wounds he had given me; only one, which concerned me at all and now I have the mini-van warming up out front as I write this. So why have I put this down? To claim responsibility, to reveal Dr. Jasper for what he was? No, I have put pen to paper in order to reclaim my rightful place among the most notorious serial killers of all time. Because now I know I belong for I have changed again. I now enjoy my work as an artist enjoys painting, it is soothing, cathartic and best of all, I know that I will never be caught. I can watch the accounts on the news; delight in the 24-hour cable coverage. Think of this letter as my warning to you all. Dear Mr. And Mrs. News Anchor please lead off the media blitz I’m sure to recieve with the following buzz words: I’m back! Signed, Furman Frye PS: I know some will wonder how it is that I am alive and I’m sure law enforcement officials will require some tangible proof that I am who I say I am. Therefore, I invite crime scene investigators to compare the DNA and or fingerprints from my dead body with samples found in my abandoned home in Crusoe. Once the discrepancy is noted, compare those with ones you’ll find here in Dr. Jasper’s residence. I’m sure you’ll be convinced of my good health and well being. Also, I’m well aware of the book detailing Mary Provo’s investigation into my adventures as the I-95 killer and I must admit I’m none too pleased with the author’s interpretation of me in the least. Therefore let me correct the events in the book “Furman lunges at the red man’s gun (i.e. Eric DeJesus) with his axe and knocks the barrel toward the sky. It fires with an ear-splitting roar the echoes off the surrounding trees. The two men tumble off the mound and crash into the dry leaves they struggle for control of the shotgun as it goes off again.” [Admendum: F. Frye] Suddenly a man appears, Furman recognizes him as one of the Cajun’s that hunts the feral dogs on the island. The Cajun points his rifle at them and shouts for the two men to drop the shotgun. The redman (DeJesus) gives Furman a strange look and in it, Frye recognizes a hunter far superior to himself. DeJesus whispers to Frye, “Go on, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” (Pun intended in case you were wondering) DeJesus shows his creds to the Cajun as Furman slips away from the redman, Frye turns and runs as a final shotgun blast erupts from the forest behind him. Furman wanders the dense island undergrowth for days as lawmen come and go, the media crush lifts eventually too and Frye steals an old sedan. He stops at a truck stop in Virginia, with a hat pulled low over his face, there he watches the accounts of how Detective Eric DeJesus had heroically killed the I-95 kidnapper and saved the life of fellow crime fighter, Mary Provo. The Cajun’s head had been blown off and DeJesus claimed it had been Frye’s headless corpse on the bloody ground. Furman wonders whether the Cajun will be missed, but as the months pass he isn’t and Furman seems to have been given a new lease on life. Oh he wonders about DNA evidence, but decides that investigators will not look too closely given the fact that DeJesus had ID’d Frye as the corpse. They had their man, didn’t they? No, no you didn’t.

This one came to me when I was thinking about what might go wrong when presented with the classic three wishes scenario; then I added just a dash of "Don't take candy from strangers."

1 Old Hickory walked through the desert and smiled. He was almost to Nevada and hoped to make it to Las Vegas by the end of the week. A car pulled up along side him and seemed to shimmer in the heat. Hickory allowed himself a wider smile and got in. "Jesus Buddy," the driver said, making Hickory cringe ever so slightly. "What are you doing walking out in this fucking heat?" "Just hoping to catch a ride to Vegas," Hickory said in his easy way. "Well, you're in luck cause that's where I'm headed." "Perfect." "Yeah, going out there to sell vacuums. I'm a salesman." "That right?" "Sure is, it sucks." The salesman laughed, Hickory grimaced. "Is it the life you always wanted?" Hickory asked after the man had gotten a hold of himself. "Heck, no. I always wanted to be somebody, you know. All I ever wanted was the chance to make enough bread to spread around and enough blow to keep me happy." "That's what it's all about isn't it?" "Amen, brother." Hickory frowned. "What if I told you that everything you've ever wanted was possible to have, what would you say?" The salesman grinned, "I'd say you're full of shit." Now it was Hickory who laughed. He turned to the salesman and held him with an odd look. The salesman couldn't help but take his eyes off the road and stare into the stranger's face. Hickory's eyes lit up, he pointed ahead toward the road that neither of them were watching and said, "Better look out." The salesman tore his eyes away and stared forward in disbelief. He cranked the wheel hard and narrowly missed an overturned vehicle in the road. "Holy shit!" The salesman said screeching to a stop. He leapt out of the car and ran over to the wreckage. What appeared to be two gang-bangers were hanging upside down by their seatbelts. Blood dripped down from the corpses and there was an awful smell in the desert heat. "Well what do you know?" Hickory said from the back of the overturned car. The salesman went over to the stranger and couldn't believe his eyes. "Is that . . .?" "I'm no expert, but yes, I think it is." "It's gotta be worth, what . . .?" "A lot." "Yeah, a whole fucking lot!" "Definitely a whole fucking lot." "Gimme a hand will ya?" The salesman said, picking up an armload of white bricks that had spilled out of the car's trunk. "Certainly." The men made quick work of transporting the wrapped white powder from the wrecked car to the salesman's trunk and were back on the road in under five minutes. "Jesus, what a score, huh?" The salesman shouted deliriously. Hickory shuddered. "We'll split it, you and me, 50/50." "No, that's quite alright." Hickory said with laughter in his eyes. "I don't want to have anything more to do with it." The salesman looked at him in shock, "Are you serious?" "Very." "What the fuck, are you crazy or something?" "Something." "You a fucking narc or something old man?" "No, not a narc." "No fucking way, man. You are not blowing this for me." The salesman whips the car off onto the curb. "Get out." "You're serious?" "Get the Hell out of my car!" Hickory smiles, "If you say so." He hauls himself out of the late model sedan and watches the salesman peel off in a cloud of dust. He begins walking down the road again. Careful what you wish for, you just might get it. The salesman made it to Vegas by mid-afternoon. He knew a shady fellow that ran one of the many strip clubs and told him that he wanted to make a sale. The two men squeezed in-between the sweaty stripers in the back dressing room and slipped out into the alley. The salesman popped the trunk and showed his acquaintance what was inside. "So what do you think? How much could I get for all of that?" The salesman asked. "Jesus, Mary mother of Joesph. What you have there is a fucking death wish." "C'mon man, can you make the deal happen or what?" "Yeah man, but I want a fucking cut off this shit." "How much are we talking?" "50." "Fuck you, man." "Alright, fuck dude. Gimme 30 and I can make it happen tonight." "Done." 2 Old Hickory came upon a roadhouse. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he did often enjoy a cup of hot coffee. Hickory went in and sat himself. The table was greasy and the ketchup bottle was half full. A waitress came over to him, she had the body of a pear; little tits, big hips. "Can I get cha, darlin?" "Cup o' Joe," Hickory said, reading her nametag. "Dorothy." "High test?" Hickory nodded with an easy grin. "Comin up, sugar." Dorothy strolled over to the waitress station and Hickory regarded her swaying bottom with mild interest. Dorothy filled the white ceramic mug and came back with a hand full of creamers. "That's fine," Hickory said, holding up one hand as Dorothy sat the mug down on the table. "I'll just have it black." "Can't say I've had much demand for coffee with the weather like it is." "Ya don't say? I'm always up for a shot of caffeine no matter what the thermometer says." Dorothy smiled and turned to leave. "Say, your parents name you after Judy Garland?" Hickory called after her. Dorothy stopped and turned to face him. "Yep, my mother loved the Wizard of Oz. Always told me I'd be a star one day, just like that Judy Garland." "What happened?" "Got off the yellow brick road somehow. Got knocked up, had kids, got beat up; the kids left, my man left and here I am trying to make ends meet." "You know it's never too late," Hickory smiled in that cunning way of his. "Never know who might walk through that door one day. Casting agent, Hollywood producer, some studio exec big wig. Hell, might even be Tom Cruise." Hickory chuckled. "That would be something," Dorothy smiled. "What if I told you that everything you've ever wanted was possible to have, what would you say?" "About being a movie star?" "Yep, big cars, lots of green backs, plenty of people writing you fan letters. Why there'd be media interviews, Regis & Kelly, The Daily Show, Late Night; lots of people knowing your name, loving you, cheering for you, worshipping you. Then there would be the men salivating over you. You could date within your newly exclusive Hollywood circle of power players. Buy a big house, fill it with whatever your heart desired; fame, riches, happiness." Dorothy thought for a long moment. "Nah, I don't think that would be the life for me. I'm happy just the way things are. I'm not rich, but I make enough to take care of myself. The kids are all grown up, but they call me every weekend like clockwork. I don't have a car, but I live upstairs in a nice room with a great view of the sunrise every morning. Lenny, the chef, he makes me whatever I want to eat and never charges me. Sides, I think he's sweet on me. No, I wouldn't want Tom Cruise or any of his cronies to come in here and turn my life upside down. I'm happy with things just the way they are." "Humph," Hickory grunted. "If you say so." Dorothy suddenly felt uneasy and a little squeamish. It felt like someone had jacked up the heat, or left a door open or something. "Well," Dorothy said shakily, suddenly uncomfortable around her customer. "Anything else I can get cha?" "No, that's enough," Hickory muttered. "Lenny?" Dorothy said going into the kitchen. "Back here!" He called from the walk-in. Dorothy walked quickly back toward the big freezer, "There's this strange guy out on the floor, maybe you ought to tell him to scram." Lenny had the freezer door propped open with his foot. The vent was on so Dorothy knew he hadn't heard her; she stepped inside the walk-in. That's when Lenny grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back against the stack of lemon crates. He kissed her hard, she opened her mouth for him. He groped with her brazier and she helped him. He slid her dress up over her thigh and she wrapped her leg around his ample waist. "Oh God," Lenny panted. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do this!" "Me too," Dorothy whimpered into his ear. "Take me right now." "No, wait, I need to tell you something first." "Anything, Len." Dorothy breathed. He grabbed each side of her face in his big hands. "I love you, Dough. I have ever since I first laid eyes on you." "Oh, Lenny." Dorothy said, with tears in her eyes. "Dorothy," Lenny said sliding down to one knee in front of her. He pulled a diamond ring out of his shirt pocket. "I want you to be my wife." Dorothy dropped down in front of him, "Yes! Lenny oh yes, yes, yes!" She kissed him hard and he slipped the ring onto her finger. Dorothy sucked on his neck hard and he breathed into her ear, "What better place than a freezer to give my girl some ice." Dorothy jerked her head back and laughed louder than Lenny had ever heard her do before. She stared at him hard, "Lenny, you have made me so happy!" "The feeling's mutual, darlin." Dorothy pushed Lenny down on his back; they made love in freezer and the two of them never even shivered. 3 Hickory walked further along the highway and more signs of civilization began to spring up around him. Strip malls, gas stations, businesses; before long he found himself in a suburb of Las Vegas. Hickory did not attempt to thumb a ride, did not rest his weary feet, instead he entered a playground and smiled at the youngsters rushing about. He found a wooden bench off to one side and watched the little ones on the swings, the monkey bars and the bright colored fort with attached slide. Why, he might have been a grandfather out on an afternoon stroll. "Hey mister!" Hickory turned his old head in time to see a young fellow kicking sand nearby. "Hey mister. What's your name?" "I doubt you could pronounce it, little one." "Huh?" the child asked, confused. "What's your name?" "Chris, Christopher." "Hello, Christopher, or would you rather I call you Chris?" "Umm, Chris." "Well Chris, do you live around here?" "Uh-huh." "You do? Well who are you here with?" "My baby-sitter, that's her over there on the phone. Her name's Jamie." "Well Jamie certainly looks like a good baby-sitter." "No she's not, she won't let me or my sister have ice-cream!" "No? Perhaps I could give you some ice-cream, would you like that Christopher?" "Umm," Christopher looked nervously around. "My Dad said never to take candy from strangers." "Well it's a good thing it's only ice-cream then, huh?" "Yeah," Christopher giggled. The child hopped onto the bench beside the old man and began swinging his feet. "It's almost Christmas time, you know." Hickory said with a warm grin. "Yeah." "What if Santa could bring you anything you wanted, no matter what, what would you ask for?" Christopher sat there a long time, kicking his feet. "Maybe for there to be no more wars." "No more wars? Why is that?" "My daddy is in a war. I would wish for Santa to make it so that there was peace everywhere in the whole world!" Old Hickory was taken aback. Jamie called out in a frightened voice for Christopher to, "Get over here this instant!" The children ran around him. They screamed and shouted; they cried and laughed. The swings creaked, a soft desert wind blew and Hickory sat there for a while, thinking and smiling that awful smile. 4 That night the salesman met with Baby Guido, a local mafia tough, outside the strip club. The bass thumped from inside as the strippers bounced and rubbed their breasts across their customer's faces. The music covered the sound of Baby Guido putting a bullet in the salesman's brain, before putting the old sedan in drive and leaving with enough cocaine in the trunk to make him a fortune. Lenny and Dorothy drove into Vegas and were married at a drive-thru church. Christopher's daddy called after dinner and said his tour was up. He was finally coming home. At a secret government lab in nearby Berkley, California; a tech who had been up for the past 48 hours getting high while screwing his girlfriend dropped a vial onto the laboratory floor. The contents were a new breed of super-virus developed in order to keep the United States ahead of the biological warfare curve. The sun rose the next morning. Vegas was unusually quiet, but Hickory figured that the same could be said for any place, say from New York right down to the tiniest village buried deep in the Amazon; the Earth was probably the quietest she'd ever been in a long, long time. Other than the native wildlife, Old Hickory was the only living thing that walked the Earth that day. He smiled to himself, the widest smile he'd allowed himself in eons. Old Hickory, Asmodeus, Mr. Scratch, Old Gooseberry; these were all his names. He was the prince of Pandemonium, the Hooven Cloof & the Angel of the Bottomless Pit. Lucifer, Satan, Old Hickory himself thought of little Christopher's wish, "I would wish for Santa to make it so that there was peace everywhere in the whole world!" Careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

I wrote this in about five minutes while my sister was making corrections to King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. This was more of a creative writing experiment then anything else although now that I look at it again, it kinda begs for the rest of the story doesn't it?

It is thick and black. It writhes around, screaming. It's fangs are gooey with mud and tar. It tries to rip and tear itself free. It drags itself up from the constricting black mass and reels it's ugly, oblong head. It's long slimy tongue lolls out from between razor sharp incisors. It belches a fuming, putrid odor that rises from the depths of her bowels and escapes her chapped, raw lips. Fear has seized her, locking her chest with the iron grip of a cold fist. The chilled air scorches her lungs and stings her bleary eyes. Her clinched hands are small cubes of ice. Her numb legs stumble along, dragging her against her will through a tangled web of bone thin trees. The limbs claw at her face and trench coat as she comes to a rise in the forest trail. Her dry throat clenches and the ground underfoot threatens to drag her down and bury her under a layer of dead leaves. She gazes out over the clearing at it. It returns her glare as it sits there, plump and grotesque, beaconing her. Closer still, her tired feet drag her along. A silent wretched sob tries to crawl out of her throat. Her extremities shake uncontrollably and her nose runs a phlegm filled red. It's shadow swallows her small frame whole in one slimy gulp. The old farm house that has brought her here, screaming and crying, still has an old civil war cannon ball lodged in its wooden frame like some long dead eyeball. She feels like it's looking at her, through her. She stumbles as she climbs the front steps, crashing her knee into the ancient wood. Warm blood oozes out and soaks her pants leg. She grits her teeth. Control. Focus. The only thing that will save her is herself. Her stomach churns in protest, flopping around in her abdomen like some dying animal. She gags on churning vomit in the back of her mouth as she crosses the threshold and enters the black house. The cannonball rotates ever so slightly as she disappears within. The wood of the house moans in the frigid breeze. It is time to feast.