

# Ringing

Lucus Anthony Ren

Copyright © 2017, Lucus Anthony Ren

Self-publishing

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. Limit of Liability and Disclaimer of Warranty: The author / publisher has used its best efforts in preparing this book, and the information provided herein is provided "as is," and makes no representation or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaims any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for any particular purpose and shall in no event be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damage, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

Table of Content

Preface

Prologue

Chapter 1 – Bonfire

Chapter 2 – A Master From That

Chapter 3 – Joint Gas

Chapter 4 – Task of The White Haired Man

Chapter 5 – In The Screaming Came An End

Chapter 6 – Meeting Under The Door

Chapter 7 – There Was No Cure As No One Was Well

Chapter 8 – Horizontal Line

Chapter 9 – True Black

Chapter 10 – Glasslight

Epilogue

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# Preface

What if we could, as the temporal lobes of the brain holds most of the memory, compressed that?

I think what happens to all the data on my hard drive once its deleted, which is now well into the three-digit GB mark. It's still there of course, but not linked to its reference telling the computer it _is_ there. It's lying. So I can keep piling it on.

One night I was reading about episodic memory, the memory of autobiographical events associated with emotions, times, places including the who, what, when, where, why's. Things such as what you ate for breakfast last week Tuesday, what you wore the day before yesterday. They have interesting qualities but what caught me was one in particular; they, the data, are forgotten rather quickly. We just don't remember.

It's primarily because we only have enough space for storing memory in the brain, such as many electronic devices. But in most cases, we can add memory to these devices. The brain though, just dumps what it doesn't need, can't find, or deemed useless, such as these episodic memories.

Actually, it's still there too, those memory's, just fragmented. Because memory is produced and stored throughout the brain it runs all over trying to gather these fragments but after a while doesn't bother because they aren't important and finally stops searching. In any case, after a long period of usage, an entire life, for example, the brain can, and indeed often does, form illnesses such as dementia among others, from all we put it through.

Our brain is comprised on average of sixty percent fat. _Ringing_ clues in on these fatty cells and how they can be repackaged, allowing space for new memory cells to develop just as you would add memory to a device.

How that would transpire, as I didn't want to have some typical asylum-crazed-slasher-doctor running around performing grizzly detailed operations removing or adding parts of the brain without the victims being anesthetized or offering such activities for those willing to pay, came when placing an ear next to a cello having lower bass notes played, with effects from sound waves produced of those particular notes, assist with establishing this story. In-part.

For the rest, as usually I looked into my own past, seeing my dad bought a used Lincoln as Dr. Malocht's when I was about thirteen. This thing literally floated along, massive, ominous, feeling and hearing little riding inside, only soft purring as we cruised off for just the joy.

The accident with the wood planer, I took from my senior year of high school when our wood shop teacher's hand slipped, cutting his thumb off completely while using the table saw. I was standing a couple of feet from him when it happened, he simply said, "damn" picking up the thumb which from the force of the blade flicked off onto the ground some five feet away, and walked to the administration's office holding it in place. It was full recovery but in away dreamlike, the man had thirty years' experience without an accident, survived the Japanese Bataan Death March during the Second War, was a close friend of my dad who himself survived three months fighting on Iwo Jima, and here calmly making his way, at least a fifteen-minute walk to the office holding his thumb blood jumping every which way.

There's nothing against Wisconsin. Fine people residing in a wonderful state having great natural beauty, but I wanted an area somewhat north, cold, with forests for the location of the Willnard Asylum. Shandon is fictional as well as Holmsgate Institute of South Alabama. Mesquite Springs in California, also fictional reflects the small hi-desert community where I grew up.

I don't write dialogue. Much. There is little conversation in most of my work. _Ringing_ is no exception. I write what I think is going on in the mind of the character. They'd learn little from constant dialogs with other characters as true to life some would say, and I tend to agree, _what the hell can you learn from yourself babbling along?_ People sometimes just talk too much.

I also write about 'time' because it's nearly the only thing running ceaselessly through all our lives. And it's very strange because it can be shaped. Just as here...

As too the characters - there aren't many, and glasslight, which I'll leave all for you.

The Jackrabbit dream, like some dreams, is smooth. Or not.

## Prologue

This is what happened as I was told. I'm going to keep as true to what was said to me, since I'm a person of fact and rely upon it heavily for work including my own soundness of mind, but even in this, I found it almost unbearable inasmuch having heard it, contemplate often rather I myself have gone mad, and frequently reminded I might very well have.

I have to also remind myself that some people grow up slow from an extended childhood, whereby they pass directly into old age. This was the case of both Marty and Billy in their story.

Marty Wellock didn't do what they said with all those people. It is true he killed his brother with a pair of chopsticks through the top of his skull when he was eleven. And it's true he was at Willnard Asylum for a good part of his youth. Till twenty-four actually. But it's not true Willnard cures. Things went on there most people don't wish to know about. But some do. Of what happened afterward. Mostly what happened to a side of his son Billy causing even the damned to loathe in terror.

It all started when Billy crept into their minds unhinging the most frightful forgotten nightmares knowing their savageness would eventually devour its hosts. Finishing his _Event Day_ speech not a sound from the students except occasional whimpering and their teacher Mrs. Randen who'd lost control urinating herself, those few final drops sounding that of someone taping the bottom of an empty metal cooking pot with a finger, landing between her legs where she stood lips partially open, eyes held glazed images penetrating back to the time she was brutally attacked twenty years before, could be heard. She'd forgotten that event including the entire class and their own worst fearful memories, which now flooded into reality right at that very front of each child's mind, a damned and hostile evil itself shied from.

And Billy did all this while they sat listening, feeling that itch in their brain where the side of the skull meets its back they'd be thinking, ' _why that itch feels mighty fine, if only I could reach it.'_ They just listened wondering was it all true or had it been dreamt, later forgotten, while together like members of a finely honed orchestra reached for the back of their heads searching that uncomfortable note's sensation. Billy's family knew it too, the sisters, mother and especially Marty who faced the treatment after he admitted killing his younger brother, the only uncle they'd never meet. Billy knew it was the cause. He also knew it was just the start.

But no one else did. Till the annual bonfire held at the Palm Vista Park where most from the Mesquite Springs Stallions High School student body showed up torching an end to the school year, where Billy now the junior and senior class woodshop teacher was employed. Where nobody knew him except as the shop teacher. Where nobody knew Billy's father except as the kook working at Bowmens Construction Company, who knew every piece of material on every shelf, knew its usage, and price without having to look it up in the register... all seven hundred and twelve pieces of merchandise. Jut knew.

It was weird and everybody agreed it was weird because things like this are weird that normally the brain can't do this. _Shouldn't_ do this. But here it was, the small hi-desert town of Mesquite Springs having its very own freak. And Billy as a child remembered watching his father calmly talk endlessly about the mechanisms and stress loads of cars and pickup trucks if placed on a roof, which Billy thought how funny seeing why'd you want to put a truck on a roof, but it was multilevel car parking Marty was informing about, while customers stood there looking at the man as if he'd grown an extra nose, because that sort of parking just wasn't common thinking for residents of Mesquite Springs. He'd discuss the heavens and all its holdings of constructed elements saving workers labor, time, and money while Billy always eyed him from a distance working some part or tool in his hands with no particular purpose acting as if not hearing his fathers notions waiting for him to finish his work so they could head home together.

Most laughed at his father. There were a few who thought he was rather clever. Practically everyone saw him and his entire family as something to stay clear of. Billy grew up with that and knew time was always having a laugh, knew we held on to it for dear life because it took everything you owned. He understood at the very end we became nothing more than a limp sack of bones and guts slowly weeping out holes rotting till nothing remained. He was aware his father drove a pair of chopsticks into the top of his uncle's head because he was sick of listening to all the bullshit. Drove it deep into that place a newborn baby's skull hasn't grown together, where it's still soft, where if you look closely you can see it pulsing full of life most precious fluid. Drove it deep and hard. His father told him he even held it lightly afterward those ends of the sticks against the open palm of his hand feeling for a beat, just as he'd seen in a movie once when Burt Reynolds shot some hillbilly with an arrow. 'Shot that son-of-a-bitch just as you'd shoot a wild pig which of course he was but much worse. Naturally they came after them, but they didn't do that with me the arrow part anyway. The bit before that arrow loosened, _that_ they did do to me often and with extreme delight,' Marty told him once. Billy didn't understand till he saw the _Deliverance_ film his dad referred too.

Marty never saw trial due to age also when they took one look at him knew something had gone astray. They didn't look hard, or maybe they didn't want to look closely. If they'd had, things would have run a whole lot different. They just noted he'd killed his brother, was crazy as hell and off he went to the Willnard Asylum for the chronically insane in Wisconsin. And that's when things began.

They had various code names for such projects and operations keeping results well organized and confidential. Willnard had no intention of anyone discovering what was going on especially people of a caring nature come knocking at their door asking... _what's all this hollering we hear goddamn it, we want some peace and quiet around here!!?_ In fact had the local establishment known more they wouldn't have cared much for the simple reason Willnard paid the entire community of Shandon a little over a mile from its main gates to keep still, contributing towards a better sanitation; an improved water supply; better road conditions; fertilizers for their crops; books for their two-room school of twenty-nine students.

Of course certain townsfolk knew a great deal, just as most of the townsfolk didn't want, otherwise, they'd fear reprisals from _things_. Things they had no desire in talking about. That came and took away whatever was left outside during those three nights every year in the darkest part of winter. Especially townsfolk. Always during that period a few went missing either because they didn't have a concern, were drunk, or plain stupid. Pets not brought inside were the first. Some resident's actual left them out on purpose giving the signal of what was to come. Chained dogs were heard first with barking, then growling, then whimpers and then painful howls followed with that final sudden silence chilling even their owners rusting souls. It's when the town got their _real_ peace and quiet.

Winter nights, of course, were very calm. A dead still, frozen from months of snow and ice. But this was not like that. This was lifeless. If you went outside during those three nights, you'd feel all the forces of the world gone. And how would that be? How would you know? Many of the towns scoffed that first night those years ago when the dead of night took everything, but it was explained like this by a young woman who wanted to venture out checking whether the gate was closed when she opened the back door just a crack, just enough to _feel_ something:

'I thought the back gate wasn't closed properly that my eleven-year-old boy hadn't fastened it well. I opened the door ready to step out, the door opening outwardly when it just stopped as if blocked. I thought it was a practical joke from some smart-ass neighbors, yet in pushing harder nothing but the cold air moved through that crack it opened. That's when a shadow passed over the crack and I felt a sudden thick sickness swelled in my chest. It was my heart and breathing. They stopped. Lungs tighten suddenly as the back and front of my head felt being squeezed...by two great powerful hands. There was a sudden flash and I thought my head about to be crushed from the pressure then my arm was grabbed and I found herself on the floor staring back at the door lying on my side. My son grabbed me and I saw he was trying to close the door but there began this whistling of air passing through was too loud as spoke but I couldn't hear nothing but the whistling. A whistle-like train in a tunnel sounding loud as could be that of a giant tea kettle having water boiled and ready to pour, it's high tone going right through my ear the moment my son clutched me. And there my boys mouth moving probably yelling, shrieking more likely seeing a situation such as this would call for caterwauling shaking his head side to side as if to say _no, no,_ _NO NOT HERE!!_ , trying like the devil to close that door because maybe indeed it was the devil outside and why wouldn't he seeing all the trauma and terror the town caused on victims of Willnard.

'But then in a flash the door jerked opened five maybe six inches where instantly my boy was yanked like a doll right into its opening. I could see he was headless as indeed the head was outside, now, shoulder pinned against the door they being the only thing keeping him from directly shooting out into the freezing cold. His hands and arms began moving wildly beating like a bird in a running takeoff when his shoulders snapped back their blades easily overlapping, slowly he was pulled through the narrow opening with arms now twisted around in a grotesque sight hands flapping as a seal for its reward. His legs buckled though not falling he only hung there, continuing his slow outward passage. Finally, there was sudden heave and his upper body passed through, now only the hips kept him in the room. Another wild yank and he was through. Without the slightest drop of blood spilled. The whistles abruptly stopped and the door closed quietly with a final click sounding of a pistol shot fired next to my ear causing me to shriek and jump with fright in such a silence. It was at this point I passed out, but before in the last moment of consciousness I heard from just outside the door my boy calling for me, half whimpering half shrieking if such cries could be, as if knowing there was no hope for his future was at an end.'

And the cause of all this, was it revenge of efforts to obtain information from Willnard subjects who are unable or unwilling to provide it otherwise? From the induced comas? Experiments to _"cure"_ the disease? Isolation of patients to better _"stimulating the mind"_ gaining greater insight of its changes and workings? Or just someone sane housed with the insane? Would that have also been something of interest the experts at Willnard wanted?

And there were lots to choose from with its decrepit structure of sadistic direction and staff. When I was there, the institution had over four thousand men, almost three thousand women along with countless children from all ages. And with all this, you had to keep them busy. Outside their treatments patients had sewing tasks. It was the largest industry the institute managed where patients producing each year over twenty thousand articles and the tailor shop over six thousand.

Besides this, there were over ten thousand sheets, towels and pillow covers made. In one year over five thousand aprons were made and four thousand dresses, and almost as many skirts. For some reason, there were over three thousand five hundred collars made, which seems like a strange item. The tailor shop in the same year made about two thousand coats and over three thousand pants, and two thousand vests which were in the style at the time. They were making nightgowns by the thousands. At their peak they produced over fifty thousand articles, preparing ten thousand sent in from outside, the tailor shop made about twelve thousand. In all clarity, they were producing all the clothes for the patients.

But Willnard was far from clear. Patients stumbled around in rags hanging from hollowed eyes frames; shadows having better appearances than most. How could a small population of patients produce such an amount surprised many outsiders proclaiming it as the newfound remedy for the mindless? All it came to be was amphetamine addiction. Willnard through their contacts were able to secure vast amounts and variants of the drug along with many other medicaments which they freely handed over to aspiring employees creating a wonderfully balanced cocktail of control for the residents, or one there-out-of. Best times late in the raw cotton storage house far from the main buildings, so if a fire broke out, the cotton would burn for weeks, but mainly nobody would hear the screams.

A reduced staff during weekends especially the main administration leaving only a handful for managing the residents lead of course a wildness lasting usually late Friday afternoon until early Monday morning. Drug and alcohol-fueled, anything could happen. Anything an insane mind can think of, or lack of, took place. The Romans were back in town and Nero with Caligula as guests.

There is no point going into what took place. You could imagine I'm sure with the way the world is today such events at Willnard pails to compare. The mind we have today also thinks differently then say the minds of twenty-five or thirty years ago. Not insofar as how time changes, but we as a race changed. How the actual brain functions becoming...altered through sound. Not the lobes of their environments of touch and smell, speech and coordination. Something else. Deeper. The _self_.

Indeed Marty learned what plays a fundamental role here. In fact, it is the real protagonist of our lives. As we always place ourselves into a thing, stories or movies we see, songs we hear feeling elevated or causing pain, our constant need from the world surroundings become anchors from which we can safely weigh into permitting anything we wished. Till we don't know right from wrong, a dream from reality, while the anchors drag along as the storm widens.

## Chapter 1

Bonfire

It might have been the smells of various woods drying. If might be every time Billy had a piece in his hand he always felt he himself cut the tree down in some far, remote landscape of timber and mountains, the deafening whining of chainsaws, tree debris flying in all directions, peaceful solitude killing a modern-day giant. Though he knew it was against his will hurting such a wonderful part of the world where fewer and fewer remained from our ever encroaching lifestyle, trees are the direct contact he'd ever had with anything.

Deep inside he knew he'd slaughtered hundreds starting with axes working his way up to machines and if there was a giant lawnmower, a forest mower perhaps, that'd be heaven. Thumbing the smoothness of the newly planned piece of hardwood mahogany in his rough hands, it's deep reddish-brown color, the profound rich smell always sent him to some remote Honduran forest lumber camp spending lifetimes cutting the days away.

But he'd never been to Honduras or any place off the trotted road of his own dull life. But it wasn't really dull, was it? Not at all. Turning over the piece he'd seen in his mind becoming a table in a month, Billy Wellock, wood shop teacher at the Mesquite Springs Stallions High School wasn't even remotely aware what dull meant except if a wood chisel or saw blade needed sharpening or the black blade of his Bowie knife a _real_ giant gave him when he was nine couldn't slice paper, then sharpening was in order.

That's as close as Billy every got too dull. His surroundings were a constant paraphrase of dull, establishing his life in a strange place with strange things. 'Not all things strange are bad,' his father told him. Then adding after a slight pause, 'You'll know the difference when something changes.' That was the first lesson of keeping your mind from screaming itself to death. And there'd be several other lessons Billy would have to learn before understanding his _illness_. An illness, which hadn't any name. Any cure. Nothing in any book except, bat shit.

They called him that in school, _Batty Billy_ till the yearly bonfire held at the Palm Vista Park. It was a big event ending the school year where a majority of the Stallions student body showed up along with parents and teachers, local officials, prominent townsfolk giving speeches and slaps-on-backs later getting drunk watching through glazed eyes the final embers on a warm summer night die as all would eventually but never contemplated, except in some remote part of the brain slaving away trying to keep each of them alive yet actually wishing the whole time we'd just drop dead so it could get the hell out and have a rest.

That part of the brain unconsciously used which never turns off having to stay awake while the rest sleeps or does whatever the brain does as most of us haven't really any idea except what we're told of this lump sitting above our shoulders, and strongly feel we are in charge of our own lives, own destinies. Till bonfires. Till things got strange. Then turned horribly wrong. Horrible because no one could control what he or she thought was happening. Horrible because they'd lost that privilege pulled like wings off a fly, free thought not theirs to believe any longer. And maybe that's when the insanity really started because we'd realized they weren't ours in the beginning. Nor would ever be.

And Billy stood there in the middle, becoming this high schools woodshop teacher, but right now, where no one watched he simply gazed into the fire remembering this same time years before after Mrs. Randen class. But most at the bonfire were not thinking. Most were already _four sheets in the wind_ his mother used to say when they started heavy on the booze. She didn't know much about the more common drugs of marijuana and its usage, had she there'd have been comments of a _thousand sheets_ and _typhoon_ not a wind. True the students had a handle on most of the wondrous material flowing through their brains, except they didn't know Billy was flowing right there alongside.

The event caused a usual amount of yelling and screams of pain and ecstasy the school year was over after all and summer began both student and teacher blissfully aware it's meaning not having to deal with each other for two months. Nevertheless, both would secretly miss one another because now they'd have to deal with troubles at home. The teachers having to deal with their spouse and dripping crap, which needs fixing, they hadn't bother with for ten months seeing they were too busy with academics. The student's having to deal with nagging parents. The parents rather dismayed drank more having to deal with their offspring's hanging around doing absolutely nothing the entire summer. The school buildings themselves probably the happiest having a reprieve from the abusive nature students place upon them, undoubtedly danced and shouted had anyone notice, but of course none did...except Billy. He noticed. He knew the structures loved it when the fucking little shits pissed off for two months. It was goddamn heaven.

When teaching he often heard the blackboard shriek with laughter as he wrote upon it, _Yea gonna be fine soon, dumb ass bastards headin' home to screw themselves. Ain't that right Billy?_ Telling Billy clear and loud.

_Sure will_. Billy thought smiling to himself.

If you had a fuckin' hammer Jesus's father would be proud what you'd do to their damn heads. Just the way your daddy did to your uncle. Ain't that right Billy?

_That's right Mr. Blackboard_ , Billy said softly under his breath as he moved along its front writing and drawing student assignments. _Right indeed_ , Billy smiled.

_Um, yea fine day that would be...happy as monkeys in monkey trees. Right, Billy?_ Mr. Blackboard clipped out.

_Naturally Mr. Blackboard...naturally_ , Billy politely agreed.

None of the students heard this of course, and if perchance they'd see their teacher's mouth moving mumbling the words it wouldn't matter because this was _shop_ class. Who cared? It was a fun time for getting an easy grade, hanging out, having a smoke around the corner when none looked and returning not worried about smelling of cigarettes as the place smelled anyway of burnt wood from all the projects students worked on and as long as you didn't get too close to Mr. Wellock he'd not notice the least whether your odor was that of roses or scotch.

Some of the ballsier students even smoked under the ventilation system not bothering to go outside seeing the smoke was sucked up through the huge vents used when the _General_ ran. It was a large mean looking wood planer manufactured probably fifty years ago from General International and when it was running, everybody stopped to watch.

It was mean because someone years ago stuck two bloodshot eyes on the planer and a set a jagged teeth. There were tales it was cursed by some kid's mother because he'd gotten his shirt sleeve stuck in it and before they could shut it down his arm up to the shoulder was planed down to about an inch. Of course, it's just a tale to scare mostly the freshmen students.

But it wasn't. Billy saw it. He was standing next to the boy showing him, watching him, how to work the _General_ during Billy's second year as a teacher there. But Billy wasn't watching close enough. Not by a long shot. Billy was hung-over as hell that day and many days in fact on account of the fighting with his girl and her complaining about Billy's father. It was getting to a point Billy was thinking of making his own pair of chopsticks for her and contemplating what type of wood to use when the screaming started and the blood gushing everywhere like a fucking dam burst somewhere and all the blood in the world was flowing out the _General's_ grinning mouth with his razor sharp teeth dripping and Billy could have sworn in that very moment the _General's_ mouth moved shaping the all to familiar words, _Thank ya teacher_ he'd heard a hundred times from students seeing he always handed out good grades to even the worst of projects.

You could have made a simple block of wood and gotten a 'B' in Billy's class. 'Billy B's' they called him in locker rooms, on the track field, in the cafeteria, on the bus. He knew this, knew they laughed at him for giving grades for pieces of shit, and most in the class were pieces of shit themselves because shop class carried hardly the credits they were worth so most of the students wanting to accomplish something such as get the hell out of Mesquite Springs as quickly as they could, didn't take shop class. Wood, metal, or auto. You take any of those and resign pretty much the rest of your days working your ass off for someone who'd look at you the same as abuse you thinking the two were alike.

And that boy did scream. Became an animal. Trapped like so if he had a machete he'd probably cut his arm off only to have pain from a stump, not a whole dripping piece of shredded red meat and chipped bone that arm had become. Any student having a smoke under the vents received a blood shower, any student at the backend of the _General_ where the wood came out from being double-surface planed got a really good view of the jerking hand, and of course sprayed with blood and hamburger from the whirling roller blades of stainless sharpen steel flying at a million rpm's.

The strange thing in all this...the _General_ like all planers moved slowly. The blades not of course, but the gear-teeth which grab the wood pulling it along, move at about one inch every five-seconds across the blades. Also the large red KILL button to literally 'hit' in case of trouble were in four separate locations; one - directly in the front next to the on-off switch; two - at the backend of the planer; three - at the teacher's desk; four - at the entry-exit door into the shop class there is the main switch. 'HIT BIG RED, EVERYTHING DEADH.' That's the first rule you learn in class. Also, there is a massive sign above the blackboard in bold twenty-inch high red letters on a white background just in case you needed reminding. Like every day for some students that'd be necessary.

In the school accident review, the insurance review, the mechanical review, in the court-of-law review, in everybody's mind review the one question always came upfront and direct; how the hell could this happen? Twenty-three students and one teacher will remember what they saw and heard but nothing was done to stop the boy's arm turning into not just shreds and chips of bone but flesh flayed off up to the elbow; something taking nearly forty-seconds to accomplish and when interviewed all mumbling the same answer. Except for Billy. Billy didn't mumble. He knew.

But the bonfire was at its peak, sparks crashing and popping loudly shooting in all directions from the dry wood, ashes lifting upwards caught in the heat and smoke, their outlines still aflame glowing with bright orange against the blackened midnight sky when _Batty Billy_ struck, that evening of the _Event Day_.

Billy noticed many of his classmates and their families weren't at the bonfire. In a way it was true, this outing was mostly for high school students, still, anyone could show up and enjoy the night. Seeing the days activities during his class and Mrs. Randen peeing herself it was understandable his classmates didn't show nor Mrs. Randen herself most likely at home resting. But of course, she wasn't. She had fallen out the back door of their car her husband was driving them home in. Waiting for just the right moment picking up speed down Donnel Hill after leaving the school where promptly Mr. Randen was informing it would be best to come and take Mrs. Randen home, she'd let herself out the door, her head hitting asphalt cracking wide open, brains splattering like a watermelon.

But was that Billy's fault? _Not in the least_ , Billy reassured telling himself while hearing the news the following day from the principle standing obviously shaken and terribly pale in color at the front of the class before introducing their substitute teacher for only two days because that was all there was left of the school year. That there was an accident. Sure.

Billy heard all the laughing hops and hollers, and loud music the bonfire produced as generally the last day for the school and townsfolk of honored parents and drunks pilling it on, having any excuse returning happily toward their primal demands, often kept checked for political or other bullshit reasons most forgot as being easier just ramble along like a good donkey lead by life's prospector promising riches just around the bend, forgetting. Willfully. Thankfully.

Hearing and watching thinking this is the real shit thinking I'm going to have to deal with this until graduation made him sick to his stomach. If it weren't the sounds it was what passed before his eyes, not that dream-like state you'd think or read about normally occurring, but something you didn't connect with and never would. And never want. In a way, could have been the first sight of hell and for an eleven-year-old. It was enough.

Billy closed his eyes and thought what his father told him, of the days and especially long nights at Willnard. That they came and took him into the basement. That the doctor brought out a needle filled with some black liquid and injected Billy's father. That tied to a wooden table with holes for the piss and shit to run through, easier to clean. That now it would be _his_ passing through.

'Cleaned that place many times,' his father said. 'On hands and knees scooping liquid shit and piss left from the terrified into buckets with just a rag and a little water. The rag was given with a joking laugh from the staff saying it's my choice, the rag for your face, or your hand. I added my own vomit from the stench into the buckets knowing it was only a matter of time and to think of something else or they'll keep me forever here.'

'Each time they injected me it lasted longer. Longer in the sense of remembering. I'd slowly remember what had happened but it took days. Days of roaming hallways. Days curled hugging yourself shacking madly as if you're in the middle of winter instead of the August heat, which it was. Think happy thoughts. _Think those happy thoughts and you'll be just right as rain_ , I kept telling myself. But the lie didn't last long. Something else started. Something else took its place. And stayed,' he finished looking deep into Billy's dark brown eyes.

What Marty Wellock received he passed to his son who used it now at the bonfire listening to the noise, eyes still closed thinking the beauty of the scene, the absurdity of the night, the lasting thoughts of the _Event Day_ episode, smelling the smoke of the fire, the booze off the breaths, whiff of marijuana. And then the cracking came.

Smelling without having anything to smell Billy's father said was the first sign. Next a loud cracking. Like a mighty tree dry solid through, being taken in both hands by a giant snapped as if itself were only a wooden match. That's what Billy's father told him to think of every time the cracking started. Just breaking some wood. But Billy saw it in another light. A big mean bastard of a giant with hands the size of a house ripping a tree right out of the ground and snapping it in two all with the same motion.

'And don't forget the cures. Yea remember the _General_ ,' Billy smiled with an afterthought.

The cracking grew louder sounding now of both wood shattering and thunder. Billy could feel a vibration growing deep in his stomach somewhere. He thought he had to fart but it tickled instead of causing pressure. It began moving outwards up into his chest and along his sides. He could feel it wrap around his lower back along the waist. There was a warm sensation as he felt the vibration moving down between his thighs, a tingling in his balls gave him a mild comfortable surprise.

Soon his entire body hummed. Nothing serious. Nothing to the beat of the excessively loud music of Aerosmith's "Back in the Saddle" blasting away which the entire crowd screamed with. Nothing to the increasing heat from the fire with more wood constantly being heaped on. Nothing to the night where once away from town lights stars hugged down along the horizon. Nothing compared what Billy felt that very moment.

Everything funneled inward toward him, at the same time moving away. The humming vibration swelled. The sharpness of splitting wood increased. The light from the bonfire through his eyelids wavered brightly, shifting as people passed between them. He could feel the warmth and peaceful gratitude flow through him. A rising constant content beating of his heart joined his now shuttering state.

His cells juddered against one another, their friction building turning to first warmth then very quickly he was alight from the very center spreading it consumed him in a blaze of intense heat, not any form nature could ever produce.

And then a deathly quiet came over him and he found himself standing just outside a circle surrounding his father who was strapped to a table watched by many, remarking any reactions on clean their white paper. The place was damp and cold, the light dim from one bulb just above the table casting, of course, eerie outline of those faces it could grab.

The women said something to the man on her right but Billy couldn't hear, all he could see was the mouthing of words. The two nodding their heads in agreement then from side to side in disagreement. And back to agreement. Billy tried to speak but found no way of moving his mouth now closed tightly. His lower jaw had no reply.

And then he knew why he couldn't hear it all became very clear; he was inside his own nightmare, the one he only dared thinking of when conscious.

The nightmares Billy unhinged from students' and Mrs. Randen earlier today, from old man Sampress down the street who'd beaten and starved his two dogs now wanders in adult diapers drooling at an asylum somewhere in Los Angles, from that fat fuck Walter, from fourteen others including the nightmares of Don Peirce who pushed Billy's best friend Scott so hard he broke one of Scott's ribs. Scott who was so thin and white positively anemic and emancipated everyone called him 'Bones' even though there was, of course, McCoy on Star Trek, but 'Bones' fit so well it was perfect and sad. The broken rib punctured a lung causing several health problems that would plague Scott's entire life.

At nineteen Don had enough taking his father's Black and Decker with a bottle of Jack Daniels and started drilling into the side of his right temple wanting to release those evil little devils who'd tormented him once and for all, as Billy only unhinged nightmares from those deemed accountable, those very deserving of their fate.

Billy now had his own to contend with thought. Those with drills and diapers, those having walked into traffic, those stepped out of windows, those having raised toy guns at police - raised real guns at police - raised real guns at their own heads, drove their cars into buildings - other cars - trees - people - over cliffs, those taken too many pills, drank too much alcohol, cut their wrists - cut their throats - cut someone else's, were wasting away somewhere, all in Billy's eyes warranted their outcomes.

But his entire class of fellow eleven-year-old sixth graders, except Ronny Patters who was twelve having repeated the second grade along with their teacher, amounted to what Billy saw as the worst; they were the offspring of their parents and for what their parents had done, Billy sought for their punishment.

He also knew it wasn't money that was power. It wasn't even knowledge as many believe. True power is the ownership of people. If you control people, you control their resources. Their capabilities. Desires. Their fears. And those in charge at Willnard knew this. They conducted experiments on specific individuals. Designer analysis achieving distinct outcomes. Willnard was a giant laboratory for breeding insanity; not the curing of it. And Marty was a recipient of those tailored cocktails. A rather lucky one as he survived primarily intact of his metal functions, and that's where Willnard made its mistake.

Although Willnard was meticulous with experimentations procedures and record-keeping, they didn't observe Marty once discharged. And here good fortune had its way. He was deemed legally sane, while others weren't so.

They didn't follow-up on patients discharged from the asylum simple because there were so few of which most died soon after release. Some once released died of natural causes. Of most there was a considerable number in suicides, some being re-institutionalized. But not at Willnard. They were never reinstated, considered damaged and refused re-admittance for reasons Willnard hadn't space available. Besides, Willnard wanted _fresh_ opportunities.

Since opening in 1896 over nine thousand patients died, buried in unmarked graves around fields behind the asylum. For many going to Willnard, it was the endpoint. No one wanted you, certainly very few came visiting. Family members knew upon signing admittance forms of this, they didn't bother returning for the bodies. It wasn't uncommon in the morning finding at Willnard several tied or chained with a note or at times without, becoming nothing more than a used book no longer wanted, slipped through the depositing slot at a library door. In the winter there was a small annex room provided just this opportunity. During more congenially months those suffering were simply left outside as the annex was locked.

But Marty didn't escape the results of his years at the asylum with its isolation, and mostly the speaker messages, that holy horror of the place relentlessly playing, and of being sane among those who weren't. Having this passed to children was probably one of which he thought about often. Then he met Hanna, a quiet girl, strong in character herself raised in Montana Marty was passing through after being released from Willnard where he found a job driving line poles for cattle fencing.

Telling her nothing about Willnard knowing she'd run like hell away from him, at least not on the first date. Marty was cautious but honest, eventually, he did talk about the asylum after they were dating a month. Hanna wasn't the prettiest but for Marty, the likelihood getting close to a woman was similar to not reliving Willnard every night in your dreams; simply not possible.

In telling her, Marty waited stepped back watching for her reaction. She took a breath and said, 'Look around you. In this place anything is game. If you bend over far enough, long enough, everyone will fuck your ass. So stop fuckin' bending Marty.' Billy was born nine months later probably because that night and the following four they screwed the hell out of each other.

Leaving Montana for warmer climate landing in the hi-deserts of the Mojave in Southern California were they roamed for a month, finally settled Mesquite Springs a small town of about ten thousand as it looked the most promising. Marty learning quickly, always well with the hands, he loved woodworking, able to use it with fine detail as furniture, to rough works of framing in houses. After Montana they found their way into Mesquite Springs where after a day or two looking around was able to work in a small construction crew building stucco houses. Hanna got a job at the 'Circle K' feed store unloading trucks seeing there were a good number of dogs, horses, and goats in the town, also she was paid without any contract so the wages were extremely low, but not taxed. After Billy was born she was able to bring him with her making a small safe crib area in the tack room seeing at that age he slept most of the time.

The twin girls Relana and Andina were born two years later.

The first person who went crazy in Mesquite Springs was Walter. He was a fifty-eight year owner of the Round Up Room Restaurant, known for his cheating ways in everything from abusing his staff to abusing his mother as Billy watched one day while drunk, Walter snatched Hanna while she was giving him Billy a cup of tea, kissing her hard on the lips and neck grabbing her breasts in the tack room, for which he received a quick slap from Hanna, for which she received a fist in the stomach from Walter, for which he received his first nightmare sending him into the oblivion of fear.

Walter was never the same. Always haggard from something, always nervous, never able to sit still for more than a minute at a time. Two years later he was dead from alcohol poisoning. When Walter died Billy had just turned seven.

Billy grew into adulthood along with his younger sisters who later themselves married, had children and successful careers after together graduating from the University of California Davis where they became veterinarians, Relana specialized in equine studies while Andina canine, both receiving scholarships as Marty and Hanna's salaries couldn't possibly manage such tuition.

Billy went to Oregon where he collected a degree in carpentry. After traveling and several jobs returned to Mesquite Springs six years from leaving when he applied for the wood shop teachers position at the Stallions High School and was accepted. His father worked at Bowmens Construction Company and his mother took care of the house working part-time still at the Circle K not unloading but as manager of shipping and receiving seeing its expansion with three stores in Arizona, two in New Mexico and six in Texas was contributed to Hanna's hard work.

The three lived happily, or rather the two more restfully with Billy back in town, then the knock at the door that early morning and what Marty opening it saw, immediately changed everything with four men standing there, only one he recognized with his tall lean frame, white hair, and icy blues eyes gazing happily at him as he'd often done while Marty laid strapped to the examination table at Willnard looking back in terror.

## Chapter 2

A Master From That

Playa Vista Road was a charm walking in early mornings light illuminating those silhouetted Indian riders along the hilltops. And today there sure were a hell of allot. Billy always wondered walking the seven stray dogs his mother "collected" looking along those desert hills not more than five miles from where he lived outside the towns center, what kids his age in the big cities might be seeing right this same moment. Concert probably though he'd only visited a city twice having seen TV shows of life there, and that was enough. Enough to know where ever he went in his life there would never be a place such as the hi-desert in early morning its crisp clean air and not a sound other then your own thoughts and those of those dogs chasing wildlife stirred up across wide open fields smelling fresh as though just created a moment before you stepped there.

He always walked the dogs early so as to let them _get the run out_ his mother would say, and they loved it probably more then he did seeing dogs lived by their senses; smell being one of the crucial abilities here. They could hear extremely well of course and would damn near go crazy picking up the scent streaking off like there was nothing but the chase. You couldn't hold them nor their freedom, they'd run wild before dropping dead in a heap when back home exhausted, falling fast asleep shaking a leg or paw, eyes twitching with yelping dreams, chasing after perhaps giant rabbits and coyotes twice their size.

Walked mostly the same route each time though a loose foot trail existed, Billy often stayed from it as he enjoyed simply wandering between the larger creosote who must have been fifty to sixty years old seeing their size, just the same some living till ninety he'd heard. There was of course 'King Clone' in the Lucerne Valley having a forty-five-foot diameter aging more than eleven thousand years. Some of them even dated back to the last ice age. And here he thought while walking, _I'm only eleven, skinny, and stupid_. Though later in high school he'd run the 2-mile in track and field bettering the school record, which stood over six years by more than 19 seconds, Billy never grew out of his shy boyhood inquisitiveness. Even dating his senor year a girl would have to take the initiative otherwise they'd never get kissed which for him finally took place those last few months before graduation.

Billy wasn't slow or lazy, just not interested in academics, which almost kept him back his sophomore year. He was more _hands-on_ seeing getting dirty was half the fun while endlessly watching the world around especially desert life and that creosote as there was something about their growing maybe a foot in ten years and their resilience which Billy admired, their scraggly bush surviving for years with only the slightest amount of rain, gathering water from the moisture derived from cold nights and heated mornings. Not more than a couple of days without water and shelter could you survive, especially in the summer he thought and stood for a moment reaching the three mile mark every morning as always before heading back home looking out toward those growing Indians who were just Joshua Tree's or cactus's or creosote's who'd stood watching over their land years before any human wandered through, thinking how strange it always seemed, that no matter how hard he tired he could only approach the place up to a certain distance unable in moving further.

Wondering would there every come that fabled turning point he'd so often heard of, that _illumination of thought_ , like some holy relic would somehow change everything, as so many often prayed because they'd damned their own lives with the greatest of ease, now only wanting reprisal from themselves which of course couldn't be had for the simple reason they'd already been forgiven, but couldn't see the fact. So in point - would they ever see much if anything?

But he'd had enough of peoples lives and grew often tired in their complaining, their unwitting lack of a common understanding in what to do with what they have as they continually screw up the simplest of things. And that nature was the true master, but hell, who really cared when you had Monday night football? With that the Indians seemed not such a bad alternative riding down into the valley gathering you, storming up the opposite side. That would leave little time for complaints.

But chores waited for Billy before leaving to school, he'd spent enough time at the turn-around and knew it was time to head home. Then suddenly the dogs stopped their running and smelling turning their heads homeward in one single unified movement, which of course caught Billy's attention as it looked out of some documentary film of Africa he'd seen the day before where the zebras froze, then shifted looking at something off in the distance. All exactly at the same moment.

But here it was as real as anything as yourself standing there looking at it. As simple as simple could be, but still, he almost laughed at the sight of it all and nearly did except in an instant he knew something wasn't right. Just as the zebras knew somewhere in the bush something wanting to eat them.

And that's when the chill started its run.

Right down from the middle in the back of his head to his ass it shot giving an icy jolt into his legs as if to say, _boy if you don't fucking move your goin' get eaten_. But the dogs beat him to it and they were on the move taken to running wild straight back home. It took Billy a second and he leapt right after them, right with a fear building of terror and hatred from which both he hadn't the slightest where and why _they_ rose and drove him with such tempest, right into something that he knew was his own turning point and was scared to death of it.

And that's the funny thing about fear. Real fear, not the kind you see in movies or read in stories, but the one that takes you personally up in its arms, holding you close so you'll never misunderstand, never ask again, _was I afraid?_ because you sure as hell were and now you knew what _real_ fear was. They say a soldier experiences it during combat with the enemy. That the actual fighting might be short in duration, lasting at times only a few minutes or seconds, but what that does to the mind is something eternal. That some will say they saw things crystal clear or blurred, or everything was slow, or incredibly fast, or knew their directive, or forgotten everything, or saw nothing but rage, or felt only love, or hatred, or passion. Or nothing at all. But one thing they all agreed on; something was after you and wanted you and that kind of fear puts _the mark_ on you.

And that's a lot different than getting a D on your math test or your mom finding your cum rag between the mattress and box springs of your bed used to catch wad's shot twenty times a day because that's what boys do with their hyperactive glands, starching sheets and whatever else is in range, even worst now because your best friend Ronny gave you a Penthouse he'd stolen from his older brother which had far better pictures in your opinion that Playboy although the quality of Playboy photos were absolutely awesome but something about the woman in Penthouse causing balls to scream, which must have been often with Ronny and his brother over hearing Ronny's mother telling Billy's mother their underwear could stand up with out any help on account of all the _jerk-off-athon_ they did.

Three miles wasn't that far but hearing the dogs howl as Billy rose from the gully just back of the house some quarter mile did 'the mark' on him pump his legs and arms ever faster, and as he cleared its crest saw the backyard. A large black car was parked there he could now see through the shaggily bamboo fencing they used. They had a circular driveway so as never had to back out a car, and this one was parked just at the gate leading up to the back door.

He could feel the burning of the muscles as they used up their sugar, the tissues running on a thinning mixture of air though Billy was grabbing as much as he could with his lungs. He was an athletic boy, not out of shape in the least but the three-mile he'd covered in an extreme pace would have surprised him had he know the quickness of which it passed.

Pushing himself to move faster the dogs had already reached the outer fence barking madly clawing its chain-link while two had even climbed up and over its six feet with what Billy thought was the greatest of easy, silently wishing he could do the same, and bolted toward the car growling their tails turning now in a crazy clock-wise motion he knew the dogs did when in their 'attack-mode' as he called it.

Billy was just putting his hand on the latch of the fence when those first two reached the car bounding upon its trunk and side rear window barking savagely, not only because they didn't know this car, but there was something very wrong as Billy too felt a strangeness in first seeing the black hulk anchored in the light beige colored dirt driveway like a rotten tooth Ronny's uncle showed him once.

There was no movement from the car as Billy flipped up the latch of the fence door causing to burst open as the other dogs had been jumping up pushing it even biting the chain-link leaving Billy to think for God sakes what the hell's wrong with them, all desperately together trying to get through at once. But he knew what was wrong. He'd seen it before in dogs. They got a smell of fear in them and instinct took hold. He'd seen once Ronny's dog go mad bad enough they had to chain it outside. And it's a fucking poodle!

But that was because of _the storm_ that came dumping metal rain and other poisons from the Symore plant fifty miles away which had just been hit with a lightning strike just before at its main electrical transformer causing a fire releasing the metal into the air. That's what the report said. There's no way confirming such a report because Symore was contracted by some foreign company in some country called Yugoslavia Billy only mildly looked on the map at knowing the whole while the story was bullshit, and maybe because of that it had a level of security around it entailing acid pits, pits with bamboo spikes their tips smeared in shit, bottomless pits, pits with monsters the size of large black cars. Just pits everywhere so you couldn't take one step without setting off some alarm or be ripped apart and eaten alive watching your arm go down some gapping razor tooth mouth into its gullet leaving only a smiling hideous grin with a thick dark red tongue slowly crossing over scaled lips hungry for more.

The five other dogs yelped wildly as they broke through the open gate aiming straight for the car the other two now biting at door handles and tires, scratching doors with fore-claws, growling, he even saw two pissing as they ran either with excitement or fear he wasn't sure which, but had never seen before, as the urine spraying under pressure jetting out. Fortunate they were the last two otherwise they'd all be covered in piss which of course would have to be washed and as getting to school was the order of the day Billy didn't have time for that just right now, yet all this ran through his mind as he passed through the gate opening throwing himself toward the black animal causing all the misery in life he was now sure of, that all the evil things in the world were in that complete absorption of light the dogs savagely converged upon.

Closing the distance between himself and the car Billy could see long scratch marks in the black paint from claws and even teeth as the dogs ran around growling, barking the long sides of what he recognized now as the suicide doors Lincoln Continental, slobbering, biting tails lights, jumping on the hood and trunk, digging with their front paws at the windshield and rear windows all the while foaming around their mouths gaining in a frenzy Billy hadn't ever dreamt possible.

And then the bleeding started.

It started flowing with the first two dogs having reached the car directly from their nostrils, then from the mouths. A moment later the others began. Another moment the barking stopped. They stopped running around. Then they just dropped to the ground staying motionless with eyes rolled over showing their whites. In all, it lasted no more than a few seconds after Billy arrived. And he knew they were all dead. Dead as the silence now which ensued. Dead as the parched desert floor during a midsummers scorch. Dead as his uncle he'd never seen.

Clear as the air in those early morning walks he'd taken his only true friends, now lay contorted where they'd fallen, blood and foam mixed across their muzzles soaking into the dirt, Billy stood a heaving heart now shattered having only one thought bristling in his mind; those from this, will forever be in a hideous darkness. Though he didn't know at the time, witnessing this became the trigger in Billy's life unlocking nightmares and dreadful thoughts once forgotten.

As he heard the back screen door open with it squeaking springs and hinges, he turned seeing men holding his father's handcuffed arms between them leading him through the doorway, and reached toward those _sent_ a whirling dark mass with a hundred twitching legs into each of their minds, unleashing their horrors hidden.

As they cleared the door Billy could see another man followed directly behind his father holding what looked like a large thick black club of sorts which he held against the back of his father's neck. This triangle of black-suited man with their black sunglasses walked together with his father toward the car. Billy almost laughed thinking he'd never seen so much black before in place, when no more than ten feet away from him, another man came through the door. A different man. A man with crew-cut white hair, not military cut, not that short. Wearing gold rimed glasses. And the man looked right at Billy. And Billy felt all the warmth of life in the world die away through the man's cold blue eyes.

If at the beginning they'd have know on their way to the showers of concentration camps in Europe during the Second World War of those directing who would not be sent into them, and having a good understanding the weight of all their decisions these Nazi's made, the selected entering the showers would conclude, this white-haired man was clearly an element born of those decisions. A _master_ from that. One destined before his own birth to change the face and thoughts of us all in some horrid terrifying way.

They held each other gaze blue eyes never shifting even when the man walked down the three steps from the house to the dirt path which leads to the circled driveway following the others several yards behind. Nor could Billy move away staring as they came closer, now just a few feet from him.

The trance finally broke when he heard the Lincoln's door open an arms distance from where he stood causing him to turn in time seeing a thin arm covered with dark red sleeve having a white-gloved hand extending out the now slightly opened passengers door from the back seat. As the door opening slowly widened the hand held the door handle and from the corner of his eye the men passed by slipping gracefully into the massive car, which in a moment drove away, leaving only dust and seven dead dogs it began to lightly settle upon.

## Chapter 3

Joint Gas

Both Oregon and Washington seemed logical choices if you wanted to get drunk most of the time and screw wildly. But Billy wanted Oregon because you can legally grow marijuana there with enough plants to do mother plants, breeding, growing multiple cannabis strains, and cloning. He also hoped to get a university degree in woodworking. After graduating high school he enrolled at Oregon State University in their wood science program. Four years later he graduated magna cum laude with a bachelor and returned to Mesquite Springs applying for the position of woodshop instructor. He was awarded the job, but only after explaining why he'd taken two years off after graduation to travel.

'Because in studying for so many straight years I felt it was time to put into practice what this great institution helped provide in me,' Billy announced in front of the hiring board gleefully smiled proudly stamping ACCEPTED across his application. Of course, Billy's entire education from kindergarten through high school was at Mesquite Springs and seeing it was extremely rare any graduate from there returned, let along one having such qualifications, the board was jumping through hoops in his willingness.

Billy never told the hiring board what he did during those two years, and they never asked, directly anyway, _best not rock the boat_ the board secretly talked in their circles. If revealed, they certainly would never accept his application nor sat together with him in a room. Just across the table. Just an arms distance. Especially alone.

They extended the pleasantries with him, all shaking hands then left for the bars where they'd get sloshed and fornicate later either with each other or alone. Billy simple walked home as it wasn't more than six miles between the two thinking the entire way whether he'd made a mistake in his judgment or was this the best action knowing what lay ahead.

Securing employment at his alma mater wasn't anything remotely in any part of his mind just three weeks prior. But the white-haired man had other ideas and Billy wasn't about to lose him this time. They found his father a month after he was taken that early morning wandering in the Bethel Park outside Pittsburgh, semi-coherent, unshaven in the same cloths humming a tune lightly no one could place.

Hanna flew to Pittsburgh to get him and immediately took him to the hospital straight after their arrival in Mesquite Springs seeing she didn't trust anyone or thing in Pittsburgh. Christ who does Billy though after hearing the story how police were called to the Bethel Park from concern citizens for their community as there was madman lose, how they approached his father who didn't respond to the officer's demands to stop stumbling, provide his ID, put his hands on his head...very slowly.

None of which his father recognized as any language understandable the officers advanced in numbers towards him and he flew apart, so they tasered, cuffed and took him, for the safety of the community, to the holding facilities downtown, before calling the Northwood Psychiatric Hospital because his father showed signs contrary to customary normal conditions people should conduct themselves in, not the slobbering and shaking, or guttural howling and snarls he produced once his cell door closed.

Fortunately, Hanna was able to calm him... considerably...otherwise, they'd have to take a bus back as no airlines would let such person aboard any flight. Hell, just his appearance would send most people back several years. It was obvious he'd not showered, for some time, nor used the bathroom other than his pants which practically encased him in his own excrement had to be cut off, first thoroughly soaked in the holding cell by hosing him; naturally a safety and hygiene precaution for concern citizens and their community.

The doctors at Mesquite Springs were simple and direct in their studies; he'd been traumatized, though showed no signs of abusive treatment. Not even restraining marks one would think after seeing him. In fact, there wasn't even a needle mark. Nothing in blood and urine samples. MRI scans indicated no abnormal activities. Yet here he sat, half vegetablized for hours until someone came and took him. Took him anywhere. Anyone. He'd follow a total stranger. It had gotten to that.

After she finally got him home Marty sits most of his time under the elm tree in the backyard just looking at the things up-close as if seeing them for the first time. Billy would sit with him when he wasn't teaching. Hanna would sit when she wasn't working. She asked at work if she could bring Marty with her but the answer was a firm _NO_. In a matter of a week, word reached the entire inhabitants of Mesquite Springs of Marty's condition and the reason why, even though not all the details of course, only he had an 'episode' and lost his bearings while visiting family in the Pittsburg area.

Both Hanna and Marty were quiet people and they raised their children to keep things to themselves so in doing the 'Pittsburg Family' seemed a most logical approach and for all to see. The community bought it. For the most part. For those that didn't, fuck them Billy often told himself, his sisters and mother. They'd lost part of their father and were lucky grades of all three were exceptional however seeing one of the parent's condition without the possibility of providing an income due to health reasons wouldn't allow a normal academic program, Davis and Oregon did so in offering scholarships for the Wellock student's.

One early evening with the sun just set Billy sat under the elm with his father as usual. Both looked blankly up into the Pinto Basin Hills some dozen miles where they both walked with the dogs for hours Marty showed him how to read a compass and topographical map showing different points of the local area, some important, some not. The best were the ones hunting gold and whatever lost treasures there as Marty outlined connecting various points showing their hidden locations. Looking back it all seemed a hundred years ago.

Billy always brought a glass of orange juice out to his father around the same time as the sun disappeared allowing the nights begin their cooling off from the dry hot days. Marty never took the glass, but Billy offered it any way holding the glass for him a moment knowing his father's reaction as they sat together. He usually smoked a joint drinking the juice, while his father never made a sound other than the constant rhythmic breathing, while looked out into another place Billy knew he possibly couldn't reach. Except maybe with what he was smoking.

Firing-up the joint he took a long, slow hit watching the end change colors around him illuminating from the graying dull of the pending night into a reddish-orange glow. Holding his breath as long as possible he exhaled feeling its effects take hold. He made a few friends in Oregon which supplied his 'medicinal needs,' not every night, but several in a week he'd sit back and just forget everything for a while till it wore off, then took his father to his parents bed making sure he was safely out of harms way of snakes and scorpions that'll come around during the nights, although seeing his father hardly moved once he sat down they'd probably pass over and around him taking hardly a notice to this shadow.

The recent package sent was extremely good from Oregon, and before half-way through he felt the knock-on, about to break the embers off when he may be out of habit from college days of passing joints, for he now only smoked alone, offered it to his father. Billy wasn't thinking, of course, it was just a reflex action, his mind already in a smoother place, when he felt the light touch on his fingers and turned to see his father take the joint, lift it to his lips taking a long slow inhale, eyes closed, head tilted slightly back allowing a wider opening of the throat for the smokes passage.

Marty held his breath then slowly through a narrow opening let out a plume trailing upwards into the quick darkening sky. A smile grew unhurriedly on his face exclaiming faintly, 'Good shit.'

If ten being a point where you were so wasted you laughed yourself silly at the simplest of things, and a severe attack of the munchies you'd eat through a solid door, then promptly past-out, Billy assessed this weed being somewhere around seven; still able to focus but things were starting to slide and bend with colors and sounds highlighted, sometimes relatively full. Watching his father Billy's first thought was happiness for the man. The next moment, shock.

Marty wasn't immobile or in an unresponsive stupor. He could eat on his own, use the bathroom on his own. Move around on his own, within the fenced yard of course otherwise, he'd walk off. Both Hanna and Billy worked with him giving simple chores from drying dishes, getting eggs the chickens laid, to picking up dog shit seeing they all loved dogs and strays seemed to turn-up some staying, or move on there were always five or six running around chasing cats which numbered anywhere from thirteen to thirty depending on mating and full moon when coyotes were on the hunt.

But you had to show Marty clearly, in his face and explain in simple terms what the task was otherwise he wouldn't connect very well if at all with the objective. In the years since Pittsburg Marty spoke only a 'yes' or 'no' while more often simply pinching his lips together while either nodding his head, 'yes' or side to side, meaning 'no' is the only verbal or motion communication he possessed. Even with several doctors some from Mesquite Springs others from the Loma Linda Medical Center outside Los Angeles, all diagnosing the obvious; this was as good as it's going to get.

But his family never lost hope, never lost view of a minds horizon, knowing in some way it would break through the fog surrounding it. 'Good shit' meant the haze was indeed thinning, or at the very least, had the potential of as you need only find the designated trigger.

'Yea. It is dad,' Billy tried calmly remarking, but wasn't sure whether he did so, or simply screamed the words from excitement with the drug now creeping towards an easy eight having that _special way_ it so often did with really good weed and this was turning really good probably a nine Billy thought.

'Yea, probably a nine,' his father echoed. Billy's mind came full stop. It was on a collision course with something he was certain, but trying to establish how much of this conversation was real and for a moment he believed not verbally rather in thought it occurred, was beginning to unravel his coherency.

Looking down at his hand holding the glass immediately realized how extremely dry his throat had become. He took a long slow drink loving its sweetness thinking it always tasted the same each time he drank it making him wonder with the package proclaiming 'one hundred percent pure juice,' how in the hell was that possible when they came from God knows different states or countries for that matter?

The thought always hit when he took that first sip and this was no different except when he lowered the glass his father reached for it, taking it gently from him with both hands still holding his grin from the joint though the glass shook slightly, and calmly drank what remaining juice there was without stopping, or breathing, which Billy remarked thinking to himself must be at least half a minute till it drained away and his father lowering the glass taking a long pull of air, held it for moment then exhaling with great pleasure and relief.

And the pronounced grin returned to his face and he simply looked straight ahead as before, as if none of what happened did.

Billy could hear the clanking and other loud rumbles in his brain as it began struggling with some sort of reasoning in all this. His eyes never left his father till the grumbling started somewhere deep in the man and a moment Billy remembered him often performing this after drinking beer, which always caused them both to laugh, then Marty released his famous lurid baritone belch.

They both started laughing and from the pressure on Billy's gut forming he couldn't help but fart through his summer shorts reflecting an echoed sound off the flat stone he sat upon. That rolling fart you have if you counted, is actually more than one as they're usually produced from the constriction of pocketed gas built up in the bowels, which sounded off the back porch walls amplifying things greater, bringing on more laughter, till a sharp light almost whispered, 'What the fuck?' voiced from behind them as Hanna who'd been standing separated by the screen door she gently pushed open stepping onto the porch.

## Chapter 4

Task of The White Haired Man

The black-haired young man was angry. With every reason. And he wanted to hurt something. Badly. But he was retired now. And didn't have things he could hurt as before. Before there were many he could select from. Many different ages. Many different colors. Many different sizes. More importantly at any hour. Without interruption.

Now he was the white-haired man and wasn't working. As before. Not the physical work. But the _other_ work...that never stopped. That he was always busy with. That was his favorite. That they could never take from him. They didn't dare. They'd become too involved. Too close.

The white-haired man had many secrets. Collected over the years. Secrets he was very good at collecting. Secrets no one else could collect. Secrets he made even more secret. Secrets so secret, they'd themselves secreted secretively.

So the white-haired man had to be stopped. Stopped making his secrets. But it was both too late, and too early in stopping him. They'd become too fearful. Too in love.

Then, they had an idea for the white-haired man. They'd give him a task. A task they knew he'd understand. A task he'd not fail at. A task he'd appreciate having. A task that'll control him.

And the white-haired man took the task. And it controlled him as so they'd planned. And in their pride they'd forgotten one very important, one very simple rule; never let the white-haired man look deeply with his iced blue eyes into theirs, otherwise...you're with him.

And things would become horribly wrong.

As contrived in the laboratories of the white-haired man, a doctor of rather specialized vocation perfecting his craft through years of trials and a great many errors, which learned along certain a path, a more refined walkway of an expertise evolving that might not have for the fact of being pronounced clinically unsound, its only shortcoming. But in here lay the cornerstone, the desire of true knowledge having been denied yet can, under certain conditions, be allowed to flourish unobstructed. When true passion exists.

So for the white-haired man, that infallible wanton objective, research once held incarcerated, was again granted immunity with the onset of experimentation hurling the doors of mental suffering and anxiety wide open.

Establish a more conclusive form of psychosurgery connected by fiber pathways thought to play a part in the regulation of emotion, the white-haired man used deep brain stimulation, though stereotactic is the accurate and precise method of locating and treating small areas in the brain through surgery using a specialized frame which holds the head in place allowing the surgeon to precisely map out the area for surgery, the doctor had other concepts.

Not relying solely upon equipment focusing on the target area where having very little effect, the white-haired man knew target delivery to the site for the most part what the procedure and equipment were initially designed for, a literal vacuum cleaner no different of that used cleaning floors and carpets, was redundant for his purposes. He refined the equipment altering it, therefore, creating the means for manipulating one's _own_ senses.

Another method he adopted was the normal operation involving the placement of an electrode sending an electrical signal into a part of the brain connected with a wire tunneled under the scalp to a site just below the collarbone where it is attached to a pulse generator. The purpose of this initial system is to reduce or eliminate tremor, stiffness, and slow movement. Again his modifications eliminated the archaic system completely, adjusting its methodology accordingly.

And in so doing the white-haired man achieved a procedure allowing people with certain mental illnesses, particularly obsessive and melancholic cases which he claimed allowing _unhealthy_ thoughts to circulate continuously in their brains, gave them instead a _different_ more robust outlook encouraging the growth of new healthier synaptic connections _without_ surgical intervention through a more advanced method of...arc-phantom surgery.

It was astounding. And unproven. Till they gave him Willnard.

'You do realize this _is_ the last. We can't, and won't initiate another Dr. Malocht.' The stern voice was that of Mr. Mason Ramston an excessively over-weight assistant director of research at Holmsgate Institute in South Alabama for the criminal insane Ramston was extremely qualified to maintain detailed records of all patients, past, and present. He was also very willing for the right amount, assisting Malocht's research, though this time as on every occasion informed all parties involved he would be unable cooperating with any future endeavors.

Those financing felt differently in only listening to Ramston out of politeness growing tired of his rhetoric feeling he himself should join the list of patients sold to Malocht. At no extra charge. Seeing, however, the sensitivity of the situation it was concluded Ralston would remain _outside the project_. For the time being.

Dr. Malocht sat motionless for a moment while Ramston's statement sounding more of a far-off cry heard a hundred times from patients he'd worked on before only in the lower levels of Willnard so as not to disturb fellow _guests_ often referred to, whose participation was desperately required in that systematic pioneering of his investigations.

Dr. Malocht had immeasurable patients. Listening to those with mental ailments his specialty. A specialty so well honed, so carefully maintained the ability in multi-tasking his thinking, while for others chaos and graphic horrors of live human dissection ensuing around them caused most to either faint or become mad themselves, Dr. Malocht commented louder into the microphone and video recorder so as to be understood over their screams.

Business was after all business, and it was very profitable for Dr. Malocht, however not always a matter of finical gains. That was trifle in his mind. Simply a by-product. He ensued a far greater prize.

With Ramston's final silence Dr. Malocht smiled slightly saying, 'Thank you again Mr. Ramston. I including all those involved owe you the gratitude bestowed for those who surpassed expectations. I'd like to read a note if I may from one individual in particular.' Drawing a small piece of paper from his coat pocket at the same time from the other took a small box, which he opened gracefully with one hand and lifted a pair of gold-framed reading glasses. Ramston showing clear surprise couldn't sustain his laughter.

'Yes, Mr. Ramston. Age never rests,' he spoke holding them between his thumbs and forefingers a few inches from his face toward the ceiling light inspecting whether they would require cleaning. After a moment he lowered the eye ware gazing through them toward Ramston still smiling because he always thought Dr. Malocht an overrated pompous ass and was very pleased indeed noting the doctor suffered from failing eyesight.

Still smiling the doctor continued. 'But as you can see Mr. Ramston it's not without faults. Rewriting a person's intellect. That blank canvas. A sheet of paper before anything spoiled it. Was pure.' he spoke softly, rhythmically highlighting the intonation of _but_ and _see_ and _not_ all the while holding the glasses just so, just at the right level allowing Ramston's line of vision to pass through the lenses, viewing with great clarity Dr. Malocht's bright almost icy blue eyes.

'It could be said,' the doctor continued, 'spectacles of these nature is rather special insofar adding astuteness to one's statue. Wouldn't you agree on Mr. Ramston?' The smile slowly faded from the doctors face as in the very slightest, lowered then rose the glasses causing the view of himself to diminish, instead replaced with that of Ramston's, which in a flash Ramston saw too his own reflection in the doctor's glasses.

The flabby assistant director grew puzzled. The brow tightened over his eyes, pondering what exactly was he seeing. More importantly with his unswerving logical thinking commencing its falter realizing what his mind rejected witnessing what couldn't possibly be, Ramston felt a slight itch developing behind his left ear. Precisely felt it where the side of his skull met the back at the base slightly above the point where the two connected with the neck, just under the surface.

Unimportant he thought compared to the vision captivating him further, realizing his viewing of Dr. Malocht's glasses that something very extraordinary was happening with those gold-framed eye ware of his. Something he'd dreamt about as a child. Something bringing soaked sheets to his mother crying because he'd wet his bed knowing the nightmare having caused it wasn't a nightmare at all. But was _real_ and alive in his closet. Even worse, something of a faintness in that itched he'd known before...began _again_ calling him.

He could hear words, a conversation with its slightest reflection coming closure then retreating into the distance as if they were passing him along the sidewalk on his way to work. 'I'm scolded as a child. My father upset. Mother caught me masturbating into my sock,' Ramston thought recalling the entire nightmare; another plague chasing him renewed. 'God how mortified. They wanted to take me to a doctor. A DOCTOR! Father screaming 'It's unnatural. _UNNATURAAAL_. Wait till your obnoxious little friends hear of _THIS_!!'

Steadily Ramston's mind observed something presenting itself. Perhaps from insight, though most probably it was instinct with a flash fear attacked him. His testicles turned suddenly cold beginning to shrink, as the skin grew tighter. He had an urge to put a hand there making sure everything was all right, but he knew everything wasn't. He knew nothing was going to be _all right_ ever again. Simply because he couldn't move his hand to check his balls either. And simply because his reflection in Dr. Malocht's glasses kept shifting.

'It's a mirage caused by desert heat upon the asphalted roads.' Ramston thought to himself. 'Of course. But something else is in there. I can see something...something behind me. Right _theeeere_!!!'

And something did come behind him, if he could yell, he would have. If he could run he sure as hell would have. Yet the only parts of him that did work, that did function normally, remained only the heart and lungs. And his mind. At least for now. Less so of what remained afterwards.

As simple as most things really are, Ramston was at an end. At an end, because his usefulness was no longer needed. Because he was unable to keep his mouth shut. Because he was a scared little shit. Because even though Dr. Malocht had no ill feeling toward the man, he, however, wanted another test case evaluating the receptiveness of the new glasses.

It could have been anyone. But as whatever drives life's directions, where we always have to attach labels in order to manage our affairs either be it karma, destiny, stupidity, dumb fucking luck, even _whatever_ making the bill today, Malocht never looked upon those routes, into those spaces helping us sleep, with lies telling us to stop tip-toeing around because there isn't any boogeyman, as it simply didn't function well enough in this place. Because he _was_ those things. All of _them_. What we fear, dread, admire. Even love. Malocht was that which we created.

But Ramston didn't see it in such a light. What light he did see slowly dimmed. The inner part of his vision remained clearer than the outer rim, becoming a soft glow of only grays and white. Colors ceased when he'd lost control of his body, not able to move any longer, not clearly remembering when the colors evaporated leaving his life forever. Couldn't even blink his eyes being the primary instinctual action trying to break contact with the doctor's eyewear, which now grew in size. Doing so as it was the main focus Ramston had, filled the now tunneling vision, which would remain so, for the rest of his life.

'I always saw them as a reason to hide behind really,' Dr. Malocht's voice boomed into Ramston's mind causing him to cringe and scream silently with terror from it shattering high pitch.

'They're not required, though they add a touch of sincerity. Adding trust. Don't you think Mr. Ramston?' Dr. Malocht's smile slowly returning. 'And trust is so important Mr. Ramston as I'm sure you agree. I can assure you your confidence in matters of the past is profoundly appreciated,' he added using the same intonation.

'Oh GOD YES, YES, YEEES your right trust TRUUUST!! I trust you. Hahahah PLEEEEASE. Stop it _ssssstooop ssssss_ ...' Ramston though to himself, rather howled to himself as his mind turned into a mass of ants crawling rapidly throughout his skull. The itching was intolerable but couldn't be soothed with any form of scratching even if he could, as Ramston was far beyond comatose. The shrieking of Dr. Malocht's voice was only heard in his mind, himself having contrived it. He'd become immobile succumbing to any suggestion without his knowing. From anyone.

'I can see by your demeanor you agree. Very good then. I bid you good day.' Dr. Malocht lowered the spectacles returning them into their box, which he immediately placed in his coat pocket. Then added, 'Till our future meeting Mr. Ramston.' He stood walking away without waiting for a response knowing there wouldn't be for some time. At the very least several hours, normally four to five being the duration in the laboratory. But this was different.

Dr. Malocht had indeed tested the eye ware under set conditions in the lab. But with Ramston it was far from any conditions used prior as the patient was sedated and subjected to longer more intense periods of up to three to five hours. With Ramston however, these _newer_ glasses, it lasted less than three minutes.

The meeting location was chosen whereby Ramston after regaining his ability to move and clearer aptitude in his thought process would have simple questions asked not what he remembered of the meeting, but what he'd _forgotten_ prior to the discussion with Dr. Malocht, of the entire last week. His life was secretly recorded the entire seven days; Dr. Malocht wanted to know the effectiveness of the experiment, of the _light through the glass_.

Because the outcome of any experiment may prove volatile and unpredictable, safeguards should be placed accordingly so as to contain and manage the process, therefore in Dr. Malocht's view a local coffee shop was chosen should any fall-out occur nothing of great value would be lost. Those, however, sponsoring the doctor's work vigorously recommended another venue, but he reassured them all probabilities would be contained, insofar should Ramston show negative responses and threaten himself or the general public, the _trigger_ in the poisoned coffee would be activated resulting in cardiac arrest depending on certain variables concerning Ramston's present health conditions prior to their meeting, probably in five to eight-seconds.

The sponsors again felt this was ludicrous out of some spy novel and warranted a more expert and secure review of the experiment, yet Malocht again reassured them should Ramston required medical assistance insofar of an ambulance being dispatched to the test site, their emergency call would be intercepted and Dr. Malocht's own staff would arrive in their vehicle to take Ramston to the nearest hospital which of course would be Malocht's lab.

The sponsors once again stressed with extreme prejudice they would not tolerate such an act, when Dr. Malocht informed them if they don't cease immediately with their childish ranting he would personally strap them all to his tables and start flaying away upon each and everyone of them guaranteeing it would take a month before they died, with their families receive pieces of them for the following ten years delivered at the most opportune times whereby causing the greatest horror and trauma imaginable, assuring them since he looked upon himself as a modern-day Dr. Frankenstein of death camps, he could imagine quite a bit.

Actually, he did not see himself in the light of an architect of which Frankenstein's condition was associated, stating such proved valuable with the sponsors though maintaining them from that point onward in a closer manner, the closer the better he thought, right on the table being the best actually, increased a freer hand in his own work.

And the worrying for what? All the complaining and loss of time having to deal with the sponsors grew exasperating for Malocht spending more and more stints with such a group, although they were influential and had considerable finical resources he desperately needed, he grew wary contemplating how to eradicate these imbeciles and move forward with the project in its full capacity, for nothing happened to Ramston except two rather small, almost insignificant facts - inconsequential per-say of what _could_ have happened - where upon he wasn't exactly sure why he'd been so untrusting all his life, and what happened to all the colors being the first coherent words spoken directly after the doctor's departure.

Hearing this Dr. Malocht's icy blue eyes seemed to show a light somewhere deep inside them should anyone have the courage to look that close. Even his most trusted colleagues kept their distance making as little visual contact with the doctor as possible. None-the-less there was a flicker. A cold fire flamed, coming to life in that once chilled confines, now thawing from the news the experiment's success brought. Even better than predicted.

Ramston had no lasting ill effects, physically nor mental. At least for now, still he'd be closely monitored for at least two months before the full operation.

'Yes,' Dr. Malocht thought to himself. 'Better, but not outstanding. Not certain.' Looking through the window of the Lincoln watching nothing, in particular, thinking only it was time to head south to that warmer climate knowing one day he'd enjoy immensely revisiting it. Especially among old friends. Rather the families of old friends.

He lifted the phone next to him, spoke softly a moment and replaced it, turning back to the window whispering himself smiling, 'Yes. Will need sunglasses for this.'

## Chapter 5

In The Screaming Came An End

Billy moved quickly to the boy his arm still wedged between the planer blades and the gears which, under normal circumstances gripped wood pulling it through across the blades, and hit the "Dead Switch" aptly called because you better be pretty damn sure when pushing it's massive red button not only shutting power off in the wood shop but sending an automatic alarm to the principle, administration, police, fire rescue, and the hospital probably local news offices too Billy thought when describing of the system to him upon signing the employment contract and following tour from Principle Tolesen who students affectionately referred to as _Principle_ _Toolset_ lasted more than an hour and forty-five minutes longer then necessary of the two hour excursion, alerting them a grave situation was at hand, and most likely coming their way.

The planer blades adjustment wheel looked like a smaller version of the ship's wheel of some sailing vessel from the year fifteen hundreds when easily spun allowed meticulous elevations of the blades allowing from a sixteenth of an inch up to the maximum one quarter. However with the "Dead Switch" pressed it released the locking system allowing a quick free-fall drop of the feed-table freeing the, more than likely jammed piece of wood while the same time stopping both the gears and whirling blades, otherwise the wood would shoot out the back-end of the planer at high velocity enough to break bones or decapitate anything in its way. All you had to do was push its red button next to the blade adjustment wheel. Gravity would do the rest allowing the feed-table to fall six inches with an audible thud striking the rubbers stops underneath.

Seeing the planer stood fifteen feet from the nearest wall there were several dents in it from ejected wood illustrating the stopping system didn't always work, therefore a manual override must be initiated whereby turning the adjustment wheel lowered the feed-table, which should only be attempted by qualified personnel; the teacher. Otherwise the results showed clearly on the adjacent wall.

Why the planer wasn't moved closer to the wall so as to prevent accidents of students being nearly cut in two, has a simple explanation; it was, but on two separate occasions student's lowered the feed-table too far allowing the blocked wood to hurl ricocheting off the wall striking two students, resulting in a fractured skull of one, and the other, a broken wrist.

The planer was returned to its present location with the following rule pronounced; when the planer is running, stay the fuck out of the way.

The boys arm being flayed in tiny strips as blood and bone sprayed against the wall creating a new techno-art form no doubt appealing to certain people, probably wasn't aware his actions at this particular moment would change not only school policy, but the life of Billy dramatically in two reactions; point one - the school announced criminal charges against unqualified personnel for misuse in operating the planer; and point two - Billy was blamed for the accident and placed on probation pending investigation and possible legal action against him from the boys family.

Lucky for Billy the personal of the school, _Toolset_ and the local sheriff department are completely incompetent, otherwise, there would have certainly been a point three - why was there not one student in the class _remembering_ the event ever having occurred?

Throughout the investigations, insurance, school, police, mechanical, all concluded it was due to shock seeing not a single student recollecting a thing. Not one of the twenty-three could recall. But that's _not_ exactly true.

They remembered. They remembered everything. They remembered the first screams. Then the howls. Then guttural noises only animals must make when being slaughtered, but none of the students knew sound animals make during that particular time. They only knew, and never wanted to afterward know anything but the end results being hamburgers, and steaks, and fucking hotdogs. Jesus, who wants to know how they end up on the plate. We're hungry. LET'S EAT GODDAMN IT!!

But now they would know. They would remember. Billy would make sure of it.

'Only teaching twenty-two months and this shit happen,' Billy told Donna his on-off lover over the past four months the morning after the accident. He didn't have the stomach to face anyone other than the dogs and cactus that first night especially with the vodka flowing in him the way it does when real, true disaster strikes. Especially the kind _you_ produced. Best have a long hard one and deal with it. Except that was a hundred gallons of Russian booze.

'You didn't fucked-up Billy,' Donna said holding his head in both hands looking into the bloodshot eyes resembling German roadmaps of a man practical everyone in the town blamed for the accident. It wasn't much help but what the hell could you say - _"Not to worry. It's going to be OK. Really. Have another drink. No work tomorrow anyway. Probably ever. You stupid shit. Weren't watching the kids Billy? Huh, Billy? How come Billy? Tired were you Billy? Late night Bill? Hung-fuckin'-over Billy? Can't handle it, Billy? Your dad in wacko-ville rub off on you a little Batty Billy?"_

In whatever way looked, thought, felt, the situation for Billy was at best extreme merciless in the eyes of most townsfolk in Mesquite Springs seeing they talked considerably amongst themselves and gossip, a fire that raged, branding innocents forever destroying its greatness insofar nothing is guilty less proven otherwise having been written somewhere by someone, and therefore must be the gospel of all humanity becoming law, worships as such.

Otherwise, how does one explain:

Women dying in childbirth - 'innocents forever destroying its greatness';

A father claimed certifiably insane - 'gossip was the fire that raged.'

Ways of thinking can lead a person along different paths, ways not taken should or could they have known better. Listened better. Would have understood better. And it is the could's, would's and should's having built that very path, yet if one falls away, they commence with judging as its replacement for which the stability of the path is now based upon.

Nonsense some will voice adding, 'Just walk your own path and choose what you wish. It's your life.'

Others stating, 'Destiny. It's out of our hands.'

Still, more might mention, 'Determination; fight for it.'

So the path begins quickly looking like a bowl with one single noodle; the beginning very difficult to find just as the end, with chaos in the middle.

What if all paths were as such? What if after a while we had no idea what we're dealing with, but simply go along hoping for the best? What if we just followed an others path? What was everyone else doing? Just give up. Just give in. Just give way.

Billy felt this about a month after turning eleven. Fifteen years later little has changed. It was the same, resentful feelings now, as then. The world was bright and beautiful. It also could become extremely mad, extremely fast. The insane sense of the word, though he thought it was also mad in the angry sense of the word making it easier to understand seeing it was a growing part of him.

Just as those not having to work getting money from mommy and daddy. Just as those having to work getting nothing from mommy and daddy. From many points of view, Billy saw life within these two fields; the infamous haves and have-nots.

He experienced the side of the have-nots; his family having to work hard. Those of the haves he not only resented but felt compassion knowing their lives were something of a dream neither he'd want contact with but often forced into, touching yet more often crashing into. Frequently it crawled like some bizarre arena animal where haves played and he didn't know the rules very well, often venturing there, while trying to manage, though hypnotic, was extremely dangerous because it hadn't any seat belts.

While in Oregon when smoking considerably large amounts, Billy often had long discussions with those from the have-been trying to understand their thinking. Unfortunately, afterward he'd often forgotten what the hell they were talking about; a lifesaver in a way otherwise it would've scorched his brain getting so close. That's our higher level of evolutionary rewards; development of nerves consequently keeping us from self-destruction.

Unfortunately, it made us all hypersensitive. Not a good thing. Could land you in an asylum with mentally afflicted residents. Prison too. Wedding the wrong person and have children only to abuse them. Or be abused. Having to major in a field not interested at all with very little aptitude in, but forced because of payment for that education _told_ you so, for which you mourned, hating your entire life finally ending it with that all too powerful attitude suicide, while leaving no note.

This was the true side Billy knew well of course. That place roamed with beasts, which were unyielding. Treacherous. Half-starved. Full of some sort of intellect most couldn't possibly understand nor manage had they did. Higher understanding was required and that had been left somewhere, powerless in remembering.

No. This had signs withered from vengeance clearly marking a common direction one should take. Vodka combined with copious amounts of smoke Billy wanted a different ride then normally taken. Knowing the blame would fall upon him for the student's injury, there was only one way out which of course he was working on. Yet none of the psychotic methods used in the past worked in present-day disasters such as this.

And _this_ was a disaster. By any standard. During the 'Three Days' once it could so far have some close proximity with, the old drunk found on the second morning having only the skin from the inside of his palms. All else having been removed. This came to Billy's mind remembering the story heard from some now abandoned town which no one can remember the location of, during a period of time, the same references, if you went outside at night, luckily were found the next day _intact_ for your burial.

As religion had its way this town was very much in that kind of debt claiming to have been _saved_ from the evils of such darkness and burial was extremely reverend, an act of homage, therefore you wanted to receive last rights for yourself and of course those from the town. Yet some who didn't believe wandered out, or in many cases simply opened the door and were taken. Sometimes found later in pieces. Most time's, none at all.

'By WHAT!?' the town would scream at each other during daylight yet with no answer forthcoming they wondered if it was a curse of some kind for their actions, either past or present. They'd meet in closed circles reviewing who did what and if justified they'd march right on over, accuse the person or persons, drag them out and offer their still-beating hearts freshly torn from chests to whatever deity they felt deemed this great moment.

As Billy heard it from his college friends several nights while camping before final graduation, even wildly inebriated he felt a kinship with the entire story. A rather strong association the following day as the alcohol rather reluctantly drifted out of his system, as he knew once it left the hammers start their tapping and the taste of aluminum foil fills the mouth unless of course, you partake in that _relaxer_ having marooned you in the first place.

Peering through eyes composed of ruined images seen through campfire light blazing away, with colleagues from class and dorm for one last farewell pouring tequila the chosen drink of the weekend down their liars as banks of hash clouds rolled upon them, Billy watched an entirely different evening unfold.

Awake but still fogged laying in and out of his sleeping bag alone in the tent shared with no one but himself as he required plenty of room when drinking heavily in view of the fact that he moved around the entire period after stopping whether it be early morning or afternoon, whenever the _system_ shut itself down.

This process took about half an hour depending on the events before, and their severity. Remembering conversations, flashes of girls flirting, of both sexes belching and farting, of slapping each other for accomplishments, of tears, of wishes, of bullshits. But this came to an abrupt halt splitting his already fragile brain when 'Three Nights' reared up to the door with an irregular rhythm needing to attack.

'Jesus Christ!' Billy whispered or whimpered; possibly both seeing it easy to understand a common ground for recollection had been removed allowing the mind free rein.

'Fucka, fucka, fuuuckaa.' His mind waking.

Blinking his eyes wildly he tried getting them to focus on the interior of the tent and the barring he was within it. Having surmised he is at least somewhere still in Oregon hearing the retching followed with vile cursing of fellow grads releasing themselves from any obligation of humanitarian assistance of others 'for the boat is sinking and fuck all of you I'm taking another bong hit', with the nights cactus juice and beer because beer was allowed for the _lighter_ sake meant it was also used as chasers that of course were abandoned after the ninth or nineteen tequila shot, whatever...learned he was facing the door with flaps half zipped either because they were too difficult to close, or ventilation, or someone wanting in..or out...

'Haly THHIIIT wuz sumun wu me las naght...?' Billy spoke with frogs growling from his parched, moister-less throat the desert dry winds in the summer bringing tons of sand resembed nothing remotely comparative to what cracks must be forming on the inside of his mouth, how his tongue felt that of a shriveled dead lizard. No. This was something bigger. More fucking ominous he thought than that.

'Stop fuckin' talking you git fuck moron twit licking WHORE!!! came a roar next to him.

'JAZASTH!!' Billy yelped or dry-hicked who knew, but certainly shocked and shook as the bolt of electrical reasoning went start through him into the ground. Half-opened flaps mystery solved.

For Billy, it was the moment of blackout within a blackout. Not that dream, within a dream, within another dream. That would have been fun. This, however, was a moment when everything didn't grind to a halt. It instead smashed into the wall. Moving very quickly. His mind looked like some sort of crash test zombie dummies all mixed in weird twisted positions. Contorted. Bloodied. Lifeless. If they weren't at the start. But knowing these bastards, when taking tequila, anything was possible.

His mind snapped thinking of three elements simultaneously:

one - he knows that voice. And became very afraid. Also aroused;

two - what the fuck is that person doing here, more importantly...did we do anything?

three - why he wanted to open my eyes in the first place was to retrieve the smoke stashed in a small pouch used by campers for logical, better necessity items such as flashlight, and toilet paper, thus partaking of, rendering a clearer more thought productive process enabling the shades lifting softly from last nights' escapades.

A fumbling brain isn't a pleasant sight. It might be humorous from the on-looker's standpoint, not knowing the reason why the person was drooling probably biting his tongue, but for the body holding that brain, it was something entirely different. Something social networking could only handle.

So much of those precious variables were at play during that first moment of Billy's mind in the struggle of reanimating itself. Some of which haunted him; if my mother never met my father - if Oregon wasn't great for smoking - if another academic than this - if my uncle wasn't killed by my father - if I'd been born two minutes later, or earlier - if Khrushchev launched – if not searching wastelands - it's all endless.

Some he'd only realize much later in life; did I have to kill him - did she look before crossing - cancer - had I watched more Sesame Street.

At last, the eruption came of its usual will in some great explosion unknowingly far beneath Billy's still tortured drunken conscious. As if having enough wasn't enough, exhausted of the entire collected ambush successfully concocted the night before leaving not a single survivor witnessing the carnage, his reasoning burst forth in grand climatic fashion signaling an end, or rather a beginning, preferably one of new, and spoke weakly... 'So...good sleep?' which sounds through the lizard, 'Shouwa...gound shleep?'

'Ya vapid cunty milquetoast shank,' came the even now thick bearing-down voice though somewhat calmer through sounds of rustled sleeping bags and clinking of various sized bottles, some still containing liquid of one form or another by their tones, because at this stage you never left the tent to piss fearing it would never be found on the return so the _dead flasks_ remained useful.

'Give ussss,...' the voice continued then trailed off as if falling from a cliff which Billy hoped its owner would.

'Yea,' replied Billy slightly recovering from the shock seeing things were calming just slightly, though the jitters still held, or maybe it was his imagination wishing it so, but not the tension. That maintained its firm grip.

One eye closed the other a solitary crack, allowing the necessary light to enter, rolled jiggling in the direction of the voice. It was going to be bad when eyes quivered so. Having always a quick vibration to them if he really drank allot, especially if both observed the world though convulsions the way they soon would. Sometimes lasting a couple of hours, once three days, the only thing bringing aid was, of course, closing the eyes and falling as far away in sleep as possible, but if that wasn't possible then taking a couple of deep hits reduced it some.

No able to visually connect with what was heard, and what he saw primarily as the voice came from another planet having transported its alien form slithering next to him still half covered, thank God for that, because if not the sight would have shut him off completely or at the very least left traumatized for life, he forced his one-eye gaze to another part of the tent, that _golden pocket_ holding only one thing in the world worth saving when the urge took hold causing a shift in rusted thinking; in the Levis worn almost completely out, where he'd now hoped, prayed, was there still the two condoms brought just on the pretension something might good come from all the abuse planned putting his body through that last hurrah weekend, like all renegades before, packing it up stumbling home for a brief sobriety stay before heading to chained employment?

Because he could _feel_ she was fucking rapturous. And she was right there. And if he didn't find his pants right now the point being he'd regress even further than already in his vegetated state.

It was the sweetest sex Billy ever experienced. Sober or semi-lucid, years before or afterward, nothing came close to that moment. The fact they'd known each other since freshman's, the fact they'd spoken a great deal amongst one another, the fact they'd gotten drunk and stoned many times, some remembered some lost, the fact she'd had a boy friend for three years, the fact he'd masturbated a considerable amount wanting her, the fact they were both secretly desiring each other since first sight but neither ventured, were just points in time, and if you didn't get that, didn't perceive them, they were gone.

And points work the way they do. For reasons more often than not they clearly understood. That's their idea. For Billy that particular decisive moment hammered its nail directly, without prejudice into his skull because points don't have preconceptions. Point's being simply _there_. Whether you take them or not, doesn't matter. So why should they give a shit?

And we always think, wondering afterward, what the fuck just happened. For Billy including most in the extremely small group of people he hung out with, felt the same way; if you don't have the eyes, you'll never need thinking.

So that's why Billy drank, smoked, snorted, did whatever's around, himself practically to death telling his subconscious it had seen enough. Yet it was the opposite. The fact he couldn't avoid; considerably more needed witnessing before it all went away.

Suspended from school he took long walks with his dogs just as years before till the investigation established its outcome, which might last up to another three months. Then would come the legal actions from the boy's family.

It had now become openly discussed and speculated among the town residents as to why even have an investigation knowing and therefore already delivered their verdicts as to how the boy's arm got caught in the planer; lack of attention from the supervising teacher.

Lack of attention. What can you really say about that?

'Fuck'em,' Hanna said straight with firmness mother's usually have in protecting their offspring. Also, gut honesty.

Always direct and to the point, she was a far cry from most residents of the town.

'With all their dilly-dallying it's a wonder any of them survived so long as they did. In the real world they'd been eaten by now,' she claims openly.

Probably the reason most gave her a wide berth in passing and rarely spoke with for fear they'd be handed their heads. Mesquite Springs wasn't a bad place. It was lovely from a naturalist standpoint. Wide open. Clean air. Solitude. However such places always seemed to grow stupidity, and stupider folk came to gather like it was some sort of medicinal weed or fruit giving them a life they hadn't thought possible. Hell, maybe it was.

So when the authorities posted their warrant having Billy testify in a preliminary hearing regarding the incident, Hanna was not allowed attendance. Only an attorney should Billy wish, otherwise, it was closed ascertaining whether the law was applied accurately concerning student safety and where the judge decides whether there is enough evidence requiring Billy's case go to trial.

There wasn't money for a lawyer and as Billy went alone to the hearing outside the small local court offices he met the mother and older brother of the student on the sidewalk. He'd had never known who they were, except for the hateful look she gave him as all three approached the door together, all three extending an arm toward the handle, stopping at exactly the same moment, staring at their own hand just a foot from the door, then looking slowly up into each other's eyes.

That's the moment Billy got the glance from the mother, and that's the moment the mother got not merely a glance from Billy but something she hadn't bargained for thinking this was going to be an easy gratifying experience getting a known excessive drinking teacher to crawl before her and God, because it was God's will all this happened she was told by her family and friends, that it was God's will that drunk son-of-a-bitch will pay good money for the rest of his stinking life, and if it's Gods will to castrate that fucker preventing his fowl seed from spreading, than she'd help hold the knife. But it wasn't.

When their eyes met something changed. A ripple elsewhere began. Despite the fact, not one of time. It moved outwards. Forming rings, pushing further, without resistance. Rolling. Gathering. Speed neither slowing nor increasing. Constant. Different. Growing. Alive. It immediately sensed the sudden slowness in his heart beating, of his breathing. He felt rather weighted as if he'd gained heftiness, more mass, not there a moment before.

It was afternoon with only a desert quail present producing with its call an elongated rolling-back echo. No pedestrians only the three when the car passing at the same time the three collected themselves together in front of the door rather slowly had the mother and brother noticed. But they hadn't. Should they, a though might have crossed their minds noting a fine automobile. Old although well kept. Billy's heart though stilled as he recognized it. The old black Lincoln with suicide doors, the mafia hit car from bad dreams becoming worse as Billy's eyes moved swiftly from the old women's to the car rolling slowly having now tinted windows an added attraction Billy thought in a weird dark joking manner raising anything in him, searching desperately for relief.

'Could it be the same which...?' Billy shakingly thought to himself as it progressed behind the man and mother obscuring his view of it for a moment.

Holding his breath not thinking just letting the mind clear itself waiting for something to snap waking him from this mania having overcome the once half-drunken yet peaceful life he so desperately now craved of which had a powerful desire for a drink, better yet just a toke before all this shit began, but felt it wouldn't go well seeing the elements at play and glad he hadn't, not because of the court, but because of what he was witnessing. If he had drank or smoked, there would be considerable doubt in what was now clearing from behind the two allowing Billy a distinct view of, for all he could summon logically at the time, a huge black shark.

Since those years in the driveway, only observing its massive bulk from the rear, never seeing the car with a forward view Billy was shocked at what he saw of its front grill. Totally black. Even the front bumper was black. In fact, there wasn't any chrome, any color other than black over the entire car, confirmed as it passed allowing Billy to examine the rear-end for indeed it too complimented the rest of the bulk swimming off into some dark depth he was certain of but that wasn't the greatest shock he sensed. It was the way the automobile moved in that blackness.

The car seemed to float effortlessly above the ground not quite touching the paved asphalt. There wasn't sound as it passed. Not the engine, nor tires on the road, or any of the usual noise a vehicle makes. Billy only heard it approach and thought perhaps the others did too but they showed no sign in recognizing whether a car was nearing, or not. As it came no more than ten yards away there grew a _deadening_ around them, as it seemed to immerse the three, encasing them from anything audible.

And its blackness as the Lincoln was considerably more than mammoth and soundless, was the deepest black Billy had ever seen. He wasn't fearful. He knew the car hadn't an evil spirit or such, but what rode inside, was a very special sort not produced nowadays, not one to make mistakes, and you knew to perceive it once, was to never fail knowing its presence. How thankfully Billy felt those windows were tinted because he didn't want to see inside. Didn't want to know.

The car consumed drawing him toward the blackness, downward. He could feel the weight upon his shoulders increase, pulling him closer to the sidewalk as if a great hand on his back was bending him in two.

His eyes never left the Lincoln, never faltered in their recognition, for now, he was certain it was the same, and what rode within come that early morning when he was eleven taking his father.

His chest shrank with air collapsing in his lungs as if being squeezed, pinned between two strengths pressing him. He felt his eyes bulging ready to pop out and roll down the street as marbles as when he was seven, playing marbles for keeps and somehow he knew he'd loose same as before. Loose his prize black, red, and yellow 'Indian Blanket' marble to Bobby from the other side of Utah Trail Road where he wasn't supposed to go because it was too dangerous crossing the busy two-lane tarmac, which of course wasn't busy it was just there weren't any crosswalks outside the town's center, especial on THAT road from which beagan a straight six-mile stretch drivers hauled ass up into the mountains behind Mesquite Springs to get drunk and laid.

But he lost it and Bobby grinning with that shit-eating-grin just snatched it up as quick as a snake because that's exactly what he was, a snake in the dirt who came from a family of lying low-life white trash bastards, and all through intermediate school, and up into high school any time Bobby saw him he'd yell, 'GOT IT!!' as loud as he could laugh as if he'd won the lottery for all the world to see, even if the stupid fuck was only a foot away.

One day in high school Bobby didn't see Scott Newcastle talking with Billy seeing he had his hands on his knees looking right face to face because he was so tall, about his math test as he was very interested in getting a better score than a D minus seeing if he didn't get anything better then a B he'd not be able to continue playing varsity baseball for the school team and seeing he was the star short-stop many thought it damn important this boy gets a good grade, so he came to Billy though only a freshman, he a senior, politely asked if Billy could help with his homework. Sure Billy replied and the next second _GOT IT!!_ rang out right behind Billy like a giant bell from some cathedral all the way in France.

It shocked the hell out of Billy since he already was pretty nervous talking with Scott considering who he was, who in a flash rose, reaching around Billy with his left fist stricken Bobby right in the chin sending back two steps where he then fell square on his ass.

The place was packed as school was just out and kids were in a clamor to get on their busses and head home, but it all came to a stand-still as Scott sidestepped around Billy with great speed as if scooping up a grounder ready to rifle it to first base being his trademark, bent down, whispered in Bobby's ear a couple of seconds, rose, and walked away leaving all those watching wondering just what was it exactly he said as Bobby looked white wetting his pants.

Billy told that story to Donna while having pizza and beer two weeks ago, thinking back on it now that was a sweet time because Bobby never said another word and two days afterwards found the 'Indian Blanket' on his desk.

In it all Scott get his B, which after teacher-parent deliberation was considered adequate, went on assisting the team in winning the league championship. He played a year in college, the town very proud of their star, till the start of his second year waiting at a red light, the driver behind wasn't watching, struck his motorcycle throwing Scott back over into the windshield braking his neck killing him instantly. They brought him back home for the burial which seemed the entire school and town attended, except Bobby because he was charged with the manslaughter seeing he was driving the car that struck killing Scott.

It all came in a flash to Billy the entire story relived having taken a couple of minutes unfolding right there on the sidewalk before his eyes. But only a couple of seconds past, enough to let the black Lincoln pass unheard by any except Billy, who stood in a daze wondering if this was brought on through substance withdrawals when the voice came with a shrill slamming into him not sounding human, _Rot in hell DEVIL DRUNK!!_

He'd forgotten about the mother only inches away being restraint with both hands by the brother. But with all that transpired Billy wasn't sure of anything apart from the fact he feared far greater what rode in the Lincoln than this crazy bitch in front of him, returned her look gazing as deep as he dared without causing any detrimental act which added against him in the future, tip this growing horror on the scales of justice if there ever was such, upon the shitty no doubt overly corrupt floors of the courtroom, and quietly said, 'It's going to rain.'

The woman turned slowly white then gray, her skin tone resembling that of some horrible Halloween mask used to frighten young children away from a house they'd embarked swaggering along its narrow path searching for sweets each a moment ago had dared on another to ring its bell, all knowing the place was haunted by an evil sick witch who ate spoiled brats.

Yes, it was exactly that mask the one he remembered when he was maybe six going trick-or-treat with his father, that Billy saw in his mind the moment he spoke those words because that's what Billy does best; put a picture in your mind. Of anything. And you though it was real. A trick of his own learned from the blackness that just passed.

## Chapter 6

Meeting Under The Door

Was it the coat, or the man himself for he carried with him a quality not many had seen before nor probably will in the future. He wasn't tall, nor heavy build, these two facts being the only normal aspect of him, but it was his eyes which captivated most almost immediately for they were of an icy-blue in color not common in any person, with the pupil a black of such depth one could not help be immediately connect with, whether they were aware or not.

His face was thin, elongated in nature. The hair cut short and of a whitish-gray in color, for the doctor was neither young nor old actually difficult establishing. He wore no eyeglasses, as so frequently thought, seeing many in the field of medicine often required for their vision grew fainter continuously. No doubt from all the interpretation.

As the two approached the doctor stood quietly watching them with great care, anticipation as if waiting for one or both to misstep. He noted their walk, seeming to measure each stride, the swing of their arms, and their demeanor in full. His gaze then quickly lifted as they neared where he stood by the table and met their eyes.

Privately away from the doctor, they would admit at that very moment, felt no fear or excitement. Though both openly spoke about this in length prior to meeting him, yet upon doing so all apprehension evaporated, leaving them with only one feeling, again they would only claim privately and only then days later; of knowing him before. Not in a casual sense of meeting on the street, rather in more of a personal nature, extremely so as if he knew all your secrets. The ones buried deep. The ones you freely gave to him. That you desperately wanted him to know of.

And it left them completely unprepared for what happened next.

'Mrs. Collins... you have indeed...managed to lose...your husband,' the doctor spoke slowly with near-perfect English pausing, allowing his visitors full opportunity understanding the words.

The woman stopped almost in mid-stride. Numbed wasn't exactly a term which came to mind, especially as her conduct always of professional state, permitting only what's required shown. To the opposite, it raced along unchecked as if for the first time allowed to escape its pretensions bondage having held it since birth.

Though her mouth did not fall open nor did she show any additional sign of surprise, as probably most would have, as only four people knew she had indeed _lost_ her husband, last month, to another man.

Mr. Ryms carried on another step when he too stopped. He was after all one of the four, apart from the _couple_ was certain, as the woman, only these four knew of her dilemma.

Ryms turned looking at the woman with a slightly raised eyebrow when the doctor spoke again in his slow, drawn out expressions, 'And Mr. Ryms...Mrs. Collins...does want something...though...not with you.'

Then quickly added as if to hurry their stumbling minds, 'Please... enough. Do have a seat. Your travel has been...long.'

Mr. Ryms returned his look to the doctor, as the slight redness grew upon his face, then moved forward halting at the table waiting for the woman along with the doctor's next quip feeling this having only been the onset of what he'd hoped would be some further insight into just who exactly Dr. Malocht was, felt uneasy with the doctors intrusion into both their personal lives.

They knew he wasn't a man knowing anything other than facts. Science. Numbers. Results. Experiments that worked. Or failed. The doctor became very interested indeed in their proposition when approached while conducting analyses at the Institute for Medical Research Belgrade as to whether he would join in researching metal aliments seeing this was his field having activities, participated, written about various disorders specifically acute declarative memory schizophrenia with particular focus on episodic, otherwise the doctor met with no one from outside.

For Dr. Malocht those suffering from what he narrated as _misfortunes_ became his soul work, for his own name, Dusan was the equivalent of 'Soul, and God is my judge.' Completely devoted. Uncompromising. Passion-blind. Never married or other known relationship, his entire waking day was either in the lab or various departments of the institute examining, reading, and dissecting patients along with their results.

Apart from that, these were the only details know openly, or rather public about the doctor for he was never open about anything; one of the reasons Ryms and Collins wished the meeting. The others that of professionalism and expertise for the doctor was one of only a very selected few they felt could achieve their plans.

But to move forward they needed to meet with the doctor personally, evaluating his facilities, his persona, resolving this enigma so as to meet their already extending and stressed deadline.

Mrs. Collins took the fraction of a moment regaining her usual intense focus. Indeed she understood, its reality knowing the doctor somehow understood a simple passage of thought between two could be achieved under the right conditions. The reason of their meeting had a greater significance she felt in knowing it was possible, not simply speculation as perceived, nor blind luck in the doctor's statements for he was a man acting always with reason.

She stepped forward coming to the table placing one hand on the back of the wooden chair directly in front of her, perhaps to steady herself, perhaps as a shield, then immediately the doctor pulling his own chair away from table, gesturing them politely with a slight bow to sit, his pearl white lab coat, not a stain, nor mark could be found when closely inspected, shimmered with his movements.

As the three sat the doctor didn't offer his hand with the normal cordial greeting, did however ask whether they wished to have some tea placed on the table before the meeting in order it's slight cooling, permitting the herbs to settle releasing their full essences, assuring its properties would revive the two after such an arduous trip, being his own special blend used for years, was actually from his grandmother which he only slightly changed, which the two upon hearing felt strongly compelled, and therefore accepted his offer.

The doctor poured the tea slowly and with grace when finished returned the small earthen pot to its holder where a low flame kept a constant temperature paramount he insisted on curing a large number of common ailments. 'Old ways...are sometimes the best,' he mentioned lifting his cup smelling the aroma enjoying the teas soft steaming smoke escape from the almost completely full cups he'd given himself and his guests making it rather difficult to hold without spilling unless of course, your composure was extremely steady.

Not an issues for the doctor, however, Mr. Ryms was able only to lift the cup an inch or two when the liquid found itself swiftly upon the table in several sloshes, but Mrs. Collins faired much better having cleared an entire foot almost to her lips, even though she'd lowered herself several inches almost meeting the cup when the spilling occurred.

Before any possible reaction, a young man appeared with a towel immediately cleaned the tea from the table and returned as if into nothing. In actuality he still remained, if you looked close, standing motionless between the large dark colored bookcase and floor length curtains. His clothing having similar coloring of both, he was almost invisible except for the face, which in every practical sense looked that of a portrait hung between the two.

The guests sat in amazement and intrigue studying the situation. 'My assistant. Can be...helpful.' The doctor spoke slowly his eyes watching them both very closely.

The three sat at the small oval table in the A74 facility at the Institute for Medical Research Belgrade when the meeting finally began with Mr. Ryms cleared his throat. 'Dr. Malocht, thank you for seeing us,' his firm yet polite voice spoke. It came from a man who, once you met would probably forget a few minutes later being rather dull for he carried with him no significant characteristics insofar fastening into your mind. Knowing him wouldn't be held later thinking for some important reason perhaps in the future you thought might be of value recalling, for it didn't usher any of the more common events one experiences in a day.

Mrs. Collins sat patiently as if waiting a thousand years for this one moment, she carried that aura of force having guided a great many either to her wishes or dooms. Now in her eyes, there was not a twinkle rather a system of lights, which danced, gliding off such as that of one being oil, the other, water.

Upon greeting him at the table, the two noticed for some inexplicable reason they became instantly drawn into something they'd either not thought of, about, or through. Their thinking was simple, straightforward; make an appointment, propose the offer, leave. There was another story they'd proclaim later in life after age ravaged their senses leaving a blubber of mass, decomposing while somewhat alive, yet hadn't formed fully in their minds that of increasing recognition.

Why would it? Both were representatives and holders to wealthy business operations, themselves major stock controllers with international connections. Young. Assertive. What could go wrong? Why should any thought of recollection for a man they'd just only met dampen their perfected persona?

At the start their conversation was slow and congenial, talking lightly of several topics. All very boring and simply placed there to release a tense filled situation which might otherwise could have been avoided should the doctors guests developed more insight into what it was they were actual embarked upon instead of their collection of past personal experiences that occurred at a particular time and place used as reference, which of course being one the doctors strengths, knew all this prior, for the simple fact most with their nature are easily perceived.

Their journey was long and they both began feeling its requirements, the drowsiness, which before entering the doctor's office neither felt. Was it the tea perhaps Mrs. Collins thought first, or simply the change of time from their own to this of more than eight hours putting them around two in the morning, not that it was a bad hour, rather the changes and all, they simply weren't prepared fully for Dr. Malocht himself.

To themselves, they would never state, but alone confess how unprepared they were, how their chevalier attitude put forward, meant nothing. It was all a scheme outwitting them at something placed high upon an altar for worship they alone would take credit and control of, yet never existed in the first place.

It was the simplest of illusions a child could perform, and that was the blessing of it all for only one carrying such attitude is able mastering its performance, that with unsuspicious mind, grasp the entirety.

The reason they approached Dr. Malocht was clear. As an extremely capable researcher with aptitude and potential, for all that, one final detail required attention this small meeting addressed; whether he himself could be controlled.

Lasting only a short time, no more than thirty minutes, and when concluded they stood, Dr. Malocht bowing again slightly with his guests departing, in if not without their noticeable lack of scrutiny they'd entered with, a more reassured and yet somewhat distant consciousness took hold carrying them through the doctor's office into the hallway, where with the door closing lightly behind them the two stood motionless for a moment, not entranced nor any form of bewilderment folding over them, only a simple view of their individual desolate thoughts in some sea adrift since human notion first entered a mind, now drowning without hope or reasoning why it ever existed.

That what they'd offer the doctor wasn't of interest, informing them this wasn't of _practical_ use, rather furthering episodic memory research proved significantly more promising. His guests grew quickly baffled. Malocht explained episodic memory in its form, is that of events such as times, and places associated with emotions. Other contextual knowledge of who, when, or what, a where and a why were also elaborated upon for their benefit.

In itself, it was simply the grouping of experiences, personal in nature that occurred at a particular time and place in the past.

The doctor went on to explain he wanted to change this from an autobiographical experience to one _shared_ from a triggered episodic learning experience. From another person, or group of.

Do you want to import memories, they asked him? This amounted to nothing new nor proved beneficial, Malocht confessed, yet the guests argued further, now beginning to wonder whether they'd made a serious miscalculation in their meeting him.

The doctor continued, stating memories having existed happened would not be altered, neither was he interested implanting _new_ impressions.

He finished, into a _newly created area_ of the temporal lobes to be precise, enhanced memory fat cells would be added increasing current levels.

There was silence. There was disbelief. From a purely practical then financial standpoint, his guests sat very still comprehending what was being said. If they understood correctly the doctor wished to generate a new part of the temporal lobes, add the capacity of more memory, while not disrupting the brains present working conditions.

There was no noise whatsoever in the hallway. You could hear only the inner working of your mind, which for both Mr. Ryms and Mrs. Collins was similar to that of grinding massive machinery, wheels of iron rusted years from lack of liberty since it was that part of their imagination never utilized which slowly commenced its turning.

Mr. Ryms was about to speak when Mrs. Collins touched his forearm lightly signaling with her head in a side-to-side motion indicating whatever he wanted to say, now and here, was not the place. With the slightest movement of pressure on his arm, she hinted leading him slowly away from the door down the hall.

Leaving the long hallway containing many doors all looking identical without any labels or outstanding markings they'd surely never find the same room where meeting the doctor a moment ago had changed everything they both knew sane as well as tangible which now laid in some ruined state on some deserted dying land within their own mind, entered a reception which having first encountered, were given directions by way of a female secretary to where the doctor waited, now had disappeared leaving the place eerie and sterile.

They made their way across the reception recognizing the door opposite as the one entered previously where Mr. Ryms turned the handle pulling it open allowing the sun to embrace them, giving the feeling of protection from the coldness they'd just departed.

Their car and driver remained were they'd left less than half an hour before. Of course, it seemed longer as time has a way of playing it was only a minute in the long hallway but lasted a year. With the doctor, when returned to their hotel rooms sitting in Mr. Ryms room confessing it seemed as if there wasn't any form of time at all, in the doctor's presence. As if it never existed, carrying no purpose.

Yet both came from places where experiencing unusual element in life was second nature. It was their business to work among the unusual with unusual minds, but not the mind the doctor wanted to create. No. The doctor wanted something more imaginativeness, something with the smell of moonlight as he stated to them both with a perfectly calm face, showing absolutely no emotion. No sign of humaneness.

Just the person they were looking for, since remorse and corruption, the many great-lost possibilities never a chance due to those produced the world or both Ryms and Collins. But Dr. Malocht was a different stock of person from anything they'd meet before. What he'd proclaimed would have to be placed before their experts for review before contacting him with definitive response, yet they both felt in their discussion safety away from his Institute the possibilities were great; should the facts be proven.

Dr. Malocht gave them only one piece of paper sealed for "Your Commission" as he called it, to be reviewed clearly stating it contained all necessary details at present allowing for their sound judgment in moving forward with the project he referred to in name as _Glasslight_.

Both Mrs. Collins and Mr. Ryms now reviewed the paper with a natural growing state from curiosity in the hallway due to their initial conversation with the doctor in his office, to raging uneasiness while in the car returning to the hotel, to shock after having read it three times sitting together over double scotch for Mr. Ryms and straight vodka for Mrs. Collins, which they repeated several times after placing the document safety in Mrs. Collins briefcase, retreating to the balcony of Mrs. Collins room where they sat in the sun, glasses in hand, enjoying the sun, gazing upon the city of Belgrade's Old Town with its historic core of museums and theaters, its proud long standing ancient fortress, and numerous cafes heavily populated from early evening to early dawn.

Gazing thoughtlessly into the abyss hidden behind the stone, letting the alcohol grip their consciousness, not wanting to look too close, not wanting to feel anything at all remotely connected with its sea of discontent malevolent human creatures having multiplied, spawned and drove forward conquering everything, distracting its own future from the truth, becoming what morality would always lie, even to itself, that good intentions breed greatness, when in fact stupidity was king.

No way of reproach now they thought sipping their drinks thinking of the mad doctors scheme for indeed his was certifiable they easily agreed, that madness must have been the cause of his greatness, while the document was sent onward to their commission for review along with a penned note from Mrs. Collins illustrating clearly both her and Mr. Ryms concerns in the practicality of such measures the good doctor had put forward, and the time required to achieve.

To think here they sat on this sunny afternoon, witness to what would change how the mind could be formed and shaped simply by the management of fat. It was enough to make you laugh if you weren't in the position they were staring at the doctor when he proclaimed such a statement as if common in everyday affairs would be discussed, even among minds unable in understanding its implications.

Fat. That was the element Dr. Malocht proclaimed would be added into that part of the brain, that strange area where our visual memory, language comprehension, and emotion are developed and kept. The temporal lobes.

Just the sound of it made Mrs. Collins secretly excited, and slightly sexual aroused. Temporal lobes. To her, it was a song sang a million years ago when we still roamed the plains thinking _where the hell did I leave my food?_ For her it was _only_ about memory. And the means of its manipulation.

The main reason they traveled to meet Dr. Malocht concerned his vague and only reply to theirs requesting a meet him further discussing their several redundant science projects they wished him to reboot and head-up of planting electrons into solders then turn them loose, for the hell with bombs seeing what you had left afterwards was ruble and reconstruction on a massive scale, for which neither Mrs. Collins nor Mr. Ryms and more importantly their finical backers foresaw as a creditable scene of sustainable income into the foreseeable future, which now they totally forgot seeing fat and temporal lobs were on this afternoons hit parade, with the sound of Dr. Malocht low voice stating to them, 'Memory...not to repair or manage...but provide more room for.'

What the hell did he mean was of little consequences they both thought sitting waiting for the reply from their letter sent, normally not longer than finishing another drink, when visualizing the possibilities over-ran all senses.

'Holy Christ,' Mr. Ryms mumbled a little sluggish from the scotch. 'This will all be gone shortly.' He finished with a slight wave of his hand holding the glass whereby it was brought directly upon it's completed half-arc to his mouth and easily downed the twenty-year-old spirit he'd brought. Just in case. Just in _this_ case as the slightly wary smile forming on his lips gave way to strict protocol of never showing what you think, but with Mrs. Collins here what the fuck he mused. She wasn't that attractive but right now she was very, nonetheless as in reading his thought she quickly looked at Ryms with a side glance, the alertness startled him, and quipped, 'Save it for out there.' His erotic itch died that very moment without any chance of attendance, turning quickly away searched the bottle and poured another.

Thinking of his comments whether they were true enough. But how true couldn't possibly be known. Except through Dr. Malocht. He would know of course. But sipping her vodka Collins wondered how to approach such a person yet knew upon meeting him immediately, was beyond her ability. She'd have to find another to achieve this. Someone with experience in this area.

_Experience in this area_ , she almost laughed pondering the meaning. There is no _area_ of which, but there are those having skills that could manage affairs for her far better. Besides she couldn't see herself attending some bizarre experiment in some dank hole taking hours if not days to reach, in order to view the outcome whether the subject's brain exploded or simply melted before you.

Because that's what it was going to be she was certain after their meeting and the reading of his paper, which for all purposes wasn't very enlightening to either her of Mr. Ryms who afterwards said on word - 'Lord' although not a devoted man as far as she knew and she knew Mr. Ryms extremely well, as he did her of course, you're not in the position of the two without understanding one another completely, it did clarify a certain lost moment as only that particular entity could resolve.

What the paper determined came to light only in the preceding days upon their return. Within two hours the commission sent their verdict. It was short as expected listing a few points primarily they'd no idea whether it would work, nor time frame, nor deliverables. They gave a cost estimate, one of generous proportion seeing they too were without any light on the subject probably why the project had such a name.

'Fucking enigma,' mumbled Mr. Rymes after reading the report though not a swearer by nature the alcohol having its way, proved interesting to Mrs. Collins insofar everyone has their sides. Even the doctor. And this we must find she noted before replying to Mr. Rymes comment.

'We'll get more details when we get back tomorrow,' she said lazily. In fact, they would. But what was received was coded for her, and her alone. And she'd look it over tonight while taking a long hot bath ensuing to relax as the return trip also proposed the same ill effects as its former, without the tension of meeting the doctor, yet held open very promising possibilities of insanity caused from the night before while taking that most relaxing bath.

Eating alone in their rooms the night before departing so as to get an early night sleep was the intention, which miserably failed. For Mrs. Collins. Mr. Ryms returned at two in the morning, slightly drunk but not too, no longer craving what possessed him before. Which reminded him when turning the key of his hotel room door, hadn't the doctor said just that as they'd entered his office? That she _wanted_ something but not from himself? Or was it the other way around?

He entered the room, closing the door behind, leaning against it and thought for a moment, then quickly found it too difficult succumbed to the pending thought he'd always had... 'Fuck it. Stuck up bitch with a frozen pussy, which everyone knew about. The reason why the husband left no doubt. But not tonight baby. Ole' fuck daddy was hot!' he snorted chuckling at the same time sounding like some farm beast actually he was not too far off from, which again everyone knew of.

He pushed himself from the door into the room stepping immediately upon an envelope. Staring down wondering what a silly place for this to be, slowly bending at the hips and knees, hand weaving as it targeted the gleaming white rectangular block no more than a foot away then abruptly stopped.

Ready to pounce thinking it a note from his beloved colleague then froze. There was something odd about this and something odd always brought a cautionary form of paralyzed instinct; animal caught in the headlights. He didn't move.

Looking closure he saw a small mark on its top left corner. A mark he recognized. But couldn't recall. But was certain of seeing it. But wasn't sure where. But thought it is the booze at work here. But was wrong. But unfortunate, be his last. But of course he didn't know that, as he was about to die.

Simply because he recognized nothing on the paper. The paper was blank, as the police report stated. His death was listed as either heart failure brought about by asphyxiation most likely due to alcohol and high blood pressure, or a massive impact on the frontal lobe and a broken neck, but no one was sure and this being the only speculation till the toxicology report which would take some time, was produced, so death from 'yet determined' was written. Or murder.

Mrs. Collins wasn't sure of anything having received the news of Mr. Ryms's death when she went to call upon him for their departure as they agreed before not to receive meals together, this being her request, one of which he honored, which now undoubtedly regrets because had he forced himself upon her she would most probably receive his sexual advanced, doubtless with gratitude as she was used to sex and good sex with her husband and twice with staff after her husbands departure so where does her frozen pussy stem from isn't exactly clear, nor to his death except it wasn't from headlights he froze from but from another light...for when Mr. Ryms was bending down to retrieve the message, Mrs. Collins numb from shock after finding an identical envelope, in reading hers passed under her door a moment before Mr. Rhyms opened his, crawled back into her bed hoping to wake from something far greater than this nightmare driven into the bedrock of her sanity, where the widening of fissures would soon shatter sending her to a facility where patients of her sort are well cared for seeing they had an abundance of wealth, or should the funds be transferred leaving her with nothing, she'd most probably land in the care of Dr. Malocht, who would be very interested having her as a welcomed guest.

And as the plane lurched clearing off the runway Mrs. Collins reviewed the past forty-eight hours only as the severely mental disordered could; with gratitude.

Thankful to be heading home. Thankful Mr. Rhyms is out of the way. Thankful meeting Dr. Malocht.

And most of all thankful for the fat. The fat which the human brain is sixty percent composed of, where Dr. Malocht's project will compress the existing temporal lobes allowing the addition of more fat thereby allowing more room for new memories for it didn't really matter what part is removed, manipulated, memory is spread over several areas of the brain structure ensuring their memory trace safeguard, however when you activate a memory, you set it up to be updated, whereby it becomes fragile.

At least that's what the paper said in general terms. The paper he gave to his guests.

The paper slipped under the door in Mrs. Collins hotel room was something entirely different.

## Chapter 7

There Was No Cure As No One Was Well

It was written somewhere and forgotten where other ideas became rules and they too were broken. This was the general interpretation, which of course, didn't stand universally for having individuality meaning strength. Able to cope with damn near anything, slowly taking hold of that jackrabbit who waited at the last moment, to dart across the road right in front of those massive head lights bearing down with all the weight of some unborn world it would soon meet should it faultier in any calculation, not withstand as the true adrenaline junkie depicted by so many strung out done-in gurus trying to make a living churning crap.

So when he stepped into the cool place out of the bleaching sun, by God the jack ran across almost smacking him in the shin as its claws clearly audible bounced off every corner of the dimly lit bar where no one took notice not even the bartender who looked up the moment he entered at the sounds nor the large-eared rabbit ricochet off table legs till reaching the opposite side of the room.

'Holy fuck!' the man spoke quickly totally surprised. 'Who let that bastard in here?' he yelled no longer interested in taking further steps.

Sliding down his dark glasses further till almost at the tip of his nose, he looked swiftly wondering if there were any more of these flashing furry bandits or anything else, which might bring high pitch shrieks from him without any control what so ever.

Waiting for its dust to settle the man was certain it was hiding somewhere behind the jukebox the only cover on that side of the wall having crashed into. At full speed.

'Jesus,' he thought to himself, 'what fucking madhouse have I falling into here in the God forsake rat shit hole?' when a voice probably the bartender seeing he was the only one standing as others hunched over their booze like decrepit animals broken by the weight of that all too powerful drink of delight, had no recognition whether the big bang sounded for them or not.

No way telling for sure so he took another step this time with great care expecting the worst in some form of over-sized righteous 'do-gooders' leaping out from their shadows with baseball bats and bazookas to mow him down having a feeling places like this breed that sort of vermin who'd learn survival from either cockroaches or republicans. There was a reason many countries had one party politics simply for the reason of elevating the vote out of reach from inbreeds. He wondered why hadn't his place adopted such a doctrine. Taking a quick breath, it came to him. 'Because social media ruled goddamn it!' And why not. It was easy.

'The hell with this,' he thought. 'If I screw around I'll drop dead from thirst and join the rest of those dead bastards buried no doubt out back who couldn't decide whether to spit blood or go blind,' and yelled 'Whisky goddamn it, and not that cheap shit you give tourists,' hoping it would be heard producing a life raft pulling him to shore before he sank any further in the dismal quicksand some son of a bitch poured into this place.

Looking at it he figured in two leaps he could make it to the bar. Just two. Might as well have been across a canyon by the looks of this place with bodies chucked all over as if some force picked up the entire bar shook it, dropping it back down. One holy mess of crap and blood, pieces of things he'd no idea what, all the time wondering how the hell that jackrabbit ran through without touching one, only bouncing off an occasional table leg. Marvels of nature. Not that fucking marvels comic book bullshit. Christ what a mess.

The bartender turned with on hand grabbed a bottle of brownish fluid, with the other two single-shot glasses, banged the entire set on the wooded bar without grace or notification at anytime he gave a shit about anything other than what he was doing at this precise moment in time which was pretty rare seeing most didn't even know the time they were in let alone giving a damn seeing their own existence in their eyes stemmed from the fact they were the center of it all and would live forever or die and come back in what they eternally believed was some greater form thereby justifying their constant inebriated state even without any substance used in such a way to obtain such a way, so in any case balls-up didn't matter much only getting what you could, would, should with the littlest of effort and the greatest gain being the golden prize hopefully done by others which you'd steal later.

And they loved it.

They loved it so it became the meat, that gristle grinded between teeth, working that jaw muscle, tasting those savory juices. It was enough making you unhinged just thinking about the lovely moment's life has to offer. Then some dumb shit slinging good for nothing comes along needing to prove something, something better than all the others and ends up getting promoted above the others, because they were able to do one thing not often or perhaps not ever seen before, that of being able to produce independent fucking thought.

Although he wasn't slinging anything he stretched out his leg praying in feeble light not to step on something which would sound like eyeballs squishing, or slip on all the blood because there sure was a hell of a lot of that flowing around, while thinking, 'If I can do this then maybe the rabbit will leap up and join me for a drink, as this guy tending the bar holding those two glasses clearly wasn't the type I want to meet in any sober state of affairs.' And he knew things from here on in, were going to get pretty weird. And it was only six thirty in the morning. GOOD CHRIST!

So the foot came down without much bother, giving him the courage, not that _Dutch_ shit he hadn't started that yet, and took another with a gasp and found himself hand grasping the edge of the bar with its tender staring one eye straight at him and what seemed the other off into another corner two feet away with a look in in them clearly defining the moment, one you'd most likely never forget ever again because memories are all that we had or some silly ass song oozing such lyrics stating, which yes, for sure, we bought that too, to the point of blowing ourselves up or jumping in front of trains, for the simple reason those memories ran away or became malformed malignant cursed things we brought out and each time we did from the cellars of our worrisome brains, would change a little leaving in the end a complete fabrication, that perfect story we contrived, which never happened because memories have holes in them and the mind fills those holes with what ever it can, presumably something cuddly and cute as God forbid we wanted anything less than perfection. After all, these were OUR own members of the righteous club. And damn they were going to be good because we paid a stiff dollar for that show!

And that's when the circus kicked it. When that crazed ringmaster showed up stoned holding that whip yelling, 'LET'S GET READY!' It was enough to bring back whatever dead horrors you'd left behind. Was it a wonder society hide from itself?

'Damn!' the man blurted out in both fear and regret not having stepped on something secretly hoping so as it would make great telling over long drinks with anyone but this enigma across from him still gripping the bottle and glasses eyeing him with the good eye and one that for the love of God seemed now to stare right through him back out the door into that retched desert he'd just escaped from, chained the entirety of his adolescent life hearing stories that things under your bed at night were real, and masturbation was bad.

'Good to be back!' the man finished his sentence with a dry throat beginning its climb nearly reaching the already parched mouth.

No reply from the bartender. Not a word. No gesture or sign. Only the look. But there was that smell. That smell which hit like a stung laid down by a hundred yellow jackets. On your inner thighs. It was that strong. And it brought that man right to attention so quick time itself must have had a fright because it brought _her_ back. Sandalwood. Not the girl so much...as then.

They'd fornicate like ol' jack still hiding out somewhere on the left behind whatever the poor bastard had, by now suffering from the onset of those seething relentless withdraws approaching seeing the light of day coming and those damn headlights it loved, would no longer play, screwing all night, day, whatever while burning trees of incense till the place wasn't viewable from smoke and thoughts, lust, hopes, fears, fucking unless years, yes more damn songs filled that space shared if even for a moment in all the retched up dreams they once had together.

But enough of that let's get into the hard facts of the thing which is, 'Why so many owned space on this floor and what ruthless mongrel sold it to them?' asked the man to the one true-eyed bartender.

Both stood motionless maybe savoring the moment, maybe wondering who would draw a conclusion _this is normal, what of it_ first. And of course that enemy was always at work, telling us what to do no matter our efforts against it, no matter how we fooled or tried, altering that substance between our ears with loads of other substance, never fooled it a moment for it was truly the smartest thing around, never giving up its relentless attack on sorry souls, dictating every damn move made, ruining all the great moments wish lasted longer while dragging the worthless most horrid, boring, eternalized forms branded into our minds always recalling those instead of the tranquil. Yes, time had us all by the balls and tits and we haven't a chance of breaking it wide open and going for that long downfield run we desperately would kill for from our days on the savanna chasing gazelles and whatever wild shit we wanted for dinner with spears and rocks, grunting, whooping, drooling loving every moment.

With a wink from his eye that saw into forever, the bartender slowly started to pour the brown liquid into the empty glasses all the while never removing either of them from their focus, for now the man taken back slightly from this action seeing it was the only part of this condition having any barring on actuality. Except for the rabbit.

The man looked down at the glasses slowly filling then back up at the bartender who never faltered in his pouring though never once regarded at the task. Just poured. Right where the two glasses touched the stream split into each filling them together at the same rate. Right to the top. And with a snap of the wrist, the bottle lifted up the fluid staying perfectly flat with the rim of both glasses.

The man having both hands on the edge of the bar now lifted one took his sunglasses off placing them gently down to one side, then tilted his old straw hat back to where his dark red hair met the forehead saying, 'Damn fine, but for the love of God what the hell is going on here and why am I in the middle of it?'

'Have a drink and it'll all come back,' the bartender said.

'If I drink this I'll remember everything?' the man said.

'Right as rain.' One eye watching him, the other watching the drinks. Both not blinking.

'What if I don't?'

'Limbo.'

'Whiskey, right?'

'Whiskey.'

'Looks a little thick. Muddy.'

'Aged.'

'If I don't drink will you still tell me?'

'Nope.'

'What if I just walk out?'

'Try.'

'Christ man this looks like watery shit and I'm to swallow all this fuckin' thing? You drink first.'

'Together then.'

'Fuck it. I'm out of here,' and turning to leave the man's hand stayed on the bar, holding him fast. He looked quickly at the bartender with a growing ache in his bowels knowing a shit was about to erupt.

'Together then?'

'Hell. Fine but my hands are...' pulling, the man's right hand sprang free from the bar.

'Together then?'

The man jerked with surprise as he saw with a flash from the left jumping onto the bar, skidding half the length finally coming to a stop, claws digging into the wood, the jackrabbit. Used glasses falling from the bar in all directions along with baskets of shelled and unshelled various nuts firing like mad pinging off the walls spreading themselves as dead leaves kicked by some spoiled kid never having had to work a day in his life, and never will thinking this the best fun ever from that little rat retarded brain still functioning on video games causing misfired ejaculations leading to a failed future as manager of some bum fucked company daddy set up just to keep him the hell out of the way.

And that wasn't the worst. There were a lot of these little fuckers running around getting into all sorts of nasty mischief only their sort can indulge and breed in. Jesus if the truth be known, which of course it was but nobody gave a damn, the odd few who did glance up from their preoccupied dilemmas, who might actually voice their opinion they'd smartly be evacuated to areas filled with beached obese reptiles waiting for their afternoon lunch of chained _piggy's_ lead in file continuously reprimanded by the greater masses using whips of verbal abuse head-phoned filling their minds with visions of social media galore. Heaven for that sort.

But there it was. A jackrabbit sitting on the bar of a bartender and his weird eye holding a shot of muddy thick water in the middle of the desert, both looking at a man who a moment before entered searching simply for something other than this lonely miserable life he'd produced from scratch and it was all just a suggestion of a dream yet to come from someone thinking they could control the entire situation. Someone with the ingenuity and resources. With the connections.

No point moving any further with the elements at work here, the test proved itself with the patient not realizing, only daydreaming this entire scenario played out. In real-time. With daydreams wander some, as a personal conversation with themselves in their own mind, so when Mrs. Collins jumped with a start waking from this particular episode, there was little doubt in her mind what was going on.

That the good doctor had done something and here the results clear as the bright blue sky and soft clouds below at a high altitude surrounded by other passengers, having taken little notice of her twitches and grunts, the salivating during her time, which had to be worked out as Dr. Malocht saw this as a rather troublesome side-effect for in his reasoning he wanted no ill effects visible nor remembered for the patient just streamlined right into those pools of though waiting to be tapped with no off-ramps nor detours.

And that was the key here many had either mislaid once they had it, or not seen at all seeing it wasn't about dreaming or memories and their manipulation; it was about the space they were held in. And it was getting smaller by the second.

And it left Mrs. Collins and Mr. Ryms wondering in the hallway outside the doctor's office as to what the hell did Dr. Malocht really have in mind here with his concept of compressing brain matter allowing more to replaced 'same as you'd add memory to any electronic device' he said. But what if you didn't stop there, but compressed the entire brain? Implanting new matter, tailor constructed as requested by each recipient? And contracted.

But you could monitor whether they remembered after-the-fact. That's what 'stopped them dead in their tracks,' or 'train of thought' because over their drinks they confessed the subject struck while the doctor was talking about compression and needing suggests or was it, victims, he mentioned, regardless of, meant something huge but how far was this fiction from reality? How far can you run with something like this before going off the cliff legs still pumping?

It was as outlandish as anything heard from a sound source as the doctor was very sound with years of experience but _on_ God knows what here in Belgrade. He could have been working on rocks for all Collins and Ryms knew trying to shrink their brains before moving up the chain to blocks of wood for Christ sakes. But what of all the published papers noting his successful revelations? Could you lie about that? Who the hell knew? It was all so off the map there wasn't room for anything but doubt, which jumped around like spit on a hot skillet.

There were only two things which played true to this rabid circus from hell, Collins and Ryms had resources for a project like this requiring both subjects and location, a great place in the North-Central part of America, somewhat secluded, private in its own way. There was a huge market potential. But it goes back to whether it was at all possible. In the last discussion finishing their drinks, they both expressed belief it was, but with the lobes; not shrinking the entire brain. That was too far of a reach by any standard.

'What the hell.' mused Mr. Ryms.

'What he said when we first walked in. How did he know?' Mrs. Collins replied.

With all of this playing back in her head as she snapped from a deep sleep trying in those first few seconds to remember as much as possible, before they evaporated as dreams usually do, but something told her this wasn't like those, of who was the bartender with his dark drink, why a jackrabbit, why she was a man, why the desert, blood, and broken bodies. Why thoughts raving throughout her mind seemed nothing of her own but from someone else narrating.

As the quivering within her slowly subsided the dream didn't fade, holding fast with tiny hocks anchored in her brain, probably for eternity she though, eyes blinking while darting wildly, feeling the rails of saliva down the corners of her mouth drooled through her bar ramblings, causing her to look down and started with a jump at the amount as her jacket showed two dark marks, pooled directly where thin webs-like strands of spittle still remain slowly drifting from the air ventilation she turned on just before take off, being the size of tea cup saucers.

At this, she uttered a disquieting babbling of sorts none could understand, nor wanted to, nor took any interest in, because she was brought onboard in restrains and no one talked with anyone in such a condition. And then Mrs. Collins's began.

Starting almost a hum, then her mouth opened wider lifting an octave, and pulsing changing to a siren, with lungs taking and expelling air as a broken accordion. Then silence. And the eruption. All lasting less than ten seconds when the blast finally occurred her screeching with sold high-notation when fully realized this wasn't the plane she'd boarded in Belgrade, that being a private company jet. This, however, some sort of transport with her tucked nicely in a straitjacket.

## Chapter 8

Horizontal Line

Dr. Malocht had the restraints further tightened. He knew the probabilities of this particular patient. It was there third meeting, and seeing the first two were rather physical in nature, the patient breaking an attendee's wrist adequate precautions were taken. It would be easier to simple induce the patient into a comma and start from there, however it subjected the mind to a state of inebriation the doctor knew would simply slow the project's development.

It was never about medication the doctor thought, that simple way for simple-minded idiots. Anyone could use drugs, with their side effects. His alternative stemmed from reaching the source through the use of keyword and anchors. In earlier days there were, of course, the implants with electrical currents running onto the brain, the lobotomies, and all targeting lobe experimentation.

Countless procedures with reports, waiting for answers coming weeks sometimes months, sometimes never of that golden field where the patient responded in their own time for what is the brain the doctor thought, but of its own individuality. And if treated as such _that field_ was for the simple taking. Yet after years, it was beyond most. All miserable misers chasing their own ghosts of predecessors they too would perish before any confirmed developments changed even the simplest of not mind supervision, but of its addition.

'Where all failed...' the doctor spoke softly ordained through his own crusade when twelve years old rats decreased in numbers around the dilapidated apartment shared with his deaf grandparents both having suffered massive inner ear infections from malnutrition themselves, children, along with half of Eastern Europe, resulting in a complete loss of hearing. His father killed in some far away hideout, the mother protested to death ranting in corners, he alone took the responsibilities of managing for his only surviving relatives near senile as they were, ravaged feebly for scraps of that lost world before true madness came to its sickly mantle creeping along river banks and farms, pestilence seeping deep into the wounds of neglected.

So simple it was for this with means yet even their mighty resources could manage not the slightest alteration of. For the purest of reasons, the doctor mused. It was their own inept ability to understand the root cause and its beneficial means for the greater end, which grew beyond their abilities. "But what," they screamed unified in dumbfoundedness, "could we be missing here?"

Then the call came from that shining place of possibilities. And the rats returned along with the cats and dogs, but carrion mounted no longer in the backyards of their battered dwellings, having been swept aside by new building prospects the doctor's collection of his first experiments, suffice for once lighting the fire leading along darken passageways of his own mind, showing the way their sacrifice for youth provoked clear and deliberate cause outweighing any affects having haunted most before him.

He would fear nothing. Have no qualms dismembering any creature in his search. Nor wait for anyone. Or thing. And it was there he read of this strange place where for three nights nothing ventured outdoors for fear. He was seventeen when he took the train stopping seven miles from the village for no train would pass near its accursed land, and walked with his notebook and mildewed half loaf of bread covered in oiled cloth, without the slightest thought other than understanding this situation's entirety.

Unaccustomed to outsiders viewed as either dangerous or insane, none of the locals talked when he questioned about the three nights. The dark growing nearer finding a place for the night became evident though this wasn't the time of _those_ nights not for another two months, still, no one offered shelter as the cold bit further into the small village with the sun soon setting. There was mention of a large old abandoned house off the main road some miles and if he hurried he might reach it by nightfall.

It was indeed very dark when he came upon that which must have been the house for it was massive in scale. There was no other he'd pass along the dirt road with its twisting bent ageless oak trees grizzled where they leached forth from the soddened reeking earth. In its blackness he could barely gauge size, only upon touching the mighty wooden door did it seize him the possible immenseness for the door slightly ajar, must have been a full ten inches thick as he pressed hard pushing it only slightly so as to pass into it's waiting abysm where he stood motionless listening, trying to control the gasping brought from his exertion.

It wasn't the silence that caught him first. Nor a blackness beyond which something darker lie-in-wait for places of such magnitude collected energy from all things far and near, consuming it ravenously staved of another world more treacherous than any wicked dream creates. It wasn't the dampness immediately clinging upon him as a web with a fresh meal in its grasp trying desperately for freedom as the hungry spider daintily maneuvers near careful not too overwrought its welcomed pray damaging the juices for panic turns rancid in the blood. Not even that.

What caught the doctor in a deadfall from that place we continuously visit, forgetting too often ever having ventured within, that womb all birth stems from, that place we fear most? An unknown perhaps?

'Yes,' the doctor whispered his breathing calmer. 'Of course,' he added not out of second thought more exactly acceptance. And of knowing. His birth-place.

Of course, he wasn't born here rather born into it. In that second his awareness split and he grew forward into the dark knowing every step without flattering. Without lifting a foot he moved swiftly along a wide open and once grand staircase, most of the steps now rotted where looking down he could see into the ends of his world lived long ago.

As he reached the end of its railing at the top of the stairs he knew on this floor there where many doors with many rooms after, as if it were a large residence of the sort. Quickly he now drifted on the next level fragmented floor boards passing along more doors all broken hanging as rotting teeth in an ancient mouth.

All the rooms lay empty not a piece of debris stirred, nor wind to happen upon yet outside a storm approached which would have rocked through this giant's glassless windows. Nothing this side of life dared enter, held in place by some form either not strong enough or that of not the will making such a journey. Why should it? There was nothing here. Something left long ago and he with it, the doctor knew down the endless corridor with countless rooms untold frights having occurred within. Each and everyone held secrets he knew of. He was, after all, the one extracting them. By any means possible.

Yes, he was here. Had been but not anywhere in any form, or the time he'd known or dreamt of. Till now. It was the reason why he'd ventured here. To learn. And of 'the nights' this was its _source_. It was here this malignant body still breathed within chilled massive walls and dead thousand-year-old oaken woodlands.

But all hadn't happened at this level in these rooms, or any level above. It was below in its depths. He turned and made his way there finding as before, it simply not a labyrinth, but a living intent.

Impossible to navigate through countless corridors, rooms from grand to mundane, some having a lowered ceiling, some drenched in water, others dry without reason. A magical kingdom of impediment obsessed with its crime against allowed floor levels having the same characteristics, permitting not one single room adjoining that simplicity of easily stepping from one into another without the mind having to race signals through the body informing of dangers and great care should be taken in the past for if injury would occur in such a place of refuse and despair death would follow only after the deranged murderous mind and soul collapse saving nothing except for animals feeding in the dark wet stank from rotting corpses.

This was a place where _sides_ met. Where bounds had not their hold. They wouldn't dare venture here for having a form of measurement required a certain level thinking which here simply displaced ruled. The true king in its maddened world. No deities required worship.

The doctor knew this well had taken counsel in all matters concerning such existence and wasn't interested nor bothered by these trivial elements. He had something more pending which now he searches laboriously through the massive labyrinth taking all his attention.

Nothing moved here not even a moment. Time left with the last of the patients dragged from the bowels, relinquishing any chain binding them. And when the obese fortress finally closed its massive entries the tomb shrank inward compressing all the happenings since it ruled the deranged and sane, caring not in any want of placing the distinction between the two as all became victims.

The doctor leading the way then. Goal in view. Nothing held in reserve. Nothing allowed held in reserve. Beyond competition battling its own contention, expectations played savage with their relentless demands, absolute in positive results. No question with any errors. Pure science. So it was claimed.

Yet standing outside this picture for better understanding the meaning here with the buildings very soul traded as all when only one vision enacted capable holding the reins of this deranged beast, not the master, but the incompatible of, deceived naturally pulled by the yoke of illusion. Ensnared as it were easy enough most wanting some direction for reasoning had failed leaving them stranded on some lifeboat without the slightest of provision save a broken compass conveying them to some forgotten land which never existed except in their own singular thoughts of having lives salvaged, brought back somehow of times before. When a simple thought alone could only be grasped.

The doctor aided in his knowledge, mastering the techniques in every way, how to solve the answers always twisting slightly beyond the clenches of this aspiration having malformed its own will into a fiend hungry in its own freedom from seclusion, at first constantly teased the doctor showing only glimpses of its true self behind an almost impregnable veil of deception allowing anyone close enough only to see what they wanted to see, and manage character without the slightest effort for in doing so was simply used against ones own. How easily the mind can have tricks used upon it without the slightest appreciation.

As the doctor discovered the governing rules through endless experiments actually beginning that early age in the ransacked dwelling of his childhood conducted on caught rats, cats, dogs, moving to barnyard pigs, ducks, chickens, finally to the prize while at University of actual dismemberment of the human brain both from corps and living, preferably the later, showing finally its true potential in an already bizarre world of common medical science with that of the extreme; constrict.

Thought as pure ridicule against modern human physiology Dr. Malocht first approached the board of directors at the Belgrade Institute of Medicine when only at the age of twenty-one proclaiming his statements that compression of the brain, in particular, the temporal lobes, was possible followed by implant of new cells into the region whereby their growth further developed attainment in eventual knowledge from the host with the compressed showing no side effects.

Labeled a heretic he was expelled from the Institute and face criminal charges should he practice such experimentations further. Undeterred conducting experiments in secret and at times directly in the Institute itself despite the chance of being caught whereby in fact was twice the case, once an associate professor watching him for several weeks hoping to inform his seniors, did catch sight of the young not yet doctor in the institutes laboratories late one night only later to be found suffering from disorientation unable to recall his previous ten hours let alone what the young student underwent from the hands of Malocht. This being a blessing in nature for if he had remembered he'd certainly be institutionalized diagnosed insane recalling all horrors locked in his mind, flooding forward with just a fraction of a moment.

The other was more extreme for Malocht was indeed caught slicing open the top of a skull while its owner though strapped securely to a table, objected otherwise with the greatest of force with his protest audible enough through the lower levels of the factory basements abandoned a good number of years Malocht used as his private laboratory.

Departing just as police entered the basement the patient was found dead his brain removed and no sign of the young Malocht was seen or heard for four years when a man fitting his description entered the medical faculty building at the Institute reappearing some thirty minutes later clutching a large briefcase.

Within twelve hours, of the professors whom Malocht had contact with during his visit seven committed suicide, another two where found to have swallowed their own tongues, while four seemed to have suffered strokes of such magnitude their state of vegetation showing no response whatsoever to the world around them.

In three days Malocht was instated as Doctor of Medical Science and department head of the Belgrade Institute of Medicine voted from the five remaining doctors all of whom grew very close to his projects at the point of themselves becoming patients under the doctors care never seen again incinerated or buried in forests outside the city after their _donations_ fulfilled.

That was the point of it all. Fulfillment.

Now reigning supreme, Dr. Malocht took all resources from the Institute focusing them fully on his goal.

'Who would pay for such a treat,' he thought quietly to himself.

The answer came as it did years before within deep recesses, in the not so troubled mind the doctor possessed, for it was with crystal reasoning, not in the least erratic as often thought by those unable or willing comprehending his work clearly, in the soft whisper, _many_ thus substantiating the fact indeed once proved the technique would be sought after with utmost severity.

They'd want to know all the secrets pulled from him as he'd from others, without repenting. Without feelings thankfully for if you had, nothing would be achieved in this field as they'd been ambushed along that twisting trail, a scene strewn with carnage and self-satisfaction corpses relentlessly filling of decay.

This wasn't the place for emotions either, nor conscious, possibly the greatest and most prized victims, as say capturing the queen in a simultaneous checkmate move, as the mind's awareness is its own Achilles. One Dr. Malocht sought without costs.

Proclaimed with then peers before banishment, Dr. Malocht stated with the advent of a newer world that will consume even the brightest of minds, awareness must be preserved. Housed in a vessel for future generations. For the pure survival of the human species as a whole. As the storm in faltering one's perception nears, few will manage in fending off its relentless and all too powerful tide of consumption.

Dr. Malocht in protest, stating with usual calm and clear undertone in his unshakable voice, 'Losing identity for not oneself so much as the entirety of thought itself,' was perceived with no avail, as a stumbling drunk homeward bound after a night at the bottle without thought of any clearness other than that which was drank, allowed the following days amnesia fitting quite properly within the scheme, of wasted forgetfulness in the night before, as none standing before him mouths agape could possible fathom what the man proclaimed.

This was expected the doctor mused reviewing the time spent, those four years of deeper research where things had to be done outside the boundaries of the Institute for their allegiance to humanity was close but science was much more the bosom it wished to drink from, therefore was indeed a careful act maneuvered precisely so as the doctor would exile whereby conducting of such experiment and research preset would go largely unnoticed.

And so it was, in the great building he now moved unhindered, experiments were indeed carried out. Relentlessly. Without suppression. Till the final product achieved.

There was no counting of patients insofar as bodily, only records and equipment monitoring and used upon them. Barren as any pit now laid open having once closed a thousand years, the basement was not however without signs of its past for the seeker to witness if sought for. True, there wasn't anything as obvious yet marks were clear along floors of something heavy dragged every slightly as it was then attempted by those chained to it, which only the strongest having managed.

Naturally, patents were restrained from hurting themselves during procedures with large amplification speakers acting as anything better, providing such twofold material in restriction of the moment and required sound production; the soul device used.

Shocking it was even for colleagues and attendees noting the fact no scalpels or sawing, nor pealing open of skulls and flesh. No clamps, vices, screws, braces, or straps were used as perceived by many laymen in the treatment of patients. They were however manacled. Mildew and rot was the primary element against leather. Chains, however, took a significant time to weaken from rust; insofar they actually were never replaced the entire used over thirty-seven years.

Patients had free movement, to the length of their restraint, depending on improvements. The longer was seen as higher level, shorter proved either commencing treatment at an early stage, level of responsiveness. Or punishment.

It was simple with profound results. All one had to do was understand the chemistry of addiction. Once established the patients' compulsive engagement it was then characterized and the speakers played the treatment.

Each patient had their speaker system independent of others playing at different levels as prescribed while assistants monitored results with details logged in each of the patients' personal notebooks.

Of course, the notebooks were removed along with the sound system and material linking anything of what transpired over the years to the doctor and his benefactors. Now detected, that of only random cuts in the stone floor from patients dragging intentionally weighted speakers.

Once results achieved they were moved upstairs into the top levels of the building with private rooms with a more specialized treatment conducted. Sometimes lasting years.

And what was played on those speakers lasting months and years at a time asked of the new interns upon first arrival for it was never actually stated being as such was at best incomprehensible for those untrained in the qualities of _suggestion_.

True the doctor in younger days ravaged any creature having a brain, studying it, testing its capabilities, but that was all stepping stones along the greater path he ventured, where learned in those early trials, that sound be the tool for management of exhortation or deemed encouragement for a more common definition, in its simplest form, where messages.

Messages prescribed for each individual patient with their specific needs and requirements.

Messages tailored to curing their particular ailments.

Messages only for their ears.

Played over and over.

No hacking and chopping off limbs, fingers, tearing out tongues nor gouging of the eyes. Let alone the use of fire. Here it was as simple as time itself and the first element recognized through the human brain, even inside the womb of the mothers; sound.

Though not understood nor recognized in its first weeks and months of growth, later comprehended as the world around them, those unborn had actually a more developed mind of connected nerves and growth with only a fraction being used for the sheer reason it's early stage of life.

Malocht commenced experiments whereby taking minds of some as young as five till almost deceased, one recorded being a hundred and seven years of age, formulating the message then played till the patient produced the required outcomes, with specific sound waves at distinguished decibels condensing the uninfluenced fat, with a result allowing cultivation space of new cells ultimately permitting original memories to form.

These new memories could be coded up to a certain point, but the doctor had reached the ability to program them through work progress continuously in that area, primarily there were two points lacking, one of a small piece of coding which hadn't been perfected, and the sufficient test patient capable of withstanding the treatment as all previous either became mentally unstable to the point they were disposed of, or simply died from hemorrhaging.

Searching deeper into the basements uncountable passageways and rooms the doctor passing over nothing more than a vast emptiness for those unobservant, then paused. There in the far corner of a room, was something different. A mark no other room had a foot above the floor on the furthest wall from the door, which caught the doctor's attention.

The slightest horizontal line would go unnoticed except it was clear from the doctor's experience to be exactly what he was searching for; a signature.

Moving across the room stopping next to the wall he looked more closely. It was as he'd last seen many years before, without any doubt to be that from one patient with most outstanding results. That of a little boy no older then eleven or twelve admitted for the killing of his brother. Probed and tested with usual formalities establishing whether any possibilities lay in the youth, those first results held Dr. Malocht's breath that slight second in bewilderment before composure forced a return to the task at hand.

Years searched finally here responded thought the doctor glancing over the figures from various activities applied to all patients, activities leaving most further lost in their already bewildered state, yet a few were set aside with hopes and prayers from that darker addicted side of science as it looked into its two-way mirror, partially reflective - partial transparent where from that illuminated side things could not be viewed while at the same time looking away praising itself in only those great bounds of achievements.

Admittedly he was correct looking at the short line no longer than five inches along the wall. Here in this room, only one thing could have produced such a mark and he was absolutely certain the boy was its source, having only the ability placing it there. As to confirm even further, the doctor viewed over the floor of the room looking for the signs of the other marks. Marks of something having dragged itself, and in a moment he found the four all leading from the center of the room with a perfect line pointing at the wall with its single horizontal mark.

Four identical marks each three feet long deeply cut about an inch into the hardened black floor caused by the single heavy speaker placed in the exact center of each room on this sound dampening subterranean level, unable to be moved by their chained audience, except one.

With the same questions perplexing him then as now gazing at those marks Dr. Malocht asked himself not _how_ the boy manage to move such a weight, but rather _why_ seeing there was no possible escape through the only bolted door from the outside. What was the point, and why only one single line etched into the wall using what? None of the patients were allowed the usage of anything except plastic, and with the stone floor as one solid mass, through further inspection not a single piece broken from it was used for the task.

No. Something else was used though through careful inspection even by himself on two separate occasions as well as dailies from staff, nothing in the small room would prove the possible explanation. And as then, till the boy turned man and finally discharged, the doctor was unable in obtaining any logical or ill-thought concept for this enigma. But the doctor knew then as now, there was always night in these rooms, and there was more than darkness in it.

## Chapter 9

True Black

'Rot in Hell BASTARD DRUNK!!'

That's what she said. Right to the point. Why play with words Billy thought with the last of her shrill echoing deep between both ears, ever slowly fading, sounding as there were maybe nine or ten mother's of kids with their arms stuck in a planner slicing away muscle and bone like salami, all together screeching that identical phrase.

When the judge in giving the verdict at the closed hearing, it wasn't exactly a surprise with only the judge, two officers from the local police as Billy turned looking towards the rear of the small chambers, sitting in the corner a man with white hair and cool blue eyes staring directly at him, insofar the eyes brought his _attention_ to the fact someone else was in that small chamber and he'd better turn around and give proper greeting because it was high-time they met.

After all they did know each other the blue eyes never leaving Billy's not interested in the least what the court uttered to one of the officers, as the judge turned back to Billy asking if he had anything more to add now would be a damn good time seeing he'd said very little in line of his own defense choosing not to engage any legal advisors, and with the last syllable dead toned that of a large rock dropped onto a worm eaten trunk of a tree laying in the forest for thirty years, with a slightest of movements Billy saw the white-haired man slide out a pair of glasses from his vest pocket placing them on all taking no more then what seemed a second but what couldn't have been because Billy heard every word the judge spoke with great clarity and surely must have taken at least ten seconds, the time he turned to look at the man till snapping his attention back to the court as it banged on the desk with its great gavel whereby looking at the judge Billy clearly noted obviously something terribly wrong his eyes burning deep red while a horrid dark mass of twisting black thin greasy roots began slithering out from the judges shirt sleeve of the hand poised ready to strike the gavel upon wood to gain order from Billy who was obviously not paying any thought to the damaging effects laid out of his neglect that faithful afternoon, because of which, the court also took a strong dislike to boozers who happened to be teachers who'd not pay due respect in it's greatness and purity for which it stood, was about to bring the full wrath of God almighty upon this heathen, demanding a hearing whereby Billy would certainly be found guilty, sent far away to break large stones in some forgotten quarry while fucked up the ass every possible moment bitch servant to many, when a slight clearing of a throat from that particular corner Billy just having viewed was clearly heard, at least by Billy because when he looked back at the judge's eyes again asking himself did the court _hear_ that, there was no recognition of even a remote sense of life in them.

Pointless debating whether the local law heard anything either Billy knew only he understood the meaning of what the corner was telling and turned slowly back again looking over his shoulder finding only the empty chair he noticed when first coming into the chamber stuck there half in an unfamiliar shadow which stirred Billy's fear slightly because it was nearly midday and the lights weren't on in the chamber.

He wasn't interested in what caused such a sight, rather why the white-haired man was there. The same man years ago who took his father in the black Lincoln, the same who worked on his father, the same who wanted something from him. Now he had the glasses.

'The gold-rimmed glasses that could change your mind,' Marty told his son after they'd have several cold beers together sitting on the back porch waiting for the day's heat to die off.

'He'd sometimes just hold them at the hinge of the frame slowly turning the glass somehow 'they' looked at you. Then away. Back and forth.' He added.

Marty paused a moment then spoke with a quiet, calm, slowness. 'If the sun hit the glass just right it would flash like he'd be sending you a message. In a sort of code. But there wasn't ever any sun _below_ always dark there.' The voice trailed as things of this nature did in their way going off to die somewhere, soulless, without objection for want of anything further with life.

As any addiction, it may cause an allergic reaction boosting the dependency, Malocht's weakness was his desire with what lay in the mind he for years was unable in reaching, that developing and using any tools possible was only a step, but the true mark not of control as many thought, primarily those early benefactors he used drying up their resources funding his research how easy they were to manage, natural the tools provided excellent possibilities with plenty of patron patients just lining hallways in Malocht's mansion drooling with greed at their champion ideas of a better world _they'd_ control, a growing frenzied obsession while watching first hand the results of sound upon the brain, something heard every day could produce such results astounded them all.

Staring with silent envy Malocht's supporters wanted more then simply watching the experiments, more than just listening to howls and stink of fowl smells from patients as they screamed crawling along frozen floors covered with shit and vomit, blood, urine everything the human body discharges became an erotic turn-on for those of wealth wanting desperately to play the game as master that Malocht had done for years, insofar they'd all pay good money just to stand in the room with a patient groveling before them pleading to be put out of this torture anything to stop. And they did pay handsomely to pull that trigger.

'All part of the funding process Malocht,' told them slightly smiling with his bright blue eyes shining in the darkness while leading tours through the cavernous cellar.

'All part of our investment. A great kind of man,' he finished with.

Roaring as they threw money at Malocht to be taken into his epic carnival of attractions _no price too high_ for that greater good they'd been sold on that sugar binge ride itself six times more addictive than cocaine, always needing more just to feel a little normal. This was the new sweetness. Their minds frozen, dreaming only wanting this new food of the gods as they waited with ravished eagerness, bowls in their quivering fat paws, howled eyed, the sound of the great speaker's message folding them too in a loving embrace.

In Dr. Malocht's view no one was with excuse from contributing, from doing their part in this _great movement_ even himself had undergone experiments, experiments of which had increased areas in his own mind allowing for the growth of newer stronger cells, not from injection an amateur would agree, but from his own, taken of his own, brain. It was the simplest of ways using his own cells ensuring the risk of rejection.

With fat cells compressed, a small amount left to develop within the open space from whence the now compacted cells once existed, multiplying freely without restrictions.

Dr. Malocht chose wisely, being, in fact, one of the first test patients with cells condense, granting certain allocations of increased memory, reasoning, and problem-solving, for within the first six months after compression, results proved rapid growth rate; a profound escalation surpassing even the doctor's exceptions.

Two years from his initiated test date and its progressive final climax, Dr. Malocht changed nothing outwardly except for the noted bright blue appearance of his eyes, which prior to testing were brown. He claimed this to be the dominant gene taking hold as the brown gene regressed. Several colleagues differed in private saying its cause from the experiments had the profound impact upon his mental capacity to the extent he grew more recluse in nature, and unable to focus for periods of time which prior to the experiment isn't a conclusive negative factor weighing heavily against the research, yet now, evidently was.

One would think a man of such capabilities as Dr. Malocht suffer so, would have anticipated the effects, those shortcomings as it were, and prepare for. Who knew. Perhaps those stating such were resentful of his achievements. And his _final system_.

Though known by all close to him the doctor confided in only one other, and she was not from the medical field but completely outside of, which gave credit of that profound commodity growing rarer with the days; trust. The doctor's faith in her caused an intimacy between them envied by lust itself for that would be the simplest of routes should sexual longing be the catalyst, but it was a farther outstretch of another passion that such a primitive desire driving the two. That fervor ensnared them, taken their own souls trading them, demonstrated anew their corrupted vision both born with, needed discarding, that their true latent perception was itself nothing more than false ideas of a better meaning, a better mature resounding cause dying a stillborn illusion.

'For if there was no trust then what have you?' the doctor questioned his colleagues' cool bright eyes searing deep into each of their darken hearts searching for fault. For the liars. Learned in youth, starved in poverty, dictators rolling over his life like coal black clouds dropping sickness and corruption as wanton desires of wealth streaked unchecked across the entire county and eventual continent Dr. Malocht witnessed that true power; craving it called for those in the taking. Those wanting it no matter the deprivation from its result.

How soon it became misunderstood. How simple it was for the fooled in achieving their blessed passage bestowed since birth through expectancy of what better they receive in full glory, not monetary divide which emperors thought their pilgrims desired and slaved for, that one true deity they themselves lacked and wished never to have breathed forth for commoners; fact, for the naked truth was priceless.

It had to be true. Anything related outside that fostered a form of worthlessness which consumed, twisting into the deepest reaches of any mind taking it as hostage without want of payment for that sheer enjoyment, that pleasure in watching it wither a steady collapse into dust as dried bones once carried life drifts into far reaches of some forgotten landscape where thought hasn't any bankable commodity other that its broken reasoning. And should the heart be involved so much the better for without one where is the other except in some asylum constantly feed drugs constantly questioned _who rules whom, the soul or the brain_ followed by electrical shocks. It is to such an extent, the best genocide of both with one stone.

In watching his own family deteriorate, finally perish from famine and pestilence, with this in hand the doctor vowed never to be managed. But to manage. And manage those, not blameless but of false righteousness, those seeing without any idea in what they see, who prey upon those that do see.

Watching flakes of dark red almost black spittle fly from the frothing judge's mouth, Billy knew Malocht was here not for a reason of most in their thinking, waiting only for a motive of his own territory without error granting clemency for the victim. The victim that would wake always screaming. With the same dreadful nightmare always attached just behind their eyes. Mercy for them so their passing would take the longer road. Not the shorter for which beyond lies nothing but the scent of dried air in darkness, as the enfeebled whimpering - their attitude suicide had no longer the reins of control over their prosthetic life having finally ceased. That death of thoughts and dreams for them came of their own mind.

With the gavel near to its mark, what finally gave birth oozing out the sleeve of the court slowly took shape in a pool the size of a dinner plate, beyond color Billy had ever seen before as it captured light from within the chamber slowly pulling it towards a blackened center.

There was no reason wondering what on the court's desk breathed, Billy wasn't interested in any outline, any definition of what was happening wouldn't have made sense anyway and why should it? Why he thought does everything have to be grounded in order to be understood while watching his father disappear into the back of the Lincoln? Which in fact the question could be, was the Lincoln really there?

But that question and others of similar value came not at once, rather over the years. Questions of also recent - why none of the students hit the emergency stop in the wood shop class? Why none of them remember the accident?

Siting fumbling in a wonderland considering how far this perception management of Dr. Malocht turns, Billy looking back into the corner knowing if the doctor returned Billy would get up and leave, no longer interested in what game was played. Not disappointed feeling a slight relief in noticing still an empty chair without its unfamiliar shadow attached as deep inside Billy knew, departing this place wasn't on any planned agenda and the show was still running with Batty as the main ring circus attraction.

But the pistol shot cleared all thought away his eardrums shattered by such a sound as if a nail had been driven in one ear straight through his brain out the other, and thought a split second later how the hell did soldiers in combat withstand that same relentless noise chiseling their mind off in great chunks with each blast of a gun sometimes right next to their head. It was a wonder so many of those surviving such an onslaught returned sanely.

Raising both hands to his ears while spinning his head in the direction of the shot wide-eyed vision told him it wasn't as he'd thought, but that of the judge bringing down the gavel hard enough upon the sound block on his desk recreating a gun fire no more than four feet away still resonating through the chamber. The judge looking at him with not simple hatred but something far greater which for Billy no words were known making its mark forever in Billy's memory could only be improved with something more terrifying, that of the black pool having grown, now spilling off the top of the desk onto the floor in great, thick globs directly in front of Billy's splattering his shoes and his lower pants legs with thick drops which he felt immediately begin to burn.

Moving his hands down onto the arms of the chair pushing off with all his strength another shot rebounded deep within his skull certainly splitting it open like a dried pine log cleaved with some massively sharpened ax brought down with might not from here, but probably the works of Dr. Malocht. Then the change came.

The change Billy placed deep within.

With the burning and thundering of his head, the confusion and sickening taste raising from his stomach, that onset of bile, followed soon by vomit casted usually from too much drink drove itself upward ready to explode from his dry mouth but halted as Billy several times swallowing heavily, forced its return with a great gulp halting for the moment his stomachs churned breakfast.

It might have been the taste, or perhaps the tiredness of the hole affair as Billy reaching his end, formed three deep crimson-colored spherule no larger than those played as school yard marbles into salvos firing them directly at the judge whose mouth now foaming a hideous dark-black color with an ever deepening purple face and blackened veins raising like great rivers across his swelling pustule cheeks with a sickening crooked smile and lips bending back upon themselves in ungodly malformed shapes showing razor sharp teeth protruding through reddening froth, snapped open and close with loud rapid and jerky bites, while a wheezing stench of rotten air escaped his mouth reaching Billy causing him to retch, just as the balls driven squarely, burst open on the judges black clocked torso where immediately crawled forth from each through a thicken, creamy white membrane creatures having numerous legs covered in thin, hooked hardened hairs, where that instant, bore deep in the judge's chest causing his arms thrown wide in a crucifixion posture, then suddenly dropped to their sides while the judge's head flopped forward onto the bleeding, white mucus covered chest.

The chamber erupted in a deadening silence known only by those who'd traveled its road; secrets no one to tell. Of its realm held by so many in high esteem laid way without wonder, without saddened, without guilt or thought of any kind, land of a simple nothing where nothing bred. From this place, Billy came to know what truth was and where it laid most amongst the living worlds fellowships, of how value grew, and the true wealth of passion. He would shadow lost ideas, listen with the content of a thousand harmonized notes drifting along a sold byway built from eons of nothing, watching gains abandoned without the direction of their wantonness, grouped in defiant endless trailing's without hope.

Not alone Billy knew of two others lingering along this _landfall_ , acquiring those fathomless resources, and though many moved throughout its entirety only these two heighten with focus of deliverance from simplicities having grasped without hindrance and he did, reaping the collective knowledge from that beginning of which was used for better gain.

But the meaning of those gains was different between the three. For Billy, it was simply that of survival and escape, similar to the second, his father, from _types_ as the third, the doctor, who sought values of limitless memory.

As the three lapsed one another their bond grew, so much so that outside from here the attraction for each adopted a profound state of constant desire of unity. That the incompressible strain spilled rung dire consequences claiming its prisoner sanity, till the three combined.

There was only one brief time when Billy's father left in a black Lincoln when the three were together. And now in the chamber moments passed unheard and noticed, Billy glanced at the two law officers sitting not more than a couple of feet, neither showing any indication of reasoning from waxed expressions they carried gazing straight at the judge without muscular movement including that of a beating heart, which for both had exploded inside their chest the moment Billy let loose upon the court.

Remembering when maybe thirteen his father told him 'when in doubt, throw it out' a general term for anything from food starting to turn, to friends starting to turn, to life starting to turn, that it was time to get rid of the whole mess, and pretty damn quick, which exactly shocked his legs the very moment awakening his brain lifting him out of the seat, half-turning half-jumping making quick for the door his body wanting in all desperation to leave the scene without another thought if one did form, would probably carrying loud shrieks of madness even though Billy knew exactly what he'd caused and why, but thought just in case better not at all think of anything except opening the door and slipping through, which his hand now gripping the knob ready to turn when his body froze, brought from a faint whisper in his right ear of a single word he'd not heard in centuries cascading from that shore flowing into the chamber drifting upon him of an iced mantle chilling his very essence, ringing through thoughts bringing down a conscious-stricken lack of attendance taunting him since existence, for a willingness in becoming as others were granted from birth; normality.

That solitary word with muted undertones _glasslight_ fractured his senses penetrating, driving deep igniting, where once carried slowly by unseen currents from lips of the _warden of minds_ fumes, which burst suddenly incinerating that momentary lapse of reasoning mixing iced flames jolting Billy's hand abruptly from the doorknob as if the handle itself blazed white hot.

There was no reason for turning as he knew behind him would overtake any adverse account against it, that its speed could not be matched knowing before he himself knew even imagined, that barely an illusion, granting only the slightest of moments allowing the sinister apprehension in the fault of ones thinking, becoming a thrown victim.

Taking a step away from the door retreating into the chamber he'd hoped a moment ago of escaping, came a rush of light and air both sweet and clean as if just created bursting through the door Billy a instant earlier released. The door having swung wide open allowed a brightness as a flare in the darkest of a starless night illuminating the chamber blinding Billy causing him to withdraw further into the room arms raised shielding his eyes.

Immediately a muffled grunt came from behind Billy's right, causing a deepening vibration flowing outward passing over in what Billy knew was a wave mixed of both regret and gratitude. Unexpectedly something gripped his forearm just above the wrist suddenly pulling him through the doorway out into the full sun with its heat collapsing on the shoulders and head burning intensely. Knives thrust behind Billy's eyes in attempts to open them from the illumination he'd not yet adjusted to as clarity still moments away in a better understanding of the exertion having yanked him onto the sidewalk continuing its hold, when from behind a voiced called out softly, 'Well Marty, it's nice seeing you again.'

It was the first time for Billy hearing, and was certain it to be that of Dr. Malocht carrying a soft transcending cadence-like appeal, with its pleasant unreal quality commanding steadily in both ears gave way to increasing emotions now rising slowly to the forefront of his consciousness of a mixed fear and hate for the man.

'It's a pity,' Marty's voice replied pausing slightly then continuing with an ever-steady authoritative voice somewhat lower than is own, 'you're at the wrong place.' Still gripping his arm, they walked backward, calmly without hesitation.

Billy followed tenderly eyes covered with his free arm shaded their wild blinking desperation in gaining a foothold against the sun's blinding whiteness driving those razor sharp blades deeper, causing him to grimace in pain while ducking his head occasional as if to escape marauding vultures he began witnessing through closed eyes attacking him directly after stepping out from the courthouse chamber, but insofar they didn't really exist except in his mind, still Billy imagined Marty watching the doctor as the two stepped off the sidewalk onto the sweltering asphalt where seemingly they slowly sank with each step from the shear heat having softened the road, though thankfully taking his mind a moment away from the swooping buzzards, he had no idea what lay ahead till they stopped and he heard a car door opened where just as he was about to step inside, the doctors voice rose.

'It is Billy's place. Just as you. His turn now.' Spoke the doctor calmly and clear without notice of any particular events out of the ordinary, as if the two were discussing a new program on TV, or giving directions to another town. All a matter of fact.

They reached the car in opening the door released an accumulated gulf of heat from its interior, with the suns relentless pressing left Billy reeling and was aided, still held by the arm only released when he passed into the rear seat. In a moment he now half stood, one foot in the car holding the open door with one hand the other now free held just above the eyes still shading them when his father's voice spoke low a little more than a whisper telling him to get in quickly, close the door and not to speak.

Bending down turning inward the car's heat flashed Billy causing an almost immediate outpour of perspiration as he reached the rear seat and sat on it's flaming interior welding his backside and legs onto the upholstery to the extent he could feel his skin blistering under the now boiling conditions in the auto having struck him the moment the doors opened as extremely odd because the family car they drove had beige colored upholstering greatly reducing the heat. But this was something else and finally with one watery eye opened slightly Billy could see only black. Black seats. Black windows. From a black car. And the fear took hold knowing it wasn't their family car, but the Lincoln he was in.

Quickly turning his head searching through swollen vision Billy saw not his father but the man and those cool blue eyes wearing gold-rimmed glasses gazing happily with a slight smile while the rear suicide door shut firmly.

## Chapter 10

Glasslight

The Ferris wheel wasn't bigger than normal, just Billy was seven years old when he went alone on it the first time during the Frontier Days carnival held seven days and nights each year in the surrounding areas of Mesquite Springs the last week of every August inviting all the riffraff out-of-towners, most heading to the Colorado River, stopping over the night blinded by the lights, for a cheap booze blow-out.

It followed that 'Event Day' with its massive bonfire reaching somewhere deep through Billy's mind as he thought of sweet times hearing those explosive cracks of dried wood feeding the fires watching sparks drift upwards carried by heated air ultimately fading a certain distance towards the deserts starlight sky, with the ending of another year of school, closer to a destiny he'd no idea of, when he woke blinking in a soft lit room sitting in a leather upholstered Lazyboy rocker-reclining chair just the kind he had in high school, but the sounds not of fired wood he'd thought, rather as Billy made out after blinking several times was the snapping of a leather strap striking against something appearing more inline with that of the back side of a large swine.

Lifting his hands wanting to rub the still burning eyes he'd suffered after leaving the courthouse, he found they were manacled with a light chain allowing him only to touch his face, but reaching no further.

A stifling form of confusion mixed with sympathy for the beaten pig fogged his mind allowing nothing sane nor maddened to create any points of reference other than where he was seated with that which bound him. Another loud crack from the belt split the air causing Billy to shudder. In trying to focus on its handler he witnessed the large animal standing less than ten feet from where he sat able only in watching as the belt lifted then fell striking its mark. Without any notice the pig simply stood head slightly hung, looking forward. Billy thought how odd the beast took no notice, guessing it rather bored seeing the manner in which the animal stood as if the entire event were nothing more than a silly escapade.

There was not an arm nor hand holding the strap thrashing the pig. It was the most peculiar thing seeing. Then it came, like the engine of a car trying to start on a cold winters morning, slow at first as the oil was thick and needed time to flow through iced metals, but began to warm from the combustion with images forming.

Slowly images formed in his mind, north of Mesquite Springs where every year the local Regina agriculture fair gave chance exhibiting the areas livestock of how raised goods are farmed from field to fork, Billy with his father when about five years of age realized the truth, where all animals at the fair were later claimed for the slaughter house, the event actuality nothing more than a grand show of butchers glee and yokels greed, he'd seen before the great hog in its pen being whipped with a large strap producing large pink welts by another animal sanding erect with his half-open drunken mouth cursing the beast for not winning the blue ribbon.

That moment gained clarity seeing it replayed conveying not fear of the happening as it did then for the fact he didn't understand why the poor animal was treated in such a fashion, but of hatred in later realizing how man treats their livestock with such contempt, that humans had themselves become that fabled, well documented _own worst animal_ with the slightest of easy.

As the Regina scene finished another began forming, this of the judge he'd left behind in the court's chamber hunched over his dead chest to the extent that Billy hadn't thought much of the judge other than a person of stupidity knowing he'd obtained his degree of charter simply through connection with some legislative official granting him the power of ruling over a near-dead desert community he could only manage to see himself in the same capacity of the immediate environment, till the spiders burrowed into the man chest did Billy see some slight recognition, that not a person of the county court, but the man beating the pig in Regina.

While trying to establish their connection another event surfaced, the mother of the boy outside the court, screaming at him, not from faulted drunken behavior, but aversion of willingness to speak out; to demand what one thought. No words could be heard from the woman as in a silent film only the over-exaggeration of movements and facial expressions so prominent in that era, a great prerequisite for success, Billy watched as she moved closer to him then with a flash her hands grasping his shirt with great force jerking and swinging demonically possessed mouthing words Billy could only wonder in, and with a great wide sweeping of her arm slapped his face with such force the moment her hand struck his cheek he saw his mothers expression flair with great despaired sadness and hatred he'd only seen once before when she returned with his father where securing that look so deeply into his mind buried till now, for fear of showing another part of life he'd desperately yearned in its abandonment, marooned along some dying waterless gully.

With the image fading, blues eyes overcame those of his mother's dark brown, staring at him through gold-rimmed glasses, sitting opposite not more than six feet in an identical chair as his, Dr. Malocht smiled his hand crossed upon his lap where a large jackrabbit rested motionless except for an occasional twitching of the nose produced a slightly trembling in its extraordinarily long whiskers.

Neither contemplating nor anxious, Billy watched the doctor with ease as if two old friends having met after a long absence wanted only to admire each other's expressions, natural giving way to the heart as they'd known each for such period nothing could be hidden from the another.

'It is not what most think,' the doctor spoke. 'It is what they don't think,' he added his soft voice lowering at the end.

Looking at his eyes the gold glasses seemed to shine perhaps faintly brighter then a normal pair Billy thought, still, they were a handsome set of spectacles to the point he found it difficult to look away from them. Drawn not so much by their color or glistening, but of what lay beyond them. The blue eyes.

They _spoke_ to you, Billy thought first in seeing the doctor at such a close distance. Their shade wasn't common he thought, on the verge of a bright blue but still, there was something of a grayness on the outline of the eye, and the pupil not a clear white, but of a silver-cream color, the iris a speckled brown. The more he looked at the eyes the clearer he saw them, the clearer he saw, the more he realized, nothing he saw. A paradox was forming, pulling him inward, like quicksand he knew the more struggling, the sooner he'd sink. And why not was an afterthought. Why shouldn't one sink? What kept this? In not wanting to remain Billy drove into the center of the doctor's eyes without hesitation as if second nature; as a handshake of bygone friendship.

Immediately he found himself standing in front of a table with his father laid before, but of a certain age perhaps twelve or thirteen years. His father turned his head, smiled then turned back looking above into the darkness. Billy followed his fathers gaze looking up but seeing nothing lowered his eyes to the table however his father wasn't there, instead, he saw himself dressed in winter pajamas often worn sometimes the entire day under school cloths especial during the coldest months. His self-didn't move, show any signs of life, not even the chest lowering and raising. Billy bent over the small body inspecting _his_ face with extreme prejudice no more then a foot above studying it as well as the clothing carefully, inasmuch the pj's were the same even the small hole on his left sleeve caused when Fancy his Gordon Setter he was playing with caught her tooth in the fabric as Billy tried to break away tearing it slightly when he was ten.

Indeed, a stillness crept through his lower back climbing, reaching the neck clasping it like a cold hand then progressed till gaining the top of his head and stopped. Naked he felt seeing a younger self so still, unmoving, increased the cooling of his mind knowing its relentless march throughout his brain soon to begin, would unhinge his own nightmare dream, that particular held weighted in safety neither forgotten nor remembered growing, waiting in its release.

How for others he granted their last single moment of saneness before revelations of that darken side projected with ravenous hunger, tortured without freedom, fastened, but only loosely able to lurch free in momentary gasps, as dreams often did either day or night, wakeful or sleeping with never a distance between them, only fabricated wishfully allowing preconceived reality filtering through, having only the slightest plausible reasoning as to why, before they perished, never returning to a safer world, proclaimed an unconscious victims.

Billy's eyes trailed the length of his childhood from head to the small hands he'd played marbles just a moment before some time in a _where_ stilled as the body itself before him, waiting perhaps to begin again along a different path should _now_ be challenged.

'If altered then what would begin anew?' Billy spoke softly to himself.

'As you wished,' the doctor's voice spoke slowly, his deliberate calm manner floated the words landing gently from some point in the darkness across the table. 'I would think you already perceived Billy,' he added stepping into the light shown from above surrounding only the table now holding the three in its filtered off-white producing a textured feel of transparency.

In two steps the doctor stood opposite of Billy, an arm's length crossed between them, his tall thin frame poised firm yet moved in shifting waves as the sun upon a hot road produces a mirage dressed in a fine-cut dark blue suit and tie of a bygone time a hundred years before.

Mesmerized with the effect, Billy gazed from the doctor's white hair and blue eyes with gold glasses down to where he ended at the table knowing it was all very real and very dangerous being so close to this man. But the doctor knew it too, steadying Billy's nerves by placing both hands on the table, smiling with a slight nod of the head.

'It is as you know it to be,' the doctor spoke. 'Nothing has changed.'

Billy knew it was a scheme to lure him where the doctor would then control the conversation, as he always had with all the patients. Taken from them at the onset it was the simplest and quickest means of control, as with form of hope remaining also held compassion in oneself, an element the doctor knew was most powerful when managed correctly. The feelings of a person and their own self being their own misgivings the doctor felt. True they possessed great abilities in the human spirit - _that_ was their danger for his work.

'You do see Billy,' the doctor smile melting away knowing the young man's ability too must be respected. Malocht wasn't sure how he'd progressed, but in knowing his father the chances were rather in favor, he'd become exceptional, just as the doctor planed while working on his father when first encountered at such a tender age as most of the patients being considerably older than Marty left the doctor often frustrated and perplexed. He'd used young specimens before, however, few survived and often unusable. But Marty, he was something rather unique.

There were elements in his brain Malocht understood as being more developed than those of someone in their thirties and forties, elements primarily those of the lobs, and with Marty, his cells could be managed significantly greater than anyone previous, a blessing handed to Malocht by the state through incarceration. And so the tests began with Marty using his cells. Transplanting them into another. Incubating them. Using them in the production of various mental ailments including that of various manipulated levels of schizophrenia, to Alzhymers, to a wide number of minor illnesses, all tailored produced with diversified deliverables, specified by the client.

It was business, the _insanity market_ and a considerable amount of wealth derived from it, yet at the beginning only a small portion was tapped, the real mastery was to be reveled over this modern day antibiotic for psychological affliction from Malocht's work of readily custom designed, on-mass appeal as selling ice-cream at the beach in the summer, while holding the onset, warranty against, and cures for a considerable number of mental illnesses as well as phobias including several the doctor himself _created_ never before heard, and alone possessed the evidence in patients and their miraculous recoveries from with one hand the psychotherapy market plunged, on the other, he owned its monopoly.

Not only corporations would support him but that of governments as if by thought if you controlled the mind, you controlled the world around it, as simple as the statement proclaimed who wouldn't want that. From designing their own environment they'd grown bored or had no further use of, rectifying difficult employees, managing stubborn family members, to disassociating with moronic neighbors, Malocht had begun the practice of inventing imaginary situations in play, that was believable.

Staring at him Billy hearing those finally syllables spoken believed one element as true; Malocht was extremely perceptive, his level of ingenuity far beyond most. He thought the doctor might have been born too early, if such were possible for some not believing it so, others argued the opposite with the case of his own unstable mind "Director of Entire Operations" proved ill-relevant, his standing that only of genius would prevail, but was it all sustainable Billy thought the moment Malocht's voice died for true brilliance holds the test of time, what then if Malocht became himself a victim stricken with his own infection as in true nature there is always balance even of which is not seen?

If Malocht controlled the possibilities, something would control him. Watching, Billy saw no recognition, nor reprisal, hate, fear, lust, greed, all absent from the doctor's expression. Lack of morality might label him, but not all-encompassing. Something far greater which drove him gave purpose.

If Billy could establish this, it's expressed purpose would be used against Malocht if not by him then others. He couldn't control the entire world, only a part, nonetheless a rather large portion and undoubtedly important. Not seen directly doesn't establish a reluctance or the viewer's inability of vision, rather not knowing fully what to look for, in Malocht's case.

Billy thought a moment longer. Then it came when Malocht moved slightly causing his eyewear to flash; glasslight. It was whispered to him leaving the court chamber; Malocht's golden glasses. They were the key.

'Yes, Billy.' Malocht spoke. 'My glasses. They are as you believe.'

He'd read Billy's mind or at least guessed knowing he'd soon deduct but the point being established outright, something in the eyewear held the answer Billy believed. Was it the glass itself? The gold metal, its color? Both? Neither? The owner?

Knowing what someone thought seemed logical, or was it a simple process of elimination on the doctor's part, knowing if you move to one place something will move as well alongside yourself.

It became clearer to Billy seeing now the key elements as both time and space which never stop paramount to the doctor's work, but in what regards as he understood the doctor was, in fact, leading Billy along with a path whereby believed only he alone walked. But how?

It had to be ownership Billy realized as, in any science directed at the managing of mental capabilities, the task of control aimed high on the agenda for any professed in seeking imbalance root causes within the brain.

'If you owned the glasses you owned the conversation,' Billy spoke finally.

'Correct,' the doctor nodding with one eyebrow-raising slightly, both in a sense Billy thought as provocative, aimed at riling him - and underestimate which proved the doctor was not without fault thinking he was at an advantage in Billy not fully understanding his well-established plan.

'But it won't work you see. Always the problem with an academics' view; they are smarter than everyone else,' Billy spoke having a matter-of-fact tone addressing the doctor. 'It never fails. Their own downfall.'

It wasn't possible to _read_ anything the doctor thought with such a statement. Billy knew he wasn't used being spoken at in such a manner. Nearly all in his field thought themselves untouchable, far beyond the reach of mere mortals the cliché swerved into his thoughts bringing his attention back to the glasses.

This expression of views caused a reaction Billy anticipated. The doctor slowly reached into his pocket pulling out his handkerchief, then removed his glasses and began to clean them methodically with great patience, all the while never letting his gaze leave Billy's himself staring directly into the doctor's cold reflection.

'Your wanting this,' the doctor spoke lifting the glasses half-extending them toward Billy, 'will be another downfall.' He concluded

'Do you think I need them?' Billy replied.

This caused the doctor to stop his cleaning, pausing a second, then spoke. 'Indeed Billy you are better then I'd hoped, far so than your father. I wondered all those years of work upon him might practically be wasteful. Except in producing you. You see now don't you Billy. It wasn't he I wanted, but you.' The doctor stopped, searched a second for a reply if any from Billy, then continued not bothering if one were to come. Another sign Billy thought; the inability of patients.

Replacing the gold frames Malocht's eyes seemed brighter, glowing more intently through the polished glass. Billy noticed the change and could only prepare for the doctor's next words calming himself, breathing slow, focusing on the blue eyes.

'It's only the point of magnification. Of one's ideas. Fears. What you wish. Horrors even. A reflection,' the doctor expressed. 'Already manifested. Yet unable to project. Enable. Complacent, bored we move on. Unwilling to venture further. Through that nomadic land, deserted, save for an oasis. Or mirage of.'

Malocht paused watching Billy, then pointed at the table between them continuing. 'Not through deception, only want of a better way.'

Billy looked where the finger pointed seeing not his youthful self there a moment before, but two extremely elder what appeared to be women their sunken flesh pulled into deep hollows between jaw and cheekbones both having the short white hair cut that of military standard. They looked at Malocht momentarily, then slowly turned their faces toward Billy, dark brown eyes piercing his own and struck with familiarity though were unable to hold any place in his mind as it raced desperately to solve their ever-growing stares, intrusively searching him. Who were they he struggled with when both spoke the same instant, that single word 'glasslight' in their slow, rasping ancient voice, and with that, a flash overtook his recollection forcing him to step back with shock of acknowledgment realizing the shriveled forms that of his twin sisters Relana and Andina.

Fixed upon the two he wasn't aware his complexion changed to that of an ash color, for the shock would have caused an even more sever reaction had he realized his body capable of producing such an abhorrence. But why had it so? The alternation hadn't any reaction witnessing himself and his younger father, why then in his sisters so horribly advanced in years produced such an abhorrence?

Was this the work of Malocht's eyeglasses showing something already in his own mind proclaimed? It's enhancement? But what would the point of it all be he thought? A youthful self, and old sisters?

Obviously the doctor's 'glasslight' projected, even forecasting thoughts of the wearer as well as those from others. Nevertheless, these images Billy witnessed must have clues, otherwise, why would Malocht use them, but non made sense causing a broken form of logic to circle, ending where he started with no idea at all.

Then... 'Of course!' he whispered allowed. That was the guide. That of having _no idea_ , ...a clear mind. Nothing used to gain, or against you. It was that simple. If you cleared your thoughts the doctor had nothing, or at least very little to work with. But in doing so also created a thought so vacant, itself too could be used placing you further into an endless void of nothingness, a persons own reflections as company, where shear madness descended upon anyone, even those strongest could not hold against such weight for the human mind required stimulation, otherwise would kill itself.

Wasn't _true_ insanity of a simple genius placed away in the care of the Malocht's who saw things differently, yet those confined couldn't express what they witnessed, subsequently creating that dysfunction of the mind, that which the _sane_ are so afraid of, a truth more real warranting not from reason, rather expectancy that never dare be granted?

It was a hurricane spinning inward, that lack of control feeding a certain desire of never getting out of bed. Never taking the sheet from over your head. Laying absolute still allowing _something_ not be alerted you were there, passed by and ate another instead. That's all Billy wanted, ' _when I'm not awake, I'm sleeping with not enough eyelids meat couldn't close them eyes!!'_ he'd tell himself shivering with fear trying to calm his frightened mind hearing the light clickity-clacks of claws pacing alongside his bed waiting for any movement under those sheets where he hid, then pounce, shredding the bed with long sharp claws searching for the little boy who believed in monsters, and as he grew those devilish influences learned Billy desperately dreamt staying away from funnels of wind which easily carrying you far away, or forcing you downward pressed against stone hard waters filled with beasts your own imagination feared, that imagination which created them yet panic-stricken knowing the one way out was not alive, and the entire time simply standing above some cliff waiting for the moment either of your choosing, or another, for _that_ end.

And here it all seemed possible thought Billy. Not the point of controlling Malocht, nor working with him by reason of Malocht was conceivably himself reflected.

That 'glasslight' was the vision of his other part, that of not times now nor yesteryear, but where madness leads showing a grander field of yearnings, unspoiled and always ready.

He looked from his sisters at Malocht who no longer stood opposite him. Quickly returning to the twins he saw they too were gone. He alone stood hands resting on an empty table having now a single small light shown down from somewhere above, slowly shrinking its pale circle.

Outside the light was black and as the circle closed, growing smaller, just outside its round light Billy noticed a faint flash on the table and knew there was something always outside yourself which must be served, and in the black, there was something more than darkness. With the light now only a dinner plate in shape, that presence came as Billy reached into the shadow and picked up a pair of gold rimed glasses.

###

## Epilogue

It's pretty much the way I'd heard the story, it's the same as told to them before reading the notebooks. And there were a lot; thirty-seven. All over two hundred and fifty pages. All handwritten.

Willnard Asylum just outside Shandon, Wisconsin where Dr. Malocht conducted his experiments over a seventy-year period, never acknowledged the fact a doctor by that name having ever been employed at the facility. During the investigation, its basement where examinations were conducted, and some patients contained for their own as well as safety for management and other patients though thoroughly examined during the inquiry, showed no sign of maltreatment conditions having ever taken place, with all property State certified.

If cold is applied to a surface, cracks will eventually form showing what lays below. As my husband was from Antigo, Wisconsin I knew Willnard and even saw it once in passing only, though from a distance. A person will not likely forget its huge structure jumping out of the forest which it borders. You didn't want to get very close. Being from Sault Ste Marie I'd heard of the asylum and all the stories with it, but when handed the report moving through the details, the notebooks, in particular, you acquired the picture rather quickly there was something far more serious from activities linking among others governments, large business ventures with considerable interests attracting telecommunication to military.

With the trial, opening is when other element started to show. Things nobody really wanted to know but were secretly obsessed with news breaking on daily bases of what happened behind those massive walls. Maybe it was known all along, like the Germans during the Second War with their extermination. Everyone just kept to themselves. Willnard was no different.

But it was those notebooks which hammered home the true horrors. Explicitly detailed. Names. Dates. Degree of affliction. Degree of treatment. I've reviewed classified reports of Unit 731 the research and development unit of the Imperial Japanese Army before and even after Pearl Harbor was bombed, as well as various files from camps Germany used in WWII, though not as brutal Willnard's function, their experimentation conducted only in one specific aspect of the human body; temporal lobes.

A person with only the general understanding of the asylum, for the most part, couldn't wouldn't continue reviewing documentation of Willnard. Through the hearings it became clear they would have to be closed to the general public, allowing only a selected few to examine the records, for the sheer graphic details were too offensive. Law enforcement officials winched, professional medical examiners, pathologist, all eventually succumbed to the burden of evidence. The meticulous operations, the results thereof, the patient response, even comments from Willnard's staff illustrating their holding of Malocht in such honor conducting his demands without question, insofar being allowed participation in such was a considerable privilege.

Malocht's commitment in research, the compression of memory while the growth of cells in the temporal became his life work, he required finical support, the details of which all written extremely clear in the notebooks, whereby he was _given_ Willnard, along with all material requested, patients' for experimentation including staff to manage the facility, and seventy percent control of the byproduct produced from his work.

With the contact _donors_ list extensive and shocking it took me several days to fully understand what the prime goal was as nearly all the notebooks contained scientific data, one titled simply 'USER' in bold letters came to be one of the most important found in Malochts office during the search after misconduct of patients at Willnard became public through a phone call I placed to the newspaper at Shandon as local law were useless in fact mentioned in that list though I hadn't known it at the time but had my concerns observing their deposit regularly of patients at the institute, alerting the fact soon after being _released_ from Willnard where I myself remained under their care.

That's not exactly all of it though.

Beginning when sent to Willnard after a man, a Mr. Collins, reported his missing wife of nine years had just showed up standing at the back porch of their house suffering from sever atrophy, clothed only in a soiled bed sheet, I arrived at the asylum being dispatched from the Department of Health and Mental Services main office in Washington, DC where I'd been working as a logistical researcher for the past four years, after receiving the call from the Wisconsin's Madison human services office, their field operator directed to investigate the Collins claim, shortly after interviewing the woman, urgently requested assistance, while discussing the matter with Madison, found it best having counsel with DC before progressing further, relayed all data to my director's office, hence the assignment to Willnard where upon arriving and introducing myself was taken to meet Dr. Malocht who agreed to see me personally, but instead led to the basement with the two thousand other patients and chained to a large, immovable speaker playing a series of messages, incessantly, having an extremely faint almost indiscernible quality till I found myself standing outside one early afternoon the main gates in the same cloths with the same items and amount of money in the small backpack I always carried during field research, three years later.

In trusting no one I had little choice but to contact the press staying in a small hotel waiting to see if the story broke, which it had two days later, when on that day I walked into the Shandon Daily and met my husband-to-be who wrote the story I'd dictated to over the phone along with one hand written letter dropped-off outside the drugstore late at night.

While interned I came to understand several Shandon offices from postal to local law and several in DC, in one form or another had connections with Willnard as the asylum staff spoke freely assuming patients were lethargic due to medication or results from the speaker messages, presumably both. Concerning those certain DC offices, I notified their department heads prior to contacting the press informed specific section heads their known involvement with Willnard would become public unless there was a maintained delivery of prescribed commodities which I'd listed directly from the notebooks when demanded at designated addresses.

Going through the notes made while reviewing Dr. Malocht's handwriting for the final time as the court case is nearly closed, I may never fully understand sitting here expected our first child in three months as deputy chief of the Madison office two things, - my long talks with a young boy about eleven I'd met while confined telling me what _actually_ happens at Willnard, and exactly where I'd find these notebooks in the doctors office behind the wall-size fish tank, which I copied and replaced then pointed out afterwards with deputies and officials that tank appears somewhat askew during the initial search the doctor constructed which if you knew where to touch easily swung out away, exposing the immaculate recorded details of all those lives, and how there was never once a surgical mark placed on any one patient from the sound wave experiments.

But that couldn't have happened.

Lazily staring into the snowy peaceful fields outside the asylum sitting in my car listening to nothing but silence after my short meeting with Dr. Malocht and subsequent tour of the facilities with three of his senior staff, I recalled clearly what no one at DC, especially where I worked, knew I was raped and forcibly imprisoned for two weeks when I was twelve as it never became a police record. It was my uncle who while visiting during the summer abused me. My father's brother lost his wife two years before to alcohol and my parents thought it a good deed to have me help him around the house for a couple of weeks. Yet at Willnard I was continuously sexually abused by one guard who exactly appeared in manner and physique as my uncle though of course, he died a number of years before.

Watching nothing but whiteness from fields and sky, I took out my phone and began dictating what happened, wanting to get the facts before they left, before I thought just as waking from dreams most images stay only a few seconds then disappear. That I was certain I'd been chained for years at Willnard, that I'd escaped, were nothing more than images. In checking my GPS signal, I was in the asylum for less than three hours and that of the faint yet constant ringing in my ears offering a peaceful silence from the common world, provided me the bearings and usage of doctor's final products, and who to meet there.

###

The End

Thank you for reading my story. If you have any questions or comments please leave a message at the website.

Lucus Anthony Ren

Please visit https://lucusanthonyren.com for more stories and news.

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Cover Photo 'Ringing': Tom Woodgate
