 
Mardale

By

J.D Lightner

Mardale

Copyright © TXu 2-159-730

J.D Lightner 2019

All rights reserve.

No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

Devoted

Geneva "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies".

Zackary my son my strength. Stacie who stands as a pillar in my heart. Tony my "Man of Endurance & Integrity". Megan my quite thinker and dreamer.

Kayla, the one who melts my heart. Nola, the girl who creates my smiles. Nickolas and Eric my future joy.

To every forgotten ghost, good or evil whom unintentionally or not, drew me closer to God.

Table of Contents

Mardale

Chapter One "I am A Was Not"

Chapter Two "Bury The White Boy"

Chapter Three "The Hidden Things"

Chapter Four "Brown Noser"

Chapter Five "Azazel The Evil Scapegoat"

Chapter Six "A Rock Won't Move Itself"

Chapter Seven "Straight Razor"

Chapter Eight "Unsalted pretzels"

Chapter Nine "Zackary's Last Stand"

Chapter Ten "When Pigs Fly"

Chapter Eleven "Entwined"

Chapter Twelve "Only 99% Pure"

Chapter Thirteen "Earth or Heaven I know Not"?

Author Bio

# Chapter One  
 ** _"I am A Was Not"_**

"One should never boast of the last mountain climbed. Without its peak, victory remains non-existent".

-- Sheriff Brecker.

To believe is commendable. To apprehend is true liberation. Often, life's observable surface chatter boasts the most celebrated choir. Nevertheless, a perceptive heart, by solitary determination, dives deep for spiritual awareness and independence. A new season of emancipation was emerging within MarDale's life. His deliverance was not made clear, nor shaped by self-design. For now, this coming time of discernment would remain unnoticed. Although, before MarDale's deliverance, he would face the intense fire of failure and callous apathy of self-righteousness, long before his captive destiny would take shape. Presently, the now was far more foreboding than the unseen steamroller of decree.

It was the high sweet time of spring with the seductive ushering in thereof. Many a stirring abound during springtime -- not only within the verdure of nature -- but also like natural things. As an inexperienced twelve-year-old teen, MarDale passionately believed that the universe wholly existed for one singular, intense consuming purpose: his enjoyment of exploring all possibilities. He contemplated and identified his life was indeed changing. One particularly grievous transition was the certainty that he no longer abided within his youth. Simply put, MarDale's permanent grasp upon childhood was quickly ebbing away. This summer would mark the end of that era with the shepherding in of adolescents.

Making his way across town to visit Ms. Letha, a foreboding thought entered his mind. Following the summer break, he would be enrolling in junior high school. Rumors of vicious and horrible mistreatment doled out by upper classmates upon newcomers flourished unembedded. MarDale recounted in his head a story of a certain senior student. Taking great pains to make exact replicas of the male and female restroom signs. The deviously secret culprit placed the male counterfeit sign over the female locker-room door insignia. Obligingly doing the same, placing the female counterfeit label over the male shower and locker area door.

Naturally, all teens present were aware of the impending prank, except for the chosen duped detour. The moment our lamb got targeted; it became embarrassingly obvious that the trap needed no bait whatsoever -- for the young stripling was eagerly seeking opportunities for social acceptance among his superiors.

"Hey, you"! Spinning on his heels, facing a senior class-man -- the size of an industrial freezer storeroom. Meekly, but firmly, the lamb stated: "Who, me?" Gruffly, but respectfully, "Meat Locker" asked, "Can you go and get a towel out of the men's shower room?" The lamb's eyes widened with surprise, joy, and disbelief. An incredible fortune cast at his feet! His ticket, the beginning! The hand up and the gold standard for the initial teen-validation journey. Welcoming him into social acceptance and teen coolness! Remaining aloof outwardly, while inwardly vibrating out of his frame, the sheep answered, "Sure." Then he was off like a shot.

"The greatest evil which fortune can inflict on men is to endow them with small talents and great ambition". -- Luc de Clapiers.

Grasping weighty ambition in hand and truly little wisdom, our hoodwinked babe never for an instant bothered scanning the facial expressions of the crowd. Had he done so? He would have experienced a moment deep within his being, scream out: "Do not do it! It's a trap!" Instead, he merely sashayed gleefully to his slaughter. Unexpectedly, our virginal sacrifice bounds elatedly into what he believes are an entirely male domain. Instantly blocked from the exit. Suddenly, he was surrounded by a multitude of screaming girls -- in various forms of dress and undress. Shrill accusations of every deviant perversion imaginable, including the black plague, were hurled vehemently at our horrified hero. Shockingly, the torture only intensifies. Feeble apologies and desperate negotiations went unnoticed by the galled gals. It could not be a worse scenario.

Every boyish daydream of the lovely female anatomy lay hidden within the mystery of the school lady's locker and shower room. For our ensnared ram-lamb, this cherished shrine of feminine beauty morphed sickeningly into femme-fatale on parade. How utterly confused and diluted was our sheep's masculinity, for up to this point, he had never viewed a female body, let alone a whole herd of angry ones. If this was to be his future marital bliss, becoming a eunuch, by choice, seemed so doable.

The poor sap by now became bewildered, beyond embarrassed, and in a speechless state of shock. Five senior ladies stepped up to the whimpering, numb, shaking, poor soul, as the dominant girl traced her long index fingernail from the base of the lad's throat to his lower lip, asks: "Do you want to see us without clothes?" Remaining paralyzed, she drew even closer -- nearly nose to nose and said: "Or would you rather we remove all of your apparel, little fella?!" Our prodigy's eyesight reverted to tunnel vision tightness. High pitch ringing thundered inside his ears. Sweat began to puddle under his arm pits, and his breathing was shallow and quick.

The "She-Badgers" pounce on the newbie swiftly! Firmly affixing him to the cement floor. Simultaneously, a dozen or more teen girls began kissing the squirming and hysterical tween boy. Within seconds, his face was thoroughly covered with generous amounts of pucker shaped lipstick imprints. His fear escalates to a fevered level, realizing more ladies have pinned him down. The lone dominant she-badger forcibly removes our lamb's gym shorts. Resisting with all his strength while whaling at the top of his lungs, begging for a single shred of his remaining dignity, alas, to no avail. His shorts are quickly seized, abashedly leaving him in his tighty-whities.

Unceremoniously, unexpectedly, and much quicker than our misfortunate youth could think, he was abruptly deposited back into the gymnasium. The slamming door of the girl's locker room was the only brief sound that lingered -- just before the entire class waiting outside, burst into hurricane-force laughter. Giving the poor chap a standing ovation was not the final insult. The towel he was to fetch, and his shorts were tossed out, landing rudely on top of his head.

MarDale's friends Eric and Eugene admitted to each other in the past these fearful concerns, coupled with many other anxieties. Questioning probingly, just what manner of evil would befall them within the menacing future world of junior high school.

Today, that world was a million miles away. Mardale's twelfth summer without rhyme or warning placed him in a gray area of between; He literally became a "Was Not". He was not a child, and he was not a teen. "OH! To be a teenager", he marveled within himself! Constantly musing of that great adolescent awakening when one becomes complete and thoroughly furnished -- not without so much as a whiff of trouble, nor sweat to form upon one's brow. He achingly yearned for the day of teenagerhood, with its advance insights, grand wisdom, and knowledge of all coolness. For now, dealing with the awkward reality of being a "Was not". Neither child nor teen. Instead, coping with layers of brutal contrast: Awkwardness and ignorant bravado, having a laser focus for upholding strict social acceptance, surrendering to total compliance of teen norms, appeasing his peers at all cost, yet, insanely seeking out a unique persona.

Ms. Letha's house was now in sight, only a few cities blocks away. She was his surrogate mother figure. Letha became the designated sanctuary for several neighborhood children, hiding out from non-understanding parents and the world in general. Of course, unknown to her adopted tweens, Ms. Letha was close friends with most, if not all their guardians. On occasions when the progenies were in school, excellent, and humorous conversations were mauled over, aligning her wayward youngsters in a direction favorable to all.

MarDale made up a quick song in his head about his uncertain grey area status. Trapped! He was not youth and was not a teen. Walking towards his sweet refuge, he began to sing.

"I am a "Was Not"

I am a was not

I used to pick my boogers and eat my snot

Not a kid ain't no teen

Awkward, geeky, with teeth of green

I am a was not

At night mama still tucks me in

Don't tell my buds

That would be a sin

I am a was not

Like to be macho and brave

Dad still spanks me

When I misbehave

I am a was not

It is an observable fact that boys, especially boys entering puberty, lack most, if not all societal filters. If the mood strikes them to, say, shred their tee-shirt while singing at the top of their lungs, "I am a was not" on a busy street corner in front of the local Sheriff's house. Then by all things believable, they will indeed do it!

Meanwhile, inside Sheriff Lou Brecker and Geneva's house, the good constable and his wife drank coffee. Watching MarDale out of their dining room window, with intense but amused interest, Geneva spoke, "Honey? That's our MarDale, is it not?" Sheriff Lou replied, "Yup. That boy is deeply stupid". Geneva protested. "Lou! Now that was not nice!" Lou gently reminded his wife, "Easy baby, have you forgotten how we always help MarDale? Nursing his mother Pamela back to health when she is feeling poorly?" Lifting her apologetic eyes, Geneva replied, "Yes, I remember", in a distant, detached manner. Suddenly, her heartfelt like a broken sheet of ice sliding from a winter's roof. Plummeting into her cold sadness.

She could not believe; three years had passed since Janie's death. It was a sad state of affairs. MarDale was living in his house, where he tended to his mentally ill mother, while his father was always stationed in a war-zone -- God only knows where. Some have speculated MarDale's father was using his military job to avoid his family's current reality. Most believed he could not cope with losing his daughter Janie, coupled with his wife's bipolar mental illness. Geneva realized more than most. Mardale's domestic circumstances placed unfair adult responsibilities upon him at an early age. A rock-solid virtue abiding in the small town of Clearmound, is the generosity found in circling the wagons for family and friends when one of their own is in trouble. However, most know that they can only go so far down the trail.

The noticeable negative contrast upon Geneva's countenance was quickly registered by her husband. Sheriff Brecker reached over to squeeze his wife's hand, "Come on now baby, don't get melancholy. Just look out that window. Tell me that's not a well-adjusted typical twelve-year-old boy?" Grinning, she said: "Not so well adjusted!" Both amused with their mutual observations. Tuning out to the background noise, as MarDale shouted, "One MORE TIME"! The couple return to their paper and coffee, smiling, unaffected by MarDale's third encore.

Lou caught himself drifting back inside his mind to that direful time shared with MarDale and his mother, Pamela. Brecker and MarDale, both were imprisoned within their hearts, multitudes of demons touching on that monstrous night. They quickly tucked away their tormentors under lock and key. Not fathoming, both were self-incarcerated with the very devils they tried to escape. Unrecognized dark forces were merely waiting for the perfect time for the riot to begin. No one informed Sheriff Lou or MarDale. Satan arrives as a messenger of light, enticing with false illuminations, proclaiming evil as good and good as evil.

Kissing his wife on her forehead while making his way upstairs to bed: "Honey, I'm laying down for a few hours before I head back in." While Geneva nodded with agreement, her eyes instead protested softly. Imploring seductively, "I know your tired honey. I was hoping we could keep our date. Or at least a shorter version." The Brecker's owned a sad scorecard of failures in attempting to propagate life and the family name. Already nearing their mid-thirties, the background static of childlessness seemed an impending doom.

"Sorry sweetie, Deputy Logan called. He needs to leave work. His wife Kayla is going into labor. I must return in a half-hour to cover..." Geneva interrupted squealing like a schoolgirl. "You mean to tell me Kayla is finally having her second baby? It's about time!" Her husband began chuckling, "Well for Kayla's sake. Let's hope this baby is not like her first child Grant. She said Grant's head and feet were so big that she believed she was delivering twins". Laughing together, Geneva walked over hugged and kissed Lou. Grinningly she said, "Well if you get off work a little early, we can do some practice runs for maternity, big boy!"

Lou blushed. Geneva's eyes widened, declaring in surprise, "Lou M. Brecker, you're blushing!" He protested her, "I most certainly am not blushing!" His vehement objections only made his face turn redder. Geneva started taunting and tickling him while singing, "Big Lou is blushing. To his fat head, blood is rushing. Big Lou is blushing! Ha, Ha. Lou's big head is red!" Unexpectedly, her husband scooped up Geneva effortlessly, placing one arm under her knees and the other supporting her upper body. She swung her arms around his neck, giggling. He said defensively, "Listen, my little fart blossom, you caught me off guard. O-Kay!?" Geneva smiled, motioning to Lou to bend his ear down by her mouth, and then she whispered, "It's your fault the baby died".

Lou's spine stiffened swiftly! His frame pulled his head away from his wife... eyes darting left then right while endeavoring to control his stunned fear and convulsive tremors. Stammering, Coach's puzzled voice agonized for control, "What did...Why would you...say that to me, Geneva?" Feeling every muscle in his jaw cinch up as the pit of his stomach tightened into a compact painful knot.

Looking back down into his arms that once held his spouse, instead found baby Janie, with her pale blue infant skin and a trickle of blood, dried under her nose. Lou looked at the infant and began sobbing, "I could not save you. I am so sorry. I could not save... you. I am, am so deeply sorry, saved...so sorry". Slowly, he notices through his tear-filled eyes, the expired babe was opening and closing her mouth in a taut rhythm. A small muffled noise could be heard each time the infant's mouth initiated. The sound projected from the dead baby -- becoming more discernible, more apparent, and louder with each opening of her jawline. A last shrill scream rushed out of her mouth as his alarm clock blasted.

Lou's body rapidly collapsed into a warped vision nightmare. The hellish world folded into and upon him. Brecker was slammed back into his own world, screaming violently. Shaking to the core, he swung his feet out of bed desperate to remove the blanket that suffocated him. It seemed as if his entire mind, body, and spirit, had been swiftly dismembered and then slapped back together in microseconds. Placing his face in his hands, Lou's mind drifted back to that November night, three years ago, when he was answering a domestic call at the home of MarDale and family.

Geneva was tending her flowers outside, dreaming of a future garden full of children. Hearing her husband's screams, getting up slowly, walks into the kitchen, pours some coffee, and waits patiently for him to join her, knowing better than to ask. He would deny everything.

That's what men do.

# Chapter Two  
 ** _"Bury The White Boy"_**

In a small river town, securing gainful employment is much like dancing between raindrops. The goal is to stay dry and be successful -- the actuality in most cases. One becomes cold, wet, tired, and miserable. The dark side of desperation will drive any honest man to abandoned integrity and self-esteem to survive. The town Clearmound offered only a few employment opportunities -- consisting of working in the state ward for the criminally insane, the local fast food joint, the river barge or the Clearmound Museum, and the ice cream parlor. The locals have an old ongoing joke about the town Museum in that it holds the proud distinction of being the third largest ancient Indian burial mound in the continental United States. Claiming a stake for fame at being third place in the burial mound business is similar to boasting the title of an expert skydiver who forgets to pack the parachute.

In most cases, oral history is often closer to the truth than written history. Just ask a husband landing in divorce court if oral evidence is indeed a fearful weapon. "So, Ms. Smith, you state you caught your husband stealing money from your children's piggy bank? Is it also a fact that the pilfered piggy pennies procured were used to buy a brand-new cup holder for his jet ski?" The courtroom gasps! At this point, even Mr. Smith's defense attorney stands, walking over to the prosecuting attorney's desk to console Ms. Smith. Accordingly, the spoken traditions concerning the local burial mound passed on by the elders are much more intriguing.

Tradition and oral history continuously claimed Clearmound's burial site is definitely not the internment place of the respected American Indian. "Chief Possum Tracks". Instead, it was that of an unfortunate penniless Caucasian. Many heated town council meetings and family arguments throughout the years. Have centered around the identity of the person buried at Clearmound's most esteemed and prominent fixture. One could only imagine the excitement of the town's people when they heard their beloved Chieftain would soon be exhumed -- making room for a significant renovation project. Initiated by Clearmound Historical Society, in conjunction with the National Park Service.

Local politicians and business owners coveted this occasion as a springboard to boost the economy. After all, the event would be international news! Laying to rest the wives' tale that the honorable Chief Possum Tracks was merely an unfortunate Caucasian. The townspeople remained firmly divided into two camps: the younger team with smug assurance, and the older team with more wisdom and trust in their ancestors. Indeed, youthful smugness warranted science and logic would drop the shoe in their favor, finally silencing the old fogies' fables of a white man buried in Indian garb. The older team understood life in Clearmound as nothing more than a series of hopeless humor: "Indians buried that white boy, period"!

The elected and admirative officials were on a nervous ragged edge. Realizing this new-found notoriety and fame could not be squandered, Clearmound's chance to become a prospering town -- drawing visitors into their businesses and local sites -- all hinged entirely upon the fact that "Ole' Possum Tracks," the Indian Chieftain, better be just that: an Indian Chieftain!

As the anthropologist, historians and scientists arrived from all over the globe, each jumping at the prospect to study this rare Clearmound Overlord, every known major and minor news outlets from the four corners of the earth closely monitored the progress of this prominent headline story. The cameras trained on every detail, taking notice of each nuance and change. Five agonizingly slow days of anticipation passed. As thorough tests, speculations, cross-references, debates, and arguments continued, Clearmound's confidential meeting gathered within town council chambers. The buzz was thick in the air as top officials and scientific elites arrived. Clearmound's ancient mystery would be undeniably solved! Senior officials and scientific elites gathered at once as an urgent news conference was arranged. This spectacle became the most highly sought-after national curiosity and global interest story in nearly a century.

The excitement was at a fever pitch as the townspeople gathered. Mayor Tony Valley, who by now looked haggard and aged, stepped forward to make the long-awaited announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's my duty to inform our citizens and the world that after many years of contemplation, folklore, and oral history surrounding our beloved Clearmound Chieftain. The long-speculated identity of our distinguished "Chief Possum Tracks", is a complete whitewash." Someone from the older, wiser group yelled, "Ya dang Tootie! That boy was washed white! Thems braves took the red right off his carcass! Clearmound Chief be's white! Long liv's Chief sodee-cracker!"

The laughter that erupted was so intense that even the cameraman's hilarity was vibrating his equipment, causing the viewers at home to see screens shake. The mayor cringed and looked to be on the verge of tears. Several moments passed before the onlookers finally composed themselves. Mayor Valley valiantly attempted to regroup while squirming in his standing position. Death gripping the microphone: "What I mean to say is that all indications and evidence concerning "The honorable Chief Possum Tracks" point to a whiteout circumstance...I mean to say unfortunate circumstances...until further..." The same cantankerous voice from the crowd interrupted, shouting: "That dead Caucasian ain't no dried red-raisin!" The vast crowd's laughter gave way to gut-wrenching hysteria. Mayor Valley looked like a child who had all the red licked off his lollipop. Throwing the microphone to the ground, he hung down his head and stomped off the stage, hasting to a dark corner licking his wounds. Future historians will be examining this event in the future and undoubtedly confirm. This was the very moment world peace was ever so briefly achieved -- while the whole of creation rolled on the ground laughing, hooting, howling, and hanging on for the uncontrollable and endless mirth to subside.

The next day, the town folk were sobering-up to the hang-over of global scrutiny going disastrously awry. It was embarrassingly apparent that their sacred Indian Chief, with his bones, beads, and feathers was in fact, some poor white man who became a long-forgotten resident of their town. There is speculation to this day that this pale person could not pay the necessary toll to pass through Clearmound's sacred Indian ground. Therefore, the Indians killed the white boy -- disguising his body as a respected Indian warrior chief. Next! The ancient people intentionally super-sized the bogus Indian burial mound as a warning to all the others to either cough up wampum toll or die.

That morning, the "Clearmound Crisis Contingency", better known as the C.C.C., was summoned posthaste. These daringly brave town experts on disaster and danger caused one to pause, for this dynamic team was reminiscent of the knights of Camelot. A gathering of super-heroes consisted of the following stellar personalities: Roger, a retired fire chief with a slight case of dementia; Ann, the fry cook at the Red Barn restaurant; and Bob, who alone was certified in C.P.R. Speaking of Bob, Bob was, well, Bob. He gained fame for placing the same advertisement in the local paper for thirteen years and counting: "For Sale. Ten-speed bike. Seat missing. Handlebar bent. Tires flat. Sixty dollars. Firm. No-Refunds!"

As dignitaries gathered, representing a complete cross-section of Clearmound nobles, a series of emergency town meetings were conducted -- all hinged on the possibility of adding more earth to Clearmounds burial site. Thereby, becoming number one in size and stature, in comparison to other competing burial mounds. The logic was that a more prominent icon would compensate for the shameful impostor of "Chief White Feather", this poor soul who was unceremoniously christened. However, the absurdity of this proposal became obvious when Josh Shook stood up and motioned for silence.

"The committee board recognizes Josh Shook". The town hall was at overflow capacity. Every resident fathomed the negative ramifications of the newly discovered "Chief White Feather". Not all were of concern, however. Josh Shook's motivation was entirely based on revenge. Revenge of irony, not malice. Having his property re-zoned requiring him to start paying town taxes; He decided this moment and setting would best serve his retribution. As a respected teacher and farmer. Townspeople were more than eager to listen. Josh motioned to the crowd for silence, and they willingly obliged. "Ladies and gentlemen of Clearmound, most of you know me. I have lived, laughed, and cried with nearly all of you, at some point in your lives. What I have to say, I believe, is going to be a benefit to the town's governing body, particularly, our very own city mayor Mr. Tony Valley".

Mayor Valley began to fidget a little, sitting in his "dead center" chair of the town board platform. The good mayor was looking ill, especially after yesterday's news conference. Today, Josh standing before him did not help matters. After all, it was Valley who cast the deciding vote to rezone Mr. Shook's property. "Our beloved community has experienced a notable set back. The dire ripple effect of the discovery of an impostor, if you will, in our beloved and iconic Clearmound grave site, of whom we have aptly named 'Chief White Feather,' on local businesses' monetary loss will be felt for some time -- not to mention, the embarrassment of having the rug pulled out from under us on worldwide television -- adding salt to Clearmound's injury. In our realization of this imposter, we lost, shall I say, our town's cultural identity". The same belligerent voice from yesterday's global news cast shouted: "Not to mention Chief Possum Track's identity"! Laughter rolled as Mayor Valle' did his best to restore order.

Josh started again: "As I was saying, I have always advocated that honesty is the best policy. With that approach, I believe I have a remedy to our problem. We know in our panic, we foolishly considered adding earth to the Clearmound site to become number one in size". People chuckled in the background. Mayor Valley banged the gavel again, restoring quiet. Mr. Shook raised his voice with earnest:

"My dear citizens of Clearmound. I propose we make lemonade out of this recently inherited lemon. Let us start with a motto that defines us. A slogan causing road-weary strangers to be attracted to our proud, but small town! A statement of truth and beauty able to build a prospering future -- our unstoppable maxim of strength and trust, wooing visitors from far and wide!" The entire group of citizens leaned into the direction of Mr. Shook, intently desiring what manner of golden wisdom announced could repair and restore their wounded hobbit, thereby, reclaiming her to her former, nay, grander glory. Josh raised his hands to garner complete silence from the crowd. The right honorable Mr. Shook's voice began in almost hushed reverence. Then a slow escalation to a near shrill shout by the finished of his dissertation.

"We will cast our voice to the four corners of the wind. Our golden melody falls as refreshingly warm spring rain, reviving the worn and weary and the weak, gently guiding sojourning pilgrims to our tiny corner of heaven, named Clearmound, earnestly seeking then finding quiet solace. For tired brows and burden backs heavy with the cares of this troubling world. Our enticing yet simply powerful proverb shall attract hundreds perhaps thousands! Nay, dare I say millions of hungry ears? Neither men of strength nor woman of fortitude or nary a child of innocence can resist. Clearmound's welcoming arms upon hearing our collective cry"! Silent, inhaling, holding their breath, needle prick anticipation spread over every inch of flesh in attendance, "Visit our 'Indian Burial Mound' with the Creamy White Center"!

A shock wave of silent disbelief vibrated and reverberated every soul. Some stood wide-eyed while others looked around with careful slowness for the next clue. Subsequently, it happened! Sheer convulsing, back-slapping, snot flying, and I-cannot-breathe laughter broke out near mass delirium among the Clearmoundians.

Josh tipped his hat at Mayor Valley who, in turn, just grinned and shook his head. Mr. Shook walked through the happy congratulating crowd as he made his way to the exit.

Eulogy of White Feather

It is said when Caesar entered Rome the first time as a conquering victor, a slave was placed directly behind him. As all the pomp and circumstance swirled around the precession, every ten paces, the slave would step forward and whisper in Caesar's ear: "All glory is fleeting". It's a deeply ingrained desire who transverse this vapor we call life, that we somehow mattered and that we will be remembered. The paradox being the dead could care less of such difficulties. And the living too busy reaching for significance or fame, never ensnaring either one.

To this very day, doubts and intrigue abound around the person who was christened Chief White Feather, who is a hapless victim not once, but twice. While each separate event concerning his demise span considerable space and time, at first, it seemed cruel destiny erased all he ever was, including a grave marker with his proper name. The harsh reality was that Chief White Feather gained considerable disrepute and prestige. Never once planning his life or his death around the entertaining series of unfortunate circumstances that brought him notoriety. A sure pity that the correct Clearmound icon, "Chief Possum' Tracks" was not present. He would have enjoyed the sheer lunacy created by his hand placed on this small town's future, intentional or not, "Possum Tracks" the first became the catalyst bearing the deserved and proper atomic wedgey that Clearmound would not forget soon.

A small memorial was erected for Chief White Feather on the outskirts of a quiet graveyard. Now some surmise it was spite, while others say it was merely a premonition foretelling impending darkness. Regardless, when the bones rattled their last, the grave marker of Chief White Feather read this:

Here lies Chief White Feather

Thought to have the skin of red.

Clearmound's dooming white boy instead.

Now the town is all but dead.

If an ominous albatross could speak, it would complain of exhaustion circling over the municipality of Clearmound. Within a small period following the Chief White Feather debacle, the town leaders leveled the burial mound within a matter of days, starting a new construction project expanding the parking lot for the town's insane asylum.

The following morning, near deafening rumbles of a five-mile-long caravan of cars and trucks welcomed the astonished river town dwellers. Following afterward, large droves of thousands upon thousands of out of town tourists began flooding in. Visitors sought after the world famous "White Feather Grave Mound". You know EVERYBODY! Was dying to see the dead white boy, the American Indians killed burying him in their traditional garb.

It seems endlessly poignant the true chiefs of Clearmound, 'Ole Possum Tracks' and 'White Feather' got the last laugh without using the punch line.

(Clearmound job opportunities: Ward for the criminally insane, local fast food joint, river barge worker, Clearmound Burial Mound Museum, ice cream parlor, and town mayor.)

# Chapter Three  
 ** _"The Hidden Things"_**

"The best any of us can do is being a free-thinking dog tethered to the gates of hell. Unless we adopt the eyes of eagles and the ears of lambs the unbroken chains remain".

-- MarDale.

(Thirty-six months earlier)

The speed of unwelcome news amplified exponentially in a small municipal as it moved quicker than the sound of a hammer strike traveling through steel. Exiting his police cruiser, Sheriff Lou Brecker could hear the shrill screams of Pamela Bodett within her house from across the street where he stood. The harsh distinctive sounds of wood splintering and glass shattering as Deputy Zackary Roberts from inside, violently kicked outward the front door with one foot while doing his physical level best to restrain Pamela. She animalistic writhed and flailed all appendages in vicious and various directions, madly staring into vacant nothingness!

Pamela screamed at near demonic levels, causing witnesses of this harrowing scene their flesh to crawl. Over and over and over again in repeated anguish, her gut-wrenching howls vibrated loudly. "It's my fault my baby died"! The sight of the pitiful woman's face -- locked within a contorted and twisted expression of pain and sorrow -- literally took the breath away from everyone present.

Lou assisted Deputy Robert's restraining Pamela as gently as humanly possible, securing the shattered shell of a soul into the back of the police cruiser. Brecker peered through the car's window, listening to the anguished sounds escaping the lips of the completely devastated woman. Who looked as if she cannibalized her very heart!

"Zackary, what in the world is happening in there?" Lou could read Deputy Lightner's facial expressions, a mixture of bewilderment and astonishment. Lou understood Zackary was having difficulty wrapping his mind around the scene inside the Bodett's house -- as both contemplated the sheer physical strength of MarDale's petite mother.

Panting his answer to Sheriff Brecker. "Boss-man, Upon arriving on location, the very instant I stepped through the doorway, Mrs. Bodett pounced on me like a protective lioness, attacking in total black-out mode. She was unbelievable in speed and power, instantly and impossibly ran up my frame, gouging my eyes and viciously kicking me in the chest and groin area. The entire time, constricting my throat with an anaconda-like death grip. If it were not for MarDale's sudden weeping and pleading distracting her briefly, I would have never gained a much-needed leg up in my conquest".

Sheriff Lou recognized Zackary's battle shock. A condition typically experienced directly after a life or death struggle. Symptoms include a struggle to clearly process adrenally charged event(s) in consecutive order. And or determining if the high-stress event ever happened. Deputy Lightner's face was now a bruised and battered bloody mess. His vacant eyes still orbiting in outer space, struggled to search for a reference point back to earth. Placing his hand upon the war-weary warrior's shoulder Lou whispered. "Zack, I need you to center yourself. Take a few deep breaths and tell me what's the current status inside the Bodett house?"

Lou's Deputy slowly composed himself then responded. "Sheriff, it looks as if Pamela was dropped off from work by the carpool at around 1700 hours. She told her son to wake her up in about an hour. Taking a nap with the baby, while MarDale did his homework, well, you know MarDale. Exactly an hour later, he did as his mother asked". Lou interrupted politely, "MarDale inherited a lot of responsibility -- considering his father's military deployment and his mother when she gets, you know, ailing".

Calming down, Zackary continued as he began cleaning his bloody face with a handkerchief stating: "Apparently when MarDale approached his mother and the infant to wake them, he noticed that the baby's skin was a light blue and that she also had a dried stream of blood under her nose. MarDale then woke Pamela to inform her Janie looked sick. It was then all hell broke loose. MarDale still had the presence of mind to call the office letting us know something was wrong. Sheriff, I think it was crib death. Ms. Bodett snapped, believing I would take her baby then sell little Janie's body for money. The scene quickly degraded when she started blaming herself".

Lou inquired: "MarDale told you all of this"? Robert's nodded his head. "Yes, Lou just as cool as a cucumber." The Deputy's voice got ghostly distant speaking the next words: "Lou, Miss Pamela was not the worst of it. That's what I am trying to inform you. You need to go inside and tend to MarDale". Sheriff Brecker looked searchingly into Zackary Robert's eyes. Lou thought to himself, "This most certainly will not bode well".

Sheriff Lou and Geneva Brecker were many things to many people in this small town. They were greatly loved and respected. One of the functions he volunteered for and enjoyed doing the most was coaching the little league baseball team. Many a boy grew up to be grateful men under Lou and Geneva's guidance. Therefore, it was no huge surprise that the Sheriff was often identified as "Coach". It was unnerving to be labeled with that title in a situation like this. Brecker instructed Zackary to keep a lid on crowd control. Charging him to let absolutely nobody inside until he returned.

Slowly, but meaningfully, the Sheriff stepped through what was left of the front door. Deputy Roberts was indeed spot on when he said, "This was bad". He could feel every hair on the back of his neck stiffen. After scanning the living room and finding nothing, looking towards the dining area. His line of sight could only make out MarDale who was sitting at the end of the kitchen table, drinking what appeared to be chocolate milk. He approached lightly towards the kitchen doorway. Jolted into a sudden adrenaline flood as the nine-year-old MarDale incredibly leaped about ten feet from his seated perch. With lightning speed, the boy ran up to the Sheriff shaking his hand while clasping with both of his. MarDale gripped with such vigor that it made Lou winch.

"Hey, Coach! I am so glad you came by to visit. You'll have to forgive the mess. Mom has been working double shifts, and you know dad is off to war". MarDale spoke with hyper-intensive chipper terms. At a near frantically sick upbeat tone, he boasted of his achievements. "I am doing my best keeping up my grades and helping around the house. I even change Janie's diaper and give her bottles". MarDale then leads Coach by his hand into the kitchen, escorting him to a chair next to his. Continuing enthusiastically, "You know, sometimes, the kids make fun of me in school. Cause my clothes are unkempt, and my hair's a mess, but that's O-O-Kay. They don't know how, how many responsibilities I-I-I have. The-the-the good thing is while mom is away I- I am still big enough to take care, care of Janie until mom gets back from the hospital. What do you, you think, Coach"?

Sheriff Brecker, a.k.a. Coach looked from MarDale's panicked yet quietly concerned eyes. He then placed his focus on the opposite end of the kitchen table. In a frighteningly surreal yet beautiful way, little Janie Bodett was sitting in her highchair, with a fruit bowl and sippy cup placed in front of her, seeming thoroughly pleased. Janie's beautiful shiny solid black hair was neatly combed, and her floral dress was finely pressed. Her bonnet matched her clothing and her black shoes were shined. With a sickening touch of aesthetics, her light blue skin accented her attire in a sadly haunting way. This tiny baby had her eyes closed, appearing to be a lovely well-kept child, slumbering peacefully.

Coaches' mind reeled. His sight became pinhole fixated upon a single pinpoint detail -- that of a tiny dried bloodstream under Janie's nose. His throttled system could not take in nor process the larger spectacle before him. Repeatedly asking inside his head the following question: "Yet, with all MarDale's great care bestowed upon Janie, why did he not clean the blood from under her nose? Why leave the blood?" He obsessed, falling hypnotically upon the sadly morbid scene, struggling to bring his mind back to reality. Re-attaching his ears slowly upon Mardale's voice. "Coach, coach... I ask you what you think? So? What do you think coach?" MarDale's insistent appeals pulled the Sheriff to earth. However, it was all but impossible for him to look away from Janie entirely.

Forcing himself to focus, Sheriff Lou realized he was walking on the thinnest of ice concerning MarDale. If he flat out separated him from his sister, it would be catastrophic. Seeing how Janie was MarDale's last semblance of normalcy and sanity, the Sheriff thought with deep consideration for a moment then asked: "MarDale, do you realize your mother might be in the hospital for a long time? Your father just left for his new deployment. You know what all that means?" MarDale started twitching a little in the corner of his mouth, gazing hauntingly upward at Coach. Lou persisted, "So bud, I was thinking... since you are such a major support. If you really think about this, you have no one left here whom you can help".

MarDale shouted defensively with a determined rush of anger, drawing an impossibly hard line in the sand. Defying Coach with rigid body language daring him not to even think of such a repulsive observation. "Janie! I must take care of my sister. Nobody is taking her away from me! Do you understand, Coach!? Nobody! For that matter, It's time to change her diaper"! Jumping off his chair, the young boy started marching towards his sibling. Lou could have kicked himself for telling MarDale. "When you think about this, you have no one left here whom you can help".

Nevertheless, he had to think quickly. Speaking with cautioned firmness, "Wait a minute buddy. Janie is still eating from her fruit bowl. See"? MarDale looked approvingly at his infant sister, shrugging his shoulders, as if his moment of defensive anger never existed, walked back to Sheriff Brecker and agreed, "Yup, Coach, you're right. There's no sense in changing her yet. We'll wait until she's done". The Sheriff recommenced, this time carefully threading his subsequent reintegration, "MarDale, I am sorry when I said you had nobody left to help. Everyone in town knows what a significant comfort to your family you've become. I was kind of hoping you could go home with me... just for a little while to assist Mrs. Brecker? We sure could use a strong man like you around the house. What do you think?"

MarDale extended his next words as if in full focused contemplation, "Well, I don't suppose I'm much use here. You know, I think highly of you and Ms. Geneva. Seeing how you work a lot of hours; I can appreciate the need for an extra hand around the house. Of course, Janie and I will sleep in the same room". The lad beamed, "Sounds good to me, Coach. I'll do it"! Before Brecker could counter quick enough making himself clear to the young boy. Mardale had rushed to baby Janie's side, attempting to feed her the fruit bowl as she remained silent and motionless.

Realizing MarDale would either stay forever in this diluted fantasy of his sister being alive or face the horrible truth, that the grave had swallowed up a dear loved one. MarDale softly declared in mild earnest, "Come on Janie, I need you to eat so that we can go". Scratching his head, stating, "She has never acted like this before. Normally, Janie is such a pleasant baby". Lou's throat tightened, straining back tears for the young man's sake. Then a light went off inside MarDale as he said, "Her diaper! I need to change her diaper".

Coach Brecker was pleading within himself for God to pity the nine-year-old boy, who gently laid his dead sister on the changing table to clean her. Lou mustered all his strength, refusing to react to this nightmare. Quietly radioed ahead for all units not to interfere.

Finally, exhausting all options, MarDale sought out eager advice. "Coach, is Janie sick"? Sheriff Lou questioned Mardale gently, "Did you check her temperature or her breathing ensuring if all is well? I tell you what. Hold your cheek close against your sister's nose and mouth. Now, tell me, what do you feel?" MarDale obliged looking with thin hope back into Lou's face. The young boy happily confirmed that his sister was indeed breathing. Lou conclude. Mardale was running on nothing but adrenaline and denial. "If I could cause just one of his senses to close down, just maybe, this pitiful boy might shift his focus upon accepting Janie's death".

MarDale buddy, "I believe you've done a fantastic job tending to Janie's needs. She is fed, clean, and dressed up real pretty. You have done an excellent job. So, I was wondering, could you do me one more favor?" By this point, MarDale was a bugged-eyed fragile framework ready to crack. Somehow, both sensed the forthcoming aftermath. Lou spoke with a light touch of pity. "Now MarDale, would you once again place your cheek close to Janie's mouth and nose? Only this time with your eyes closed". At first, it was a soft-voiced encouragement: "Janie honey breathe". With each passing plea for his sister to revive, the positive consolations gradually gained a brutal tempo of frantic shouts, turned screams, and then mournfully deep weeping, as the little nine-year-old boy, finally broke both shoulders trying to carry his world.

After what seemed like an eternity, MarDale slipped from his mentor's arms doing his utmost to compose himself -- with a sad, but determined voice, "Coach, if you would, could you step outside and give me a little time with Janie? I want to clean her up, then get her overnight bag ready to say good-bye. If you don't mind?" Sheriff Lou Brecker had witnessed a considerable number of courageous acts performed by his law enforcement personnel; all their actions paled in comparison to MarDale's bravery at this very moment. Lou responded with a reassuring voice, "Sure son, take your time".

Coach exhaustedly stepped outside walking to his cruiser. An unexpected cherished relief of anxiety melted away, after feeling his wife Geneva slipping her arm into his. By now, the whole town had assembled in a somber vigil. Clearmound citizens were in hushed admiration as MarDale emerged from his home. Cradling Janie, while carrying her pink diaper bag and her white teddy bear. Slowly ambling, he had dressed himself in a weak thin veil of confidence, as his feet lightly splashed in puddles of sorrow. Standing rigidly in front and center of Sheriff Brecker.

Gazing compassionately downward on his sister's face, enthralled in tranquil slumber. MarDale encouraged Janie not to be afraid, reassuring her, Coach would most assuredly take loving care of her. With amazingly poised character, the broken lad asked. "Sir will you please, treat my sister with loving care?" Lou noticed Janie (Whose bloody nose was now clean) as Mardale lifted up his endeared sister into his receptive arms. "Young man, it would be my great honor to care for little Miss Janie". At that moment, Geneva Brecker rushed forward, embracing MarDale as he collapsed into her arms, he once again began crying uncontrollably. Abruptly men, women, and children started uninhibited weeping among the crowd.

Now it has been said, angels in heaven rejoice over one sinner repenting to the Lord. How much more the celestial celebration over redeemed souls offering benevolence upon the widow or child -- such were Lou and Geneva Brecker. Death, sickness, and fear have the unforeseen ability to regroup people who were scattered within a world of problems, joining them back together, for the sake of hope and love. That night in Clearmound, grown men gathered their families in their arms, lamenting while praying for MarDale and his parents.

# Chapter Four  
 ** _"Brown Noser"_**

"When the Fan Hits the Pooh".

-- Eric & Eugene.

Perceived vantage points determine the quality of life. Fate decides the ground one stands on. A certain false sense of security and self-importance inevitably tends to blind the sincerest of hearts. It was through this single and narrow small-town lens that Eric and Eugene viewed and built the extravagant pitfall of innocent simplicity. Comparatively, souls of greater age, such as Ms. Letha, would indeed be looking upon the world from a wholly different and wise angle. It's a foregone conclusion that seldom is altruism ignored, when in the boundaries of middle age. One naturally arrives at hard, honest revelations. Indeed, humans have diverse ways of viewing life. It's perfectly fine to disagree while remaining compassionate and empathetic.

Lately, all Letha could accomplish was reflecting upon a lifetime of memories and events. She maintained the precept: "It's a great life if you don't weaken". This motto was not just embossed lettering on her tee-shirt. It was a way of life. Her first husband died of a heart attack, then her second spouse washed away in the undertow of alcoholism and infidelity -- not to forget her mild stroke and the suicide of her parents. The slogan: "It's a great life if you don't weaken" was a life force that motivated Letha.

Standing in front of her kitchen sink, washing dishes. While peering outward, towards the far corner of her wooden backyard fence, she was initially unsure what her eyes beheld. There seemed to be a smiley face hanging over her fence, with a deep crease running down dead center on its head. Rubbing her face, straining through squinted green eyes! As the old adage goes, "Meanwhile back at the ranch", Eugene and Eric placed a step ladder in the back-alley near the far corner of her property. The tumultuous twins passionately believed that putting on a "happy face" was what Miss Letha and the entire world needed. Before their mission of madness, the two cohorts decided it would be loads of fun painting the ill-fated grinning mug upon Eric's posterior! This yellow facade was constructed entirely of clown paint, covering every nook and cranny of Eric's bottom.

Simply put, it takes an extra special relationship and a large amount of trust for one's backside to be utterly covered decoratively by the hand of a willing contributor. Such was the cemented bond of confidence between Eric and Eugene, as far as friends go. Most other chums could not compare. Their rapport could be best explained as a symbiotic cord of mutual contradistinctions. Eugene and Eric both upheld each other's weaknesses. For it was Eric with the brains, imagination, and thoughtfulness, adding Eugene with the muscle, common sense, and guts. They were inseparable in all that they did. Eric proceeded to hang his painted prized tooshie over Ms. Letha's backyard fence. Of course, it was all done in the name of wholesome fun -- strictly for pooh and giggles, as it were.

Ah, alas, as with all grandmaster plans, a simple unforeseen glitch can quickly escalate into an epic episode of massive poo-portions! They would soon and rapidly discover that the road to hell was indeed paved with good intentions. Eric said, "Eugene, Miss Letha must be busy cus she always washes dishes at this time. For Pete's sake, I'm getting tired of hanging out like this. Pun intended!" Eugene stated sarcastically, "Oh, that was cheeky". Eric exasperatedly said. "Eugene, you bonehead! I know it's been at least a half-hour and Miss Letha has not seen us. Besides, I really have to go to the bathroom". Eugene waved him off, "Well, Eric, get down and go pee". Eric revealed: "Eugene, I don't have to pee". Eugene chimed forebodingly, "Well, well, Eric, my little butt boils licker! That's a slight problem". Eric spoke suspiciously, "What do ya mean?" He had a sick feeling since Eugene, who was much stronger than him, placed his football helmet on his head, standing at the base of the ladder.

Eric said with nervous laughter coupled with fear: "Eugene, I got to go. Let me down"! Shrugging his shoulders, Eugene declared, "Sorry Eric, I can't do that. Besides, when you turned to look for Ms. Letha, I tied your shoestrings to the ladder. So, my little armpit pimple, you have two choices: you must fight to go poop or poop now and lose the fight". Eugene, smilingly burying his helmet in Eric's lap. Grasping the ladder and holding it with all his strength, Eric howled with insistent laughter. He commenced to putting a fist pounding on Eugene's shoulders, head, and ribs. Eric begged, streaming constricting sphincter tears and implored for mercy.

Ms. Letha was finally receiving some clarity. Moving from the place where she stood washing dishes, to a completely different vantage point on the back porch. Letha was at a loss for words. Her eyes made this sight none the easier for her to believe. She quickly concluded that the creased smiley face painted on the south side of a person, now hanging over her wooden fence, could only be the work of her two impetus criminals. Surely, they were the only polecats in the entire county who had the sheer brass to make something like this happen. Nonetheless, Eric and Eugene weren't exactly the stealthiest phantoms in the secret practical-joke society. Letha reached into the inside back door, fetching her buggy whip. After all, both sunny sides up boys would much rather get punished in a good-hearted manner by Letha's hand, rather than have their parents complete that task.

Making her way across the backyard, only to view in shock that the dancing smiley face appeared to be growing a small brown nose. Hearing Eric's pleas grow louder with each of Eugene's taunting. The nose on the smiley face grew, increasing in proportionate size to the quickening of Eric's screams. Then, momentary silence fell among all witnesses. As the bulbous brown nose was dislodged, making a "slag-plopped" sound hitting the ground. Suddenly, the smiley face seemed...well... more relaxed.

Letha's vision was a washed in red! She could not help but laugh with anger as she bolted towards her two perpetrators. With buggy whip firmly in hand, Ms. Letha and horses were synonymous terms. She reared, grew up with and trained horses. Currently the owner of several equines. Therefore, it could never be underestimated her skilled prowess in using the dreaded buggy whip -- a most excellent tool for punishing the two hooligans. Who deposited a brown biscuit in her yard? Of course, the double "E" team was fully aware of this terrifying weapon, howbeit, being applied upon their anguished gluteus in past encounters. Letha rounded the back corner of the fence. Both Eric and Eugene possessed faces that held the cold, white-knuckled stare of dejected men: a sick pressing-fear as if standing in the very judgment of God. There was nothing worse than facing mama bear Letha when enraged.

Eugene immediately stumbled backward, inadvertently pushing Eric, who was still tied to the ladder, falling to the ground. Eugene commenced to running while jumping over the mangled mess called Eric. Who had the presence of mind to pick up a sizable rock and chuck it at the back of Eugene's helmet, laying him out flat as a twitching pancake in the dirt! Letha could not control herself, wailing with laughter, as she scrutinized upon the fearful and exasperated Eric and Eugene. Never witnessing a bigger stack of contorted tangled wreckage in her life. The mangled massacre appeared identical to a football player's failed attempt to elope with Ms. Smiley face. Instead, both fell off the Humpty Dumpty wall.

Letha had assessed the situation concerning the trampled twin's smiley brown nose disaster and decided both had suffered enough. Make no mistake, Letha was not about to clean up the mess the two accomplices made! A large amount of pride was lost in a venture design to make her laugh -- thereby deferring punishment. Letha instructed the boys to go inside, get a shower, and then come back and bury their fallen "brown" soldier. Picking up her ladder and catching out of the corner of her eye, MarDale was making his way towards her.

"Well, hey Tadpole!" Letha beamed. MarDale simply loved Letha's reassuring hugs. Hugs that felt like warm loyal acceptance. Returning to his welcoming homecoming, MarDale questioned in amazement: "Hey, Miss Letha. What is going on here? And is that...?" She interjected quickly, "Stack of poop. MarDale, won't you come inside? I'll make some eggs and bacon for you and the boys. Afterward, I'll tell you the whole sorted story". MarDale questioned, "Boys, Miss Letha? Who else is here?" MarDale was expressing confusion. Letha shot back sarcastically at MarDale. "Now, ain't that a dim-witted question? MarDale, for Pete sakes! Who else would play a practical joke, then mess it up so bad that super glue couldn't fix it?" Both chimed in unison: "Eric and Eugene!" He slipped his arm around Letha's. Both grinned while walking towards the house. MarDale couldn't help thinking. "She surely must have been a beautiful woman when she was young. Shoot, for that matter, she was still a lovely mature lady".

Continuing his conversation. "Miss Letha, I can't wait. You make the best eggs and bacon!" MarDale complemented her as looked into his best and beloved friend's eyes. Letha warmly warned the lad, "You better say that old boy! Or it will be the last eggs and bacon you ever get from me". Stating while side-kicking her buddy on his bottom. "I tell you what, old lady. I'll race you to the back porch or are you too timeworn and slow"? Letha mocked outrage: "Old and slow!? Okay, you got a deal". Letha asked coolly, "Before we race, MarDale, will you go get that yard rake off the back fence for me?" No sooner than he turned, walking to the fence, taking his final steps, he could hear Ms. Letha beginning to run as she shouted, "Sucker!" He spun around laughing, knowing full well that he would never bridge the gap before Letha would arrive at the back porch. Nevertheless, all challenges must be met with the utmost effort for the hope of victory -- or at the very least, sportsmanship.

By the time MarDale made it to her back doorway, she had locked the outside storm door, grinning like a possum eating briers, while peeking out of the interior entry. He could not gauge which was funnier: Ms. Letha smiling dementedly or the fact he got tricked so easily by her. "Old and slow, I may be..., but I have something you don't. Brains!" Giddily, Letha slammed shut the inner door. Knocking desperately: "Come on Miss Letha, let me in." From inside, he could hear her say in a fake old feeble voice: "What's that you say sunny? You want to swim?" MarDale shouted with humorous frustration. "Come on, Letha, let me in!" The inside door swung open. There she stood, with the finest crispy piece of bacon, anyone has ever seen. "SOOO, you say you're hungry, partner?" Grinning wickedly, tilting her head back lowering the beautifully fried delicacy maddeningly slow, chewing with a delighted expression. "OH, COME ON!" MarDale looked like an emaciated puppy begging for a used soup bone. Slam went the inner door again.

Gradually, the inside door open and Ms. Letha said, "You know MarDale; you promised you would go to church with me. As of yet, you have not kept your word. I was thinking three sunny-side-up eggs with bacon and four pieces of toast with cold fresh milk would get you into a spiritual mood?" MarDale justifiably inquired. "That's blackmail, isn't that a sin?" Letha started to close the door as she said, "Last chance". Vehemently protesting inwardly. Yet, yielding under his fleshly desires for eggs and bacon, somehow, he suddenly knew how Adam felt when being offered the forbidden fruit from Eve. "O-Kay, O-Kay Miss Letha, I'll go to church with you this Sunday!" Letha opened the inner door just enough for only one of her eyes to be seen.

"Are you sure?" I would hate to think I forced you, placing you in a position of bacon blackmail". Popping his cork! MarDale said: "LETHA! Let me in, I am starving!" She asked with spurious confusion, "Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?" Asking Mardale nonchalantly. "Eric and Eugene will be joining us Sunday, by the way". Secretly impressed, although maintaining his sarcasm, he probed: "How did you get those two to join us in church? Did you hold a cow udder to their heads, threating to squeeze the tit trigger? Sling a fried chicken leg in wide circles around their bodies? Or dancing on top of bacon?" Letha said slyly, "No, wisecracker. I merely mention how unfortunate it would be for them if their parents discovered the bottom-beans they deposited in my backyard". Truly, Letha was wise as a serpent and gentle as a lamb. Indeed!

That evening, until around eleven o'clock, the merry band consisting of a middle-aged woman and three preteen boys laughed, acted silly, played games, and gobbled tasty food. Enjoying each other more than everything previously mentioned. There shall never be an evil storm -- created by slue-foot and humankind, or, sadly, both, that can conquer a harbor containing true love! As the festivities concluded, the young teens found their way home and to bed. Letha bent her knees and prayed for her little men.

# Chapter Five  
 ** _"Azazel The Evil Scapegoat"_**

"Death To Mother".

-- Azazel.

The wise contend evil can ultimately achieve three things effectively: steal, lie, and destroy. This revolting triad is the very pillars of Satan's heart. Considerable numbers of people believe wickedness is the result of angry chaos. Nothing could be further from that validity. Evil, out of necessity, replaces truth with the thinnest of gapped falsehood, that it may appear alive and thriving in darkness. Before Slue-foot renders a single traitorous sprout in his degraded forest, godly truth must first be weeded out. Satan's anti-truism, "Always fabricate legitimacy out of iniquity". Paradoxically, Lucifer's blackened empire has no foundation to build upon, without the harsh comparison of Light. Darkness cannot withstand nor standalone absent of God's sovereignty.

On the other side of town, another young man was having a party of his own. It was the kind of feverish joy derived only by a select chosen few. He waited nearly five weeks for mother and father to leave the farm to gather supplies in town. During this time Azazel remain busy assuring his future preparations were methodically put in place. Each article, plan, and his future expectations were centered, plumbed, and then leveled to satisfaction. Relishing his perfected sinister labor-intensive strategies coming to total fruition. Azazel self-evaluation of his despicable soul found evil most gratifying when accomplished subtly. A patient reward laced with half-truth has the sweetest taste. When a sweet-aberrant indulgence bestowed itself on Azazel's forked tongue. A quick slithering maneuver of plans was in high order.

If one were to ask Azazel's parents, Ran and Ira, what damaging life form, of all malevolent creatures under the sun, most closely represented their offspring; the mosquito would be their first and only choice. In general, audiences feel more engaged picturing a bear, shark, snake, or lion as the ultimate Hollywood style of death by an animal. Certainly, very few believe their demise will come via an insect bite. However, when one considers the sheer numbers of humans killed by malaria, yellow fever, or the West Nile virus, mosquitoes win hands down above all other lethal organisms.

It is exceedingly preferred within the human psyche if becoming the hunted. Only the top animal predators must be terrible, large, vicious, uncontrollable beasts. Of course, these fearsome creatures shall ever-more be typecast in such pigeon-holes. Thereby serving to appease misguided notions of over-inflated ego(s) of the unwitting sought-after "hero" sandwich. (Y'all didn't see that coming, did ya?) Otherwise, the discovery of these tremendously cunning beings "Achilles" heel would be well... anti-climactic.

How utterly B-Movie embarrassing for a Hollywood star to vanquish a tiny insect, hell bent on obliterating our movie's leading man. Who by the way, in the nick of time, vanquishes the winged foe with a cheap fly swatter? It's just too doggone difficult to feel macho squishing a tiny bloodsucker with dramatic background music.

Hence, it continues from times past. Through the conduit of the human heart, we usher in ignorance, tradition, false security, or pride in identifying and destroying guileful evil. Often, we, as a human race, lack consideration pertaining to wicked foundations. It's the smallest twist of a tiny truth that goes unnoticed, developing into the ravenous disease devastating our soul. We fail to perceive evil as a minority being, transmitted by a small, yet powerful voice -- opposing God and all that is good. Often the intended victim is bitten unawares. Evil takes without asking and leaves only devastation.

Azazel was the quintessential mosquito of Satan. Ran gazed into the soulless, expressionless eyes of his beleaguered child. He recalled all the years of therapy, medication, numerous psychiatrists, group-settings, and discipline (including spankings). It seems all were tossed to the wind, rendered useless as chaff. His parents were forced to home school their son, placed within a public setting, was merely impossible -- even worse, left to his own merits. Years of frustration gave way to methodical and deliberate catch safety nets. Striving to maintain the family's personal and public well-being, as the experience of trial and error devolved.

Ran and Ira finally concluded that a long chain attached to a leather enforced ankle cuff was the only method affording them surety concerning Azazel. Reluctantly this truly was the only conceivable way both could safely turn their backs on their child. If only for a second.

Tediously, out of necessity, Ran thoroughly inspected the chain's radius area and associated hardware. From link to link and the coupling devices. Sometimes each hour. Every sharp or harden item must be removed. Even un-thought of things that might cause all manner of mischief -- eliminated from the chain's radius.

Mundane or perceived harmless items such as paper clips, became yet another harsh lesson of terror for the couple. Never in a million years could these two highly educated parents of a disturbed child, considered an item so banal as a paper clip, capable of being fashioned into a deadly weapon. Again, Azazel proved them otherwise by wrapping clips around a stick, then sharpening them against a rock. Voila, a dreadful armament!

He made his point with no less than eleven stitches to the back of Ira's arm. After a long and anguished history of cruel, murderous attempts by the hands of their son, exclusively punishing his mother or an innocent bystander, one thing was clear to Ran: they had to institutionalize their only child. Ira simply refused. Quite frankly, her husband seethes over his wife's to rejection to commit their son to a long-term mental facility. Ira's ultimatum was the hotspot of contention in an otherwise perfect marriage.

Still, how many more times would the Japheth's have need to pack up and move. To another town, city, or hamlet? Simply put, would anyone who occupied environments with Azazel ever be safe? Being a danger solely to his outer boundaries was an undeniably severely underrated misnomer. Inclusive was home sweet home itself -- overrun with a maze of physical and mental booby-traps, proudly instigated by their son.

The last and final caretaker of Azazel was a teen girl named Angie. She as well attended the same church as the Japheth's. Angie agreed to babysit despite being warned of Azazel's history. Regardless of the cautioned heeds, Angie had compassion for Ran and Ira, understanding that they both desperately needed a break from parenting. Angie's kindness was swiftly rewarded with two broken fingers. Receiving the busted appendages after he asked her if she could give him a sweet from the cookie jar. Angie was unaware of what he placed inside the container: a giant rat trap adjusted for inflicting optimum damage. The pure, undiluted cruelty of Azazel's heart could be easily misgauged for his youthful face.

At first glance, this rat trap seemed to be beneath his dark intelligence. It lacked thought, challenge, or methodical execution. A simple rat trap. Where's the creativity in that? Simplicity at times yields the greatest malevolent fruit. Angie reached into the cookie jar. He looked up into her face, expressing a child's thrilled anticipation of receiving a gratifying reward. Straightway, a sharp snap! Involuntarily, Angie's arm muscles spasm lightning fast! Reflexing away a broken hand attached to a crushing spring-loaded snare. Her voiced filled with hurtful bewilderment. The wounded girl wailed looking down upon her culprit. "Why Azazel!? Why would you do this!!? He answered with a typical deadpan blank stare: "Tickle those ivories girl. Ya hear?" Thus, putting to an end a promising future with a full musical scholarship, ending all hopes of Angie becoming a concert pianist. Another trophy. Another victim.

It is said there is nothing one hundred percent pure, save God's holiness. Hence, in the anti-holiness of Azazel, there was one redeeming quality... a ray of light in otherwise total blackness: he just would not lie. He believed speaking a lie was an extreme weakness of lesser minds. If one could not execute pandemonium without lying, then the plan was faulty. His single virtue of speaking only truth could not be considered a pillar of utter pristine support for all to lean on -- for he was also a master of omitting the truth.

For example, if one were to ask Azazel: "Did you burn the car to a cinder with gasoline"? He would answer "No." However, if one were to ask him: "Did you start that car fire with kerosene?" Azazel would answer "Yes." Nothing more... no motive, no apologies, and absolutely no regrets. He had complete and total respect for truth as a worthy opponent. He loved triumphing over truth! -- the ultimate weapon of choice for defeating veracity and completing a "quote" mission... a type of thinking that challenged one into deep thought, with methodical execution to secure a victory, thereby vanquishing truth.

Ran was looking haggard and sounding exhausted as he spoke to his son. Directing with stern legalistic tones: "Now! Azazel pay attention! As you know, your mother and I agreed to allow you time alone, here at home, without restraints. With that said, we, place the following conditions upon you: You will not destroy any property inside or outside the house, including all items within and upon all legal boundaries of our property.

Further, you will neither harm or hurt anyone physically or mentally on our estate nor shall you set up any traps or pitfalls whatsoever! You're forbidden to instigate injury to any humans on these legal effects before, during, or after your mother and I return. Lastly, if a stranger should drop by or visit. YOU WILL NOT! Deceive or inflict any type of maltreatment whatsoever! On a said person, persons, or living creatures. And! for the next six months, you shall not! Openly or privately, come against your mother in any devastating, detrimental, adverse, or inimical manner whatsoever. Upon verbal agreement, you shall sign, and a copy of our contract will be rendered -- agreed?!"

Looking up and into his father's eyes -- with all the emotions of a porcelain doll, declaring, "Agreed father, but I should warn you." Tilting his head slightly, then in a matter fact discourse: "I will kill your wife one day." The slightest whiff of a thin smoke smile scuttled across his son's face, quickly vaporizing. Ran could hear his angered heart pounding in his ears. Squatting down eye-level with Azazel and asked, "Son, will you kill me as well one day?" Without batting an eye. "No father, I've respected you ever since the day you nearly choked me to death at the family reunion."

Ran hissed through clenched teeth, "Azazel, you caught your mother's dress on fire as she stood by the Bar-B-Q pit!" His son retorted: "As I recall, it took Grand-Pa, Uncle Robert, and Cousin Danny to pry your hands off my throat. Afterward, I asked you if I did a dreadful thing." Ran was entirely shocked. Azazel completely lacked any sense of human compassion or empathy, not to mention the unwarranted, yet freakish hatred of his mother. Ran was often amazingly puzzled. For Ira was, in fact, her son's single and only advocate. He asked himself, "Could this child view all warmth, human contact, and comfort as a weakness?" Ran exploded! "Is this what you're all about? Survival of the fittest. Or some twisted exercise in stroking your malicious soul?"

His son was nearly smiling by now. Azazel's facial expression threw Ran mentally off-balance even the more. "No, father, far from it. When you were choking me out at our family gathering, just before I went black, I looked in your eyes and at that very instant, I realized you were enjoying killing me. You see, my good man, I could never murder you. We are too much alike. I guess we are kindred spirits?" Azazel was still grinning his evil-filled wretched smirk. Ran pivoted on his heels and stormed out of the house to Ira, who was waiting in the car. She was sitting behind the steering wheel, thumbing through a wildlife magazine. Her husband abruptly plopped down into the passenger seat, violently slamming the car door.

Ira is a gorgeous woman and monetarily wealthy. How-be-it, she was not snobbish or lazy. Ran, by his own right, was prosperous and intelligent. An ordinary onlooker would never know the two were well-off. Both their parents made them earn and learn, as they grew up. Sharing the most precious of commodities: a blue-collar work ethic, grafted onto a generosity of a philanthropist. Because of the couple's noble character, they remain undistinguished as anything, but upper-middle class.

Ira did not even blink, yet she perceived that her husband was visibly shaken. Without casting her eyes in his direction, she purred smoothly, "Sugar, it states here in this wildlife magazine that scientists believed in error for quite some time. A wolf pack will never turn on one of its own. Not until recently, they discovered an exception to that rule. Want to know what it is?" Ran was slowly de-pressurizing. Her leisurely smooth Southern drawl always had a calming effect on him. Secretly, Ira was acutely aware of her vocal effect upon her spouse. He relaxed, turning himself facing his wife, as she read the following:

"A fantastic discovery was recently revealed in the study of timber wolves. The scientist was observing a specific pack and their interaction with one particular young pup. Apparently, from the onset, the youngster in question had an adverse and violent behavior, not only towards other puppies, but also towards adult wolves. All standard methods employed by the adults to correct or alienate the angry and socially abusive kid failed.

This uncontrollable and violent young wolf made the entire pack enormously frazzled. Its harmful behavior threatened the stable pack order, which assured survival. Observer's determined that the negative acting out by the psychotic youngster became a severe detriment. The wolves were being exposed to persistent, damaging stress levels to the point where all mating attempts had halted. The predators faced certain extinction. Suddenly, the scientist made an enormous blind-sided observation.

On a sunny day, the female wolves herded all the young and adolescent pack members into the den, except for the crazed pup. Afterward, the remainder of the pack surrounded the mentally sick child, who for its size, continued doing a remarkable job of inflicting damaging bites and drawing blood on a few associates standing in the circle. It became unmistakably clear to the wolf pack, including the scientist, that this afflicted pup was insanely deranged and filled with viciousness. Without warning, as if given an invisible signal, the pack tightened the circle around their young brother. Suddenly, the Alpha male lunged forward, instantly snapping the neck of the severely disturbed pup. Uni-sonically, the pack begun to mourn and howl, without eating for nearly three days. Abruptly, afterward, all resumed to normal.

Talking about upsetting the logical apple cart! The ramifications of the wolves killing one of their own through a whirlwind of monkey wrenches, beating upon the scientific infrastructure. One wrench, for example, was Darwin's theory of survival of the fittest. Since the Alpha male and Alpha female are the only wolves to breed in the pack, Darwin's theory would never lend itself to these upper echelon wolves giving birth to this mentally ill pup. To this day, the scientist remains dumbfounded".

Ira then turned to Ran, quickly raising her eyebrows up and down, grin broadly resembling; "Alice in Wonderland's Cheshire Cat". "Now, honey, does this give you any ideas?" It is that eerily quiet second, where all the air, is vacuumed out of the surrounding area into one's lungs... Just that single instant before the type of laughter that hurts as well as feels ecstatic begins. However, the death grip of glee will not relinquish its grasp. This rare type of delight was now unleashed mercilessly on its helpless victims.

Ran and Ira's faces, contorted in tormented heated expectation of successive waves of hilarity. Finally, after who knows how long, with all the bravery of "Super Man" sitting on a kryptonite whoopie cushion. Valiantly containing themselves, pulling out of the driveway. Slamming the car in park, having the urgent necessity to begin laughing all over again! Ran and Ira's joyous voices faded away, carrying their sweetest release to the winds of memory.

Azazel ran a quick summary inside his head: "Was there a glitch or weakness within the written security contract he agreed upon with his parents? If one persistently views a nobility long enough, it can be destroyed. There it was! My parents never said I could not leave our property. Nor was anything mentioned about taking needed items off-site. For that matter bringing anything back home".

For the Japheth family, fishing was the single and only recreational activity that they enjoyed together. Azazel tucked away in a remote country setting, where, for the mercies of the Lord, he could not harm a soul, save his parents, who took turns keeping fins poised and eyes forward on their little Piranha. The Japheth's relished the challenge of fly fishing. No surprise. Azazel simply admired the thrill of hooking a creature and dragging it to its death. Fishing became somewhat tarnished for their son, after reading most fish have a long-term memory of about three seconds. In conjunction, some scientists speculate if fish don't feel pain with any significance. Azazel's fish self-education left the sport somewhat dull to him. "Why kill without the thrill of causing pain? Or asserting dominance over a living being throughout an extended length of time?"

Today, Azazel had a completely different type of angling on his mind. "It looks like a good night to go 'Chicken Fishing'." He had been underhandedly gathering supplies, preparing for his "Chicken Fishing" expedition, sneaking and pilfering materials when his parents were unaware of his movements. During the family fishing outings, it was no big deal to cuff some tiny bait hooks, gather postal service twine off delivered packages, dig through the garbage for dinner scraps, or catch bugs in the yard for bait. A brief time later, separately attached each enticement to a single tiny hook on the end of a long string. Azazel would next prepare the dried baited fishhooks, placing each individual in a pre-determined location inside his tackle-box. After five weeks, he had acquired twenty hooks and lines, with more than enough scraps and dried bugs for bait.

Starting to pack his paraphernalia in his backpack. Scanning with darting eyes and taking inventory of his torturous equipment, giggling to himself for hiding these items in his parents' bedroom: the only area of the house they never searched. After all, as Mom and Dad performed their weekly contraband hunting tour -- seeking for his dangerous weapons, Azazel felt delighted in his stealth, knowing his stash would not be discovered inside their very room! Ruminating, "Now remember children, the best place to hide something is above eye level. After all, the only people that look up are those watching a jumper or Christian's while praying." When he was nearly finished packing, preparing to go, he noticed his parents Bible on Ran's nightstand.

Azazel's father, Ran, not only permitted, but encourage him to frequent the library and bookmobile. It was one of the few, if not the only place on Earth Azazel could move about freely. Naturally, Ran inspected, then searched Azazel's belongings and body before and after visits. Retrospectively, this future telling book was to become his forbidden fruit, and a stumbling block for his clandestine mentor, who he named: "Vicious Veil".

Behind every wicked idol of dark lust, stands a depraved tutor. Azazel's teacher was the most subtle and guileful creature in this garden named earth, cultivating in obscurity with the mean stealth of a Venus flytrap. Azazel was broken, reformed, adjusted, guided, corrected, and developed into a mirror image of his vile schoolmaster. Vicious Veil performed all this and so much more -- right under the very noses of community and close family. When the Japheth's relocated, Vicious Veil packed up, found an immediate location, and settled right in, always with Azazel nearby. These many years of gnarled grooming of wickedness fused into his essence. All hinged on a secret agenda privy only to her. No, not even Azazel himself was given access to that classified information. Without a doubt, these dangerous twins qualified, in every respect, as a dark force to be avoided at all costs.

Remembering one very prominent training exercise, became Azazel's most cherish "cross-over" point. Was delivered by the hand of "VV." A small package with literally a red ribbon on top. "Yes indeed, I remember, she was my first. I will always remember my first. VV and I used her as a way of acquiring more training and quality time together." Belinda fell victim to the dastardly twins' grand diabolical scheme of practice makes perfect. This petite head-librarian, Belinda Wiseman, shall we say, passed up homely three counties over. She was tiny. Socially awkward as kissing your grandmother while playing spin the bottle. With no marital prospects offered to her within the Riverside community, it was no great surprise when Belinda high-tailed it out of town, riding the matrimony train to "Blissville."

Her resignation letter was written to her supervisors. Belinda stated she had found a lovely man in a neighboring state. Sheriff Lou did the usual cursorily checks and determined that Belinda had no living relatives. Closing her bank account, her rented apartment was empty, and her car was gone. As an impossible coincidence goes, after Belinda's whirlwind marriage proposal, it just so happens that Azazel's partner, whom he dubbed: "Vicious Vail," was hired as the head librarian and county bookmobile supervisor. No-one astonished here.

Unbeknownst to the town of Clearmound and her people, Belinda did not elope permanently. Rather, she became an educational tool in Azazel's sadistic degradation exercises. If one were to go out of town to Stout's abandoned rock quarry, submerged some sixty feet in the frigid water, one would find a small car, inside which, tied, trussed, and perched on the front seat -- with just the minimal amount of rope. One would encounter a wisp of a female. With only her skinny right arm free, this tiny petite frame called Belinda was dressed sharply with a little broach on her thin lapel, sporting a smoke grey skirt, matching jacket, and a soft pink blouse -- inundated forever in her watery entombment.

To this day, bearing her testimony boldly, against all who refused to love her, she had painted upon her plain face a placid miniature smile, carrying a tremendous permanent victory. A triumph gave to her by a man baring nail-scarred hands. This itty-bitty librarian, while staring courageously into her tormenting captor's eyes, was pushed over the rock quarry edge, to her death. Shouting a dying proclamation: "You're forgiven, I am not afraid. I love you!" The entire world had written off this unattractive girl. With her pea-sized heart, this brave eagle ascended to the very heights of heaven. All of humanity was not worth such a compassionate soul as Belinda.

VV never revealed Belinda's eventual murder to Azazel. She instead offered Belinda as his first quote, "Living Chew Toy". Nothing more. He just was not at that type of mature training level. Excluding Vicious Veil's night's sweats, hideously horrific nightmares, and waking violently screaming. Killing the ewe lamb of God called Belinda, to VV was well worth it. Maybe? Let's not forget her facial twitch that increased in frequency with each passing month.

Azazel noted the physical and psychosocial changes within Vicious Vail. Taking mental notes: "A crack in VV's armor. Good, very good! I will take her down one day." When the tremors and twitching occurred in front of Azazel, VV would look in his eyes and say, "Darkness and pain endure until the invitation dies." He had serious doubts of VV's defense. "If it were simple invitation retraction, remedying ailments concerning "darkness and pain," why make the initial offer"?

Spending nearly seven time-consuming months at the library, day and night studying, cross-referencing, searching for data connected to the Bible. Azazel conceded, fully understanding why people entrusted the written word. Azazel's' swift, calculating, and emotionally vacant intellect marveled at the scriptures. The book was historically sharp, philosophically superior, and the archaeological evidence could not be refuted. Amazingly, some of the ancient books therein predict accurately, with uncanny precision notable future human events! One example was the extrapolation that America's national emblem would be the Eagle. This mighty Eagle separated from the Lion of England. (Revolutionary War) flying away to nest-build a brand-new nation. Caring with her the indisputable fact that English would come to be the primary global language. By the way, thousands of years prior the use of the English tongue, thereof.

The most recent historical illustration foretold of a two-headed leopard becoming a dominating world power named Germany. Revealing a mortal injury to one of its heads would heal the day the Berlin wall fell. (World War I and II) All this and so many more exacting events signified thousands of years prior to current and past nations' births!

Azazel thought of all the power in the world he desired. The ability to foresee the future -- spot on, he crave the most. The sheer ramifications were mind-boggling to his intellect. This book called Bible scorched him subconsciously. For the very first time in his life, he was purposely avoiding, nay, running from an absolute reality, rather than standing and fighting. This opposing writ could never be conquered by his robot-like intellect nor by anyone else for that matter. Azazel recognized that the scriptures rubbed against the very grain of his soul. This was the first time ever, in his young evil life, that he had been academically bested! Placing all of this information on the back burner of his mind for upcoming considerations.

Presently, Azazel was pleased, thinking aloud, "All would be perfect if Vicious Veil could go 'Chicken Fishing' with me. Oh well, double 'V' promised there would be a pleasant surprise waiting the next time." Ensuring all was now prepared, he was overrun with corrupt glee. "Time to go! But first, I must walk the dog." He made his way down the steps with his backpack and headed out the door.

Finding earlier a stray dog just outside the property line, aimlessly walking down the road, he thought to himself. "Again, my contract with my parents never stated I could not bring back on to the property items or animals." Managing to entice the feisty puppy into his grasp with cheese and baloney, the tag on the dog collar said: "If found, please return to Brian More." Displaying a serpent smile, he mused, "Ah, preacher man More lost his young beagle. I wonder what your name is boy. Is your name Rover? How about Charlie? I KNOW WHAT IT IS. IT'S SPOT! Get it? Like a spot on some clothing! Well, I guess it doesn't matter what I call you. You won't come when I call, will you?" Feeling his strangled compressed breath roughly rise from his lungs to the roof of his mouth. A heated ramping up of harsh rasping snickers turning into contorted cackles, while holding onto the end of a long leash.

Struggling behind him was a young beagle, exposed to the stifling heat of the day. Usually, keeping up with the one walking him would be no problem. However, the puppy had four disadvantages fighting against him, namely: four legs that were previously placed in ice water and amputated from the first joint down on each limb; all four stubs were cauterized with a blow torch. Exhausted and desperate, the youthful beagle was being dragged down a dirt country road. His new-found master grew more frustrated with each tug of the leash.

Finally, either because of or despite the pain, the young dog switched from flight to flight, biting down on the rope with all her strength. Growling like well... a wounded animal, the beagle dug her bloody nubs into the dirt, making her final stand. She just was not going to take another anguished step, period! Azazel spun around! Sizing up the problem and being pressed for time, he quickly removed his shoes and socks. Sprinting as fast as achievable towards the canine, jumping skyward into the air. With cemented memory snapshots of the pooch who desperately yearned for his pity, he landed squarely on top of her skull. Azazel began to rock back and forth, toe to heel. Feeling squishy warm blood and brains between his toes, mingled with crunchy puppy skull bits, thrilled him to no end.

Strangled gurgling sounds escaped the throat and snout of the dog. Blood oozed out of her every orifice. Her small body twitched, convulsing under the bottoms of Azazel's bloody bare feet. After one last courageous body kick, she went limp. At that very instant, a surge of the boundless energy of evil matter shot upwards into Azazel's frame. Exceedingly malignant fast-moving darkness spread, beginning from the very ground he stood, to the very hairs of his head. Co-joined, nay, infused firmly into the very fabric of his pure hatred, followed by a single uncompromising shard of light -- the opposing power if you will -- a small, determined radiance of destiny refined to a razor point embedded.

Light given by the messenger angel of God, or a seductive whisper of a demon, Azazel cared not.

# Chapter Six  
 ** _"A Rock Won't Move Itself"_**

"Governments, Businesses, Academia, Military, and family units -- all share the carrot and stick approach for success. It's a perplexing human fallacy believing God has excluded us. Is He not the originator of moral rewards and eternal punishments?"

-- Letha.

Blue soft hues ushered in the first infant rays of warm embracing light. Sunday morning glided upon relaxed hushed trails of cool summer night air, yielding to silky fog escaping from the river's indulgent slumber. Tranquil land beckoned a reprieve from her labor. Toddlers having faces washed in innocent sleep spooned between parents, covered by thick goose down quilts. Hummingbird wings brushed against four-pane windows brilliantly reflecting nature's splendor. Descending gently assured calmness flowed unimpeded upon the small river town of Clearmound. A blissful stillness offering a weary mind rest, a welcome refreshing of one's body and a renewing of the spirit. This healing oasis could never be discovered within the secular world desert. Sunday morning inside this small town must be experienced to be experienced.

On this restful dawning backdrop, MarDale, Eric, and Eugene could be found sitting together on the large white swing of Ms. Letha's wrap-around front porch. Inside Letha on this sanctified morning, an ongoing ritual was instituted and performed religiously by her gracious hands. Naturally, for the benefit of her pseudo-adopted boys' bodies and souls. Clearly, the young men were not physically abused. However, occasional neglect due to parental employment circumstances gave way to sporadic hunger. Needless to say, the puppies were too embarrassed to admit their families' shortcomings. Yet, none of them would be so foolish as to turn down a homemade meal.

Leitha lovingly prepared buckwheat sour dough, fermented overnight. By the following morning, the mixture was ready to be cooked to make the best sourdough buckwheat pancakes ever. Letha's sourdough buckwheat recipe continued a long history of being hands down the best in the county. Many a female contestant was dismissed in jealousy as Clearmound's fair judges awarded yet another trophy to Letha's culinary skills. Now add her sweetly seasoned sausage that caused taste buds to weep with joy and, nostrils to sing with joy. This royal morning festive meal was rounded off by fresh-squeezed orange juice, real milk -- straight from the cow, and customary fruits of grapes, bananas, and red delicious apples. A sensual dining experience rewarding all five senses with good things to come.

The chaps used this time socializing while waiting for Ms. Letha to prepare for church service. The brilliant cool morning gave Clearmound house dwellers opportunities to open windows, permitting fresh air to sway into their homes. Letha would get the biggest kick, eavesdropping on her three colts. The boys had not yet learned that a bright day outside makes for a dark house inside. The reverse is true when one stands inside looking outward. Letha's movements were indeed indistinguishable to the boys. Taking advantage of these optical physics, allowing her to remain an unnoticed curious observer. After all, young friends act and speak differently when they're together oppose to adults being present.

Relishing her unsuspected spying. It was insightful, funny, and sometimes, regrettable. Lately, their talks increasingly revolve more around the subject of girls. Speaking innocently enough, her young men crossed over the awkward river of "girls got cuties!" to the wide-open shore of "Hey! She's pretty." Letha admitted to herself, without fail, listening to the young men in their natural environment became a tremendous learning experience, especially considering she would never be a twelve-year-old boy. Waxing poetic, the naïve' lads plunged headlong into an ocean full of ignorant life experiences: topics relating to the grand and mysterious schemes of sports, school, and yes again, young ladies. Without warning there was a noticeable shift in their conversation. A deliberate transferal in their voices of pitch and delivery, piqued Letha's curiosity.

MarDale inquisitively touted with a skewed English accent. "I say, my good man, Sir Eric of "Hairy Back". If Siamese twins rob a bank, will both get arrested or just the one holding the money bag?" Sir "Hairy Back" reposed, "Sir MarDale of "Mud Butt", my good man, a smashing question indeed. I have another inquiry regarding your previous topic. If Siamese twins have a set of twin children, which of the two fathers will be called dad? I now yield the floor back to Sir Eugene of "Booger Eater". Bowing with virtuous honor to his colleagues, Sir Booger eater exclaim. "Bully, bully I must say, excellent and intriguing investigative examinations from my collaborators! However, I have a rather sticky wicket. If we dug a hole to China, walked back home, then dropped a baseball down the hole, shouldn't it keep going up into the Asian sky? After all, it fell from our sky down the chasm. Wouldn't the ball just keep going up?"

Their commanding voices held a wisdom tone of the ancient sages. On the other hand, not to give a rotten egg back to the golden goose. The regal knights of the "Letha Kingdom" were utterly peppered with a great lack of life inexperience and innocent obliviousness. As humorous as the childish philosophical discourse sounded, Letha admired their beautiful young minds opening to the hopeful possibilities of the world around them.

Letha stood in the living room, facing a full-length mirror in her slip. Meticulously, combing her gorgeous long copper hair, listening, and scrutinizing in stealth, adjusting her view. Her three adopted amigos were a sad-sighted mess. Looking as if rejected from the Salvation Army bargain bin, their Sunday go to meeting suits were hand me downs thrice removed. Depending on what near kin recently died, some had mismatched buttons. Forget about color-coordinated -- that was not happening. Their hair! At home haircuts, with odd angles and their off-kilter lengths hidden under too much hairspray or conditioner. Shoes stood on the threadbare reality. This day may just be the death of my soul.

Letha secretly took these matters into her own hands by initiating a fundraiser at church. Garnering all the clothing, food supplies, and money needed to help all three families. One must always take into consideration living in Clearmound meant that pride ran deep as the town's river. Therefore, the Sherriff department was enlisted to make clothing, food, and money drops -- late at night on the back porch of those receiving charity.

The antsy trio were beginning to have serious doubts whether girls could ever be firefighters. It always took them forever to get ready to go anywhere, let alone, time enough to get on the fire truck before it pulled out! It was then Letha stepped out onto the front porch. It was as if Eugene, MarDale, and Eric were still frame frozen in time, so much so that MarDale was in mid-bite of an apple. Stone still as a statue, the young gentlemen were spellbound. For the first time in their lives, they gazed on Letha as grown men.

Admiring a beautiful, classy, and poised woman of charm and character. She wore a colt-bolt blue skirt cut just below the knee. Accented all around the bottom edge with a delicate white lace pattern of doves in flight. Letha's shoes were two-tone colt-bolt blue and white with open toes. Displaying solid white pantyhose covered with small raised patters of tiny sheep. Her long-sleeved bright-white silk blouse with altering colt-bolt blue and white buttons, with accompanying colt-bolt blue waist-length long-sleeve jacket, intentionally designed to remain open in the front. Embroidered golden thread of custom-designed sewing eloquence replaced the beautiful jacket's buttons and buttonholes.

Around her neck, Letha wore an exquisite embordered choker, with in-laid lambs and crosses. Sitting perfectly centered was a small, delicate golden crown. Her head was adorned with a wide-brim hat, colt-bolt blue, with a white silk band on the exterior. The brim was dipped down over her left eye, mysteriously. Her hands displayed a matching pair of gloves and a small purse that was overlaid with white and colt-bolt blue beadwork. Letha's gorgeous auburn hair spilled over her shoulders down to the small of her back. Shockingly, Letha's haunting eyes seemed to blaze the most brilliant emerald green. Her attire only intensified what was a near perfectly proportionate, female body framework. The gentle shifting breeze served only to accentuate her fantastic feminine design. This must have been what the good Lord had in mind when he created Eve. The stunned boys remain trapped in concrete silent admiration. Their zombie-like stares only intensified as Letha's very own homemade perfume sweetly invaded flared nostrils.

Being very intelligent and inquisitive. After a few trials and errors, Letha began making her own perfume. Its scent endured longer and cost much less. Choosing one of her favorite homespun perfumes for this outing: jasmine with a hint of magnolia. Letha inwardly smiled to herself, realizing she would need to tone it down on future outings, especially considering her adopted boys were now becoming young men. Honestly, she only wanted to look her best and feel pretty. Simultaneously, the mesmerized bandits sprung to their feet, rapidly joining three speeding skulls to a destiny with the pain doctor. Falling back, moaning, and laughing as Letha joined the ruckus, "Now gentlemen, let's not lose our heads." The crunched cluster replied, "Very funny, lose our heads." Naturally, the sequence of events afforded itself to more laughter.

Regrouping, Letha signaled for silence and attention. "Come now, who will be the fine young gentleman escorting their Queen arm in arm to the house of God? For, a real man of honor walks closest to the street, locked in arm with a chosen woman of the noble bloodline." She was dying to laugh, strenuously maintaining her false dignified upper crust stature. This started the monkeys in the cage to lash out, trip, and push -- vying for the arm of their queen. Letha spoke in a cartoonish commanding royal-like voice, gazing onto her medieval champion escorts while rotating her hand, waving in mock nobility.

"Gentlemen! My subjects shall compete! Thereby, determining what order is worthy of escorting your beloved Queen Letha. We shall use the time-honored and time-tested stately method of 'Stone, Parchment, and Shears', dictating the order by which the Queen's noblemen shall stroll beside her. Let the royal R.P.S. games begin!" The feverish flurry of fingers and hands soon qualified thy queen's competitors their rightful place. Letha fashioned her voice into an imperial state once again, announcing the sequential chosen.

"Departing from inside the royal abode, I overheard privily my noble knights christen each other honorable names for each other. This action was thoroughly appalling! It is and will ever be the queen's duty and prerogative christening her royal knights according to the queen's authority. To be honest, the chosen intitles were rather, shall I say, tacky. Therefore, I shall render my beloved knight's names worthy of their character. "I dub thee Sir MarDale of the 'Wrong Side of the Tracks!' You shall be my victor and first escort! followed by Sir Eric of 'Monkey Spit!' He shall be my second in command. Lastly, but indeed a hero in the Queen's heart, Sir Eugene 'The Lent Snatcher!' To one and all, henceforth, my three nobles will escort the queen's arm thus. Let it be written... let it be done!" Letha echoed the last word "done," as if proclaiming it throughout her Kingdom. The queen curtsied before her noblemen. Similarly, the noblemen bowed in admiration -- first to the queen, then to each other. MarDale extended his bent arm, allowing Letha to rest hers while sauntering nearest to the street like a proper aristocrat. Relishing the fact, he strolled with the most beautiful woman in Clearmound, with Eric and Eugene trailing enviously behind.

Commencing again their conversation as the newly dubbed Sir Eric of "Monkey Spit," and Sir Eugene "The Lent Snatcher," Eugene spoke in his sham of his British accent: "I say, Sir 'Monkey Spit,' that was a smashing game of "Stone, Parchment, and Shears." (Everyone giggled) You got into a slightly sticky wicket, challenging Sir MarDale of the 'Wrong Side of the Tracks'. Sporting his own amateur British accent that was even worse than Eugene's: Eric replied smugly, "Indeed, my good man. 'Sir Wrong Side of the Tracks' simply bested me. Nimble fingers and all that. However, Sir 'Lent Snatcher', my greasy basket of fish and chips, if you were not such a gobemouche. (Gobemouche: A nosy, prying person who likes to interfere in another person's business.) You would have noticed you came in dead last". Eugene, in sarcastic anger, bounce briskly up to Eric, pretending to remove an invisible glove, striking 'Sir Monkey Spit' on the face with imaginary blows. Eric, of course, moved his face in the opposite direction of the glove's motion. "'Sir Monkey Spit', I challenge you to a duel!"

Oblivious to the two opponents, MarDale and Letha had long since stopped, turning to be entertained by these rejects of proper English stock. "I say, Sir 'Lent Snatcher', I accept your challenge! Prepare to run from this location to yonder Essex county". Like a blue-blooded sissy girl, Sir "Lent Snatcher" proceeded to windmill his arms and prance around the accommodating highly humored group in circles. Catching their breath, the four friends begun walking again, enjoying the inviting hushed breeze.

Beams of warm sunlight filtered through active hardwood leaves, vigorously reflecting multitude shades of green. Stately trees lined both sides of the street. A solemn church bell rang muffled by distance, gently alerting saint's assembly time drew near. The group's nostrils feasted on the seductive scents of Gardenia, Stargazer lilies, Borgia, and Jasmine flowers. A welcomed sacrifice of scent fell upon serene temperaments. Summer Tanagers, Song Sparrows, and American Robins composed background concerts of unimaginable sounds of beauty.

Sounds of Letha's skirt swishing, shoe heels clicking in perfected timing, co-joining the young men's sure gait. Meandering stunning scenery being offered with each stride of the foot developing a dream quality of grateful hearts. Gradually a small unnoticed rhythm of contentment, joy, and secured wellbeing began imperceptibly enveloping them, harmoniously unifying hearts, and souls. MarDale intuitively perceived the bonding connection between them as well, speaking not with words, rather with thoughts, agreeing as being received by a unison of living within a present experience, meshing together their shared emotions. MarDale thought serenely to himself, "Is God real or is this life all that there is?" Without a word or tiny facial clue, Letha, Eugene, and Eric suddenly stopped dead in their tracks.

MarDale stumbled, pivoted, and turned, staring in each of their faces. He was deeply astounded within his soul. Standing as a dweller on this planet, he would never forget the near out-of-body sensation he felt at that very moment all three friends replied in unison: "Yes, MarDale, God is real!" It seems as if a huge vacuum sucked all the earthly reality into space. The silence seemed to bind and contort all their eternal pseudo-paradise into this one microcosm of time. Make no mistake about this, the Proclaimers and the Receiver perceived with absolute clarity this was divine intervention -- as all froze in Godly fear. MarDale began to physically shake, shifting from side to side on his feet. "What was that? I-I don't understand? How could you all read my mind? More than that how could you all hear my question inside your heads at the same moment? Letha?"

Motionless they stood, MarDale was not the only one feeling the repercussions. Eric and Eugene, both, for the first time in their lives, had undeniably nothing to say. Letha was dumbfounded while attempting to muster up enough courage to calm herself and her young men.

Letha, like so many with life experience, exercised wisdom when the world got sideways. She did the only thing she knew how to do. "Come on boys, make a circle, quick, and hold hands". Reacting like soldiers commanded by a drill sergeant, they made a circle, clasping hands as a group.

Letha spoke with noticeable fear in her voice, "Now, bow your heads. Lord, God, we stand in reverent fear of you, knowing full well you have the power to make and the power to destroy. We seek your wisdom and yearn for answers only you can give. We thanked you for the miracle revealed by your hand and delivered to our hearts. Look upon us, for we meant no malice or intentionally tempted you. Lord, God, forgive us of our sins and lead us to your throne in heaven. Everyone say Amen." "Amen!" As her last word escaped Letha's lips, peace, calmness, and reassurance swept back into the hearts of the troubled tribe.

MarDale questioned her in a near whisper: "Letha, was I wrong in asking if God was real? I mean, what just happened was unbelievable." The young men looked like wide-eyed frightened rabbits. Searching their mentor's countenance for answers, MarDale scanned as if to ensure nobody else was listening. "I still have reservations, but now, I am afraid to ask." Looking upon his colleagues, he determined he did not abide alone in that accord. Letha regarded MarDale, Eric, and Eugene, plainly, all three were shaken up, dazed, and rattled. With the voice of a soothing mother: "I tell you what gentlemen, let's go across the street and sit on the front porch of that empty house. I believe we all could use a break. I'll even make you a deal. I will answer any and all questions you may have, no matter how difficult it may be for you to ask." The shaking their heads in unison the three friends confirmed positively. Letha prayed for the wisdom of Solomon all the way to the empty house, silently asking God for answers that would give insight to her anxious youngsters.

Still, a little wobbly, MarDale looked towards Letha like a man in dire need of a life preserver. He initiated: "Miss Letha, I hear in church that the one true God created heaven and earth. Conversely, I am taught differently in school -- that evolution systematically evolved all things -- starting with the big bang theory. So, which of the two is true?"

Letha began, "First off, no matter what, never permit a single person, ever! To discover the truth for you. If that trusted individual turns out to be lazy, accepting a lie disguised as the truth becomes easy. That type of reward will ultimately bring sorrow. Many a soul in hell were once proud scoffers. Not so concerning a wise being desiring abundant life. They on the other hand, will and must search diligently to obtain the precious treasure of validity. Second, never be fooled into supposing that there is only one side to any story. It matters not if it's quantum physics or kite flying. Search out for yourself all positive and opposing viewpoints. Lastly, never allow yourself to believe in a person, group, or institution claiming to have all the answers. Yesterday's mysteries are today's commonplace. Carefully examine the history of the pros and cons of any particular state of mankind.

However, the single most important maxim to preserve in one's heart. Truth remains the same for all of eternity. It simply never changes. The sands of time may shift, kingdoms rise and fall, false religions crumble, fame and fortunes evaporate into thin air -- as one generation dies out, making room for the next. Yet, the truth prevails undeterred. In the end, all a man or a woman can take with them when they die is the truth. There will be times when facts plop down in your lap. This is seldom the case. Most instances one must often seek, work, weep, and sweat with all might possible to merit legitimacy. BUT never, ever settle for anything less than the truth for your life. God said He is the only truth. Everything else is shifting sand".

MarDale raised his hand. Eric and Eugene looked onward as Eugene spoke: "MarDale, ya bunghole, we ain't in school. Put your hand down! You're a stinking butt!" In an instant, Letha was a quarter inch from Eugene's nose. Her eyes were aflame with green fire. Her facial expression could stop a herd of stampeding angry bulls... cold. A soft imposing feminine voice of doom created an extreme calloused front filled with immense displeasure, spoke. "Young man, this is the Lord's day and MarDale's your beloved friend. You will respect both of those. OR, I will fry your hide and flatten you like an old tire. DO you understand?" Eugene was petrified, using only the least number of neck muscles needed to nod in complete agreement. Eric was dying with laughter inside. However, like a seasoned Las Vegas poker player, his face turned to stone. When it came to disrespect and harmful actions, Letha was the only school without recess; NOBODY played.

The tangled trio regrouped. MarDale's question was spoken determinately, mingled with apprehension: "The big bang theory versus God's creative power. Letha, if you would let me run through some information, then we can all decide which of the two possibilities holds firm. After all, as you said, the truth is paramount. To claim complete accuracy, absolutely all information must be gathered on any specific subject. The big bang theory states that every bit of the galactic dust, meteorites, radio waves and other unnamable materials from the endless universe were gathered in one central location somewhere in space. Then, vastly unmeasurable gravitational forces bore down on this collected sphere until incredible pressure and heat caused a celestial explosion, the likes of which will probably never happen again. This enormously huge big bang scattered in all directions the gathered inanimate materials, eventually organizing, and setting into motion the cosmos that we know today. Is that about, right?" MarDale received positive non-verbal affirmation from the double "E" team, completing his slant on life's evolutionary origins.

"Now gentlemen, I am fully aware schools nowadays never permit a student to question subjects being taught, which is most shameful. Doing so validates the educational agenda of falsehoods for lies seek to remain hidden in boorish darkness. Remember your freedoms given in America, our country. Freedom of speech permits everyone to question all things as much as they desire.

Therefore, my beautiful lads. Have you ever asked the following enquiries concerning the big bang? Where exactly did all the cosmic dust, dead stars, and celestial materials first originated? Think about this next question. Think hard. Who or what made the building blocks that shaped the countless stars and planets? Proceeding that large expansive sphere called the 'Big Bang', did the meteorites, stardust, rocks, and space materials create themselves?

What about gravity itself? Where or how did this mysterious force come to be? Further, a variety of planetary and cosmic objects are dependent solely upon gravity, as invisible energy, to focus force deferentially, upon immensely vast number(s) of areas in outer space. Just exactly how can gravity shift its own energy between the light touch upon a child's cheek while placing enough force downward on a sledgehammer across town simultaneously? If the Big Bang were true, then gravitational physics would be compelled to change its very character to gather all the materials of the universe to one specific location. After the explosion, gravity must then revert back to a wholly different state continuing until now, maintaining its structure and purpose. Retaining countless numbers of objects, separated, or locked into very specific and sure locals.

Now consider this: if the Big Bang evolved what we recognize as our universe and life, should not scientists be observing other Big Bang life making events, such as when a dwarf star explodes? Finally, give me a single example of an explosion bringing forth life, structure, or a consistent pattern of any kind? An explosion, by its very nature, destroys and causes chaos. Please explain the Big Bang to me again. A judicious ex-atheist philosopher once said: 'A rock cannot give birth to itself, and certainly will not move on its own".

Letha held the young men stunned captivation with her opposing views. Her insights were clear as a fish meandering down a cool stream, flawlessly without opposing friction to contradict. The three musketeers uttered an elongated "WOW!" in admiration of Letha. She opened to them a whole new reality, strengthening their belief that God indeed created heaven and earth. Cautioning, raising a finger of warning, "Gentlemen, again I say, explore before accepting! If you settle for what you are told, you will fall for anything."

The lads raised eager hands, bubbling with even more urgent questions rushing through their enthusiastic minds. Smiling earnestly faces filled with innocent honest desire. Letha's giggles were cute, charming, and infectious, a fact not lost on the boys. Holding up her hands for attention. "Now, now! Eric, MarDale, and Eugene, we simply must start moving again. We are running late as it is. But I will ask you all. What say we talk at my house this evening after my Sunday nap? Let the dust settle, so to speak. Right now, we need to make our way to church." The group stood to go.

Letha stepped between Eric and Eugene. Retorting to her fake English accent, she proclaimed. "I say the lion's share of her majesty's caviler arm-escort service fell last upon MarDale esquire. I, 'Queen Letha', of Clearmound proper, proclaim among my strong boys... nay, my strong men. That on this day of the Lord shall be seen to the burning green jealousy of the local maidens. The queen being escorted by two handsome princes -- Sir Eric of 'Monkey Spit' shall have command of my right arm and Sir Eugene of 'Lent Snatcher' shall have command of my left. The Queen shan't forget Sir MarDale of the 'Wrong Side of the Tracks'. He shall be the bearer of the queen's personal effects. God speed on this trek of exploration. Thus, the Queen has spoken. Let it be written... let it be done."

The final church bell rang. All four were three city blocks away from their destination. Letha continued in her regal English accent, "I say, my fine stallions, let's not dilly dally. Behold manly knight's gallop ahead. One must always be punctual for service. The queen will join you in the sanctuary, following your Sunday School instructional period." The three steeds smiled, bowing to their queen.

Without notice, the boys with man-sized hearts turned to embrace Letha, portraying expressions of admiration, trust, and thankfulness in their eyes. Speaking as one, "We love you, Queen Letha!" Just as quickly, they turned and bolted towards the church. Standing stone still. Letha could inhale, but could not exhale... until, ironically, three large tears rolled down her alabaster cheeks. Escaping, at last, the breath of gratitude, firmly believing all good comes from God, her chin quivered while praying out loud: "Thank you, Lord Jesus." She would carry that intense moment to her resting place. Adjusting her hat, straightened her skirt, put on her gloves, squaring her shoulders.

Letha casually made her way alone to Sunday service, passing a water puddle heated by the sun; the vapors were reminders of the brevity of life.

# Chapter Seven  
 ** _"Straight Razor"_**

"God is a Spirit of absolutes. Heaven or Hell, Angel or Demon, Saved or Lost, Love or Disobedience. He emphatically won't tolerate the slightest grey area. One paradoxid crowning jewel of His creative work. An eternal creature made of light and music. In fact, musical instruments were built into his very being.

Pathetically, mankind united in concert with Satan's grey-area melody. Both remain locked into a fatal eternal melodic death grip to this very moment. Fascinatingly enough, the death of a Jewish Carpenter, being God in the flesh, redeeming lost humanity, is the only escape from hell's orchestra".

-- Deputy Zackary Roberts.

Making her way to a pre-designated location to meet Azazel. VV's thoughts tangled with the curves of the dirt country road's underbrush. Flashing back to an earlier point of contention in her mind. "Those quack psychiatrists hired by my sister Letha, deemed me suffering from "Narcissistic personality syndrome and antisocial personality disorder". Doing their level best to undermine my way of life. Painting a picture falsely of me having mental illness. Allegedly, I emerge as a person on a quest for power and control. The type, who exploits the love and admiration of others as a tool to lord-over them by coercion and manipulation. Achieving all of this by my own self-reasoning, I have the right and justification of any actions on my part. Any damage or harm of any type to others, will be met with no guilt, no apologies, and no regrets from me".

I'll never forget the shrink asking: "Do you hear voices?" I started to get perturbed. Stop testing my patience, everyone knows, voices hear me!" The doctor next inquired about my private life. "Do you mean like married people getting together?" The shrink confirmed with his eyes. I told him. "I had no need to marry, since my father is my boyfriend who's already wed to my mother! The doctor looked puzzled, "Ira do you think that's a healthy family?' I borrowed a legal pad and pen. "Doc just let me right down my answer, it will be easier that way".

The next time I awoke. The floor orderlies informed me; I had buried the therapist's ink pen deep down into his thigh. To the very femur bone. I don't remember. To me, it lacks a certain reality. I do agree with one fact only, pertaining to my diagnosis. Narcissistic & AP disorder cannot be treated with most, if not at all with psychotherapy methods. The patient seeks only to manipulate the psychotherapist, in the same way a pawn is played on a chess board. I agree with that single summation. I am very successful in that regard. Goodie for the egg heads! They got that one right..." Ira's car made a dust cloud from behind, shrinking into a pinpoint on the roads horizon.

Sheriff Lou Brecker motioned Deputy Roberts to his office. Zackary hung up his phone heeding Lou's invitation, on his desk was a plaque that read: "What you condone you own." Leaning against the door frame just inside Brecker's office. Lou informed Deputy Roberts. "Zack, I need you to check on a vandalism call." Shifting his body language, folding his arms. "Before I head out boss-man. Would it be alright if I grab my lunch first?" The Sheriff sighed, "Sorry Zackary, not this time." Lou understood, more than most, the long twelve to fourteen-hour days and dangers his deputies and department faced -- often without a decent break.

The good constable held Deputy Roberts in high esteem. He was young, intelligent, and level-headed. Even the youthful man's social life consisted of giving to charity as well as looking out for the young and elderly of his community. Returning from deployment in the Middle East, hiring Zackary was a no brainer. Both became quick and good friends. They were emphatically brothers at heart.

The Rogers were the worse ninjas. Sheriff Lou could not count the number of times he caught Zackary placing inside a locker of a newly hired deputy struggling to make ends meet; money or an encouraging note in their coat pocket. Zackary and Staci Rogers were the first to help a friend move or babysit. He was respected and dearly loved. Stacie crafted handmade Christmas cards and triple chocolate cakes for the entire police station. It didn't take long before everyone looked forward to Christmas with the couple. Not a single person on the first responder force was forgotten when it was their turn to dine. The occasion felt like winning the lottery. May the good Lord help you if leaving the dinner table before Stacie could serve coffee and homemade pie.

"Dispatch just informed us. The vandalism at the old Lander's farm is far more extensive than was first reported. Thank the Lord, the Landers were out of town for a few days. Otherwise, the crime scene would have been much worse. There seems to be a substantial number of dead and dying farm animals. We do not know at this time; the extent of the property damages or much else beyond what I have already told you. Zackary...the 911 caller would not identify."

Deputy Roberts voice retained slight apprehension: "That's unusual in this part of the world, most if not all 911 calls give their names and their own physical location, to dispatch. Lou, I can't pinpoint exactly why this call just does not sound or feel right to me" Sherriff Brecker asked the young man with concern, "Do you want back up on this call Zackary?" Responding confidently, downplaying the scenario for Sheriff Brecker's sake. "No problem sir, I'll go investigate. Besides, the department is stretched thin with the fourth of July preparations. Probably just some teenagers cow-tipping or leaving vulgar graffiti. I'll radio back when I get more details." Sheriff Brecker cautioned the young police officer, "O-Kay then. Zackary keep your eyes open. Lander's farm is in the middle of nowhere, and it is an expansive spread."

Zackary had a sudden recall of memory, "By the way, how's Deputy Logan and Kayla doing with their new baby?" Lou smiled broadly recalling "The Logan family are doing just fine as silk! Their baby girl is the cutest ball of fat one has ever seen -- with two deep dimples and the biggest brown eyes." Both men paused, smiling reflectively of the utter joy a newly born baby brings. The sheriff dove-tailed his next subject remaining on topic.

Adjusting his chair, "Just to give you a heads up. The office is pitching in for a homecoming gift for the Logan's. You in?" Deputy Brecker was well aware his mentioning of "pitching-in" was a formality. "Sure boss. Who do I give my money too?" Lou grinned at his friend's enthusiasm to help. "Just drop it off at the door with Marie Jo". Lou expressed with fatherly concern. Young man be safe out there and keep in touch". Pivoting on his heels, Robert's spoke over his shoulder. "You got it, boss man!" Deputy Roberts walked away with a determined gait of a confident man, called to a higher purpose.

By the time Zackary turned his ignition key inside his cruiser, a foreboding nearly stark white nagging fear had enveloped his mind. For that matter, the last few days, he felt weighted down by an unforeseen ominous cloud. Stacie, his wife, as well noticed a change in her husband's demeanor. She stopped inquiring, realizing her spouse could not define the premonition himself. He turned the key off struggling to steady his shaking hands. Taking a few deep staggering breaths, he attempted to compose himself. The young officer looked up, exhaling in frustration.

Gazing outside, on the sidewalk stood a pretty little six-year-old girl in a pink dress. Holding with her white gloved hand, inside her young mother's reassuring grasp. Mommy then bent down and whispered to the sweet girl her encouragement. The child instantly waved vigorously projecting her cheerful sunshine smile. Zackary felt his fear ebb returning to low tide. Entertainingly turned the police crusher lights on, as the little lass jumped and danced for joy.

Pulling out of the station. Zackary's courage took the flight of the eagles. He reminded himself of his duty to protect the weak and vulnerable, soaring past his own anxiety to perform his duty as a law enforcement officer.

"Eagles are the only bird that flies into a storm's center, ascending powerfully upward until they are above the tempest".

After calling anonymously, Azazel had calculated it would take approximately thirty-five minutes for the police to arrive on the scene. The marvelous tempo of synchronized destruction stands as a mathematical art form few have mastered. Vast numbers of variables woven together to enhance, direct, and perform at optimum for the most impactful results. Furthermore, one must continually consider the proper sequences, length of time to complete the task, reaction, and interactions of human nature, furthermore, the challenging work of studying a variety of subjects related to one's quest for dark dominance. In most circumstances, a mere novice will inadvertently overlook a small detail, later, proving their undoing, revealing the wonderfully wicked event and one's identity. Azazel relished a critical approach for yielding the best results. His motto was: "Evil concealed is joy revealed!"

With all prosperous conquest, humanity is reminded by history again and again that two can accomplish a great deal more than one. Bonnie & Clyde or Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid come to mind. Yet! The demise of all demented public partnerships: if one of the two is found guilty, if the weaker link confesses then both hang. Whereas, an often-overlooked glaring counterpoint, if one of the duo has a voiceless secret partner in crime, both have the strength of protecting and masking each other. With none the wiser. The indestructible darkness that welded and girded this duo together was the oath of death before breaking silence. In short, both became each other's executioner! "Evil concealed is joy revealed".

Azazel was in league with this very type of invisible, depraved partner. Childishly simple was the cloaking of his team member's identity. Hidden so incredibly well for it was in open sight for all to see! This stealthy methodological strength of this surreptitious couple. Was a simple matter of Azazel's smaller obnoxious shadow housed within the vastly more revolting silhouette of his cohort: "Vicious Veil". Azazel quickly nick-named Vicious Veil: "VV." Both seemed pleased with the moniker. The abbreviation represented wicked deeds that were hidden in plain view. No, not even his stickler of a Father Ran was knowledgeable about Azazel's partner's identity. This mystery accompanist only enhanced their musical composition of death.

Spending the day alone together was a rarity for the twin tyrants. Time was utilized strategizing on what implementations, plans, techniques, and best follow through yielding the optimum amount of pain, for the most extended duration. Both were giddy, digesting the decomposing sweetness of their disgusting offenses. Unfortunately for them, neither took notice of the invisible financier who fronted them the ways and means. Their grubstakes of hate would demand satisfaction via total devastation of the borrower. In short, a day of recompense was eternally blueprinted, for the twisted partners by the unbreakable axiom: "You reap what you sow." For Azazel and his compadre, VV, the reaping season of justice seemed a soft forgotten whisper upon the distant horizon.

Currently, they were thrilled by the vast amount of grizzly pandemonium inventoried. The gruesome and surly landscape gave the twisted dark doppelgängers a sense of ecstatic release and accomplishment. Starting early afternoon until nearly dusk, their destruction was impressive by any measure. Twenty-three hens, two roosters, one puppy, three dogs, four cats, fifty-six chicks, three snapping, and one box turtle. The turtles were the first to go as soon as the dyad arrived. Violently smashing the reptiles on the farmhouse doorsteps, the critters were cracked open, spitting guts and blood mist into the air. Some were left for dead. Others clung to life, crushed and suffering.

Those other remaining animals, if they could be accounted as such, included two milk cows and two bulls. The milk cows had their tits cut off then placed upon the bovines' horn tips. The pitiful beast had udders so badly mangled and disfigured. Desperate to escape the insane twosome, stepping on their own shredded udder flesh, moaning in deep pain as they collapsed on the ground.

The next point of order. The Achilles tendons of the two bullocks were hobbled: one back right leg, then the other left front. The beast were rendered immobile, we're unable to escape their tormentors. Naturally, the bulls, having been tortured with a cattle prod still manage to stand upright. However, being forced constantly to struggle, righting themselves only to be jolted then pushed over on every attempt. The noble creatures finally collapsed in a sweaty exhaustive heap. Their remaining defensive energy would fit inside a mouse heart. These poor animals could not so much as nudge their captors away. Having their snouts, tails, lips, tongues, eyelids, and ears cut off with a carpet- razor knife and red-hot industrial size vice grips.

It should be mentioned, though, that not all creatures suffered at the hands of VV and Azazel. On the contrary, the horse/bloat flies, mosquitoes, and ants joined a free and open smorgasbord party, thereby honoring the suffering beings. Just for fun, the carnage twins position the bovines lacking eyelids, such that their heads tied to a fence post, faced the intense sunlight. How thrilling! The amusement of trouncing the critters with spiked batons, singing a brutal song of ugly hearts, befitting to the occasion.

Run bull run, You're no fun

Without eyelids facing the sun

Run bull run, You're no fun

Never mind, your days are done

No run bull, no run.

Next, a luckless cat was tied and shoved into a piece of plumber's conduit elongated fashion. Her head was hanging out one end of the pipe and the back paws dangling out of the other. The feline was placed on the ground. Following, a weed eater raked across her face, bursting her eyes out of their sockets. Afterward, was the pitiful thing put out of its misery? No! Instead, the optic nerves remained dangling outside her damaged head. Along with facial wounds and lacerations exposed, her mutilated body was left bare to the harsh elements and insects.

Sympathetically, her current pitiless condition would not endure. Bestowed upon the future "Miss Blind Mice", she would soon have hope! Becoming a therapy animal for MarDale's mother. Noted: Through the compassion of Miss Letha and Geneva Brecker, those ladies pretended they needed assistance nursing "Miss Blind Mice" back to health. Disguising their real agenda of tending to Pamela thereby, repenting for isolating a mentally ill friend.

Most humans have a chosen outlet or platform for escaping from the rigors of life. Some find solace in adrenaline-filled activities, such as skydiving or wing walking. Testifying, after the rush of tempting fate, the peace that floods into one's soul is indescribable. Others discover a silent, solitary activity, such as fishing, needlepoint, or walking in the woods. Rejuvenating activities tend to charge one's batteries, thus, enabling them to face stressful situations that may arise. Counter-comparatively, "Chicken Fishing" was peerless to all other devious festivities. Both of our scavenging vultures relished the fact, sharing together their hobbies and life's works were one and the same. Unlike many of the world's inhabitants, their employment was vacation, and their vacation their work.

Azazel was now in the enviable position of explaining a whole new detrimental amusement to his mentor. For the "Death Team", a newly fully formed goal for the roster if you will. A constant source of encouragement was in ever in flux, pushing each other to invent new and imaginative virulent hobbies. Accordingly, it was with immense pride explaining the sport of "Chicken Fishing" to his putrid professor. Pulling paraphernalia from his purple backpack with the precision of a practice surgical nurse in preparation. Speaking as if standing before a residency college class, like a wise, old professor would.

"To understand the full pleasure of this activity, one must have at least a basic grasp of 'Gallus Domesticus' or a domesticated barnyard chicken's anatomy." Azazel's partner looked on with pride and slight humor, impressed by his scientific vocabulary. "The upside of this endeavor is that it matters not what type of chicken is chosen. All have physiology compatible with each of our needs. It may or may not be common knowledge that chickens have no teeth and do not chew food. Instead, at the end of its esophagus is an organ called a ventriculum. It's with this muscled organ that chickens digest small stones and hard debris, allowing them to grind up or process food -- in short, a gizzard. Another interesting fact concerning chickens is that they cannot vomit, spew, or throw up.

Knowledge is power. So, let's use our new-found power to our advantage. Thus, I have brought with me, under difficult circumstances, tools for our "Chicken Fishing" fun! Both giggled in tantum. "You will find our exercise despite being basic, sophistication is not lacking." Azazel injected some dark humor with unexpected synchronization: "We will be grabbing the bull by the horns because "Chicken Fishing is the cat's meow." Ending his sentence, the cruelest coincidence occurred. The mangled bulls gave out a desperate groan in concert with the conduit bound, tortured cat screaming for pity. Azazel and his silent partner guffawed and howled, cracking up in unison, marshaling themselves as he wiped away tears of laughter from cheeks that never experienced weeping.

Continuing, "As you see, we have a variety of lengths of fishing string and wrapping cord. If you'll notice, at the end of each string or cord, either of the two are tied on distinctly different sized hooks. Upon those hooks bait of crack corn, dried beans, or dead bugs have been attached. Since we know that chickens cannot regurgitate, they swallow their fates hook line and sinker." Raspy-sounding laughs activating similar to rusted metal scratching against a blackboard escaped the vultures' lips.

"Moving on, If one desires the effect of a quick bleed out, then by all means choose the larger hooks, with a longer length of the string. The reason? The embedded slightly bigger hook causes a greater amount of damage to the bird's gizzard. Whereas, the longer string provides a greater amount of running time ergo more speed of execution. This bold method of ripping out the selected fishhook quickly, places the poultry into a rapped state of shock. The bird staggers like a drunkard, as blood fills its gut, unable to puke, then dies. You know as well as I. That quick yank of the string, the abrupt blast of adrenalin producing the powerful rush of enjoyable endorphin preeminence, is best achieved with this method.

However, if one seeks leisurely amusement, then, by all means, use a smaller hook. Again, wait until the smaller bait catch is planted well into the gizzard. Next, remove slowly with as short a string as possible! Here, we will not see the result of the fowl dying promptly. Instead, the slow filling of its small intestines with its own blood ensures the most agonizing demise." VV stood with genuine enthusiasm, her admiration with unfeigned applause. Azazel long visualized this savored moment, realizing then and there that one day, he would go into politics.

Chickens lack enough receptivity to put two and two together. It never occurs to one chicken, after witnessing their predecessor's miserable demise, "Chicken Fishing," ergo run! In the subsequent appalling hours, both devised different and more devious alarming ways to "Chicken Fish." Howbeit, the most desired technique was this: After the chicken swallowed the bait hook, Azazel would grab the doomed chicken's hind legs. Standing opposite of Azazel. VV held the end of a very long slacked string dangling from the bird's beak. Counting down, bolting in opposite directions, sprinting as fast as possible from each other. Their goal was not merely to afflict horrible damage to their winged victim. No as customary, the crude couple took the game up a notch. Determining, "Was it possible to yank out the entire gizzard from a chicken's body?" After multitudes of trial and error, the brutal experimentation concluded. Indeed, it was not feasible to rip the whole gizzard out of a chicken. But OH! What a bloody, feather-filled fun time was had by one and all. Both chimed in: "Evil concealed is joy revealed!"

Following upon close examination of Azazel's grand nearly perfected implementation of fowl cruelty. VV's critique of appalling game scoring began. The single flaw discovered was literally out of Azazel's hands. In her total estimation to really send "Chicken Fishing" over the top. VV surmised near perfection lacked only in the single fact, chickens can't scream. Sadistically varied sounds of suffering aroused VV's coveted long held hatred of man and beast. Tickling her ears like a loving brush of a feather. "Chicken Fishing" although nearly perfect, only lacked audio victim response. Not bad, not bad at all. Besides the "Death Team" made more than enough ruckus.

Surrounded by deceased or dead critters, a gradual anti-climax of events was settling in. Azazel squatted on a log. Slowly, writing in the dust, using a stick at the end of which was attached a puppy's paw; "Evil concealed is joy revealed", quietly thinking, reflecting on his banner day. VV lay on a blanket with a small ice chest between them. They began daydreaming of their past exploits. If one did not understand their agenda while eavesdropping secretly. The phantom would swear in court, both sounded like a newlywed couple crafting their future plans.

Rolling over on her blanket, gazing skyward, recollecting all the years of prepping her clay-man Azazel with intense training, spirit-crushing humiliation, punishing encouragement mingled with cold, intentional, heart-wrenching fear. Azazel, from a very young age was groomed for her soul purpose of serving VV and the secret society he was being prepared. Exhibiting from the start, signs of a heinous calculating bear trap mentality, married with a nefarious genius. Azazel scholastic prepping was not all smooth sailing. VV's psychotic plan propagated upon him was often hindered. Considering copious quantities of his life remained secluded, under his father's house arrest. Obviously, their alone time was mapped out painstakingly, avoiding detection from Azazel's guardian. As with most rich rewards, a patient expectation for a perfect opportunity yields incredible results.

Moving beside VV on the blanket, as she continued reminiscing. Both were situated at a perfect point of view, enabling them a panoramic view of the landscape. Laying on their backs looking skyward, mutual enjoyment washed over their conversation. Recollecting, the multitude and variety of horrible acts targeted upon mankind and dumb beast. Each vying to be crowned champion of pain perpetrated, combined with the most inventive execution methods, they blurted out laughing, "Evil concealed is joy fulfilled!" VV started boasting on Azazel, "Let me tell you something my beautiful man. Your progress has been a stellar accomplishment. Frankly, all I can say is I'm proud of you! "Azazel" leered a rare smile. "Since the age of five, I've been tutoring, training you and yes, punishing you -- having suffered a great deal while earning your way to this point and place.

Removing the ice chess between them, patted the ground beside her, motioning Azazel to move closer. Today, your final stage and the first lesson. Your initiation into our secret society, "Servile International Nascent" begins. Azazel, you have never withheld from me the smallest of evils. As of lately you seemed distracted. Finally, it dawns on me. Nothing is worse than a frustrated stallion, you've always been faithful and compliant, all along preparing yourself for your well-deserved trophy. Yet, it seemed that with every positive gain, I would nudge your prize just one step out of reach. Is it any wonder you became dejected and sour? Honey, I don't blame you. It's your turn to grasp the brass ring!

VV sat up and wooed, "I believe, Azazel, you have become distracted. A re-direction of your focus is needed. You simply must pay attention to more pressing details. Well, allow me to demonstrate". Loosening the first three buttons of her shirt. Azazel could not look away. He was forced to admit to himself. Indeed, she was a beautiful female. Her gorgeous face and taut body matched flawlessly. This juvenile was no fool. Azazel possessed great comprehending wisdom. Understanding, many a powerful man in history being laid low by the sharp ax called woman. On the other side-of-the tracks, he held zero compunctions. Having no choice but to obey VV. She was fantastically strong and psychotically able.

What was purposed next staggered him to his core. Her offer was a level of sin the majority of people rigidly regard as grossly repugnant. Stakes hammered into this sacred ground of off-limits withstood time itself. Cupping both her hands around his face, avowed with a slow come-hither voice: "Today is your day of reward. Your first-time dream relished of many." Azazel's sick heart felt like tissue paper plowed through by a runaway semi-truck. He managed an unconvincing smile. Triumphantly, VV confirmed his hangdog agreement, beaming like a used car salesman.

Vicious Veil reached inside her bra with the motion of slow cold molasses. His eyes were fixed like steel bars in harden cement. Retrieving seductively, hypnotically VV began to open and close her large barber's straight blade. "We both appreciate the need to work on your hidden weaknesses." Azazel froze like a stunned deer in a car's headlights. Opening her razor, his mentor began running her supple pink tongue up and down the sharp edge length of the knife-edge. Feather-light as a serpent tasting the air. Transfix, observing as VV not so much as nicked her tongue or full lips. "My little man, you know by now, like all of my other lessons, this is just the beginning." Azazel was on the verge of vibrating out of his own clothes. His mind was submerged in fearful unknown and endless guilt, torn between youthful cravings and his minimum moral awareness. Some boundaries were not to be crossed. Ever!

Standing, Vicious Veil walked a few feet in front of him, allowing the sunlight to shine through her sheer skirt. Placing her blazing laser blue eyes upon Azazel. Reaching under her blouse separating the front-hook of her lace bra, removing it from the inside of her shirt: slowly. On the end of her eloquent index finger she dropped the garment casually into the lap of Azazel. Exhibiting yet another upcoming trophy for the starving man before her.

Afterward, reaching under her skirt, leisurely shedding her undergarment, deliberately exposing her full powerful thighs. Gingerly stepping over the encircled panties at her feet while reaching on top of her head. Gradually removing a turquoise ribbon braided into her hair. Cascading platinum blonde locks spilled reminiscent of soft snow rolling down over her hips to the back of her knees. Her lovely persuasive silhouette ambled, as daylight outlined her frame fluid motion eloquently.

Crouching down in front of Azazel, his skin sensing her body heat radiating outward, immersed hopelessly within her feminine enchantment. For until now, he had never envisioned fully, the beauty of a woman's anatomy. Feeling hot, innocent embarrassment, his face and chest became fever red. His body sensing the growing tension of unwanted surrender ebbing away, carrying him away to her. Unable to turn away his gaze. It was an emerging mystery of a lifetime, unfolding sweetly before him. Lingering blissfully, spellbound, and mournfully entrapped, Azazel was so terrified! Yet, he never wanted something so desirable as this wicked seduction before him. Subconsciously, the young man reached out to open the remaining buttons of her blouse, yearning desperately within, he would next remove VV's skirt. Unfolding Azazel's dream-day, of the incredible victorious pleasure of complete visual access.

Gently, VV grasped Azazel's hands, caressing, and moving them away from their blissful goal with understanding firmness, folding them back into his lap. Elevating the befuddled young man's chin, lifting his face, forcing him to make direct eye contact. VV then took on the role of a pacifying teacher. "I'll now make you fully aware of what is required of you before starting your last training segment. This final leg of your arduous journey pertains to the intimate side of alliances.

Yes, a young man like yourself may see this as your grand reward. After struggling through such an utterly, grueling Boot Camp, very few make it this far. Listen, I don't want you to be fooled. Just because it's pleasurable, it doesn't make it any less of a useful weapon. This training is as crucial as any other within the "Servile International Nascent". I cannot express to you enough, the need for strict preparedness and willing to yield to all demands asked of you in this arena. Achieving your chosen goals, private physical contact, in many cases, becomes your most effective solution. Be ready! The word "no" is not an option. Irrespective of whoever your target is, separating your emotions from the task at hand is imperative. Familiarity is a top shelf means of extracting information, blackmail, leveraging power, final solution(s), erasing enemies, and manipulating others to your will.

Intimacy training might seem unnatural to you at first. Not to worry. I'll give you plenty of opportunities to set your pace. Later, arrangements will be made for you to join a person or scenario of several people, to fulfill all their desires. Azazel, you must comply completely with every new arrangement. Failure to please a client always ends in ruthless punishment. The reason? A single mishap handling adult privacy commodities, lends itself to protected identities being publicly revealed. Thereby, exposing "Servile International Nascent" clients and our clandestine conglomerate goals to unwanted scrutiny. My love, by finally achieving your membership, you'll be astounded of the folks you already know in Clearmound. Who became delegates of our self-contained company are? The upside of intimacy training, sweet pea. We have all the practice time needed together, coaching you to become absolutely comfortable in any possible arrangement we place you."

Ira considered Azazel's glum expression. Encouraging him with her honey-smooth voice, "Sugar, please smile, do you not understand me? You've finished nearly all your instructions. Now, all that's required is becoming a very proficient skillful man, possessing advanced abilities to enchant others. With that said, you'll never need to worry about a negative training reaction from me. If you get nervous or fail to grasp a specific procedure or may need more time on a certain proficiency. Trust me, I am an impeccable and patient instructor. We have the next four months to perfect and polish your abilities". Azazel's visage was a hodge-podge of apprehension and fearful desire.

"I tell you what my big, strong man, as I figure we have about thirty-five minutes before the Calvary shows up, I'll give you a little sample of what is yet to come". VV placed her finger over her lips, gesturing for Azazel to remain silent and relaxed. Tenderly laying him on his back. "Fret not honey, please don't be nervous. The first time for anyone can be a little overwhelming. I will take it slow and talk you through everything. Believe me, getting past this first hurdle, by the way, is extremely gratifying. You've nearly worried yourself sick over nothing, taking your first steps achieving your manhood. After all, you're fourteen. I am sure you are constantly thinking, what it may feel like to be close to a woman. Wouldn't you like to find out?"

Azazel recalled in the past how Vicious Veil used him like her perpetual heavy bag. Remembering endless tormenting mind control of "No carrot and just stick". He thought of all the hell he survived since age eight. Burning calluses inside his heart that would never heal. It dawned on him that he could not recall the pure pleasure of human touch, his upright need for connecting, loving, hugging, or just holding hands. She deprived him of even the most basic positive emotions. Such as of the secured reassurance one derives from a human comforting another human. VV had robbed him of all essential building blocks to simply become an upright person. Realizing profoundly, he was flat out against this wicked woman. Certainly, she would be the very last individual on earth to be his first encounter.

Becoming greatly alarmed noticing his young body responding positively to VV's touch. Teen raging hormones, especially in males, speak louder than common sense. Without question, between today's nonstop sensory festivities, as well as vast amounts of adrenaline overload. The young lad's testosterone level was off the charts. Sitting behind Azazel, straddling her long legs around his waist, pressing her body against his back, massaging his tense shoulders and neck. Occasionally, she would lightly lick and nibble his ears. Finally surrendering to her relaxing and massaging movement, becoming putty in her hands. VV spoke with a voice of tenderness and support, "I see that my big man is obviously relaxing. Most assuredly, you have nothing to be embarrassed about." His mind was screaming for an impossible rescue! Deep in his heart, somehow, this was not right. As a matter of fact, there was no "somehow" to it.

Encouraging him with a side note: "Alright then, my honey bear, all that's required is performing your initiation ritual. Sweetheart, you've earned your reward, my favorite pet. Soon, you'll be one of us." VV shifted her body around Azazel. Facing him this time, closing her eyes, holding his face. Kissing him softly at first, increasing her passion as he responded. Pleasantly surprised; he was very skilled at kissing, despite him being a virgin. Warmly, VV hummed, "Well, what an enjoyable wonder." Azazel blushed, "I've been practicing on my neighbor's stolen baby doll." Quickly wrapping her arms around him, falling on top of him, laughing together. Ira's temperament enjoyed this chapter of Azazel's schooling, not with tenderness, love, or pure joy. Rather, sharing his membership participation, welcoming Azazel inside a hidden underground alliance, constructed of a vile and sinister methodology of young adult mind control.

This all-encompassing final formulary achieved total mental and body submission, dubbed, "The Day of Reckoning." A highly esteemed 'Servile International Nascent' companies high watermark. The final initiation into an employee's fledgling career-path. The most noticeable test standard? The requirement all interns must be between the ages of fourteen to fifteen. This crucial developmental time-period guaranteed youthful minds were yet pliable and budding bodies, desperately responsive to manipulation. Thereby, molding zealot followers. Most effectively brainwashing a child to all-encompassing obedience to 'Servile International Nascent' full compliances. An age-old process of destroying foundational moral belief systems through physically and mental exhausting adversity. Alongside intellectually obliterating any resistance of free will. Followed by re-building a stronger person through a higher disdaining calling.

Amid intimidating creative challenges and a forced self-identity assuring mentor's mastery over apprentices. Following their harsh boot-camp obligations. "The Day of Reckoning" became the pleasing glue of gratifications, holding this shadowy alliance together. Is there not a child-teen body, mind, and soul, after surviving painfully endless trials lasting years. Then able to resist the sweet incentive of tender affection. Azazel, our youthful and sadistically corrupt victim would have his initiation into VV's total non-resistance. One never forgets their first. Regardless of whether that adoration is a cancerous, wickedly sick love, once this heart engulfing bridge is crossed, remaining completely subservient is a given for one has no need for others.

Both stood, as Ira gave a reassuring hug. Her approving affectionate contact retained an Arctic polar effect upon Azazel. Swift righteousness broke forth within his being. His hot hatred of her wrong, welled up untapped reserves of bravery. Flooding away her spoon-fed loathing, imposing fear, and narcissism, under this cleansing tide of courage! Azazel had genuine grit. Of all emotions and first-time feelings or thoughts, he felt overwhelmingly brash! He was now daring enough to stand up and do the right thing. No matter the cost! With his new-found self-assurance, snatching the straight razor from VV's hand he mightily roared, "NO!"

Swinging the heavy blade with deadly intentions. Anticipating his attack, VV made a small swift jump backward, feeling the threadlike air between the blade and her throat rapidly moving across her neck's surface, thinner than a frog's hair. Azazel shouted with triumph, "I will not do any more of your dirty work! As soon as the Sheriff arrives, the whole town will know everything, including your husband. You're sick and twisted! I am awake for the first time in my life! You will never dominate me ever again! Do you hear me!? Now, get back before I cut you too thin to fry!" Instantaneously, as Azazel uttered his last syllable, a sharp, precipitous pain followed by deeper slow-moving sickening anguish. Radiated from his personal region, spreading through-out his gut. Gagging bile welled up inside his throat, ferociously contending with his insistence to breathe. Collapsing to the ground with hands clasped between his knees; his blasphemous tutor had kicked him in the groin. Hard.

VV slithered, lowered herself onto the blanket, facing Azazel. Her serpent face inches away. His inimical tutor spoke the following in a sinister, ice-cold tone. While stroking and soothing Azazel's vexed brow, with a highly skillful seductive voice. Flashing a perfectly straight ultra-white smile, growing significantly with each hateful hissing utterance. "Listen to me, my big bowl of Bourbon Balls". The appalling play on words was not missed by either. "Your pain will soon pass. However, what will not pass is the fact that you'll be found a dead bleeder, deceased from a botched self-inflicted neuter job. On that note, I will castrate you on this spot while you yet live. The townspeople will think you went insane and committed suicide most horrifically. Considering the worst kept secret in Clearmont being the fourteen-year-old sociopath called Azazel, it sucks that that tidbit won't go unnoticed.

Nor will you be delivered; of the last thought you have. Knowing, I am on my way to kill your friends, and I cannot leave out my sister. Have you been introduced to my sister? She lives here in town. Not to make a short story long." VV laughed uncharacteristically. Azazel smiled weakly at her, promptly despising himself for breaking his stern rank. Wailing amusingly, while watching him vainly ironing off his smile wrinkles in futility. Re-composing as she sighed in disappointment, switched her mood like a light fixture, demurely capping another volcano for potential use.

Relishing the next sentenced speaking to her wounded novice, "Honey, my sister I speak of is none other than Letha." Still gasping for air, Azazel's eyes grew into large stunned black ice pools of astonishment. Queasy, winded, woozy, and pained. His humiliation paled compared to his shocked disbelief for Letha's safety. Adding insult to injury, his open book faces vainly attempting to cancel each expressed nuance, sharply analyzed by VV. "Well, I'll be! Then it is true. All SO true! You adore Letha. She's the one whom you dearly love. Visiting secretly, so you thought. How you must enjoy talking to her about all that Bible stuff. Guess what, buttercup? I permitted those visits. Spying on you and my sibling, gauging your progressive fallen away.

What a huge setback and disappointment you are Azazel. I would have thought that after all your advancement, you would' appreciated darkness over light. More so than anyone?" The mocking scriptural retort was repugnant to this broken teen. Azazel's face was covered with rare tears, not from VV's perceived failures. On the contrary, he wept due to his helplessness to protect his buds and best friend Letha. Rubbing salt into his wounds, Ira said, "Boo, do you think after all our work, deception, and planning, I would just let you go scot-free? One more thing. My boll-weevil."

Her next words revealed a deep Floydian scar as Ira's eyes glazed over -- trance-like, voice raising a single octave, "You will never have another partner like my daddy!" Both froze in mutual surprise. Azazel peered inside her dank heart then and there, revealing more than he ever wanted. It all suddenly made sense. He was being groomed from his childhood by a cloaked mad woman, forcing him to do her will, just as Ira's parents prepared, tormented, and trained her. Hesitating, then placing her hand over a mouth full of satanic giggles, "I meant to say you'll never have another partner like me. Not daddy, silly me!"

Clearing her throat and re-grouping with a commanding voice Ira purposed as a prosecuting attorney, "Azazel, here's your choice. It's straightforward. Play the game or tap out. What will it be? You play, your family and Letha live. Tap out, you die along with all whom you love. I should warn you. Part of our agreement is that if you choose to play, I shall delegate all people, persons, and groups delegated to you for your intimacy guidance. Do these things and you will save all you love from a revolting death.

You see honey, some contend that evil is genetically blueprinted within human flesh. If so, it remains relatively inept if conducted without organization, and control. Wickedness, by far, yields the greatest harvest of sweet poison as a group effort. Just ask any tyrant or dictator. Azazel, baby, just conclude your finishing prepared segments. I guarantee you. I will furnish everything a young man has ever fancied. Sound like a deal my little pea pod?"

Casting eyes downward a shattered broken soul, conceding to her evil agreement. Azazel determined this was the only option. Saving his loved ones from death. He recollected Letha teachings of God's significance of staying a virgin until marriage, how nothing is the same after, as innocents end. And the necessary protection to separate himself away from evil people. Letha's wise words were bitter reminders of unheeded advice. He began bemoaning anguished cries of a shattered man. Even in his a-moral condition reared as a pure sociopath, what was about to happen to him went far beyond the description of any level of acceptance.

Wanting to cry a deep mournful weeping. Not just for himself, but for all the victims he had cruelly harmed. Joining their ranks who, like him, were stripped of free will and basic self-worth, by the force of another. The young man came to the bitter realization that the agony he instigated on others, could not be exclusively blamed on his partner in crime. Reluctantly admitting to himself he was an evil, spoiled brat. Who punished with harm continually without mercy or fear of recompense? Shaking his head positively agreeing "yes' to VV's demands in utter contempt. Knowing she would be tattooed forever on his demented character, this sinister stark image of "Vicious Veil." His first physical experience of hateful intimacy.

Smoldering with a voice so alluring, complete surrender would seem like a blessing from above. "Fine choice, my peach blossom. I tell you what, you experienced a few setbacks. The upswing is you've learned! Most impressively, you've finally identified me as your superior. Keep it in your mind constantly. I will be and must be at the forefront of all your decisions. Always! Do you understand me?" Azazel tremored affirmatively like a ragged scarecrow twisting in the wind. His mind once again overwhelmed with fearful unknown and endless guilt. Torn, and acutely aware that some limitations should never be experience!

"Relax sugar, don't have a hissy fit! You do want to be a man, don't you? Besides, after this assignment, I will always be your reward whenever you yearn, and even when you don't!" Ira hauntingly laughed a brief twitter, surveying Azazel's positive facial expression he sheepishly attempted to hide. Boiling misery catapulted him into a deep undivided hatred, violently churning to the surface of his heart. It's one thing to be imprisoned by her omnipresent control and another thing all together, using a frightened teen's pubescent yearnings, as a weapon of submission!"

Ira firmly reminded, "Keep your eyes on my face, Azazel, at all times or else!" Morphing into a liquid detached dream, towering in jubilant domination, standing over the uneasy button buck. Azazel turn his eyes away, futilely concealing sensations of searing desire conflicting against fearful shame, his brain screamed desperately. "STOP!"

VV offered soothing venom-filled words: "I get the picture of your initial apprehension. Understand me! This is the last time I'll tell you to keep your eyes on my face. I do so want to see your unique reactions, my little booger bear." Pressing her razor lightly against his jugular vein. Azazel gazed upward upon his demented mentor. Having no choice yet feeling somehow it was all his fault, the only constellation in this nightmare was her beautiful face and body.

Changing vocal tone from soothing to demanding to commanding. "Azazel do what I say, now stand up. Baby-doll, but first, remove all your clothes, slowly!" VV would soon relish her voyeuristic fixation of Azazel. Watching his every movement as he began the removal of his garments before they joined together. Not as a loving partner yearning to give pleasure, or as an honorable spouse. No, this was not the case with Vicious Veil. Instead, every vulnerability must be appropriated exploiting Azazel. She was the proverbial spider courting her victim into her web. His teacher used all her performance skills, entrapping him forever.

It was simply impossible for the youthful man not to heed Ira's every demand. She finally forced his hand, arriving at the point of no return, Azazel all but had a black-out nervous breakdown. His childhood withered right before his eyes. Thinking how in the world had he agreed to this very sick arrangement. A single tension tear rolled hotly down the fourteen-year-old boy's face, as all his options to plea -bargain with VV terminated. He thought gravely, "Just how could he rescue them both from this madness? Then again, she apparently needed nor wanted liberation. He nearly panicked as a welling up of intense anxious pressure mounted. In his troubled inexperienced mind, he thought of all things. "I do not want to be rude! Besides what if VV becomes pregnant? She never takes birth control!" Frantically, he forced out strained compressed words from his tight throat and clenched teeth. "Please, Vicious Veil! Stop, don't let this happen!" Nearly yelling for help through the covering of woods. Recalling her barber's razor weapon of choice still position close.

Except! He just found his solution! What he read and understood about narcissus. To sway them to another person's suggestions and away from their line of thinking or agenda: Is simply allow them to think your opposing suggestion will offer a greater benefit. Therefore, produce a greater reward!

Azazel feigned his ultimate defeat, speaking matter of factly as he began removing his clothing. "That's its Vicious Veil! I give up! As usual, you're correct again. It makes perfect sense you should be my first and last with all aspects of my life. This final stage will complete my total allegiance to you. And you only! To tell you the truth. I have always detest believing anyone, but you should be my first. I love you and I will obey always, to prove myself worthy". Sitting down Azazel started to remove his shoes and socks, intentionally avoiding eye contact as he spoke. "There is one detail you should consider". Ira was in excited motion questioning, as she began removing what little of her clothing remain. "What might that be my dove?" Azazel said in passing as if it were not a large concern for either of them.

"Did you stop to think. Since you don't take birth control. Should you get pregnant by me. How that could ruin everything we worked so hard towards? I mean it's one thing being with child by a typical man. That would not be a problem. If I on the other hand get you pregnant. It becomes an extremely unneeded hurtle that cannot be overcome. A serious monkey wrench indeed. Just think of all the explaining, lies and cover-up's it would take to bury this event. If it happened? How could you appease 'Servile International Nascent' strict code of conduct? If you put yourself out of commission, especially by your own untrained student. Our "Stealthy International Society" pitiless reprisal on both of us. Is diffidently not an underestimated no-brainer! What of your own code of conduct? Ira you have under no circumstances broken your self-imposed contract. "Never harm the very old or very young". This very possible future youngster of ours would put you out of commission permanently!"

Ira began lightening quick regrouping her clothing and thoughts, pondering in deep contemplation. The worm had indeed turned. Staring eye to eye with Azazel for a moment that felt like a tunnel-vision eternity. Ira's "Day of Reckoning" to be imposed on Azazel was crushed exquisitely and roguishly well. Azazel going on forever spiritually and physically attached to her desires, smashed to the bottom floor of her high tower mind. Offering Azazel her aristocratic malicious smiled. "Woe unto you, Azazel! How I do hate your perfect and flawless reasoning power. I have never been confused a day in my life. With my one exception, which being the moment I contemplated drowning you like and unwanted kitten at its birth".

Grasping Azazel's head with a vice-like force. VV 's cool down period was to lick Azazel's entire face like a starved mountain lion, while literally purring... "Now, you be a good boy. Go plant that fake evidence for me. I need to run a few errands in town. Before the police arrive here you better make it to your home." She winked tickling him under his chin, her voice resembling a well-fed big cat. "By the way if you think you've escaped sugar, just wait until the next lesson. Make no doubt I will be prepared! So much to teach, so little time." Turning to leave, Azazel plastered on his stone face, braced his spine, and waited until Vicious Veil was out of sight.

He took two steps and launched into dry heaving, gut-wrenching vomit spasms' for nearly five minutes. Finally, wiping the puke and tears from his face, blistering hatred catapulted him back to proper thinking. Exhaling in a haggard, genuinely exhausted voice that trailed off weakly.

"Ira Japheth, you're wrong! Mother; you're so very wrong!"

# Chapter Eight  
 ** _"Unsalted pretzels"_**

"God's vast genius can be discovered within simple designs unfolding into endlessly deep intriguing discovery".

-- Counselor Andean.

Preacher More stood behind the podium. Clearmound had a long dry spell devoid of the clergy. Taking up the cloth and cross, Brian and Amber More were to Clearmound's people as the rock that gave sweet waters in the desert for parched mouths of the Hebrews. Gleaning from the Bible with conviction, their esteemed shepherd had a knack for motivating people, guiding them into a weightier love for God and His higher love for them. The good shepherd More of the Clearmont flock was a refine and skilled teacher, breaking down complicated scripture subjects into bite-size morsels, making it easy for hearers to understand and digest the living bread. This man of the cloth made the ancient text come alive.

Notwithstanding, all parishioners without hesitation paused the sermon, if it necessitated a sharing with the church body, a move of impending tears. Recognizing Jesus suffering immeasurable anguish on the cross for humankind's dark failures, thereby, carrying away the curse of hell, thrust upon Him in humanities stead.

The More couple were natural-born lovers of the Lord and people. In no time at all, whatever the Bible stated was eagerly pursued. The congregation followed out of gratitude, thankfulness, and forgiveness bestowed upon them from a kind and wise God. Soon, small towns in the surrounding districts void of a minister begun attending Clearmound's church. With the escalating influx of people, came welcoming growing pains. City leaders who attended services, noted the added members and the economic uptick. Lately, even out-of-towners would visit and express their desire to move to Clearmound, for the sole benefit of becoming members of Pastor and Mrs. Amber More's church.

Few events brought Clearmound's Shepard the most joy, as the day when he inherited his nickname. Bestowed upon him by the church children, secretly as a prank. So, they thought. Strolling up to the reverend, a grade school aged boy or girl would ask. "Hey, it's big Preacher "B." Pastor Brian More would reply, "Just don't call me big preacher "BM"! The child would run off excitedly giggling, conveying to their friends: "Did you hear that? I just made him call himself a BM"!

Raising his hands to grab the congregation's attention. Pastor begun informing his flock. "OK, ladies and gentlemen. We have a brief announcement to make. Before we release the children to Sunday school and before the adult class begins in the sanctuary. I would like to say this right off the bat: Our yearly Fourth of July picnic will be upon us before you know it. We had an incident at our last fourth of July festivities. We have fondly dubbed. 'The Great Salt Lick Disaster'. The pious gathering started beaming with sly smiles, shifting with anticipation in their pews.

"This year, God willing, we will do our utmost to avoid that horrible incident from reoccurring. For those of you among us who are not privy to the 'Great Salt Lick Disaster', allow me to catch you up to speed. Even though we do our best to ensure one and all safely enjoy our festivities. Occasionally, unforeseen circumstances prevail. Every parent will attest, keeping a diligent eye on our little ones among us always. Is at best a calculated gamble. Unlike God, we cannot be everywhere at once. During war, communications tend to break down. What is not an obvious danger soon becomes a quick reality? Our salt war was no different. Thank the Lord! Our very own brother Konner intervened when he did. Otherwise, the damage would have consumed the whole church." By now, the muffled laughter of the audience increased in expectancy to the story's revelation.

Pastor continued. "Brother Konner notice that the pretzels tasted strange. Since the good brother is such a light eater". Quickly, a mystery voice somewhere in the large group shouted. "Repent, Preacher!" The merriment increased by degree and volume. "As I was saying, brother Konner notice his pretzels did not quite taste right. After inspecting most of the pretzel containers, sure enough, most if not all tasted, well bad.

It was then at that very moment, little Suzie Belling spoke to Brother Konner, "Brother K, I wouldn't eat those pretzels if I were you." Puzzled, then asking her, "Why Suzie? Why would you not want me to eat the pretzels?" Preacher Brian paused for dramatic effect. One could have cut the crowd's humorous expectancy with a butter knife. "Our little Suzie then said. "Brother Konner. The little boys, before they went out in the field to play baseball, licked all the salt off the pretzels, then put them back into the containers!"

The church folks busted like a cheap rubber band. As one wave of hollering and howling dyed down, another wave rushed to the forefront. Between brief interludes of laughing through tears, Pastor managed his next sentences. "Brother Konner was spitting pretzel bits out of his nostrils, mouth, and ears. Finally regrouping his composure, brother "K" investigated her further". "Suzie, "Suzie!? Why would the boys do that!?" Little Suzie without skipping a beat, pointing to brother Konner's wife. Then said, "Your wife told the boys a little salt is good for them on a sweltering day playing ball."

"You see, my good people, some saints are salt of the earth and some aren't!" Another sheep from the congregation yelled, "That was salt in brother Konner's wounds!" The groundswell of laughter was more extended this time around. Pastor More finally raised his hands motioning for silence. One and all gradually gathered their senses, composing themselves, "With that said, please be sure all adults, as well as parents, keep a close tab on the children this year. After all, we wouldn't want anybody to catch the cooties from our unsalted pretzels."

To the praises of the local assembly, surprisingly, Eric & Eugene out of the blue joined the Clearmound house of worship. Some speculate, Miss Letha's fingerprints were on the twins fork in the road decision. Taking to pre-teen Sunday school like a stamp on an envelope, both were lovable rebels without common sense. Eric and Eugene never physically harmed a soul, and never would. However, the extra chores and odd jobs given to the traumatic twins -- funding both for needed repairs to damaged property -- was the sand that irritated the town's oysters.

With great anticipation, nay, faith, the flock waited excitedly for the day: The Bible lesson of Exodus 22: 7-13. Valuing private property, would be taught in the youth group. Alas, on this occasion, faith would be deferred until the fall curriculum. Until that time, brother Richard Andean would follow due course.

Richard Andean was the cherished helm for the church's pre-teen and young adolescent's department. Mr. Andean was a well-respected town councilman, not to mention prosecuting attorney for the county of Clearmound. Welcoming this vastly talented attorney with open arms, was a no-brainer. Counselor Andean relocated from out of state five years ago. Settling his family and legal practice alongside her residents was a choice of the Andean's compassionate heart, rather than out of necessity. Many a underprivilege citizens were bless by attorney Andean's pro-bono work. Additionally, and joyfully, the good people hired this great barrister as their city's arbitrator. Frankly, the man could have worked any law firm in the country he chose. Simply put, Mr. Andean esquire was needed and loved by the Clearmound citizens.

Collectively contemplating at times to himself. If weighing in the balance the total of his obligations to family and career. Teaching teen Sunday school was his most cherish vocation. The pentacle of his reward in guiding youthful minds rested within that "Ah Ha" moment, engraved on the faces of his students. The revelation received of knowledge married to wisdom, becoming a lifelong application, rather than a long-term memory fact. Completed the good man's purposeful life.

Pursuing excellence in the legal protocol, Solicitor Andean apprehended the significance of evidence procurement, witness accounts, and hard and historical substantiation, all to sweat out and ascertain the certainty of clear candor. It was as well vastly important, fathoming how and why human nature can and will avoid, remain ignorant, fear, or simply be lazy when challenged to seek legitimacy.

His choice for today's topic: "The Original Church Founded by Jesus". The students would discover the basic aspects of the earliest original church, a subject of great intrigue and fascination. Mr. Andean would tender for class deliberation, subjects of religious history, ancient traditions, and philosophy. Ascertaining exactly how those influences distorted Christ's intended mission, and His teachings of the Lord's founding flock. Thereby unearthing, next rectifying any clouds of murky doubt centered around God's truth. The good solicitor, with this current lesson, would journey back in time, repairing the breach and patching the holes, rebuilding the wall anew regarding the initial Apostolic doctrine. Re-examining the originating blueprints and quest Christ first gave his followers. In like manner, handing over the proper keys to heaven with the ordinances of truth to his apprentices.

Brother Andean was adored by his class. Always open-minded, a very affirming listener who believed that respectful fairness was a two-way street between the teacher and novice. More importantly, he had a means of nudging students to the correct answer while making it appear as if they discovered the solution all by themselves. An untold number of parents became ecstatic, appreciating their children would attend his class. The church and community became deeply endeared to Attorney Andean. Nonetheless, most intriguing of all his attributes was the open acknowledgment, this Clearmound beloved resident, was the undeniable fact; the "Honorable Richard Andean" was bipolar.

As the youth filed in, taking their places, excited to be part of an awesome class, he, without fail, told the same joke at the beginning of each session. "Students guess who all thirty voices in my head sound like?" The class would re-join in an anti-climactic slightly irritated but accommodating way. "Your wife". Instructor Andean exploded, laughing every single time! Which in turn caused the youth ramping up into snorts, giggles, and all-out chaos. Their humored response was not for the cheesy punchline. Rather their teacher's cheesy retort to his whole body reacting in complete concert, joining his middle-age spread jiggling, bouncing on the balls of his feet as his balding pink head turned bright beet red. The joke may have flatlined. However, his physical reaction was a consuming magnetic force of childlike joy for educator and pupils.

Brother Andean was recouping and repeating the joke to himself, wiping tears from his cheeks and eyes along with the class. "Yep, all the voices in my head sound like my wife". Bringing the bubble back to plum. The young men and ladies noticed a large whiteboard. Written there on were three evenly spaced vertical lines making three even columns.

"My cool beans, remember we have the field trip of compassion this week coming? As you all know, we have selected the county department for mental illness. We will be bringing flowers, socks, church tee-shirts, hygiene supplies, and assorted games. Do y'all recall what you were taught?" His lads and lassies sang in unison, "They are mentally ill, not evil. They need not be shunned. We all need God's Son!" Proudly gazing, he replied, "Very good, class. I hope you will befriend one of these lonely souls. Remember, I too was in that same condition until good people like yourselves reached out, introducing me to Christ. Now I have life and life more abundantly.

Okay then, beginning our lesson, let's open our closing notes. The very first church ever established and founded is written within the New Testament book. 'Acts of the Apostles'. Shall we examine the following questions?" Writing on the whiteboard brother Andean wrote: 'How can one determine a church is teaching correctly?' Turning back facing his class.

"After all, mankind's history is saturated with false prophets, corrupted clergymen, and various cults that have enticed untold numbers to destruction. Is it even possible for us, and others not to fall prey to seducing liars? The only infallible and completely trusted standard for our hope is God's spoken Word. God Himself validates the following about His own scriptures. Please, let's read together". Isaiah 40:8. "The grass withereth, the flower fadeth: but the word of our God shall stand forever."

"Looking on our board at our out-lay, for the next few weeks, we'll explore the pioneering church established in the New Testament. Have any of you ever wondered why there are so many diverse types of Christian denominations? Each of them declaring having their roots planted and established by Jesus Christ and the Apostles? Many of these institutions make the argument that they are the one true church. It could be Roman Catholic, Episcopalian, Baptist, Pentecostal, or Jehovah's Witnesses. Any number of distinct types or shades of Christianity that one can imagine. Each consortium boasts they solely remain birth from the apostolic succession. The question then begs to be asked! Who among the thirty thousand Christian groups truly construct with the Apostolic foundational building blocks, making all things balanced as well as worthy? Who indeed evangelizes teaching exactly comparable to the first church established by God? Well, I'll tell you. That doesn't matter!"

Puzzled bewilderment swept across young dismayed faces. From the back of the class Clara Kent raised her hand. "Brother Andean, if all Christian groups claim to be the first church, then how can anyone know who is right or wrong?" The good teacher answered, "And again, if you read and obey your Bible, claiming to be the first church or the last, doesn't matter. What's important to God is the question asked of all His followers: "Are my children following scriptures as scriptures are written?"

The Lord was driving home the point that every man, woman, and child possess an eternal living soul, just as Christ's everlasting Spirit endures forever. Here is the key. "The Holy Writ" is literally God in written form. That is very significant. I tell you all to be careful about how you handle this book. The Lord at no time takes kindly of men or angels altering or misrepresenting His living Word.

Continuing class... believe it or not, there are things God cannot do. He cannot speak a lie. In fact, it is written it is impossible for Him to lie. Therefore, it is impossible for the Lord to contradict himself. Another thing God cannot do is deny himself. If He plans and speaks, ultimately His decisions become a reality, within His chosen due course and perfect time. Here's yet another impossibility: God cannot and has not found another god equal to Himself, claiming without question, 'He is one God and the only God. There is none other'. Jesus Christ is the invisible Spirit of God manifested in the flesh. Scriptures state God shed His blood on the cross. Can any of us find another religion where their god made such a sacrifice?

On the other hand, there are impossible task for Satan. He cannot speak the truth. For that matter, the Bible states he is the father of all lies. Lucifer above all created spirit beings, fully comprehended the unquestionable authority of God's Word viewed from his origin in heaven. At one time he stood as one of the most powerful of three angels in the heavenly Kingdom. Desiring to remove The Lord from His throne. "The Morning Star" gathered an army of one-third of all the innumerable angels. Warring against the Lord and losing. The Lord stripped him of his position and power, casting "The Dragon" and fallen angels to Earth, to await their punishment on Judgment Day. This powerful anti-God spirit-being, absolutely cannot be saved from hell.

The question begs to be asked. Why does the Devil loath humans with such unquenchable hatred? Whom is willing at any cost to use temptation, pleasure, or deceitful influence as damning weapons? Yearning vehemently for every single man, woman, or child, condemned to an eternal punishment alongside him? The answer is found in the Lord's saving wisdom.

God proclaimed a remedy for His beloved humans. The very second Adam and Eve fell from innocents, ushering in collectively with the Devil, death, pain, suffering, disease, and demons. Including all manner of darkness, contending against mankind's eternal soul. The Lord through the gathering a hand full of dirt; the first Adam. Would raise up a second Adam to save His people made in His image, replacing ole "Beelzebub" from His potter's wheel. Jesus would form with nail scar hands, clay temples filled with living water. The very ground gathered to create redeemed humans. Becomes Lucifer's pre-ordained custom designed grave plot! In layman's terms. Here's mud in your eye Satan!"

Can you just imagine the moment "Scratch" discovered his powerful dark domain would be destroyed via God's Word and holy men made of clay? So now as I see it, Satan's driving, single minded hate-filled purpose. Is to fill hell with as many eternally lost souls as he possibly can. To accomplish this horribly sick goal. He must implement as much distance between the Lord's redemption plan called the Bible and lost humanity. Before he himself is cast into the lake of fire forever. Every scripture that sentences Lucifer to hell, God seems to exclusively reverse for the benefit of man as a salvation strategy their soul. This ugly demon bitterly rues the day glorified humans will replace him in his former heavenly home.

Students look on your worksheet and recite the following verse. I believe its highly appropriate at this juncture. John chapter one and verse fourteen. "And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth".

"Satan, false religions, and worldly cares... the lack of money and/or the love of money... any multitude of hurdles, obstacles, and distractions causing a person to miss God. It can be found in this murky realm that we presently live in. Always remember, if it's not written in the Bible, it is not God speaking. Sounds so simple, right? Now consider this when Jesus said many are called, but few are chosen. Think, class, why would Jesus Christ say that? After all, is He not merciful, kind, compassionate, and fair?

Let's examine Matthew 7:22. This verse should answer questions about why so many different Christian belief systems will continue to miss the mark. Jesus spoke, 'Not everyone that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven. Many will say to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have not we prophesy in thy name? And in thy name cast out devils? And in thy name done many wonderful works?' "Let's pause here class, please listen and listen very carefully. Read with me the words of Christ". 'And then I will profess unto them, I never knew you. Depart from me, you workers of iniquity. Therefore, who so ever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock'.

Ladies and gentlemen, Jesus spoke a very ominous and terrifying future reality. We know that God cannot lie. We determined the only invisible God was manifested in the flesh. Redeeming sinners unto Himself, the Lord continues to warn Christians who do not obey His written instructions. Who would rather put on a front of sincerely living for God, as they continue making their hearts crooked, yet shining false holiness outwardly? Refusing to follow the Bible's directives, replacing gratifying self-centered motivations over faithfulness.

It really is quite unpretentious to determine if any church embraces the original mandate founded by the Lord. Those members and the ministry will always seek, learn, and follow Christ Word. If, however, the Word is cast off, changed, ignored, or altered in the slightest, by following philosophies of men, historical tradition, false teachers, or bogus prophets not lining up with Scripture. Then that particular congregation has no part with Jesus Christ's original church body or His future heaven.

"Let us, if you will, bring back our attention to the material on our white board. I'll will now convey a few foundational biblical insights of the New Testament. Afterward, we will adjourn to the baseball field or playground, whatever you choose. We can have a little fun outside in the beautiful outdoors. I made copies of what you see on the board. It is the very best straightforward outlay and most concise context, tutoring a person how to enter Heaven.

The initial four books of the New Testament called the Gospels. What one uncovers is the introductory life works of Jesus Christ, focusing on his death burial and resurrection. We do not find however; a single solitary soul being saved within the four Gospels covenant!"

Eugene out of nowhere raised his hand interrupting, before being called on by Brother Andean. "If no-one was saved in the Gospels "What about the thief on the cross? Did not Jesus state: 'Today you will be with me in paradise?' Dumfounded silence squelched the class in its tracks. Not only did Eugene's question seem contradictory to the teaching of Brother Andean's. If was a massive set back to the listeners pre-convinced notions of Eugene having even bother to pick up a Bible. Never mind, asking a very probing theological counter question to scripture logic. The good teacher only added an even greater unseen right-hook to the stunned students, answering Eugene in the following manner. "Very good young man! I'm immensely proud of you, you did very well!" Eyeballs outstretched, jaws slacked and nodding their heads up in down blankly. It was all the students could do but follow numbly along.

Let us examine together Eugene's inquisitive question closely. Three interesting theological aspects emerge. First, both thieves on the cross were Jewish, including Christ. Did not Pontius Pilate hand over Barnabas, the Jewish murderer, to his own Hebrew people, placing the Lord in his stead? Second, according to Roman Law, the Roman government was not about to crucify one of their citizens, certainly not without due process thereof. Unquestionably, never on a Jewish Passover high holiday, for this action would run counter-contractarian to Roman sensibilities as well as their Pagan religious worship. Lastly, the Roman court of law would never allow a group of Jews to crucify a Roman.

Why is all this important? The moment that thief cried out for mercy, asking Jesus to save him, he was repenting to his Lord, whom like himself was being crucified. All their lives, the thief and Jesus were orthodox, observant Jews. The thief followed the Old Testament directions for salvation. All that was needed at that point, after following Moses law while he remain alive, was to be a repentant Jew. Oh, how everything changed in the book of Acts! It was a religious tsunami! Not seen since the changing of the one world language at the Tower of Babble!

It should be noted no church was set up in the Gospels. Neither was the outpouring of Christ Holy Spirit. Furthermore, Jews alone were baptized in water by John the Baptist unto repentance. Not the Gentiles. So, it makes no scriptural sense people should seek salvation via the Gospels. Jesus' saving conversion was not possible until after His crucifixion, then ascending to heaven, afterward pouring out his Spirit on mankind on the day of Pentecost.

Leaving the Gospels' moving on to 'The Book of Acts' or "Actions of the Apostles". On our board, second column. It soon becomes more obvious; one must seek within this unique Bible book, in order to encounter the very first recognized church inauguration. How afterward the initial disciples of Jesus Christ practiced the required structure and method; for one's deliverance.

Inside, "The Acts of the Apostles" we see exactly how a person must be born again. This "Church Period" fulfilled the charter of John 3:5, on the day of Pentecost. Every single example of Gentile or Jewish conversion. Forever more, followed the proven pattern established in this book. Acts record the story of how Peter and Paul educated and built churches throughout the region and within Jerusalem. Jesus said that he would give the keys to heaven to Peter, confirming him the head of the church world. Whatever Peter bound, in earth or heaven, was a permanently recorded treaty. Every instance in the book of Acts -- all converts, of course -- repented and baptized in Jesus' name only, then received our Lord's Spirit with the initial evidence of speaking in tongues. There is simply no other way given by God, our very salvation birth through Christ Himself. God's blood, water and Spirit (fire) covenant".

My dear pupils, allow me to give you a quick example of devout men who believed their souls were prepared for eternal life, until they had an encounter with the Apostle Paul, some seventeen years later. "Paul having passed through the upper coasts came to Ephesus: and finding certain disciples, He said unto them, Have ye received the Holy Ghost since ye believed? And they said unto him, We have not so much as heard whether there be any Holy Ghost. And he said unto them, Unto what then were ye baptized? And they said, Unto John's baptism. Then said Paul, John verily baptized with the baptism of repentance, saying unto the people, that they should believe on him which should come after him, that is, on Christ Jesus. When they heard this, they were baptized in the name of the Lord Jesus. And when Paul had laid his hands upon them, the Holy Ghost came on them; and they spake with tongues, and prophesied. (Acts 19; 1-7) This story is a reminder God was extremely specific on how He ordain His salvation formula. That it was absolutely imperative that followers of John the Baptist, needed re-baptized into a new era away from Moses and the Law to Jesus Christ saving grace.

"Not one person in the entire Bible was found baptized in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. All were baptized in the name of Jesus only. Simply because the three titles of the New Testament God was God's name, "Jesus Christ". The Lord said, 'I come in my father's name and you receive me not'. Naturally, we all know the name of the Son of God is Jesus Christ. Lastly, Jesus told his followers he would send the "Spirit or the Holy Ghost in His name. The amount of compelling evidence clearly speaks of the Lords flawless epitomes for mankind to follow exact commands, relating to His salvation plan. After all, this is God's universe and created souls. If and when we can create our own universe and living beings, then we can decide how we run things.

The last column please class. The Epistles continue to this day. Given as directives to believers already saved by The book of Acts' salvation method. The Epistles were instructions on how to live, how to worship, church discipline, and how to develop the fruits of the Spirit. Moreover, we do not find one person baptized and or receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit in all the Epistles. The reason? They already repented, were baptized in Jesus' name, and received the Spirit previously. Otherwise, churches not found within His original body, could claim pseudo Apostolic church status. One can never use the epistles to develop a salvation plan!"

Finally, the entire Bible except for the book of Luke was written by Jews as God directed. All the true Jewish believers held zero merits with false Pegan gods ancient or modern. Certainly not the ancient Roman god. Now current false god, named Trinity. Jews from their birth were taught daily, this cherished cornerstone of eternal life: "Hear, O Israel: The LORD our God is one LORD: Jesus the one and only God manifested in the flesh. Made Himself a sacrifice for our eternal souls. John 20:28 - And Thomas answered and said to Him, "My Lord and my God!" Stop right here. Think about this! An orthodox Jew worshipping another Jewish man, Never! Thomas recognized the one and only true God, Jesus Christ.

The good brother looked up from his materials, scanning the teens before closing. "OK then, let us get ready to go outside. Remember to take several copies of this lesson and share it with your family and friends. Returning, we will touch on this fascinating subject once again".

A horrendous sound of screaming laughter encroached towards Mr. Andean's classroom, mixing with the frustrated voice of a desperate mother. It was as if everyone present in the room had psychic abilities, harmonizing in unison, "Here comes Lido!" Flying through the door, a miniature lightning bolt with curly red hair entered, squealing loudly, shooting between and under school desks throughout the room at a breakneck pace. Planted in the doorway blocking the exit. Stood a ruffled, wrinkly-clothed, and sweaty Brenda Baker. There was a comedian that once said, "There are days I could just eat up my sweet kids. And then there are other days I wish I had". Brenda was a new mom who discovered, shall we say, the touchy-feely approach to child discipline inside her high dollar books were not cutting it.

Teacher Andean gawked on the young mom's face, ascertaining the dooming judgment about to befall her son, fearfully and swiftly surrendered his belt. Having no desire whatsoever to be her next target. This day! Brenda would employ a brand-new type of loving-kindness, shaped in the form of a leather strap gripped in her hand. Commanding an undiluted authority that could stop an overweighed Rhinoceros on a dime, she shouted! "Lido Zerubbabel Baker, you have exactly, three seconds to come here and I mean business". The class repeated her child's middle name, "Zerubbabel?" Brenda replied by rolling her eyes: "Yes, I know, my husband is a little thick-skulled at times. He came up with that name".

One of the students informed the frazzled mom that her son was hiding under his desk, using voiceless facial and hand signals. Lido caught the informant in the act and blurted, "Why you're a big rat fink". The mesmerized class laughed softly, not wanting to trigger a vicious charge from the agitated momma bear, nearly fitted for a straitjacket. The entire group was motionless, watching Lido, hoping, and praying he had enough sense to obey. He looked up at his mom's exasperated face. Then noticing the leather belt in her hand as cold fear fell on his heart. Slowly crawling out of his foxhole. Walking towards his mum with his head bent downward. Appearing done in like a convicted cattle rustler heading for the gallows...

Within two feet of his mother's outstretched hand, Lido dropped to his hands and knees darting through the opening between her feet. Squealing giddily, escaping precipitously down the long hallway. They say the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world. Well if that's so, Lido's world was about to embark upon an apocalyptic catastrophe.

Brenda's face turned purple with rage and her eyes literally rolled back in her head. The speed of sound was broken that day retrieving her son after he circled back around, entering the same classroom. Her fearsome hand of judgment snatched the lad by his shirt collar. Struggling against mama bear's inescapable clasp, desperately clinging to the door frame spread-eagle. Both of his feet and hands clutching in a death grip for dear life. Like a frantic man calling from the gas chamber. Lido pleaded vehemently a last desperate plea to the students and Brother Andean. "Pray, brothers and sisters! Please pray"!

Suddenly, the condemned whelp swiftly disappeared into the furious vacuum of an infuriated parent. Leather strap sounds that mingled with appeals for mercy faded down the corridor. Blasting-cap laughter ignited the class with the intensity and sheer force of a category five hurricane. Pelting rain of hysteria rushed throughout ever expanded lungs, bouncing off the walls and ceilings for an undetermined amount of time. It was so fierce of a hilarity tears watered everyone's desk, including Brother Andean's. Young Lido learned a valuable lifelong lesson this day: "If one acts like a spoiled brat, there will be some future sad singing and slow walking".

# Chapter Nine  
 ** _"Zackary's Last Stand"_**

"Rarest of men are numbered with the very few who offer their life with integrity and honor intact".

-- Sheriff Lou Brecker.

Ira drifted back to this day's events at the Lander's farm. A glorious time indeed. Killing animals or humans constantly stirred her vengeful feminine desires. Let's not forget her son's first intimate experience they'd shared. Sort of shared. Enjoying the exceptionally good fortune of being his cunning coach for Azazel's "Day of Reckoning" exercise, into her secret society. As exciting as all that was, out on the near horizon, there were abundantly more pleasant plundering incentives. Ira dreamed of meticulous techniques, sweet demands, devices, and means associated with Azazel's discipline. Every controlling formula implemented for one purpose: using the most irresistible armament against humans to conquer or coerce. That being the weapon of pleasure between human beings, which having the potential to lay bare all defenses of those who are the most vulnerable, spiritually, mentally, and physically when receiving trusted gratification. Molding him in the final area of total yielded submission, by way of the bedchamber, simply thrilled Azazel's mother immensely.

Ira considered the sheer genius of her forefathers' approach of making the young juveniles relinquish every ounce of ego, purposefully and painfully breaking down every modicum of their free will. Just as the unwitting servant is hardened to the point where further punishment for unacceptable behavior becomes useless. Their insidious instructor places before them the rewarding indulgences of the body, a most potent approach for total obedience. History has disclosed that great men and women humble to the dust through the channel of trusted privacy. After all, Satan will not destroy a soul by force or war. Rather, he persuades by charming humans to partake in pleasures of unseen destruction.

Azazel made his course away from their home fort in the woods, planting MarDale's locket in a spot not too obvious. Unable from preventing his agitating anger projecting grotesque shadows on his mind. The young man was sharp and educated. What Mother forced upon his body could never be ratified by any standard. The opposing side of his conflicted thoughts, now that it happened, he could think of nothing else. Tolerating all types of cruelty, but not this manner of anguish. He found his thoughts constantly constructing detailed physical images of them together. Azazel clamped down on his screams. Powerless to stop himself from wanting her; mother became everything humanly wrong, yet, when together, it felt so right. Ira tormented him in a wholly unexpected arena of grief.

He underestimated her. Vicious Veil was a studious genius of brainwashing and forced conformity. Azazel had to give credit. She did not lie. The last phase of his training would be the most challenging. Ira failed to mention it's devastating lifelong grip, this must have been how Adam and Eve felt when their eyes were opened, discovering they were snookered into this earthly hell leaving paradise. Quickly formatting his ultimate escape from her in three simple steps. "Continue serving her as long as she likes, pleasing her every whim. Make her vulnerable by building her trust. Take her out".

Scrutinizing his watch, realizing that the sweep hand no longer moved! The battery was dead. Indeed! An unforeseen problem carting massive and deleterious consequences. Azazel's virginal first-time experience with cold clammy fear, together with self-doubt, horrified his machine-like mind, instantaneously grounded to an abrupt halt. Darting back to his mother's car, stopping her just before pulling away. Ira's eyes mirrored mimicked Azazel's terrified glare. Desperate to discover whatever happened to make her protégé shake uncontrollably, both fed off the panic each disclosed. Ghost white bare-knuckle terror adorned their faces with a crushing strength of an alligator in a death roll. "What in the world is wrong, my son?" Ira looked up into his soccer size pupils swimming in adrenaline with sweat rapidly pouring out of his pores. With a mouth full of dried cotton, he managed to get out: "My watch is dead." Both stark stiff still -- paralyzed in frozen shock.

Deadlocked! Like his lifeless watch. His cold, determined, ever calculating sociopathic brain was deadlocked! All was lost! An empire of arrogance, despising good, boasting, self-serving, and fierce hatred, crumbled promptly at the boy's feet. Raw sheets of consciousness pelted Azazel's heart, as a wicked rain going sideways. Finally understanding the concept of being in need and needing others. To treat others as yourself -- became a harsh illumination. Blistering his soul's eyes. His colossal buried guilt woke the hidden giant of empathy needed for his fellow man. Azazel ached with a deepening yearning, for the sweet waters of mercy and forgiveness. This new thing called moral consciousness welled up like a freshwater spring -- deep within the dry bones called Azazel. A hidden desert fountain bursting forth, after what felt like centuries of unrighteous thirst. Only nobility drink from these sweet waters for it demands the offering of one's self for the betterment of others.

Cornered like a frantic rat, he finally connected the dots of his lost compassion. In his otherwise warehouse empty spirit. This new overwhelming urgent awakening complicated his tungsten-steel hardened heart. As it sought for new-found justice and equity, making it impossible for Azazel not to denounce Ira and all the years of twisted cultivation to ensnare his mind. Murphy's Law was dominating space and time into nightmare specific functions, where both cohorts perceived this moment had turned into an invisible brutal motion avalanche. This shameless squad's vitality was consumed by boomeranging savage fear on the one hand and exploding fear on the other. A microcosm prophecy within immortality exposed this contingent's distorted history, thereby altering the present course of their warped reality. Comparatively, this was their moment -- comparable to D-Day, the Moon Landing or the crossing of the Red Sea came to mind.

Azazel's sudden awakening of reciprocal kindness towards his fellow man reversed every world view within him. Until now, life was cheap, including his own. Promptly, the value of his life was equal to his fellow man. An overwhelmingly crucial need for self-preservation for himself and others sprung forth. One solitary intense impulse gripped his heart: "Run! Seek shelter and a strong shoulder to lean on". His very being screamed for repentance that only God could offer!

His mother was in worse mental shape than him. Without synchronization, time loss not only destroyed their perfectly coordinated plan. Inevitable institutionalization of the twosome was apparent. If all that wasn't already bad enough, Azazel morphed into a slobbering stack of quivering flesh, with zombie eyes. Clearly, having a break from his highly trained and demented protocol. Fixed, unstable, and incoherent at the worst possible time. Ira felt stupidity washing over her cold, devious, and vindictive intellect. "Why had I not offered instructions to my son dealing with unexpected circumstances?" she rebuke herself.

Noticing Azazel was not only shaking, standing ramrod straight, mimicking a reed in a frozen pond, of all things, he also started weeping. His hand slowly raised, indicating a specific place in the distance. Her eyes followed his finger to the pointed horizon beyond. Both could see a sheriff cruiser approaching about a mile and a half away. Stepping out of the parked car. Grabbing Azazel by both shoulders, pivoting his mannequin-like body, compelling him to face her. His lifelong calamitous coach did something that was totally normal to him, nevertheless he flinched not. Raising her hand far above shoulder height with open palm, Ira swung downward striking him on the cheek with swift crippling force. He folded like a cheap deck chair to the ground, utterly stunned. Certainly not surprised.

Gazing downward on her Azazel like a cobra would a mongoose, she hissed venom authoritatively. "Now listen, butter bean! We have enough time needed to take a couple of breaths and formulate a newly perfected plan. Nothing is different except for the time constraints. When our Deputy dog arrives, he will of course investigate the farmhouse first. Following, he'll next search the farm perimeter, closing in on this area eventually. We don't want and must not have him near our hold up. When he arrives, you emerge from our hiding place in the bushes. Make your way unseen, until your positioned directly behind him. Pounce on your opportunity by rapidly cutting the back of his leg just above the knee, with my straight razor. But not too deep. We do not want him to bleed out. Before the Deputy can react, start singing 'Old' McDonald had a farm' song. but only the first line. Keep singing the same line repeatedly, no matter what happens. Fix that blank stare solid on your face! Got it?! Can you do this!?"

Azazel seemed to struggle with his answer, asking her instead. "Mother, what's your nickname?" Replying puzzled, "Why, VV, of course?" Disagreeing with bewilderment, "No, mom your other nickname I gave you...Oh, I can't remember now. What was it?" He seemed to search urgently inside his noodle. Promptly, in a eureka moment, "That's it! What's a female dog called?" VV answered, cutting herself off in mid-sentence, "Azazel, for goodness sake! A female dog is called a bi----". Impressively amused at how slick her son could be at times. "Well, I see, my little soldier is back". Ira could not help but laugh.

"Anyway honey, give me MarDale's locket with the picture of baby Janie. Remember? We lifted it at her funeral as MarDale stood to say his last good-byes?" Azazel affirmed by nodding his head robotically. "My champion be sure you have the chain hanging out of your shirt pocket. The cops must discover this accessory on your person". VV looked into his eyes and continued with a softer yet cautioning demeanor, "Son, you must feign insanity until I can retrieve you. No matter how they wear you down, get under your skin or frighten you, hold firm. We can finally take care of our remaining business, especially with those in town that oppose us and our associates. Do you understand that by sticking to the plan, we can both win?"

Ira was shrewd at reading people identical to a seasoned "Las Vegas" poker player. Her son was her only exception. Azazel could alter his face into a vacant flint slab, holding its form indefinitely. VV could not discern between her son's sarcasm, or when speaking as a conforming student adhering to her staunch teachings. "How ironic Mumsie. Pretending to be insane somehow became an arduous acting challenge for us both." He laughed within himself proudly maintaining his unoccupied face and voice. His mother continued anxiously, "We must get you inside that police cruiser to complete our goals. Vicious Veil smiled at her hope Azazel approvingly.

Deputy Roberts pulled up to the Lander's farmhouse, exiting his police car. Starting towards the front porch steps. Coming upon a wretched sight, he noticed on the ground, lying beside a few dead cats, lay a dog that had been skinned alive afterward wrapped in chicken wire, looking like an under-cooked shoulder roast. A bowl of cool water was placed a few inches out of the reach of the poor creature. The dog extended its tongue as far as it could, whining a miserable broken sound with each desperate attempt to quench its fevered thirst.

The young officer pulled his revolver out of its holster. Peering into the eyes of the pathetic beast, Zackary could faintly read an expression of gratitude on the canine's mug. As the revolver jumped in his hand, he simultaneously felt something brush against the back of his leg. A reactive instant burst of muscle memory energy and fear ignited. Lowering his stance, pivoting one hundred and eighty degrees, pushing the barrel of his 45-caliber pistol into the forehead of a young teen. (The small nasty razor cut would continue unperceived. When, much later, after his adrenaline and sweat stop flowing, noticing His shoe had fill with blood.)

In the next few milliseconds, Roberts swallowed a mountain of paralyzing terror, detecting his heartbeat pounding inside his index finger squeezing the hair-trigger. It was not the determination of the deputy that forestalled a fatal shooting. Instead, it was the vacancy signs that hung on both eyes of the lad singing a single line, "Old McDonald had a farm..." repeatedly, coupled with the sheer lack of reaction from the teenager, prevented Zackary from squeezing the trigger. The lad had a titanium void glare as he continually resaid the first line of the song: persistently, in a monolithic voice. Zackary was spooked to the core.

Regaining his composure, the good man escorted Azazel to his cruiser. Looking down on the shell of a noticeably young teen, Roberts observed an object within the adolescent's top pocket. Pulling out a fine gold chain connected to a gold adornment on the chains end. The officer thought he recognized to whom the locket belong. Steadily lifting the ornament's face open. Scrutinizing the contents inside, the locket held a picture of little Miss Janie. Silently Zackary mouthed his words: "This is MarDale's!" Reaching for the cruiser microphone, officer Roberts keyed the dispatch center, requesting Sheriff Brecker to contact him on the secured radio channel. As soon as possible! Glaring at the doll-like face of a boy, who nearly got his head shot off! Still incessantly singing 'Old McDonald had a farm'. In addition to this nightmare called the Lander's property. The icing on officer Robert's cake. Was the possible evidence of little Janie's locket placing MarDale at the crime scene? Just may be the springboard to all this madness. It just seemed to Zackary today would have been a good day to stay home.

Deputy Roberts begun his survey of the farm walking around the perimeter, making notes preparing for what would be the largest crime scene, Clearmound county has ever seen. "Zack, this is Lou Brecker. We've opened our secure channel. Go to channel two on your hand-held or option four if you're near the car". The secure radio frequency helped law-enforcement agencies and individuals, granting private conversations for the chosen ears. Keying his hand-held microphone. "Okay Lou, give me a moment to get to the car radio. I'm more comfortable security wise on channel four. By the way, I have a suspect in custody I need you to check on as well".

Approaching his police car, Zackary thought he could hear the pitiful whelp in the backseat, carrying on a conversation with what sounded like a woman. The Deputy was mystified. How was it possible for this child, who was in a catatonic state, suddenly talk normally with another person?" Inching closer to the rear door, his nightstick bumped the car, tipping off Azazel. Straightaway, this very strange boy reverted into the vacant lifeless like condition in which he was first found. Conjuring up his oppressive fear from earlier today. Roberts muttered to himself. "He's a great actor, this little chap. I wonder who's been training him? There's something obviously not right here". The Deputy's intuition affirmed to him, alongside his training. Not a single piece of this huge puzzle fell into place.

Opening communications once again, "Sheriff Brecker this is Robert's, please disregard secured channel four. Call all clear, inform dispatch to reset all radio frequencies back to channel ninety-nine. Radio number ninety-nine was not an official law enforcement communications channel. This call number was appointed as a stealth code. Informing all law enforcement in the state and county areas. Signifying that an officer believes there's a possible hidden danger to his or her life. Back-up was needed straight away, if not sooner! Lou forced himself to acknowledge his officer in his most professionally composed voice, "Affirmative Zackary, wrap-up your investigation and head back. I'll send the crime-scene lab out to your twenty".

Sheriff Brecker muted his mike as he barked out orders with grim urgency. "We need all available personnel to Deputy Roberts location. Now! Contact EMT! Bring an ambulance and the State Bureau of Investigation. Please, inform the Bureau to bring cadaver dogs. How about someone gets a hold of Judge Donald Borden II. Ask if he will prep some search warrants to enable us to collect evidence on this property".

Everyone standing in the room with Sheriff Brecker recognized the magnitude of what he was requesting. A solemn and quiet moment had passed before Lou responded on the radio, "All right Deputy Roberts, we will be there as soon as we can. In the meantime, start with the yellow tape walk. Ensure to cover as many pertinent positions as you can. Secure the crime scene. Do not allow any civilians or news media whatsoever on the site. We don't need a public circus damaging any potential verification proof.

In the meantime, since you are certified in criminal photography, start taking crime scene photographs. I know you're fully aware of how to do your job. No disrespect Zachary, I'm just re-iterating so we're both on the same page. Begin from the north end of the property work your way south. Then, from the east side of the property work your way west. Secure obvious evidence or signs of violence".

Roberts confirmed and then inquired, "Coach, we have a problem here. Do you remember introducing me to Ran Japheth? As I recall, the family was sort of the hermits of Clearmound?" Lou responded back, "Sure, I know who you're talking about". Pausing briefly Zack replied, "I'm not certain, I believe I have their son in custody. What was his name again?" Lou answered, recalling his past encounters with the Japheth's.

"Well, I haven't seen those folks in a long while. But I do remember their son Azazel. Believe me, he would give anybody the heebie-jeebies. Whatever you do Zackary, do not turn your back on that boy! I've been doing some research into Ira, his mom. Her background is nearly non-existent. We found a social security number, but we cannot locate her birth certificate. Zackary, every time I visited the Japheth's, Ran's wife never ever settled right with me. That's every-time I spoke to those people".

What was heard next in the dispatch room over the intercoms. Could be best described as a frozen shock while suffocating in slow-moving wet cement. Every law-enforcement person and staff. Snapped into rigid form, frozen solid in their last body position. Hearing with their ears but not believing their heart. The engrossing and all-encompassing statement from Deputy Roberts:

"Shots fired! I need..."

If the amount of informational recoil seized within two seconds upon a group stunned by horrific news, could be calculated, the energy would measure beyond that of any distant star. Altogether the soldiers briefly scanned each other's face. Without verbal command, all blue-line actors understood exactly their cue, place, and action method. Collectively the tedious training and laborious study-time jelled together, to save a badge-wearing family member from death. This mighty catalyst was the inferno of compassion and brotherhood fusing the undivided unit of mutual rescue of one and all. The impeccable highly orchestrated constabularies were in motion. Woe unto those who would hinder.

"Zack, do you read me! Zack, Deputy Roberts, stop messing around! Zack, please! Say something, anything"! Brecker's heart sank to the bottom of his shiny black Patton leather shoes. Switching to the normal radio channels, opening all frequencies county and statewide, announcing vehemently. "This is Sheriff Brecker of Clearmound county. We have an officer in need of assistance, shots fired. I repeat shots fired! Location, at Route two, mile marker forty-four, located at what is known as the old Lander's farm".

Analyzing over Lou's shoulder with morbid curiosity and lifting slowly above the Sheriff's head. A mysterious creature transferred through the ceiling and then roof of the police station into the inviting atmosphere. About seventy feet off the ground, crossing over the geographical landscape of Clearmound at the speed of hate, it headed towards the expanse of farmland of the Lander's. Slowly descending over the frame of Ira Japheth, landing most stealthily upon her long blonde hair.

Surveying the surrounding mangled mutilation of dead animal bodies, this creature, having the audacity to once war against God, cast out of heaven thousands of years ago. Extended its twisted and grossly mangled claws that pierced past flesh and bone, deep into the temple of the soul, the demon whispered. "Ira, the hornet's nest is most certainly stirring. You got work to do for us". Smiling iniquitously, "Ira my cute little fly in the web. Our victory remains only a few steps away from total intended destruction. This is the only way. The only right way. You are justified!"

Observing Azazel and Deputy Roberts, confirming to herself all was well. Her plan seemed to be going off without a hitch. Laying on her belly, propped up on her elbows. Feeling the cool ground through the blanket, secured in her hiding place. Frustratingly, she simply could not relax. What was nagging her? Then a sharp bolt of sickening recall shot across both sides of her gray-matter, seizing up her mental brakes cold, becoming bug-spitting desperate. Recollecting frantically... "My handbag, it is gone! But my purse was right by my foot. No! I got distracted! Did I leave it somewhere on the ground?" Ira was sickeningly stuck with a very problematic situation. Surely, there would be more law-enforcement arriving sooner than later. Her purse held every shred of evidence the court system needed to stretch her neck. Swinging like a rope purse from the gallows. Replaying frenziedly in her head all of her previous back-tracks. That's it! I talked to Azazel last!

Scurrying along the tree line, low and silent. Circling around getting herself near the parked police car. Ira peered through camouflaged bushes. Positioned close, but not close enough, yet still hidden from the sheriff's deputy talking on his radio. Slithering to a better vantage point, Ira scoped out her enhanced view. Shocked! Seeing her handbag perched on top of the cruiser's trunk lid. Changed her whole tactical implementation of recon and recovery. Switching to full combat mode, Ira formulated in her mind a plan of the best course of action. In a mere few seconds. Simple but harsh.

Raising herself upright, straightened her shoulders, after a few deep breaths, bolted wildly towards the deputy. Ira screamed at the top of her lungs. "Help me, help me! They're going to kill me! help me please!" Arms stretched out like an injured child seeking their mother's embrace. Zackary was no doubt startled to the point he nearly dropped his car's audio mic. Rushing into his arms, Ira's crying and begging was an exquisite performance to behold. It was a performance any Academy award winner would've been proud to accomplish. Zackary put his arm around Ira's shoulder. Doing his level best to comfort and calm her down. While endeavoring to retrieve any helpful information. He sat her down on a nearby log.

Ira snatched the Deputy's gun quicker than an uncoiled cobra from the holster. Flipping it in her hand with the expertise of a slight-of-hand artist. Rapidly released the safety firing the first round. A slug cut through his right thigh, inches below his bulletproof vest. Thankfully, only a non-life threatening, through and through flesh wound. Nevertheless, the hellfire burning sensation of a bullet passing through one's body caused Zackary to winch in heavy pain. Stumbling backward, he dived for cover. Managing to find refuge in the same tree line from which Ira had appeared, fumbling for his radio then shouted, "Shots fired. I need ...!"

A violent almost hysterical scream drilled Zackary's ears. Standing beside his cruiser, with his forty-five-caliber firearm pointed directly at the teen's head. Retaining a near-perfect demon façade screwed onto her face. "Listen, you slimy pig, say one more word on that radio! I'm spraying this kids' brains all over the backseat of your cop car!" Zackary whispered to himself, "Join the police force they said. You can help people in your community. With the added fringe benefit of getting shot by a psychopath". Azazel's mother ramped up the retort, "Here's what we are going to do. In the next few seconds, you will crawl out from under your rock, or it's going to get super ugly for the kid!" As if scripted (And it was), Azazel began more earnestly yelling and crying for help.

Deputy Zackary intuitively declined the first offer. He had to determine if this was the real deal or if he was getting set up. Either way, little miss daddy issues could suck lemons at this point. It was about that time she shot a round into the air. "Look, I know what you're thinking. You're contemplating as soon as you step out from cover, I will cap you. The fact is you got me in a bind as well. I may have you pinned down. You hold the advantage. In that, you have all the time in the world. My itty-bitty benefit, I shot your sorry carcass. You could very well bleed to death before your backup gets here. It's obviously a flesh boo-boo, moving around as well as you have. However, you're leaving blood trails. Therefore, my pumpkin pie, you ain't got a scratch a band-aid could fix". Zachary spoke to himself, "Doggone. The girl is good. Oh, where were you before I got married?" Ira bellowed, "I'm running out of time and patience. If you don't step forward in three seconds, my only choice is to kill the only two witnesses to my crimes.

Get this deputy dog, guess who will go first? That's right Einstein, easy pickens tyke here. Next, I will hunt you down like a poorly shot eight-point deer crawling away. Once I track your blood trail, I'll take my time killing you. Who knows? I just might have pity. You may just get lucky cowboy". Laughing while cocking her head, Ira continued, "Never mind, I'll just shoot you in the heart". Zackary muttered, "What a way to go. Shot in the middle of nowhere. Why? I forgot to put a jumbo size case of Midol in my cruiser".

Mrs. Japheth transformed from the over-the-edge psychopath, unexpectedly into a Southern Belle, emerging for her debutante. "Please, sugar, do hurry. My little blossom, I so very desperately need your keys. Daddy will be fit to be tide if y'all cause me to arrive late for the ice cream social". Both Zachary and Azazel were spellbound! Mesmerized by the transformation of Ira 's personality and literal physical appearance. It was as if she could shed one serpent skin and put on another in an instant. If that did not satisfy her, she would place the first back on or slay another snake of her pleasing.

Regardless, as Zackary saw it, he had no choice. This was the only conceivable way the hostage would have any chance of survival. As if sounding the last toll of an iron cathedral bell. Ira broadcast her last warning. "Johnny Law let me put it this way. I need your keys to your car. I don't want to kill anyone. But as I see it, you two -- this kid and you -- are the only souls that can testify against me in court! I only want to make as much distance from both of you, NOW! Stepping out of the tree line, limping towards a crazed woman. Zackary tossed his keys in one fluid motion while extending the finger of hospitality. Ira smiled, brightly accepting the Deputy's welcoming gesture. Leveling the gun then fired. Thus, began the eternal last seconds of bent warped time. Every near-death experience or hyper adrenaline rush causes the same effect. Time grinds into a near-complete stop. Each negligible detail recorded in deliberate freeze frames, as the brain desperately seeks an answer to its demise.

Officer Robert's watched the trigger move as the hammer released, striking the pin that engages the bullet's primer. When the muzzle flash enlarged out of the end of the barrel, he could clearly see the vapor trail behind the bullet. Every encompassing incremental action, movement, smell, and sound seemed to take days to unfold. Crushing pain jolted lose the pillars of time, space, and light back to their original foundations. As the shot impacted, his body elevated slightly. He repealed rapidly stumbling backward. Roberts thought to himself, "Yes sir, just like our police academy training". Thankfully, the bulletproof vest did its job. With fortitude plus clever thinking, Zackary intentionally fell to the ground quicker than an acorn falling from an oak. The devastating pain made it all but impossible not to cry out.

Moving not a single hair fearing this insane woman could and would pump the remaining rounds into his body. He felt adrenaline reducing as he became stiff and filled with cold excruciating discomfort. Possessing the hardened nerve of an ironworker snaking steel, encouraging himself for the next encounter of pain, "Come on Zack, hold still, and don't scream. Wait for your chance. 'Freak-out Franny' is bound to drop her guard. Great! Either my foot peed itself or I have blood in my shoe".

Ira ran to the back of the police cruiser and collected her purse. Scampering back to her son: "You're doing great, my beautiful little man. Remember, continue acting like you're cracked. I need to take care of some business. As soon as this blows over, I will visit you in the psychiatric ward". Ira's voice trailed off noticing Azazel was jaw slack staring, resembling a surfer looking for and then finding the perfect wave, except, the surfboard is floating in a bathtub. Reaching in gently stroking her son's hair while kissing his forehead. Ira determined that at this stage, her son was not prepared for the type of violence he just witnessed. Azazel's mother was capable of tenderness when needed. After all, even lion cubs need assurance. "You be my big powerful man and I will work this all out".

Her honed senses were at their peak. Promptly ascertaining a reflection swiftly moving on the surface of her son's glasses. Discerning his countenance, registering tight fear. Spinning and extending the gun blindly outwardly, quick as an angry viper, indiscriminately fired a shot. Zackary was running full force towards her, leaping in the air. The gun slug struck him on the left forehead, knocking him out cold, as the momentum of his rag-doll body sailed towards Ira. The sheer weight and momentum of the big man's limp body crashed into her smashing them both to the ground. Ira was smeared flat like a popped birthday balloon, laying wedged under the severely injured officer. Hearing her son screaming from the back of the cruiser.

"Mom! Mom, can you hear me? Oh no! You killed this man. He is bleeding very badly. Mother, please answer me. I need you. I'm scared!" Azazel was unraveling like a ball of yarn. VV managing to roll out from under Zackary, staggered to the window of the police car, gasping: "Azazel, please calm down. I have everything under control". Ira walked over to the body. Deputy Zackary seemed to her a mangled piece of discarded paper. After searching, then finding the cruiser keys opening the backdoor. Azazel lunged out, wrapping his arms around his mom's waist as he shook violently.

Rubbing his head, comfortingly speaking encouragement into his ear, she whispered: "Listen, my little sugar worm. You need to take a couple of moments to calm yourself. I don't have much time. Stop worrying. We will still work this out". Wiping tears from his eyes with his arm, the other still around his mother's waist, gazing upward into her eyes like a love-starved puppy. "Mom, you killed a Sheriff Deputy. What are you going to do?"

Lovingly gazing down upon her beloved son, caressing his hair. Azazel felt a slow sprung bear trap of fingers, steadily and deliberately tightening on his scalp. His skull smashed violently into the police car's back window. Falling towards the ground, sliding down the back door, landing on his side. The world spun in a counterclockwise motion. Anchoring his cognitive senses was much like a two-legged cat, attempting to pin down a jaybird.

At last, the universe returned to bubble. Acutely aware being face to face with the unconscious deputy. Pitying himself thinking, "This man is the fortunate one. I am more than certain this community servant never encountered the tortures that my mom had put me through".

Mrs. Ira's vocal demeanor and body posturing mimicked the primness of a sophisticated woman preparing for the opera. "Honey, believe me, from here on, there awaits nothing but rewards. My dear pea pod do this one last thing for me and I guarantee you, you'll be given everything a young man has ever dreamed. Just remain in a semi-catatonic state and keep repeating your catchphrase. I'll go home and make your father happy. Afterward, we will come and get you". Ira was getting short on time. Kissing Azazel on the forehead just before leaving. She would just make it home before her husband Ran.

Acutely aware of Ran's eye for details. The tiniest element disjointed in the family's routine, put him into a retro-detective mode. If not soothed and assured. Eventually, he'd discover the Maltese Falcon. Nevertheless, Ira was in an unusual chipper mood. It was a banner day! Taking inventory of the "Plan" within her diseased head, she spun into a brief but deeply disturbing insane chortle.

Day tripping inside a head journey back to her past, as she drove home: Ira's revenge was conceived and carefully nurtured following her mother and father's dual suicide. In their last will and testament. Ira's sister Letha was made executor over the huge estate and holdings, coupled with power of attorney over her. Ira spoke out loud to herself. "I was given a small allowance once a month, of a mere twenty thousand dollars. A tiny pence I would gladly surrender. If granted my one whish. All I really coveted, obsessed, and demanded was the family farm: the exclusive farm island of childhood safety I had ever experienced, was snatched from my very grasp! Figures! Letha owns all! Never mind the many violent encounters, stalking, and gross mischief. Letha had no right placing an all-encompassing restraining order on me.

If all that was not bad enough, the state forced me to sign a contract stating that if I cause any future mischief, Letha could and would! Place me permanently as a ward of the state mental facility. Her legal contracts are bogus! I refused to sign them at first! Regretfully, my spirit guide, Temeluchus, enticed me into it. So, you see, I was forced to comply.

I really don't understand my sister. Did she not suffer horribly with me? We had the same parents allowing men to bind and abuse our bodies, all while mother and father watched a movie and ate popcorn in the same room. Why did Letha abandon me, refusing my dream of the farm? I will make her sign over the farm deed. She can buy any property in the entire world. I am not asking for much. It was the only summer oasis for us girls -- free from our abusive parents and all those rotten men. I remember the kind local adults, Christian counselors, and the protective parents who ran the greatest summer camp in the world -- on our farm property. Even the local disadvantaged children were invited. My sister and I still remember getting wholesome hugs from men who wanted just that! A loving embrace from attention-starved and broken children.

Ira made her way back home. Arriving inside, taking off her clothes. Hopped into the shower, realizing her husband, Ran, would be looking for answers. After arranging her hair, just the way he liked it, putting on her best perfume then wrapped a small towel around her body. Ran was met by Ira standing between the kitchen and the living room. His wife looked at him with a sultry promise on her face. Not saying a word, walking purposefully towards her husband until standing face-to-face before him. She was well versed in the animalistic side of men's carnal desires. Highly skilled in the persuasion of human males. A golden genuineness can be found in the adage: "A man pursues a woman until she catches him".

# Chapter Ten  
 ** _"When Pigs Fly"_**

"Open rebuke is better than secret love. Providing the term "love" is thoroughly understood".

-- Pastor More.

Sounds of squeaking, muffler raddling, busted shocks, and ticking valves rumbled down the empty streets. The young Preacher, driving in his 1954 f-150 Ford smelled of aged leather and intoxicating aftershave. Thought within himself what the best possible approach was for his mission of Church discipline. After a conference with senior clergy and guardians, a confirming agreement was made, with the stipulation that the elders would be witnesses, ensuring proper retribution was doled out. The offended parties never thought the delinquents as an incurable concern. Most times they were a welcomed distraction to an otherwise boring municipality existence. With all things considered, now was a time for intervention before the two in question escalated to the point of severe damage.

Pastor More often thought. "How misguided the majority of people were regarding Christ. Yes, Jesus was kind, loving, and merciful. But if one were to study just a little bit, most would conclude that Jesus Christ had a profoundly serious and somber side. For instance: Jesus went up to Jerusalem and found in the temple those that sold oxen and sheep and doves, and the changers of money sitting. And when he had made a scourge of small cords, he drove them all out of the temple, with the sheep, and oxen; poured out the changers' money, and overthrew the tables; Saying unto them that sold doves: Take these things hence; make not my Father's house an house of merchandise. And his disciples remembered that it was written, the zeal of thine house hath eaten him up.

Jesus made a whip and literally started beating and throwing people out of the most prestigious Jewish synagogue of that time, destroying property, and boldly reclaiming His Holy location for its rightful purpose, the salvation of people's souls. The temple never intended by God to be a ways and means of enriching corrupt religious leaders. Who extorted money from poor pious Jews or evicted gentiles from their rightful spiritual place altogether?" Pastor Brian spoke out loud to himself, "Open rebuke is better than secret love".

Pulling into the driveway, Eugene and Eric flew out of Eric's parent's front door, jumping over the steps and running full blast to the truck. Looking like two Chihuahuas lapping up gallons of coffee, both fiercely competing to finish or speak the first sentence, "Woah, whoa boys, slow down, no need to get hurt". Pastor More could not help but smile at these two adorable mutts. He was not looking forward to the unfolding future penalty the double "E" team faced. "Okay, okay! Take turns speaking, even if you must flip a coin. By all means, do so. How about we head over to the 'Red Barn Restaurant', and grab us a jumbo size breakfast?" Eat as much as you can. We might not have time for lunch".

Eric and Eugene could not believe their incredible luck. Both sets of parents seemed to be hopeless alcoholics. Neither were abusive; instead, they were present in the body and drowning in spirits. When the scarcest of treats appeared, especially from a beloved minister offering a free hot meal, it felt like opening presents on Christmas morning. The preacher's heart burned within him. The boys were starved for attention only a strong decent man could proffer. An intelligent insightful male, able to paint a portrait of a good father, the preacher earned a dual master's degree in psychology and a Doctorate in theology. Frequently, neglected children seek undue attention by pulling pranks. Why? Simple. Even negative attention is better than none. Still, as the two brothers in crime committed their last lark. Concerned surrogates gathered with Pastor More, all agreeing this was the boys' pivoting point.

Involvement was paramount. In a typical non-supportive gesture, Eric's parents confirmed, "Leave us alone! If" yall need to beat the tar out of them, y'all have our blessings". Slamming the front door in the minister's face and some troubled parishioners, collectively concluding that without pseudo-parental guidance. The young men were on a fast track to self-destruction. Pastor Brian was reminded of a story he heard while in college.

It told of a shepherd who cared for a wondering lamb who continually ran off from the sheepfold. It is a sheep's very nature to listen and trust in their shepherd's voice, disregarding all other human orations. The sheep unequivocally heed only the commands of their loving and kind caretaker, except on the rare occasion. When a maverick sheep, who habitually wanders off into dangerous areas thinking the grass is greener. The way-ward lamb is unable to grasp the perils of predators, poisonous plants, and polluted or stagnant waters. Disregarding foolishly the only one who protects and genuinely loves them.

To save the stubborn lamb from itself, unfortunately, the only way to restrain the creature from wanderlust. Out of necessity, after exhausting all other options, the heartbroken shepherd must break one of the legs of the young lamb. The babe, from that point forward, becomes relegated to remaining within the safety of the sheep herd. The obvious comparison could be seen within the nature of humans. Just like the roaming lambs believing they know better than the God Shepherd, who manifested and died to save them. It just seemed to the clergyman if ever the day arrived when mankind had accomplished the feat of creating his own universe, at that very crucial point, humans would be vindicated, disregarding the good so earnestly offered by the hand of God. Nevertheless, He is a perfect gentleman. The Lord will never infringe upon any person's free-will gift. However, God will not be mocked! Every soul will make an account of their life given them.

The "Red Barn Restaurant" was the epicenter for high drama for the locals, as well as the regular out-of-town truck drivers, businesspeople, and now and again drifter: A place where friends gathered, marriages dissolved, and engagement parties took place. Teens came to check out who was the prettiest, smartest, or coolest. Where young people flaunted their youthful vain superiority.

It was as well a reflective environment for the middle-aged, recounting and then evaluate where their lives went wrong and how they could recoup. A delightful location of observation for the aged, who silently laughed to themselves, watching the younger generation lacking the perceptiveness of the beauty of life, the need of gratefully accepting each day, heedless if this day was good, bad, or indifferent. Life's daily reward should be slowly unwrapped and thoroughly enjoyed within it.

It was a secure setting where young mothers needing an adult conversation with peers keeping their sanity of parenthood in check. And yes, it was a place of politics, religious discourses, and broken lives. In short, the gathering of the many human clay pots of water in Clearmound.

As the boys were eating their breakfast, watching Pastor More, they became astonished by the number of people who made a point to stop briefly and talk. Encouraging as well as guiding each visitor, the good man's food became cold and uneatable. Nevertheless, he steadfastly remained openly receptive, kind and patient towards all. Eugene and Eric's hearts stirred, realizing the preacher, was an enormously powerful man of loving character with godly understanding. The boys, for the first time, had their eyes opened, standing outside of their own circumstances. Considering their background and trials they face with their parents; something was changing within them. They could not precisely define how they were waking up to themselves. Finally realizing there just may indeed be a better way for them, both boys agreed among themselves that choosing Pastor More as a mentor would be the golden ticket.

As the trio made their way out of the restaurant, the man of the cloth informed the terrible twins, "I have a surprise in store for you. However, before we arrive at the destination, I would need to blindfold you both". Anticipation gripped the young men with excited joy as they became ecstatic, completely unaware of the impending "Comeuppance" on the near horizon. If the double "E" team were knowledgeable of their plight, they would have kicked out the truck's windshield, jumping allowing the preacher to squash them like roadkill. Eric & Eugene's last hoax produced unforeseen sorrow upon their latest victims. A running theme among preteen boys. Is the challenge of locating then participating in the most disgusting elements of the human experience? Features of which continues as a progressing leitmotif within practical jokes. That is perpetually choosing shock and hide as their weapon of mass destruction.

Following a reconnaissance run, a worthy target was chosen. Mr. Dean was a cranky old man. According to the youth's insightful assessment, who in the past evicted Eric and Eugene several times from his apple tree. Making no bones about it. The very next time they were caught, he would be more than willing to call the authorities. Therefore, swift retribution was required. On a mission of correcting the older man from his mean despicable ways, on one late night, a paper bag was filled with compressed newspapers, then positioned on the front porch. Adding insult to injury, a generous amount of molasses was placed on the outside doorknob as well.

As the paper bag was set ablaze, a hasty escape ensued. Quickly hiding behind nearby bushes savoring the unfolding mayhem, the startled Mr. Dean rushed out the front door, only to be greeted by medium-large flames on his porch. Instinctively, he began stomping the fire out with his clod hoppers. It just doesn't take a whole lot of time for a human being to register what they have really stepped in! Exasperated and rattled, old man Dean was covered in ashes, singed hair, and newspaper fragments. In a loud proclamation of vengeful rage, he declared, "If I catch whoever did this, I will fry their backside so hard that their grandchildren will have blisters on their bottoms!"

Eric and Eugene peered out from the bushes. It seemed as if their heads would explode with the pressure from the laughter, they frantically held in. Watching Mr. Dean stomping out a five-alarm paper fire was only the beginning. After turning and reaching for the door handle, latching on to a large gooey amount of molasses. Immediately, his shoulders slumped, standing stooped with exhaustion.

The elder gentleman with a voice of a man seeking the tiniest thread of pity, next spoke something totally unexpected for the duo's hearing... dejectedly exhaling with a bone-weary voice, "Eric and Eugene, please leave us alone. My wife is dying". Carefully opening the front door, Mrs. Dean could be heard screaming. "Honey come here! Our barn is on fire!" A fire that happened forty years prior when they were first married. The front door shut silently with the heaviness of a coffin lid.

Inside, Mrs. Dean's frail constitution simply could not tolerate an overload of sensory information. She was in a downhill slide, battling Alzheimer's. As her spider web of memories began snapping one or two threads at a time, it was evident that the mesh of snarled remembrances subsisted on the thinnest of hope. It was a simple matter of a brief time before all fell to the ground in a tangled heap.

Eric and Eugene stood in disbelief and tormented quietness. Neither spoke as they walked, circling the town, losing its cotton candy joy for them. For what? A less than humorous gag? A sorrowful revelation became crystal clear to their haunted minds: "Unless everyone is laughing, it truly is a bad joke". Forever, the boys remain subjected to a sweet elderly couple's broken hearts and gut-wrenching shrieks. It was a fitful night of sleepless guilt. Eric and Eugene would never be the same. Part of their youth died on the front porch of Mr. and Mrs. Dean, as both discovered together that all actions have consequences -- for one and all.

Arriving at the selected secret destination, with the blindfolded youth, expecting a wonderful surprise. Pastor Brian More stepped out of his truck and positioned the boys upwind from the cesspool collection area of the pig farm. Several men, along with the preacher, scooped up wet pig feces. The strategy was to ask them to remove the blindfolds, then simultaneously pelt them with guano grenades. Now, no one knows for sure if the next unforeseen disaster was divine intervention or a one and a billion chance, as all six men filled their hands up with ordure, the wind shifted powerfully.

The air-filled to the brim with irritating plant dust, blowing from the adjoining freshly mown fields. Invading nostrils reacting because of overload irritation. Of course, that's what nostrils do. When a human's sneeze, it's a natural defensive reaction for a person to quickly raise one's hand covering their mouth and nose. Just before the men were about to feces fire squad the hooligans, the coordinated group sneeze of evil synchronization cause outrages results. At the very instant they sneezed, the dirty half dozen shortsighted, self-righteous brothers slapped their own noses and mouths with the pungent, putrid pig pooh droppings.

It's this type of moment(s) of unbelievable circumstances, causing one to re-examine actions and motive -- where vanity with arrogance forces one to conclude, just maybe, maybe, whether the victim or the villain. Who really has all the answers? The amount of vomit that the heaving half dozen spewed on each other was phenomenal. The duo struggled between repentance and death-grip laughter as they witnessed what seemed the best practical joke ever performed -- absent of human intervention. To this day, these church brothers could not determine if the young boys were protected by angels or if a false sense of righteous judgment were put in check by God.

The six-man pig pooh firing squad was in a horrible mess. Scrambling for the water spigot. None adhered nobly, rather preferring one's own self over others. A struggle broke out as each desperately fought for a cleansing, spraying off their bodies and faces, washing mouths out crammed with hog crud, and juddering in the wintry morning air. Brother John Smith remembered that he had purchased a bottle of mouthwash just before arriving. Bolting to retrieve the mouth-rinse for everyone's mutual breath rescue. Tentatively, all returned to semi-equilibrium.

The young men next recounted how their last prank committed on the Dean couple was the ultimate breaking point. Following a sleepless night, both remembered what the good preacher taught. True repentance to God means receiving forgiveness from the Lord. With the stipulation given to Him never to repeat that same type of evil. Further, they conveyed to the miserable six-man turd firing squad that early yesterday morning. The two friends returned to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Dean. With tearful apologies, promising never to bring harm to them again.

To everyone's surprise, Mrs. Dean was having a good day. Unexpectantly, in short order the group sat around the living room fireplace. Singing hymns to the Lord God. Cookies, freshly squeezed cow's milk, and lushes' snacks were shared by everyone. The double "E" team made the Dean's couple their cherished friends. Both were earnestly invited back. Mr. Dean even conceded that the youth could pick as many apples as they wanted.

The Shepherd and the Elders stood dumbfounded for they could not determine what's worse: the vile taste in their mouth, or the horrendous smells of their clothing. The Brothers agreed that the nastiest of all was the absolutely filthy, condemning punishment they had in mind for the young boys. The choice was easy. The fact was all these men identified excuses not to befriend or spend time with the young neglected lads. The pastor gathered all participants, holding hands, praying, and crying out to God for wisdom and mercy. "Surely a child shall lead them".

Pastor More, with great conviction, recognized that his prideful intellect did not impress God. Noticeably, he stood as an unwise administrator, delegating rewards, and punishments. Yes, even a preacher is sent back to the drawing board of correction. "Furthermore, we have had human fathers who corrected us, and we paid them respect. Shall we not much more readily be in subjection to the Father of spirits and live?" -- Hebrews 12:9

The piggy smeared group slowly walked towards the vehicles in the distance, reflectively pondering how God can use disasters in life as a method for growth. The double "E" team learned that if a good-natured joke caused harm, they should relinquish the thought. Learning forgiveness is not a weakness; instead, it's purposed to strengthen and heal. The preacher, on the other hand, was humbled, realizing a college diploma will not stand in the light of common sense or prudence. Also, two wrongs do not indeed make a righteous right.

As the downtrodden malodourous ensemble made their way, a sudden flying indistinguishable jolt stiffened bodies in unison. A single pig butt bomb denigrated its way across the back and side of the preacher's head. A hush fell, silencing all sound in the known universe, plummeting as mute thunder on the group's ears. A large lump of smudge swine muck remained as plastered evidence of impending doom for the unwise assassin. Turning, facing the frozen faces, sternly peering into the eyes of each hombre, scanning for the slightest clue, Parson spoke with the authority of Moses, bringing the ten commandments down from Mount Sinai, "Follow me!"

Trailing with knees knocking the men rue the day, the preacher stepped inside a large empty pig pen that was packed with copious amounts of ready-baked boar apples. "Gentlemen, a time has arrived where it becomes necessary to gather stones, for one's Goliath. We shall determine who among us is king pig pooh plaster. On the count of three. Keeping our small circle tight. I will give the command to fire at will". What followed could only be described as a nasty set of circumstances. For the pigs that witness this excrement excitement, these humans became an embarrassment to the swine culture. Even pigs had better sense than to play with used toilet toys.

A great amount of laughter and clamorous reactions erupted especially when someone wildly missed a pooh cue, hitting an unintended target -- this incredibly horrid male bonding was something most females would never comprehend. Or want to! This outright disgusting spectacle served to drive the men into a frenzied, immature, manure mania. As the doo-doo settled down, the brothers retired together, sitting on top of the pigpen fence, each congratulating the other for accomplishments in what would become the yearly "Swine's Behind Fling Fest". A vow of secrecy was installed. Departing with hugs and handshakes. None could figure out a believable explanation to give their wives, proving once and for all -- boys will always be boys... or stinky men.

# Chapter Eleven  
 ** _"Entwined"_**

"Victimhood: Mental illness-causing one to obsessively blame other people, culture's, politics, or religion for one's unrecognizable character flaw(s) or low self-esteem".

-- Dr. Jenny Thomas

The Lander's farm was filled from stem to stern with angry, yet determined law enforcement officers, technicians, and paramedics. Communicating to each other with the precision of disturbed ant pile. Turning the property upside down as every square inch was investigated, following completion of evidence reconnaissance. True to Deputy Rogers word, he indeed tackled a woman. A set of what looked like low-heel shoe prints was discovered at the northern tree line area where he was shot.

Mercifully, managing to regain consciousness while cradled in Sherriff Brecker's lap. Lou's brave front of assurance given to his dear friend, was beginning to show signs of cracks. "Zackary lay still my friend. They have the bleeding stopped in your leg. You're pretty banged up. Try to relax. We have your back. The ambulance is here. Just hold on. You'll be safe before you know it!" Zackary gazed into the face of his esteemed colleague. With a pain filled opposing expression, "Lou, please listen, I am going to die. I can feel it". The good police officer's hands started shaking uncontrollably. Vainly, attempting to remove an item from his top front pocket.

Lou placed his stabilizing hand over the hand of his fading friend. A large crystal tear rolled down the constables' cheek. Pressing gently with his other hand on the side of his ally's face, calming him down. Zachary felt the warmth of his partner's devoted touch. Staring like a starving man receiving warm bread from a kind stranger, the young officer started to weep, knowing that his dear friend's comfort would be his last human touch in this world. "Lou, Lou! I need you to center yourself. Take a few deep breaths and tell me what's going on." Both smiled, flashing back to that night when MarDale's mother wiped up the floor with Zackary's frame. Now, he mocked Lou with his own advice.

Firming up his constitution, resurrecting a resilient police busy-mode mentality, he said: "Reach inside my left shirt pocket. That's right, excellent job". Brecker's admiration bolted off the charts, scrutinizing this dying soldier's encouragement. This courageous man was bringing him reassurance at a time such as this. "There! That locket belongs to MarDale. I found it on our young suspect. If it weren't for his care, I would be gone before you arrived here. Listen, Coach something is not kosher. I believe MarDale is in some type of danger. That little boy is Ran and Ira's son, right?" Lou agreed with his face, as he spoke: "His name is Azazel". Zackary swallowed before continuing, "Well, when I regain consciousness, that little man was putting direct pressure on my leg. He retrieved a first aid kit from the trunk. Then he tended to my head.

Azazel apprised me that MarDale was innocent and Janie's locket was planted. He could not say who shot me at present. He would let you know in a few days. Lou, please, for my sake, just trust him. Give them a little more time to turn over solid evidence. The boy is sharp, but he'll need MarDale's help. Remember the pharmacy? Where MarDale's mom gets her meds?" (This was a secret between MarDale, Lou, and Zack, referring to Clearmound's insane asylum) You'll find them there waiting for you.

"My brother, do you recall who shot you?" Sheriff urged Zackary. "No Coach, I can't recall. Why would Azazel be involved, then try to save me? It simply would be impossible for those teen boys to be part of this. Remember where you found me? Wait! It was a woman, I think!? That's all I got". Zackary Roberts was becoming frustrated. His brain was swelling and began vacating the ghost of the manner. "That's okay, you did great buddy", Brecker's voice began fracturing, watching the immense struggle between recollection fighting against the sudden slipping away of memory written on the brave man's face. "I know in my heart MarDale wouldn't harm a flea. Lou, the only way to make an arrest is following through with Azazel and permitting MarDale to do his part!"

Struggling, Zachary Roberts slowly put his arms around Lou's neck. Whispering in his ear. "Love is the primary thing. Tell my family, the good police warriors, and the church I love them I .... love the...Lord. One last convulsion afterward his body went limp, giving up the spirit. The paramedics feverishly worked to revive the young lion. After nearly a half-hour, they decisively shook their heads and placed a white sheet over Zackary's face. Witness state Sheriff Brecker snatched up Deputy Roberts body as a coveted treasured prize. He began walking the farm boundaries repeatedly mumbling incoherently, clearly avowing the following oath on occasion, "God is my witness".

Clearmound's only M.D doctor and County Coroner, Eddie Pearman, arrived on the scene. The good doctor assessed the situation. Gathering a quick conference with the first responder personnel: "Gentlemen, the most honorable county constable appears to be in shock. We must sedate and subdue before he experiences any further damaging psychosis. I can inform all of you having been involved many times in the past with other cases. I can assure all of you coach Lou will not relinquish his beloved fallen friend. In fact, if the pressure gets intense, he will fight to the death". A concerned voice from the large group asked: "Doc, what can we do?" Dr. Pearman motioned to all participants to gather closer. After formulating their strategy, each team member positioned themselves to their assigned post and waited for the respected doctor's signal.

Dr. Eddie approached the stunned, grief-stricken big man with supportive caution. "Lou, I was wondering if I could examine Deputy Roberts? You know, check his vitals to make sure everything is legitimate?" Coach's baby-doll like empty expression was unnerving, "Listen, sawbones, as much as I like you and I know you only want to help, I can't do what you ask. I have a problem". The Doc tilted his head, "What might that be, Lou?" Transferring with an obscure lifeless voice, Coach replied: "You see Doc, my great friend Zackary will die if he leaves my arms. Sorry, I really can't help you". Looks of pity flooded the faces of the blue brotherhood observing the heart crushing scene. "Oh, I see Lou. We wouldn't want that to happen". The pre-arranged signal given to the support teams was Doc Eddie opening a gum pack offering Lou a piece. This action would force him to remove one arm from his fallen comrade, making Sherriff Brecker more accessible to control and restraint.

"I have chewing gum. Would you want a piece?" While Lou was pre-occupied, talking to the doctor, as a skillful compassionate surrounding circle enclosed. Extending his right arm to retrieve the gum, the Blue-line commandos pounced. Easy part over, now came the challenging work. Lou was in a psychotic rage and completely blanked out, believing Zackary would expire if released from his iron grip. It was a pitiful sight. As four then five first responders fought desperately to retrieve the big crazed man from Zackary's corpse, "Finally!" the doctor shouted over the animalistic screams and bitter wails of the grief-filled insane Sherriff. "Boys, hold him still if you can!" Doctor Pearman took what would be his only chance of driving the needle into Lou's gluteus maximus. A mere twenty-five seconds later, he was limp, babbling incomprehensibly. The following ten seconds beckoned peaceful blackness.

Concurrently it seemed everyone became sedated along with Sheriff Brecker, an all-encompassing heavy cold blanket of exhaustion devoured the bone-weary physiques and depleted minds of every supporter. Adding injury to insult to these admired civil servants. Came about having to witness the tragic shattering of the rock-solid wisdom and guidance of Coach Brecker, who was reduced to a devastated shell of a human being. Would it be any wonder a pin-hole focused was placed on the extraordinary crime scene? Working, walking, and wiping tears from their faces, occasionally, someone would break down. The others encouraged them to sit, while a blanket placed on their shoulders. They were given a hopeful hug to help compose themselves, then in short order determinedly went back to work.

The nightmare on the Lander's farm seemed a million light-years from the marital bliss of Ran and Ira. They embraced in bed together. Gently stroking her husband's temples, then kissed his hands and face. With all the skill of a Broadway actress, Ira bolted straight up, "Ran, honey! Get dressed. Hurry!" Discombobulated, anxious, and confused, Ran frantically asked Ira, "Honey, what's wrong?" Focusing her answered: "Ran. I'm so sorry, I forgot all about Azazel when we got home! Hurry! Get up! We must locate him now!"

He reassured her and said, "Calm down baby, he's probably downstairs eating a bowl of cereal". Quipping in return, "That's ridiculous sugar, and you know it! Azazel will seize every opportunity to destroy us both, including any poor soul that happens to get in his way". Ran, immediately dressed, shot downstairs desperately searching the entirety of the house. Bolting outside, turning every stone over on their property. Seeking any place and every place his boy could possibly hide. Ira was at the top of her game, musing as her husband bird-dogged for their baby Hitler. If she could pull this off, all of daddy's earthly goods would become hers. Letha, along with all witnesses, would be snuffed out.

Gazing on his wife who was on the verge of shedding the most pristine crocodile tears. "Sweetie, this was not your fault. We all make mistakes. He gave us no choice other than treating him like a high-risk prisoner. Azazel sought out evil possibilities the second we blinked. Just look at the many times he's attacked you. He nearly killed you twice. To my shame, I've placed more responsibility on your shoulders than you ever deserved. This is just as much my fault as it is yours. Baby, I apologize".

She spoke to herself: "Behold the greatest thespian on the face of the earth." Grabbing both of her husband's hands, contemplated Ran's eyes, and facial expression of forgiveness. Ira began weeping softly, "Honey, you don't know what that means to me. I just hate disappointing you". Ran wiped plastic tears off Ira's face, saying, "Baby doll, you could never disappoint me!" Her eyes shimmered through brilliant blue cravings as they pulled close, body to body, barely a postage stamp thickness between them.

She wooed, "I know this sounds terrible my beloved. What if a police officer happens upon Azazel placing him under observation? Could we come back home and...share more candy?" Chuckling, conveying to his wife sarcastically how her intimated request burden him greatly. "Well, I suppose... Since you forced me. Are you sure?" Ira took two steps back from Ran, placing her hands behind her back and moving her right foot in front of her, sweeping it back-and-forth, imitating a shy junior high-school girl, "Mr. Japheth, pretty please, more candy?" With a mock surprised tone, he countered, "Well, little girl. We better get back soon. We wouldn't want you to run out of candy".

A loud banging on their front door startled the married couple. Regarding each other with questioning expressions, walking to the front vestibule. An imposing figure stood outside waiting. Deputy Valley had the following written on his forehead, in giant block letters: NO NONSENSE! Opening the door, Ira spoke up, "Officer, what's this all about?" Chief Deputy Valley responded factually, "Mr. and Mrs. Japheth, you need to come with me. Your son Azazel is being detained in the Clearmont Institute for the Criminally Insane. Regrettably, your Azazel engaged in a shooting of Clearmound Sherriff Deputy Zackary Roberts. We were hoping you could get him to talk. It seems he only verbalizes 'Old McDonald had a farm', repeatedly. We're anticipating his parents could help him to open up and maybe determine just exactly what happened".

Ran was having the most difficulty processing Valley's information. He stood ghost-white and slack-jawed, as he directed towards his wife to help anchor his spinning head, who, surprisingly, stood coldly aloof, asking officer Valley, "Can you tell me if this boy is harmed physically? Deputy Valley sinisterly strained his eyes and said, "Mrs. Japheth, are you inquiring of your son? Instead of "this boy?''

Ran as well zeroed in on her indifferent response with regards to Azazel. Her random subconscious miscue was collected, analyzed, then stored in the heart of Ran's relentless mind. Ira instantly felt a sickening knot in her throat. Her disaster of words was an immense threat to her now "once perfect" plan. Ironically, extinguished with the flame of her own poisonous tongue. Meticulously holding on to her composure under intense scrutiny. Her bare white-knuckled self-awareness mimicked that of an airline pilot in a severe crosswind, attempting to land on top of Mount Everest. Ira nervously hit the reset button, "Yes, of course, how is my son?" The deputy didn't bother to answer. Instead, he glared at her as if she had just killed a baby kitten in front of an orphanage packed with small children. (As if that was an impossibility)

"Mr. and Mrs. Japheth, we need to leave as quickly as possible. Please follow me in your car to town. Your son and his mental health counselor await your presence. Again, if you can manage to have Azazel talk to us, it would be greatly appreciated". Ran finally voiced, "Tony, please tell me, what is the condition of Deputy Roberts?" Deputy Valley relaxed his professional tone and looked directly into Ran's eyes. As a man speaking to a cherished friend, he retorted, "Ran, I hate to inform you. Deputy Zachary Roberts was shot to death. Your son was found inside his cruiser, apparently, out of his mind, in an inarticulate state. Please, I'll say it again. We need your help and I need you to move".

Following the sheriff's car, Ran's radar trained on his wife was melting hot. He thought to himself, "Ira typically stays impersonal, controlled, and focused during times of stress". However, for whatever reason, she morphed into a frightened cartoon character, pasted on silly putty. Unnoticed by her, her index finger and thumb rubbed together without ceasing. Ran's dots could not quite connect this day's events. At least, he began drawing some lines on his wife.

Something was just not matching up. Ira would have never allowed Azazel to be left alone, not for one second. regardless of whether she was running late coming home. Further, things have not gone smoothly, marriage-wise, for a great while, therefore Ira to be spontaneous in romance and lovingly connected was an unattainable distant mirage, until recently. Her impulsive willingness to please him exclusively simply did not fit her character. Off-balance. Ran never ever witnessed Ira with fear painted on her face. Literally, Ira seemed to be walking down that long hallway to the death chamber.

Vehicles pulled up to the front entrance of the mental health building. Ira reach for Ran's hand, "Honey when we get inside, I think it's best if I have some alone time with our son to comfort him. After all, there's nothing like a mother's touch". Ran considered her request with faux reassurance. Ira's cloaked request of compassion only sealed his suspicions, confirming indeed, something was extremely amiss. Ran made it his utmost priority to talk alone with his child inside, somehow, and somewhere privately. This would not be a problem. He would soon realize that, as usual, Azazel was two steps ahead of everyone. Entering the community observation area, he felt his blood pressure shooting through the top of his skull cap. Totally astonished!

Dead center of the secured room stood a stainless-steel table. A large eyebolt beneath, anchored into the floor. Azazel's ankle cuffs, waist chain, and handcuffs were all joined together with a longer chain, connecting all three to the eyebolt. He was surrounded by five predatory hyenas, yelping rigid rapid growls and wicked accusations. Ran's child looked like an injured baby gazelle, left with no hope of escape, heroically fending them off, yet, slowly losing the battle with the ravenous badge toting bullies.

Standing as the only buffer between Azazel the gazelle, and certain consumption by law out of order was Jenny Thomas, an attractive female mental health doctor. Mustering all her reasoning power and experience, she presented a peace offering of effective rationale to these quote 'normal 'police officers'. One of the hyenas bayed vociferously, "Lady, we have a good friend dead! We're not about to calm down. Step aside before I forcibly remove you!"

In these types of circumstances, an unexpected reply can squash the whole flea circus. Every ear tuned to the female voice that did not fit within the acoustic shadow surroundings of the male-dominated declarations. In a loud undeterred unshaken shout, Doctor Jenny ostentatiously screamed her threat as a sudden hush reverberated, then fell, "Let me tell you, something cowboy! You place one finger on me, and I will jam my foot so far up your back end you'll need to untie my shoelaces to eat!" The echo of the doctor's voice caused the dumbfounded predators to grind to an abrupt halt. They respectfully retreated as the mommy gazelle reclaimed her prize.

Walking over towards Azazel, Dr. Jenny approached the last huge alpha male, who towered over her as the final militant blockade. Enraged, the surrogate mother grabbed both the shoulders of the critter jumping into the stratosphere. Cutting through the clouds on her descent, planting both of her feet on top of the biggest, meanest badged hyena's paw. Letting out a shrill pitiful howl limping away on his one good leg, crumbling to the floor, shortly after that. Recouping, the big boy hyena hobbled back to the pack, licking his wounds. Tucking himself away in the underbrush of his humiliation.

Sitting beside the frightened child lovingly wrapping her arms around Azazel, Dr. Jenny whispered with her hands cuffed to his ear, "Hey. Did you see me knock that copper on his butt?" Both started laughing with smiles that melted like snow into heavy wet tears.

Ran seethe with boiling Mars-red blinding fury. Never has his son wept publicly or in his presence. Azazel was in terrible trouble, surrounded and defenseless. His father shouted with the tempest thunder of a thousand storms. "That's my son! I might not win this fight, but none of you are going to look the same when I get done!" Chief Deputy Valley could not blame Ran and had determined not to charge him if the scene escalated. After all, he also had two daughters, Anna-jo & Magnolia. If he were in Ran's position, he would have reacted the very same.

Tony placed his hand over his friend's shoulder. Speaking with kind-heartedness, "My dear friend, try and slow your roll. Please, I beg you. Let me take care of this. I know you're just doing what any father would do. Honestly, these same men and women would retort similarly. I'm not making excuses. Believe me! By the time I get done, those officers will lament the day they ever cast their eyes upon your son, Azazel.

I'm asking man to man and as a favor between two good and close friends. Ran, losing a devoted friend is like dropping your only compass in an empty sea. Don't let this be the reason". Ran relaxed, nodding in agreement. "You're right, Tony. Somethings are not worth losing". Tony was a dear friend from his past. Meeting Tony while on a business trip in the country of Belize. Soon, the two were inseparable. Ran had legal connections that expedited Tony gaining American citizenship. The Chief's sincerity was genuine. Besides, someone had to get a handle on the situation. Ira's eyes went numb with disbelief and admiration. Never in her life had her husband displayed such a manly bravado and self-control.

Chief Valley strode to the table area shouting. "Enough! Everybody enough! Deputies fall into formation! Now"! Deputy Valley was a formable man. Standing at five feet ten inches, his body had the muscle density of a pit bull. Growing up on the harsh streets of Belize. Tony learned to fight for survival while upholding his moral integrity by having compassion for the weak. Taking pride in being a legitimate immigrant, doing things the right way. Dedicated to only three things: his God, his family, and his men.

This was not a time for molding proper attitudes. Instead, it would be a learning occasion in gaining self-control. His deputies were exasperated, frustrated with threadbare weariness on their brows. They lined up arm's length apart with a ram-rod straight posture like that of military Sentinels. Their Chief laid them out then filed them with the following counter:

"First, someone step up here and take these restraints off this young man. Right now! Ladies and gentlemen, this individual has not been read his Miranda rights. Nor was he allowed to speak to legal counsel. And what chaps my backside the most is that you idiots, for whatever reason, forgot he is only a fourteen-year-old boy! Therefore, he cannot -- by law, nor common sense -- be treated as an adult! What a huge and dense dunghill you've all made. You are an embarrassment to your badges and the community.

Certainly, by now, you must realize every action is witnessed by someone in public. Your performance will either bring law-enforcement integrity and honor or disgrace and humiliation. Today was the most shameful and disconcerting display I'd ever witness in fifteen years as an officer of the law. Do you not realize who's standing over there? This young man's parents. You had their young man surrounded like a pride of lions going for the jugular vein. Needless to say, you weren't satisfied with just the things I mentioned. No, that wasn't enough!

Taking it to the next step, Dr. Jenny Thomas was forced to be a human shield defending a child from those who were called to protect! Hers was the only sane voice here, struggling to safeguard Azazel while calming you down and saving your jobs! Do all of you really believe you're the only ones grieving the death of their lost friend? Zackary's family, the community, and the church -- all of them! Are in anguished pain at this very moment! Officers do everyone a favor. Stop acting as if you have cornered the market in sorrow.

Our good citizens, unlike you! Leaned upon their decency trusting law enforcement to conduct a professional investigation. I reiterate! Commending people like you for bringing justice to us all, your actions are beyond shameful and completely unacceptable. In closing, if any of you think for one second that I will not correct this behavior! You're sadly mistaken and you're all bigger idiot's than I counted on.

Now, when you walk out of here, go over to that young man, shake his hand, and apologize. Next, do the same for his parents. If this ever happens again, you might as well stick your badge on the hat rack as you walk out the door. Before I dismiss this caravan of clown cars, all will be pulling double shifts for the next seven days, relieving investigators on the Lander's farm. Maybe you can learn something from them. Performing their job admirably between bouts of weeping. They deserve your support and relief". Chief Deputy was one hot habanero Hispanic. If he were a bullfighter instead of Chief in charge, the bull would have thought it better to throw himself on the sword.

The Japheth's, the ward attendant, as well as Dr. Jenny Thomas, could not believe what they just heard. Any doubts concerning the law enforcement community vaporized on Chief Valley's last directive towards his men and women of the Sheriff department, who were obviously embarrassed as they permitted injudicious actions and emotions to take control, losing professional perspective. The officers were sincerely apologetic to everyone. They asked for true forgiveness, which in turn was earnestly granted.

Dr. Jenny stepped away. The ward attendant went back to his desk, giving the family privacy. Out of the earshot of her husband, Ira moved to hug Azazel. Whispered in his ear the following dark encouragement, "Honey, remember how I made you feel? I have so much more to offer. Just keep your mouth shut and your eyes on the reward. When I get you out of here, you can have anything you want, any way you want, and as much as you want it". She expected a positive reaction while stroking her son's hair. Fixing his titanium steel face in position, he mouthed into his demented mother's ear, "Mother, I've learned very well from you. Your mind cannot possibly conceive what I want or what I will do to your body. When I'm discharged out of here, I hold all the cards. Take my word, I look forward to degrading you as often as I see fit".

Feeling the air leave her body, profound wooziness butchered the core of Ira's very essence. Her indestructible hatred was forced and gashed into the fabric of her son, creating something vastly more wicked than herself. Azazel was correct. Indeed, he held all the cards. His computer brain stored every damning bit of evidence required to fast-track her to the death penalty: each dead body, blackmail, political extortion, forced incest, the assassination of men, women, and children. Her debaucheries could stretch out forever like a broken slinky. Had she not spent a lifetime abusing and manipulating people, obsessively stealing what was wrongfully not hers, Ira could have forgone her obvious future demise.

For the first time in her life, she felt the sensation of the rug being pulled out from under her. Cold sweat trickled down Ira's spine as Ran, the microscope, scrutinized her every move. Sticky-noting on a pretend encouragement she smiled, "OK then, honey, you be good. We're going to get you out of here very soon". Naturally, Ira spoke loud enough to appease Ran as she bent to kiss Azazel on the cheek. Her son's gaze was so cold that her lips were nearly frostbitten. Quickly, formulating in her head a plan to solve her problem with Azazel: "Continue for as long as he likes. Make him vulnerable. Take him out". Ran walked over as she excused herself per their agreement.

Ran wore a T-shirt under his unbuttoned and untucked long sleeve shirt. Azazel thought, "Perfect, thank you God!" Reaching outward, giving his father a big hug. Wrapped his arms under his father's overhanging shirt, slightly opening his dad's blue jean back pocket into which he gingerly slipped his hidden note. Ran embraced him and winked, acknowledging Azazel's guileful act. As Ran kneeled to kiss his son's cheek and giving an extended hug, Azazel whispered, "Know this, I have a lot to tell you. Just not right now. Dad, I'll fake a psychotic break. We must convince mom she is still in control of us". Ran breathed in his son's ear, "I love you; you be strong". At once, his son projected a scream like that of an ensnared animal. The floor attendant jumped from his chair and started running towards both. After kicking his dad hard in the shin and bending him over in the process, Azazel forcibly pushed downwards with both hands on the back of his father's neck. It was all Ran could do from busting his nose on the concrete floor.

Screeching, "I don't love you; I hate you! You'll never divide mom and me! Everyone's against us!" Azazel shot into a hyper frenzied mode. Earsplitting yells, all but shattered everyone's audio receptors. Throwing any object within reach and dodging capture, the floor attendant sounded the alarm. Technicians rushed into the room from every secured opening. Amazingly, Azazel held them off for nearly five minutes. Finally, subduing the pitiful whelp, Doctor Jenny entered, walking in a confident professional manner, "Gentlemen, thank you. This will help". Pulling a "Big Huge Olé Heaping Helping of Haloperidol Hyperemic" from her lab-coat pocket. In short order, he became a sizable sack of slobbering sunshine as the ratchet straps securing himself to this world snapped loose. Peering at his parents with hate-filled eyes, Azazel said, "Father, you're dead to me!" Flash fade to obscurity.

As the Japheth's were leaving, Dr. Jenny motioned Ran back with an urgent reminder -- the admission papers needed signing. Ira stood pat, as her husband returned to the pretty doctor in the center of the room. Jenny's short stature made her invisible from Ira's gaze as she faced Ran, with his back towards his wife. "Mr. Japheth, we have some admission papers and insurance request issues we need to resolve for Azazel's sake. Please sit down". Ran looked towards Ira and shrugged his shoulders. She reluctantly took her own seat from across the room, out of ear shot.

Looking down at her clipboard, in bold letters she had written: "Crush up five Trazadone pills, slip them in her food or drink at bedtime. Wait until she sleeps. THEN read Azazel's directions". Ran quickly cuff the tablets given from Jenny. "The following page please sir". Jenny continued acting as if she was pointing out a check list on the Japheth's admissions paperwork. Ran following the doctor's lead, as if he himself was evaluating important materials for his son's sake. Jenny's focused eye contact on Ran's face held a powerful message of hope. "It will be alright, trust me".

Informing Ran once again of the next point of order. "Now our next page. We'll be done before you know it". Jenny previously wrote on the selected "next" page the following. "Sherriff Brecker has notified the concerning parties. All agree Azazel and MarDale are innocent. You must stay cool. Your job is to gather evidence, not revenge. We are counting on you. Especially Zackary Roberts wife Stacie and their child". Feeling a distressing lump tightening in his throat, Dr. Thomas touched his hand and whispered, "Ran, we all understand you had no clue. Just buck up and focus".

Speaking in a professional tone, Jenny said aloud: "I know sir, it seems a waste of energy and ink. Just two more signatures. Mr. Japheth you're almost done. On the last page written by the hand of Dr. Jenny: "In troubled times, all one needs is a little faith. At this moment, you're Azazel's only hope. Suffer what you must for his sake. Focus on your child. This is not the time to waste costly energy on others.

P.S. Rhetorical question. I don't want to put you on the spot. Sorry, yes, I do! If you weren't married, would you ever consider dating a girl like me? It sounds school girlish and immature... I understand this is the worst time to vent emotionally and is highly unprofessional on my part. It may be my maternal instincts for Azazel, or my nurturing desire to fix a weary and broken man. Frankly, I would never approach a married man. For that matter, I've never dated. However, even psychiatrists can have a serious case of love at first sight. Ran, I loved you the moment I met you! For now, just know I am in your corner. No matter what happens, I will be your good and loyal friend. Jenny".

Ran's eyes dilated as his blood pressure shot up, endorphins flooded his bloodstream. Smiling at Jenny, as he softly brushed her hand as an affirming clue, he grumbled loudly, "Is this task almost done Doctor? My wife and I need to get home. We are both exhausted". Jenny smiled a smile so lovely it pierced his very marrow. Ran wrote his reply, "Jenny, you're the sweetest spot anyone has placed me on! As soon as we met, I regretted my whole life for not waiting on you. I was praying with all my power you felt the same way. If I were single and dating, I would snap you up faster than an industrial size shop-vac latching onto dust bunnies! Besides, I have all the rights for a divorce a man could ever need regarding Ira. Again, not to worry, the way Ira's rolling, we'll be dating far sooner than later". Yes, I love you! Immensely!

Jenny whispered her unpretentious concerned, "Ran be careful. Your wife is a state of delusional psychosis". Continuing with his thespian debut. "Okay then, is that about it Doctor Jenny?" Jenny urged one last time, "Please be patient, sir. Just one more section. You know... insurance companies". Ran quickly scribbled saying in a rough voice, "Come on doctor, I want to go home!"

"Let's be careful and keep our integrity. We'll wait to see how this freak show plays out. Please understand, honey, as long as I'm married, we will only talk over the phone. Call my burner phone I use to keep Ira at arm's length. Text first, for an all clear! No direct calls without text first! (867-5309). Love, Ran. P.S. You have a cute butt...on the nose!"

Jenny snorted a muffled laugh, suppressing it within a feigned cough. Ran smiled contently at his exquisite petite brunette. She then blew him a secret kiss. "Ira, baby, we are done. Can you drive? I have a busting headache. I want to go now!" The Japheth's departed.

Jenny stood alone in the silent communal area, thinking out loud, "Boy! I sure can pick a potential future husband. Ran has an extra-crispy insane wife who is using her husband's guilt as a weapon of submission, forcing Ran into an enabling father figure role. Ira reared her son as if he were a mentally ill primate locked inside a cage. It will most definitely be a miracle if Azazel is not a sociopath with homicidal tendencies. My dear Ran, I'm sorry baby, this is the best we can do for our future, for now. Like you said, as long as you're espoused, we can only talk. I love you even more for your stand on your marriage vows. Every wife wants to be valued and not cheated on. You passed the test of faithfulness with flying colors. You've proved yourself to be a faithful man, even when placed under enormous stress. I love you, Ran Japheth! It's my turn to be strong for you. Hopefully, we can get a chance to be good for each other.

Oh, for Pete's sake! I am talking and thinking in Ira's terms! Lining up each wicked duck. Trying to build a fresh start floating on an evil pond. Get a grip girl! First, become Azazel's best help. Then, support your close friend Ran. Of all my arduous work and studies. Most psychiatrists agree, and I have personally concluded one single undeniable fact: Women and men will never think the same. Ever! Geez, I need a vacation.

Nope, that pep talk to yourself good doctor did not help! Ran Japheth will be mine and I will be his. And nothing will stand in our way, ever! Sometimes, bad decisions feel right and become the best answer. That's right Ran sweetie. Let's only talk over the phone, you need to be dealing with me as a professional, for now. Sooner than we think, we'll have a happy life!" Jenny made her way back to her office.

Dreadful things do happen to good people and good things happen to bad people. Our lives perpetuate constant motion in this world. There is no such thing as a firm footing. The irony of good vs. evil is that both receive the same reward at times. It's all about the amount of sand burying a person to what extent. In Ran's case, if he collected all the sand kicked in his eyes, all the beaches in the world would gather easily into his shirt pocket. The poor sap has an insane wife who turns out to be an off the chart genius manipulator. An obsessive-compulsive, with an A-type personality and extreme control issues, who is training her son in the same mad arts.

If that weren't bad enough, his only glimmer of hope for health and normalcy is trapped in a whirlwind relationship out of moral reach. Ran's life is best described by the old psychology joke.

"A mentally ill man returned from his therapist appointment. His wife asks, 'How did it go?' Her husband replies, 'Not good honey, not good at all'. Concerned for his welfare, she inquires: 'Oh, sweetheart, what went wrong?' Looking at his wife, he replies: 'It's so frustrating! I talked to that doctor for over an hour. No matter what I said, the doctor still isn't taking my advice nor making any progress!"

# Chapter Twelve  
 ** _"Only 99% Pure"_**

"Inimitable fact: all have spiritual enemies in life. Fear not. Long before the revealing of your foes, a victorious battleground was carefully chosen".

--The Lander's.

Dr. Jenny Thomas's note remains branded inside Ran's head: "crush up five Trazadone pills, slip them in her food or drink at bedtime". Ira seemed to have an extra ear and eye open at all times, especially when sleeping, waking up on automatic Commando-mode at the slightest sound. He often told her, "You could hear a mouse sneezing into cotton a mile away". Two thirty a.m. rounded before Ran decided on his move. With all the speed of a snookered sloth, toting a snout full of bootleg sauce, he made his way to the top of the attic stairs. He felt anxious anticipation. Azazel instructed Ran of the diary's location.

Besides the locker in the attic facing east, there was a hidden storage area behind a specific wooden slat. Sliding the targeted board, retrieving a leather-bound diary. The initials A.J. were embossed on the front cover. The contents of the diary were a maddening nightmare of one hundred percent distilled evil details, highlighting all the insufferable pain his son encountered since the age of seven. Endless wicked streams of torment, punishment, and abuse: a sad story of isolation and sensory deprivation imprisoned within a living hell. A little boy robbed of school day bliss of playgrounds, hanging with best buds, and little league sports. Azazel experienced none of those things. His tormented written snapshots numbered over a hundred pages. All this for what?!! Simple straightforward love -- of a son sheltering his beloved father from certain death at the hands of his very demented mother.

"I must protect Dad! Mother will kill him if I do not obey", was the horrid reoccurring theme of this damnable biography. Ran's physique became a huge savage quaver of regretful pain. The last entry made by Azazel erased all his will to keep objective. His son's words were like insanely hot kindling within his brain, setting ablaze immeasurable, burning flames of vengeance. He was a gutted being of boiling anger. Azazel wrote: "I never considered suicide until today. I have been talking to Letha and MarDale. I understand so much more about life and God. My only support is my friends and the Lord.

Yes, this is a cold painful world. Still, somethings should never be. Vicious Veil nearly completed her last training assignment on me. Now, no matter what happens, I want anyone who cares to listen. Mother tried to rape me. She wanted me to lose my virginity as she held a razor to my throat. I feel like I'm literally two people fighting brutally for any decent thoughts, weeping bitter tears on the one hand, and enjoying the reassuring elation of being with her on the other. Yet, as wrong as my mom's actions were on endless levels, I want nothing more than to believe that my sickness is a good thing. Most times, however, I can't control my infinity of shameful blackness swallowing me whole. All I really want to do is die.

Dad, this is my last entry. I must get mother alone. She's a deranged determined rabid dog without remedy. I will take her out in a lonely field and shoot her myself. It's the only way I can protect you, my friends, and our community. Letha and MarDale told me it's a sin killing a person. I hope God can forgive me. This all must end. Mom thinks Letha ruined her life. Letha did no such thing. Both were harmed horribly by their parents. Dad, I calculated that by the time you read this, the July festival will have started. Ira's targets are You, Letha, Sheriff Brecker, and MarDale. I don't comprehend why she is after MarDale? Other than she's jealous of him being such a good friend to me.

Dad, Ira will try to kidnap me. I am mom's obsession. She will harm anyone who stands between her and I. Please get a hold of Sheriff Brecker and Dr. Jenny. Remember, father, I love you more than mother would ever allow me!"

-- Your Son. Azazel.

Ran crumbled how a collapsing building would after a demolition charge was set off. His mind became a contorted crushed cockroach in a can of raid. All these years, he could not perceive the evil his wife cruelly bestowed upon their son. Ira kicked all his foundations of the father, protector, and faithful husband out from under his self-perception. He balled up not unlike a fetus, as waves of weeping spasms tightened every fiber of his body. Gasping for air, as dry heaves crawled out of his parched mouth. Why did he not recognize the torment Azazel was being placed into? By the hand of his wife? He could never be convinced this was not his fault.

Who can measure a second, moment, or day when one is trapped in a vacuum of tormenting emotions? Ran was unable to calculate the amount of time that had passed since discovering his son's diary. His purpose, structure, and intellect had cooked down like thick maple syrup. Ran cared not for anything under God's sun, apart from Azazel and destroying his wife.

Grabbing an old baseball bat from the attic, sprinting through the house to their bedroom with extraordinary speed. Shattering the bedroom door into toothpick size pieces and rendered one crazed shout, "I will kill you, Ira!" Silence. Empty bed. There was a single note on the pillows. Ran decompressed in bewilderment. Hands shaking, cautiously approached the letter, dreading nervously, apprehensions equal to an archaeologist discovering Tutankhamun's Tomb.

"Dear Ran, do you remember the story about the bat spit crazed wolf pup? Can't say I blame you for not seeing this coming. You were always a sucker for a pretty face. This is the moment that will define your manhood forever. It's your job as the protecting Alpha male to save your own. You must seek and eliminate all threats, especially your little wolveee, from killing your entire pack. Sweetie, for old times' sake, this little wolf will give you a heads up of who I will hunt. Here's a hint: Everyone you care for the most. You still make me howl, big boy. Just not like my dad, I mean our son. I really need to check into that Dad thing. Maybe I'll ask your girlfriend, Dr. Jenny. So many to murder, so little time".

-- Smooches, Ira.

Ran staggered and fell onto the bed, then abruptly slid to the floor. Encouraging himself as if he were an incapacitated hero in battle, saying, "Ran, you need to pull yourself together! Start formulating a plan. Ira is shrewd, motivated, and off the rails. Clearmound's fourth of July festivities kicks off today. It will be nearly impossible to find her in that crowd. The one thing she cannot live without is Azazel. Ira formed, shaped, and created him to be a monument of her warped achievements. I need help".

Ran recalled reading how Yupik eskimo killed marauding packs of man-eating wolves. They sharpened every knife in the camp to a razor-thin edge, after that tediously dipping each one in a bowl of seal's blood, allowing each thin coating to freeze. They then painstakingly repeated the process multitudes of times until a thick veneer of frozen seal's blood-covered each blade's surface. Just before the sun sank, they placed all the frozen, blood-glazed knives just outside the igloo camp. Stationing each in a variety of locations, with the knife handle buried in the icy ground. Ensuring that every wolf had their own delicious treat.

As the temperature dropped to below zero, the pack would start their nocturnal hunt. Finding the frozen seal-blood sickles, the animals would excitedly begin licking each blade. The cold steel and frigid air numbed the creature's tongues, not their taste buds. This meant that the wolves continued to lick blades even after all the seal blood was consumed, being oblivious of the multiple deep lacerations inside their mouth and tongues. Unaware of the blood they were drinking was their own. They gorged themselves until they bled-out or died of heart attacks. Ran's devouring seal blood blade inspiration filled him with hopeful energy.

"Ira is not going to kidnap Azazel! She realizes breaking into the asylum, she'll be a cornered rat. Instead, she'll grab a hostage and take them to the river ferry. Demanding her sworn enemies to step forward to be shot one by one! Next high jack the riverboat escaping with Azazel! She is a genius, ya right, spelled with a "J." Ran summarized, "Call Lou Brecker and warn Doctor Jenny. Inform them how Ira's past crimes now exposed, sent her on the warpath. I will suggest everyone on her hit-list be given tighten security. It's time for us to turn the tables and set a trap for the hunter. Now, the moment has arrived to put on our game face. A time for blood-coated knives!"

Entering the Clearmound's asylum for the criminally insane, Ran updated Sheriff Brecker. Immediately, a state-wide, all-points bulletin was dispatched on one Ira Japheth, Caucasian Female, Height: five-foot-two inches, Weight: one-hundred and twenty pounds, with platinum blonde hair. Armed, dangerous, and mentally unstable. Sheriff Brecker next called Letha and Mardale who were cleaning up the crime scene at the Lander's Farm. Giving them a heads-up that Ira was on her way to kill both MarDale and herself. Letha hung up the phone then contemplated on her best options. There was no way either one of them could escape before her sister arrived. Even if they left now in the car, Ira would simply run them both off the road and execute them gangster style. Letha hurriedly called MarDale from outside.

"Sugar, listen, I need you to go up in the attic. Bring me down that female mannequin. You know the one that Mrs. Lander's uses to sew homemade dresses?" MarDale shook his head yes. "Letha, I know something is bad wrong. What is happening?" Letha reassured him, saying, "MarDale, honey, we don't have time. I'll explain it all to you once we are out in the barn. I need you to place the mannequin in the barn loft as soon as you're able. I almost forgot, bring down the redhead hair wig and a dress. You'll find it with the other clothing and wigs in the storage trunk in the back corner. Meet me inside the barn as fast as you can!" Letha grabbed MarDale's shoulders and squeezed them. "MarDale, hurry! Our lives depend on you!" His feet never touched the ground until he was in the loft, holding his new girlfriend in his arms, who he thought was a little too plastic for his taste.

"MarDale, baby, here's the deal. We must dress this mannequin to make it resemble me as much as possible. I'll throw up to you one of Mrs. Lander's dresses and the redhaired wig. Then place her in a dark area in the back of the loft. Afterward drive Lander's old Buick across the road, park under that big oak tree and leave it running. Then..." MarDale interrupted: "We wait in the Buick. When Ira comes here to kill us, she'll eventually go into the barn, hunting for us -- her trophies. This will take some time. Climbing up to the loft, she'll perceive your fake shadowy figure and blast the pudding out of it. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the very second Ira steps into the barn, we drive the Lander's Buick to her car. Jump out stealing her chariot. We both drive away to paradise".

Letha was flat-footed speechless. MarDale mapped her face. "Miss Letha, I've seen so much this last week and a half. It seems like nothing shakes me up or surprises me anymore. I will say this. I had a gut full of Ira Japheth. Someone needs to take her behind the woodshed and ware her hideout. By the way, Miss Letha, shouldn't my girl be wearing a bra? Letha bent over, squealing, as MarDale dropped his head. A rib cramping laugh-fest ensued.

Sure enough! Their plan went off without a hitch. Throw in a dash of Ira morphing into a white flame of self-loathing contempt. Gazing on Letha and MarDale driving off in the distance. Both cars serpentine as they hollered like drunkards rolling down the road.

Twenty minutes later, the Lander's pulled up to their farm. Ira stepped in front of their car, with her hand gesturing to stop. "Now, Mr. & Mrs. Lander, I respect the noticeably young and my elders. So, I'll ask you kindly, can I borrow your car?" Neither one of these elderly couple were phased one iota. Mr. Lander looked at Ira dead in the eye. Stepping out of the vehicle as Mrs. Lander joined his side. "Sweetie pie. We don't mind a bit. Could you do me a favor?" Ira affirmed with her eyes. "Will you come back and kidnap me? I would like nothing better than to be a hostage to a rare beauty like you". Punching him hard on his shoulder, Linda Lander sounded exasperated, "Honestly, Eddie, you're like an old dog chasing a car. What would you do with her once you've caught her?"

Ira was floored as she smiled broadly thinking, "What a charming and loving couple". Reaching out, Linda placed her hand on Ira's shoulder, "Honey, it's never too late. If you like, we can be your hide out until things cool down. You know, give you some space to think". Ira was amazed beyond words. "These people know me and what I did to their animals and property. Yet, they turn around and offer me help. If this is love, I only wish I could experience what the Landers have".

"No ma'am, thank you. For that matter, after I go into town, please call Western Union. I'll wire a full reimbursement for all damages to your farm and the cost of your car". Ira kissed Eddie Lander on the cheek and hugged Linda Lander warmly before getting into her "borrowed" car. "I'm sorry for everything, I must go". The Landers spoke in unison: "God speed". She felt sadder than heavy and colder than a millstone, leaving two of the very few people who expressed loving care for her. A welcoming warm ray of hope touching her severely damage life as the Lander's waved sweetly in the rear-view mirror, with etched sadness upon their face and hearts.

Dr. Jenny was flying around the country dirt road curves like a scalded dog with its ears ablaze. Ran was white-washed white-knuckled, in a near state of rigor mortis. Dr. J. hoodooed him with a promise of a real kiss... only if she could drive the police car. Never bothered to mention that she was a dirt track stock car driver in her late teens. Crowned three-times state champion and was courted for a professional contract. However, she instead used her intelligence to become a psychotherapist. Hanging her left elbow out of the window while listening to classical music. Jenny was counter-steering as the back end of the car swung out touching the ditches on the side of the road. Her relaxed demeanor -- chatting casually, served only to unnerve Ran further, immense pressure snapping his nerves. Ran heard a woman screaming. It was him. Jenny grinned at him shaking her head.

In the distance, the doctor spotted Letha and MarDale who were headed in the opposite direction. After passing them both, whipping the cruiser one hundred and eighty degrees and fell in behind her friends. Flipping on the blue lights tromped the gas, cutting in front of her chums' cars, just mere inches before nearly hitting a semi-truck head-on. "Ran, honey, we'll escort them to the asylum for safekeeping. Get on the radio and ask Sheriff Lou for back up. Ran? Did you not hear me?" Jenny looked over. He was knocked out like fresh fish on ice. Reached for the radio still clenched in his hand. Snickering. "Oh boy, I have a lot of work fixing Ran's big boo-boo on his fragile male ego". When Letha and MarDale arrived, they received generous hugs from all present. MarDale proceeded to convey to the tight-knit group how Miss Letha bamboozled Ira at the Lander's farm. Receiving cheerful shouts and back-slapping affirmation for their brave feat. MarDale took his place beside his dear friend Azazel.

Alas, the warm victory was short-lived. The conversation between Sherriff Brecker and Ran was a display of professional and tense urgency. Lou deputized him, allowing Ran to procure a vest, gun, and radio. "Ran, I'll be honest with you. Azazel's diary and testimony will be considered only circumstantial evidence against Ira". Ran's face turned so red, it seemed to glow. Staggering back and regaining his balance, he then shouted! "What did you say to me, Lou?! You mean to tell me after all that bent up monkey has done, what rests in our hands is circumstantial evidence?!" Furthermore, my wife will not come here to take Azazel. Realizing if she barges into this facility, she'll be no better than a caged animal!

Dr. Jenny stepped in front of Ran. With the stern posturing of a wet mother hen, she announced: "Ranford Jacob Japheth! (The boys snorted in unison "Ranford") You calm down right now! Try and act like an adult. Allow this good man to finish his sentences. Do you hear me?" Ran looked at Jenny, grinning a subdued sheepish grin, "Yes, mama bear". Ran and Lou could not help but be impressed and amused at the same time, observing this petite woman named Jenny, with her hands on her hips, giving it her very best to look intimidating. Neither were foolish enough to believe she was not capable of inflicting severe damage. That was not the point. It was their ironic expectation of bracing for a raging bull, only to be replaced by a fierce mouse charging at them.

The men could not help but laugh. Jenny's golden heart reflect on her irony as well, imagining what she must have looked like. After all. Was she not an expert at reading people? Making a magnanimous hand gesturing sign for Lou to take the floor, Ran spoke up sneeringly, "You may proceed, the most honorable officer of the peace". Jenny's head swiveled identical to a cheap office chair. The laser fired warnings zoomed out of her eyes, burning Ran's optic nerves. He instantly became Methuselah stone. Thinking to himself. "Jenny Thomas, you may not know it, but I'm going to marry you one day. Dog! She really scares me in a clever way. Help me. I like it a lot!"

Coach interjected, "Ran, please understand what District Attorney Andean conveyed. If this were anyone else, he would press charges. Nevertheless, nearly every citizen in this county gathered that Ira and Letha inherited and endless ocean of money. If we go forward, the following will happen, Ira will hire the absolute best, top-notch defense attorneys in America. That's plural. The type of attorneys with gigantic legal staffs. They will bail her out of jail the same exact hour she is charged. Afterward, her legal vultures will churn out as many delays as possible as they slow walk every honest effort on minor legalities. Simultaneously, dispatching a multitude of private investigators and research teams to besmirch, bribe and/or blackmail any and all testimony of local bystanders or witnesses. It will be impossible to find a single observer brave enough to be left standing. Afterward, we're back to square one, forever looking over our shoulders, hoping against hope that Ira won't slit our throats one by one in our sleep".

Dr. Jenny jumped into the fray, "Sheriff Brecker, I know my next suggestion sounds completely contrary to what you're thinking at this point. However, I do understand a thing or two about how Ira's narcissistic personality syndrome and AP disorder works. Ira charging this facility, guns blazing, and being shot to death in all her glory will not happen. These types can only concern themselves with the urges that drive them. Narcissistic psychopaths care for only one thing. Themselves. At this moment, Ira has a single compelling compulsion and her overwhelming craving will no doubt be kidnapping Azazel then bolting.

Whereas, the rest of us are mere hindrances to her. Therefore, our murders will only be used as a diversionary tool to kidnap her son. Ira Japheth was created to kill, not to be killed. She will not kidnap Azazel here! Instead, grab a hostage and take them to the riverboat ferry. Ran was very insightful in that she will steal the ferry for her escape! Of course, after she eliminates all of us. I guarantee Ira has a perfect exit plan after the dust settles". Ran looked like an innocent man standing on the gallows, with thirteen coils behind his left ear. Jenny and Lou's face dropped like a stone plunged into a deep-water well.

Unexpectedly, Dr. Jenny brightened up similar to a coterie of young prairie dogs. "I've got it! Sheriff Brecker! Do you remember Deputy Roberts informing you to trust Azazel? We were to give them just a little more time, allowing Azazel to convince MarDale to reveal his secrets concerning his mother". Standing up and placing his arm on MarDale's shoulder, Azazel fixed his gaze on his friend, "Buddy, it's time. If I've learned anything from my own mother Ira it's this; A hidden fear planted into one's heart by another becomes the most effective prison ever built".

Azazel looked back to the group. "This is exceedingly difficult for Mardale. He was frightened. Knowing withholding his witness testimony allowed Ira from going to prison! Realizing it would be his fault if she harms or killed again. He painfully kept his silence, thinking if he didn't, she would murder his family and friends. On that point, he had good reason for concealing his secret. He truly was stuck between the proverbial "Rock and a Hard Place". Please, everyone, condemn him not. I lived with Ira's torment all my life. She's a master at putting people in Mardales position".

Azazel looked back again to MarDale, who by now was shaking, valiantly fighting his pressing tears. "Hey we got this, my bestie. After today, you obviously have nothing to lose. Allow our adult friends to help us. Now is the best time for a confession. What you do know, I guarantee you, is enough to put my mother on ice for life. All this is up to you. If you still don't want to speak. I'll stand by your side all the way". Ran was sheet white as a ghost caught in the rinse cycle feeling another groundswell of guilt. His wife had damaged yet another young soul.

"That's fine Azazel, my dear brother. As Miss Letha claims. "It's a great life if you don't weaken". It's time enough to turn the tables on Ira". MarDale steadied himself, proceeding: "One day, I hiked up to the rock quarry as I needed some alone time to gather my thoughts. It was then that I spotted Ira standing by Miss Melinda's car. We all know Ira's name equals trouble. It occurred to me that someone else was inside the vehicle. I determined that whoever was inside needed my help.

Crawling on my belly, Ira suddenly stepped away, I believe, to take a potty break. I rushed to the vehicle, finding Melinda trussed up on the front seat. She begged and then commanded me to hide and only observe. Melinda told me that if I were caught helping her, Ira would surely kill us both. Melinda informed me her death would be vindicated. Not to fear, a man in white would take her home. She told me this same man in white will visit me in my hour of greatest need. I took cover again hearing Ira coming back. I watched as Melinda forgave Ira just as she was pushed off the cliff. She rests at the bottom of Clearmound's rock quarry, still inside her car".

Abruptly, all sound seemed to vacuum out of the room. Sensations of being transported to a distant "some-where" while waves of chills rolled and crashed over the gathering, generating body jitters as their single most common denominator. Equal to a mountain of secured normalcies sliding into an uncharted ocean. All eyes locked on MarDale who stood as a stilted sentinel, lodged in hard cement, his face transformed into a stack of dried desert bones. Mardale's eyes were a vast vacant parking lot after a headline concert, peering into the unmapped mystery called heaven. Rattling his comrades most to the core. His voice sounded and spoke as if it were controlled by detached un-reality. Everyone's nerves were on brittle edge. Except, MarDale, who, for all practical purposes, stood on his vantage point from the universal brink.

He first instructed Sheriff Brecker, "Sheriff Lou Brecker, step forward and reach for my hand". Mr. Louis Brecker trembled. Believing he was stepping into the judgment court of Almighty God, he reached for MarDale for it seemed he was incapable of moving. "The burden of your wife will be lifted. Your last days be greater than your first. I stood inside your nightmare. Fear not! You must relinquish all guilt and grasp faith. Little Janie and Zackary now walk together, inside of joy unspeakable and full of glory. Geneva's hourglass of motherhood has not run out. Do not fret. This time next year blooms the joy of parenthood". Sheriff Lou felt like a sponge with all the water wrung out. He could not decide whether to laugh or cry. So, he did both.

Stone still as a statue, MarDale continued his eerie future life weather forecast, "Ran and Jenny, you will be married". Dr. Jenny wailed with relieving release, running to her future husband, evaporating into Ran's open arms. Having betrothals positively confirmed, she embraced her forthcoming life partner with reassuring kisses and tears in her eyes.

Turning to Azazel exhorting him, Mardale spoke: "Cast all your pain and anguish at His feet. Fear not! Forgiveness is not weakness; you must forgive your mother. Allow God in like manner, to give you pardon of your sins by His sacrificial cross". Breaking down in a torrent of tears. Releasing his cancerous grudge of revenge that undeniably grew more deadly, with each passing day of his life. Azazel perceived an incredible burden lifted off his spirit shoulders. This act of grace only Christ can bestow in the forgiving of Ira his mother. The shard of light he received earlier from the Lord, expanded expeditiously, violently dispatching the slightest form of darkness within the frame of Azazel. True freedom of one's soul can only be tasted by the fruit gathered from the 'Tree of Life". Feeling astonishingly satisfied and warm. At last peace between Azazel and his creator.

Mardale began concluding his prophetic discourse. "Be warned the Lord expects all of you to dedicate yourselves to His Church. Otherwise, none of your gifts from His throne will be blessed". Shouts of joy merged with spontaneous worship and celebration, broke forth for nearly ten minutes. The G-forces of jubilation suddenly halted, akin to a de-railed locomotive landing in the La Brea tar pits. Silence; as a soaking wet blanket of apprehension extinguished the campfire of exultation. Dr. Jenny gingerly approached MarDale's side. Still linked to the outer-fringe trancelike. Tears falling off his cheeks in hot waves as they reflected the cold light of the asylum.

With soft feminine concern, Dr. Jenny uttered, "MarDale honey. Are you okay?" With a ghost whisper of a voice: "The military will call mom. Dad was wounded in battle! Please send Miss Geneva to my house. Reassure and comfort mother, concerning my father's condition.

We must move now. Ira is getting spooked and antsy waiting for us. She's holding a hostage on Clearmound's river ferry. It's a woman. Her name is Bella and she's heavy with child. Hurry before that poor mother to be is harmed!" Just like that, MarDale traveled back to this side of our cosmos. The group deadpanned each other then looked back to Dr. Jenny and Mardale.

Dr. Jenny spoke with supportive concern, "Honey, did you black out? You made some pretty astounding predictions. Do you remember anything you said?" MarDale seemed so relaxed and genially serene. "Everything feels like a wide-awake dream. I was literally here and there. Then and now. I remember talking to a man in white. He was the most handsome, incredibly strong, intelligent, and bright being. He was not human but looked and functioned as such. I was dreadfully afraid and thought I would die. He placed his hand on my shoulder. Amazingly! My soul was filled with kindness, love, and pure light. I believe I was in heaven.

Here's the weird thing. We spoke to each other with only our thoughts. Both of us went far beyond normal communications. Every one of our deliberations, think-speak and facial expressions were completely comprehended. It was as if we were one person, however, with our own separate personalities. I asked what I should do before I returned? He said, 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and soul. Also, love your neighbor as yourself'. I began moving away from him. Afterward, the man in white stepped into a flaming column, disappearing skyward. Then I woke up here. Please, everyone, quit worrying. Whatever happened, it is a good thing. Stop looking at me like I just landed from Mars. It's quite simple, the man in white gave me instructions of what to say. Dr. Jenny asked, "Baby doll, who's the man in white?" MarDale said in a matter of fact tone, "Don't be silly, good doctor, one of God's angels of course!"

MarDale asked, "Coach, please call Miss Geneva. Inform her to go to my house and comfort Mama. Father was injured. However, he'll be alright in the long run. Explain to mama what happened here. She should be fine". Lou nodded and radioed in his request. MarDale then cut his eyes towards his friend Azazel. I see a new man before me. The two inseparable friends embraced this time as brothers in Christ. "Buddy, we need to leave in fifteen minutes as a group. Your mother took a hostage on the river ferry. Ira will not stop killing until she can cast her eyes upon you". Please, everyone, do not worry! We will get out of this. I just don't know how?

Wow! Wait! Dad and Miss Jenny are to be married. No way!" Mardale rushed to kissed and hugged both his father and Doc Jenny. Afterwards leaping upward, MarDale jumped and spun in midair in the direction of Lou. "COACH! Miss Geneva is pregnant!" Bounding into his big arms. Lou swung the young boy around in circles, laughing. MarDale was beside himself. "Lou, I'm going to be an uncle!" Affirmingly, Lou retorted: "You sure are, big man!" Mardale smiled. "Coach, your wife will be calling with the good news of her pregnancy test in two minutes. Again, please allow Miss Geneva to assure my mother that everything is fine with Dad. He'll be forced to retire from the military". Sherriff Brecker decisively avowed, "Okay MarDale, I'll do that very thing after my wife calls. Are you absolutely sure Geneva is pregnant?" MarDale looked at him sideways with a rebuking expression, "Coach, you of all people should know it's impossible for God to lie!

By the way, my father will take your offer for the Deputy Sherriff position". Lou begged MarDale: "Can you tone it down a little? You're starting to freak me out". Shrugging his shoulders, he playfully teased Coach saying, "Sure Lou. Are you positive you don't want to know? If your baby is a boy or a girl?" Sheriff exasperatedly yelled, "No! For Pete's sake, MarDale!" Raising his hands in mock surrender, he annoyingly said, "Okay, Okay Coach! Gee-whiz, bite my head off, why don't you!"! Azazel, Letha, and the future Japheth's burst forth laughing. Lou roughed up MarDale's hair as he wrapped his arms around Coach's waist.

Azazel, Ran, and Dr. Jenny had synchronized their watches beforehand. True as a soft rain, two minutes on the dot, the phone rang. Lou was shaking his head yes in ecstatic assurance. After a joyful multitude of "I love you" were exchanged, the big man hung up the phone. He jumped into the air shouting victory, "I'm a father everyone! I am a father"! A group hug was in order. As Sherriff Brecker composed himself. Dr. Jenny's along with Azazel's analytical minds started drifting out to sea without a rudder. If they had any academic hardness against spirituality, it melted away into the empty mist of unexplained scientific theory. This very day, men, women, and children conceded: "Truly there is a God". The group prayed before departing for the river ferry.

Riding to the Clearmound Ferry Landing was a solemn event as they exchanged ideas of the best method, countermeasures, and safety. Stepping out of the cars, some fifty yards away, the pregnant Bella could be heard screaming and begging for her life. Brecker informed the group. "Okay guys, you hang back and take cover. I'll go speak to Miss Congeniality to size up the situation". Lou was poised as a cool watermelon rind. He carried a sure demeanor of a man willing to accept any fate. For that matter, the tribe all understood. God does not make a prophecy with built-in failures. The coach would become a father. Jenny and Ran would marry, and Azazel found repentance. Miss Letha, his dear friend, can take her leisure, being at peace in her later years. MarDale's parents would reunite and live a good life. The only exclusion was himself. In their joy, this momentous fact was overlooked. Mardale, on the other hand, understood full well what would become of him. God would use His servant MarDale in a mighty way. Just before He called him home, "The Lord giveth, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord".

Sherriff Brecker walked up to a pitiful sight of a sadistic psychopath holding a gun against a pregnant woman's head. Poor Bella looked as if her tormentor had carved affliction on her face with a crude hatchet. She pleaded out loud, "Please, Lord, save my baby. Take my life but spare my son!" Brecker calculated, talking to the hostage directly would agitate Ira in doing so only serve to place Bella in greater danger. Finally breaking the ice, "What's up girl? Kill any kittens lately? Oh, girl! Tell me you didn't go and accessorize your wardrobe with a custom-fitted release trigger?" Playing along with Coach as a feline would a mouse, "Why yes, Louie pooie! Good for you, my stud. A girl wants to look her best in these special moments.

By the by, from what I hear, you're just not man enough to become a father. Most likely for the best. I would just kill your child then mail it back to Geneva". Lou refused the ice water in his veins to melt. Ira's obvious tactic of throwing him off balance psychologically was not going to impede. And Snookie, while we're at it. Could you my little honey-suckle do me the smallest of favors? Let's work together to back off your snipers and your blue dogs to say about a thousand hundred yards?"

Lou was helpless having no counter for Ira's weapon of choice. The "Release Trigger", attached to her pistol was a menacing mechanism that allowed a shooter to release the guns trigger instead of pulling, causing the gun to fire by simply letting go! "Lou, you never fail to surprise me. Amazingly, again! You're one hundred percent correct in thinking everyone will die this day. Brecker, I always thought you were a very sexy man". By this point the ice in Sheriff Lou's veins turned into molten lava. Blazing hot he gambled Ira's contempt for him would be too much for her not to shoot him, instead of Bella. His snipers would be given the needed opportunity to cap Ira's sorry carcass.

Stepping embolden towards her. The pregnant nurse wailed as Ira pressed her gun firmly into Bella's temple. Doctor Jenny yelled pleading, "Lou, don't do it! That's what her double-baked brain wants! That is to cause pain, degrade, abuse, or use people in any manner possible. Ira's trying to make you engage her, so she can say you attacked first. Therefore, in her mind, giving her no choice but to kill all of us".

Ira resumed smoothly, "Getting back to the point, my trigger release is a great little tool by the way. Say, my cheating husband decides to rush me then shoot me in the head? If my finger slips off the trigger, well, let's just say this pretty mother to be will never survive long enough to give birth to her child. See kids, I don't need to pull the trigger. I just let go! Irrespective of whether it's on purpose or a sniper takes me out, my job will be done. By the way, did y'all notice? I'm using my left hand. Why do you ask? Well, I will tell you. Say, a brave cop decides to play hero and rush me to keep my finger locked down, I will just pull out my regular pistol. And Bam! Another soon forgotten hero dying for the vain honor of it all. The show must go on, amusingly here's the super fun part.

Look kiddies, I walk over to say, my hubby with my hostage in tow. Holy Moley! The coppers are in a giant pickle for I cannot be hindered". Ira shoves then drags Bella to Ran's side: "When I finally arrive at my alternative target, I simply stick my free pistol to Ran's head and pull the trigger. If the boys in blue shoot, then I leave this world with Bella and Ran in tow. A great parting trophy, I must brag". Ran felt the sweat pour down his arms and temples cooling on the handle of his holstered gun. Praying silently. "God if anyone dies today let be me. I just can't stand the fact my wife will harm another person".

Bella had a gut full of Ira. "Ira Japheth just take me and let these good people go! I would rather die with my son then have him live in this world with a contorted spasm like you!" Ira released a character-revealing blither that could cause the dead to shutter. Sick helpless souls watched; grief-stricken. Dr. Jenny Thomas screamed, "No! Take me instead!" as she fell to the deck weeping. Ira answered Jenny, "Now, don't fret sugar booger, you're next. None of you can do a thing to prevent me". Mrs. Japheth was simply unstoppable from causing all to die.

Like a directing voice out of the thick fog, MarDale ushered the tense negative sway of Ira towards himself. Stepping beside Ran, stating: "Letha you're a power to be reckoned with and we are fools standing before you. Think for a second. Do you really want to snuff Ran? After all, your love for Azazel should dictate this action. Could you seriously leave him an orphan? Slow down. Consider how your damage would ruin your relationship with your son. Besides, now that the cat's out of the bag, I am positive that all Ran earnestly wants is to reunite with you and Azazel. He understands completely at this point that you are the Dominant female. From here forward, both of your men will submit to your authority". Ira was glowing with pride. She agreed with Mardale and of course herself. "It's about time someone indisputably understood me".

"Ran, sugar, is it true? Do you want us to go back home as a reinvented family? Believe me, I can and will take care of my men in every way possible. In exchange, you allow me to make all the important decisions". Ran hastily calmed himself, taking Mardales clever lead. "Ira, you know I love you with all my heart. Now that I've found my proper place, I will forever be the man you always wanted". Ecstatic with girlish gratitude. "Ran, honey, that's all I ever needed. I love you". Kissing her husband full on the lips, inquired, "Now tell me Ran, you're absolutely positive that you're fine with both Azazel and you being my husband? I know how studs can get jealous". Replying convincingly but inwardly feeling as if he digested a bowl full of slimy hot maggots. "Never, Ira, my love. Besides, have you ever considered; we can all share together". Looking like a little girl who just won a cupie-doll at the carnival: "Oh, Ran! You have made me the happiest wife ever! I promise I will be more considerate and loving towards you!"

Ran flash-forward in his mind relishing a chance to cave Ira's skull in despising her bitterly. Regardless, to save the pregnant mother Bella and himself, the cards dealt had to be played out. "Ira Japheth come here my sexy lady". She then placed the release trigger gun against MarDale's head. Ran wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her deeply. "I've always loved you, my beautiful woman". Giggling like a teenaged schoolgirl, she was actually giddy. "Oh, Ira, let's go home". Holding up her finger, Ira replied, "Alright, Ran, honey, you go warm up the car. Please retrieve Azazel and take him with you. Give me a few moments to clean up this mess. Baby, I'll make sure we don't have any nasty interference with our brand-new life. Everybody on the ground! Now!"

Sheriff Lou was too angry to be scared about what she had planned for him. Using his inner voice, he thought to himself, "If she makes one slip, I will snap her neck like a brittle twig". Jenny and Ran gazed at each other with supportive tenderness, as Ran and Azazel walked past her, making their way to the car. MarDale on the other hand was eerily calm. He stood beside God now. It mattered not how the sand shifted in his world. Calculating a sharp, clear strategy to get everyone out of this mess, except himself. Everybody was fully aware of Ira's intentions. Then in a firm, directive voice, MarDale spoke with his legs crossed, his thumbs hitched on his front belt loops, completely poised:

"Ira, you need to listen to me. If you desire for this predicament to turn out well, individuals of intelligence such as you, of all people should never forget this following axiom: 'Never do anything that will haunt you'. Well, Mrs. Japheth, if you kill pregnant Bella, you'll be breaking one of your own covenants. Azazel informed me that you never deviate from certain rules. You will not kill the noticeably young or the very old. Bella's baby is due any day. If that's not young, I don't know what is?" Ira slumped her shoulders, like so many psychotic-narcissus before her, deviated their plans to benefit themselves and save face. "My brave man, you're absolutely right". She then released Bella, who stumbled, then corrected herself, sprinting off the river ferry. Bella was greeted by Azazel and Ran. They placed her in the car, giving her a blanket and water. In a matter of moments Azazel had Bella at ease, whispering encouragements while stroking her hair with her head on his shoulder. His father was proud.

"Very good, Ira. As I see it, for your desires to be fully experienced, exploring all possibilities with both your men, none of that will happen if you murder anybody here. You and I know that even with Azazel's diary having been discovered, it's still just circumstantial evidence. It's common knowledge that the Japheth family can buy themselves out of these types of problems all day long. However, unless you release everyone here, it will be capital murder. And there ain't no getting out of that noose. Especially if you cap Sherriff Brecker. Then, the entire world will tumble down on your head.

Ira, think! Ran, Azazel and you make a highly functional team. There are vastly more valuable targets than these local hayseeds. Here's what I suggest you do to adjust your original plan. Use me as a volunteering insurance policy. We get across that wide river where no one can follow. Then, the Japheth's scram out of this country. Finally, you can start building your empire without intrusion". She looked like a woman who had just won an Olympic gold medal for the all-around gymnastics' competition.

Ira spoke with bogus admiration: "Letha, I must admit that was a smooth move out at the Lander's farm today. No doubt, we are blood sisters. Dr. Jenny, I'll make this simple. If I see your face again, just know your death will take slow agonizing weeks. Letha and Jenny leave now!" Letha pleaded desperately, "What about MarDale? Please, I am begging you! Let him go with me". Smirking, Ira replied, "No sister. My gun, my choice! Letha, Doctor Jenny both of you leave this instant!"

Placing the trigger release gun against MarDale's side, walking him over to Sherriff Brecker. "Gentlemen, I will give you a choice. One plays with me as the other dies". Lou was getting uneasy. "Now that we heard MarDale's solid plan. Commendable, I might add. However, me being me, with my unquenchable desires to take control, this starved psychopathic mind must have its way. Coach! Look! I have the gun against the boy's side. Choose now! Who will have a thrilling time with me? Which of you will leave this world? You both have ten seconds. Choose now!" Brecker simply had enough as he yelled, "Why don't you jam it up your nose, you frigid witch? None of us fear you! Besides, you rotten skank! It doesn't take a professor to know I would volunteer to save MarDale. Do us all a favor. Kill me and let MarDale go. You are way past boring, and you have absolutely no imagination!"

Screaming fiercely, punching the release gun into Lou's rib cage, hurtfully folding him over like a cheap beach chair. "You think you're bored now, Big Man? How irked you think you'll be in the grave?!" MarDale could see her finger sliding off the trigger. Sensing a surge of courage welling up inside of him, shouted in a commanding voice of authority, freezing her in her tracks: "Ira Japheth! Death of saints according to God is mere slumber. Time passing is not perceived among the departed. To them, it will seem the very next second. We will be in His company. Besides, do you honestly imagine men of character like Lou and I can be forced to yield to your false perception of power? However, get this straight and mark it well. We are prepared to face God Almighty. If you think we will yield to you, Lady, your sadly mistaken.

Understand this! We can't be reached or touched. Nor will we even remember one second of this if we walk out of here. Mrs. Japheth! We will never allow you to make the tiniest impression upon our hearts or souls. You're nothing but a water bug crawling around the sewers of humanity. I say with assurance, Coach and I don't fear death. Please do the good man Brecker and me a huge favor. Get this over with or set us free! Walking off this ferry together or carried off. Lou and I could care less what you decide! For the last time take me hostage and release the good Sherriff. And stop acting so foolish. You know what I'm saying is for your own good!"

Off balanced, mystified, and confused. This was the very first time ever her cunning ways were so soundly defeated, of all things, by the inescapable logic of MarDale. Flamboozled like never before, Ira placed her release gun against his head. Sheriff Brecker was frazzled. "I cannot allow this!" MarDale implored, "Coach, please, if she takes you hostage, both of you will murder each other before the captain starts these big engines". The friends grinned, laughing. "Besides, she trusts me. I have never lied to her or Azazel. Nor will I start now. This is the only course she has to reunite with her own.

Lou, please. We all agreed Ira must let you walk. Or we both die if I refuse to be her hostage. In turn, you will guarantee her, Azazel, and Ran safe passage to their home, further agreeing that no one will follow them or send officers ahead for a roadblock or she will definitely take my life. When the boat lands on the other side, we'll allow her to radio ahead to her family, validating all has been accomplished accordingly. Oh, by the way, we need the ferry captain to make the passage. Ira, I say this in front of my witness, Coach Brecker. If you speak a single crossword or harm a single hair on the Captain's body, I give Lou and his men permission to take you out! Even if it means I lose my life. Agreed?" Ira had no choice but to concede, she had been utterly bested.

Coach wore a concerned but proud look for his adopted son. "Listen, you come home safe and use your head. Tapping the side of his head, "Don't worry Coach, I'll be going home". Lou embraced and shook MarDale's hand. "MarDale, sir, I believe you became a man today. You did all of us good. I Love you". MarDale smiled and replied back, "Here as well, Coach. Please tell our posse I love them". He gave MarDale one more hug. Lou faced Ira with vengeful hatred.

"Ira Japheth!! Harm this heroic young man in any manner whatsoever, I will beat you to a bloody pulp, take you out in the middle of nowhere, strip you nude, stake your appendages to the ground, and gag your mouth. Leaving the ants, opossums, buzzards, and coyotes to very slowly pick your bones apart!" She smirked, "Why, Lou Brecker. Whispering sweet nothings to me is a little embarrassing". MarDale shifted so Ira could not read his face. "Lou, tell the boat captain we need to get to the other side fast as we can". He had been so long with MarDale, his expressions spoke volumes to Brecker. This tough as nails lad had a scheme. Coach confirmed with his eyes. "Alright then, full speed ahead. I'll see you on the other side". MarDale felt a depressing sadness not for himself, but for his departing family and friends.

The Clearmound Ferry was a beast of a ship. Her glory days were over. Yet, she remained to service a three-county area and out-of-staters. Capacity: 130 passengers, Length: 95 ft, Height: 19 ft, Cruise speed: 48 mph, Engine type: 1,500 horse-powered diesel engine. It was common for fish or waterfowl drifting too close to be pulled underwater into the powerful propellers being spat out in bite-sized chunks. The captain put the big ship on full throttle. Pointing the boat towards the other side of this very wide river, approaching the mid-way mark, Ira lowered the release gun from MarDale's head. Determining that no sniper on earth could pick her off from this distance. "Come on, MarDale, to the back of the vessel. We have some unfinished business. I am a woman of great needs. I so enjoy dominating young teen boys who struggle at first, but soon afterward, completely submit, begging me for more".

MarDale questioned Ira, "What has all of your hatred for your parents done for you? Are you happier, content, or at peace? I can explain why your life is tethered to the gates of hell. Before I reveal my answer, just realize this will be your last chance to make things right". Momentarily, Ira dropped her guard. "MarDale, please go ahead". Continuing. "Mrs. Japheth you were harshly abused and hurt as a child. Are your incapable of making a comparison with the people you've harmed?

Have you become so blind that you can't see? You've developed into the very animals who damaged you. Azazel often told me stories of how you and your sister were brutally abused at the hands of evil men, permitted by your very own father and mother. To this day, you carry the immense weight of bitterness, seeking revenge on parental guardians long since dead. Intentionally or not, you now stand in their shoes, causing harm and evil to any and all who dare oppose you, forever locked into hatred against a ghost you cannot touch, becoming an empty shell of a human lashing out against the innocent. Ma'am, please. None of this needs to end like this".

Ira stood still and quiet. Viewing the span of her life, coming to the resentful conclusion that MarDale was correct. No matter what was planned or who she executed, exhausting herself, swinging and beating invisible spirits, who were never there, touching her to the core, unfortunately, yielded no resolution. That particular part of her heart was hard, callous rock. Only her demented agenda mattered now. "Honey, you're a sweet boy. I'm sure you worry about my soul. Baby doll, all good in me died long ago. From now on, I'll do all the talking and you will obey. If not, when we get off this bucket, I will destroy you. This release gun is heavy. Since I can do without it, for now, I'll use my back up gun. Come on, let's go over to the side of the ship. We'll sit over there. I'll instruct you how to make me purr". The two walked over to the side railing, the top of which was just wide enough for an adult to sit on.

"Come on, my pretty man, stand here in front of me". MarDale took his place in front of the pit viper. "Ira, please, this is your last chance". Then it happened. A sounding trumpet reverberating across an expansive space, filling the atmosphere with a burst of unmeasurable energy. Every living creature, man, and animal in a thirty-mile radius befell startled and upfront confused. The Clearmound citizens ran to and fro in chaos, asking each other what that sound was? Some say it was thunder. The captain of the barge thought it might have been engine trouble. That notion was quickly dismissed. Children began crying as no adult could admit to themselves. An incredible supernatural event just happened.

The angel raised above his head! A sword of flaming multi-brilliant shades of emerald, signifying everlasting life. From the angel's viewpoint outward to the barge where Ira was pressing her gun firmly against MarDale's body, flying faster than the natural laws of known physics, the spirit appeared on top of the captain's cabin, visible only to the onyx shaded demon, perched on Ira's head. If ever there were Bible thumpers in this sad old world, none could compete with demons or angels. After all, they beheld the first accounts of every aspect concerning God. Demons, like their master Satan, have one purpose: discredit God's written word. Angels have one purpose: obey God and defend his Word. Neither group can refute the following, "Thou believest that there is one God; thou doest well: the devils also believe, and tremble".

Ira's demon knew full well what he was up against. The angel spoke only three words to the fiend: "The Lord rebuke thee". Screeching the most fearful sound ever created, the fallen angel recoiling away from Ira, transforming instantaneously back into his costume of brilliant white light, purposefully imitating his foe, facing Clearmound, disappearing faster than funneled black lightning into the crowd. The wicked search for a human host concluded in a matter of seconds. David Briner, the local drug dealer felt dark power taking him over. Instantaneously, this shadowy spirit strengthened his mind and body enrapturing him. David Briner was rewarded handsomely for he was promptly promoted to "Regional Control Substance Coordinator" or R.C.S.C for none other than "Servile International Nascent".

The flaming minister of light rested his sword, quietly waiting on top of the Captain's quarters for his next instructions from the Lord's altar, where prayers of the saints smell like sweet incense to the nostrils of God. Ira could not explain to herself the sudden change in her demeanor. It was as if she could see clearly for the first time ever. Remembering somewhere long ago, "It is not the will of God that any man should perish. But all should come to repentance unto salvation". What mortal can determine the end of grace and the beginning of judgment? Ira crossed the final line of mercy as she shouted to the sky. "Hey God. I guess you don't get me today. I'm sure I'll go back to church soon". Turning to MarDale, "Now, my pretty boy, you know what I want. Stop stalling".

Under the river's surface floated a four-hundred-year-old red oak. Being a small sapling about the time of the founding of Jamestown, during the lifetime of Pocahontas. Its massive trunk measuring nearly forty feet in circumference, with a length of ninety-three feet, the ferry was no match for this lumbering colossus that smashed into the tree dead-center at forty-eight miles an hour. Groans of steel and engines moaned pushing to overload. Ira tumbled backward into the cold murky river water, surfacing in numbed shock, gasping for air. With all her strength swimming away from the ferry's grasping wake, she drew slow and steady towards the menacing propellers in spite of her best efforts. The captain was slammed into the control panel and knocked out cold. MarDale snatched a life preserver, hasting to the railing at breakneck speed. Losing his footing, and the flotation device, he slid across the wet deck, falling into the cold black water.

Ira was discombobulated and managed to stay on top of the river's surface, dangerously close to being pulled under by the engine's fierce undertow. Struggling, she could not pull away from the force of the enormously heavy propellers. MarDale was nimble in the water. He worked as a lifeguard in the summer months. Swimming away from the current, he watched, horrified, as Ira's demise became evident. Being swiftly swallowed under, by the tumultuous backwash of the huge water wake. Stunned, MarDale watched Ira as she surfaced three different times, each reemerging birth, an increase of gapping injuries and pain-filled screams, the last horrid display of harm on Ira's head being ironically, the same section of skull as was missing on Deputy Roberts. Disappearing beneath, her final muffled underwater screeches were incredibly loud. Then voiceless. The surface water was covered in bloody globs of Ira. MarDale encouraged himself, putting his head down began to swim with all his might against the current.

In no time at all, he began to grow exhausted and his lungs were on fire. His body turned frozen numb. With the added hell as his major muscle groups began spasming from the torturous shock of overload and lack of oxygen. Commanding to himself with his aggressive hardened tungsten steel determination. "Come on Mardale! It's a great life if you don't weaken; besides, Letha would never forgive me if I drowned in a huge floating mass of Ira Alpo. I'm completely certain there is nothing worse than making a redheaded woman angry".

The young lad was running out of steam. His only chance of breaking free from the ferry boats' powerful current, was to dive deep and distance himself from its relentless pull. Filling his lungs with a precious desperate last inhale. Mardale muster every ounce of his energy to make what he understood as his last chance for survival. As Mardale descended, he was astonished by how his body suddenly became pleasantly warm. This fascinated him for contradicting colder water temperatures seem to have no effect on him. Positioning his body, he started to swim underwater towards the opposing riverbank. In the murky water Mardale was spooked. Approximately ten feet ahead of him. It seemed to be a silhouette of a human face. Floating eerily without a formed body.

Drawing nearer he quickly positioned himself upright and folded his arms as if he were standing on dry ground. Mardale's entrancing gaze spoke volumes of self-contemplation, as the watery eternity drifted between the two. Intuitively, with rock-steady hands he reached out gently cupping Ira's sheared off head. She displayed a counterfeit facial expression of a peaceful slumbering child. Mardale gingerly folded back from her face the injured flap of flesh attained from her barge propeller demise.

A slow steady trickle of hateful revenged wellspring into a gushing Noah's Ark deluge of vice-gripped hatred. Consuming every sub-particle of Mardale's being. Placing his index fingertip over Ira's left eye, cocked his head. Steadily, he applied more and more pressure inward. Until he could hear and feel Ira's tissue and optic nerve snap away from her skull. Scooping out her eyeball with the nerve still attached. Mardale extended his hand that held Ira's appendage. Swimming in a slow three hundred and sixty panoramic view. Insanity girded up his mind into twisted laughter inside his head.

'Behold Ira! This is your rightful kingdom'! In like manner he ripped out her right eye, proclaiming as he ogled into her last oculus with undiluted venom. "Gaze upon me for the last time. We'll never see each other ever again!" Mardale felt a very soothing calmness wash over his soul. Then a sharp quick sadness in that he would bury this moment forever inside Clearmound's deadly river. Knowing Ira's open grave would haunt his actions, understanding full well forgiving her just may become a lifetime goal. Desperately depressed Mardale briefly contemplated dying here with "Eyeless-Ira".

Vigorously shaking his own self back to reality. He called upon determinedly what remains of his own strength. Commanding himself without a shred of compromise. "I absolutely refuse to die here with that hideously twisted female freak". With sudden weakness and aching body Mardale manage to kick to the water's surface. Gasping frantically while quickly getting his bearings. Mardale surveyed his surroundings. A swift horrid vision fell on him of Ira becoming inescapable seaweed. Her demonic laughter determinedly dragging him down with her into liquid silence. His heart sunk like a heavy millstone. He was no more than six feet away from the ferry. Mardale wept for he simply had not an ounce of energy left. He thought it best just to relax and die.

Treading the water at times with only his mouth and nose above the river's surface. He believed at first, he was hallucinating. Then he heard the most beautiful sound of a gruff graveled voice. "Son don't give up! Swim to the gaff! Come on now. You can make this!" There on the port side of the huge ferry was the Captain all bloody and bruised, encouraging Mardale not to give up his fight!

Mardale felt lifted upward. A strong male clasps his outstretched hand. 

# Chapter Thirteen  
 ** _"Earth or Heaven I know Not"?_**

Walking hand in hand on the pavement of one hundred percent gold, refined by the intense fire of God, the gold streets were translucent. "Tell me again, Gabriel, who was the first gentile saved? Patiently sighing, replying, "MarDale, I told you this story a hundred times". Urging sweetly: "I know, my buddy. Please, one more time?" The Arc-Angel smiled downward, "Very well, my friend. After all, we have all the time we need. MarDale became joyfully encouraged. "Thanks, my brother. High five!" Gabriel then remembered, "Wait a minute! Cornelius and his family live here. Don't you think it would be more fun asking the source?" MarDale earnestly shouted, "Gabriel! That's a great idea! When will I see you again? The angel waved grinning, "Whenever you want. Remember?" His little friend called back over his shoulder. "Seek and you shall find!" Giggling, streaking down the pure streets of gold, in quest of yet another adventure".

Sitting cross-legged with the other young girls and boys gathered in a semi-circle, excited for the opportunity to listen to the Roman soldier read aloud the very scriptures pertaining to him.

"While Peter yet spake these words, the Holy Ghost fell on all them which heard the word. And they of the circumcision which believed were astonished, as many as came with Peter, because that on the Gentiles also was poured out the gift of the Holy Ghost.

For they heard them speak with tongues and magnify God. Then answered Peter, can any man forbid water, that these should not be baptized, which have received the Holy Ghost as well as we? And he commanded them to be baptized in the name of the Lord. Then prayed they him to tarry certain days".

MarDale continued to listen as the Roman soldier Cornelius spoke on the topic of being the first Gentile redeemed, according to the New Testament instituted by God. MarDale's head turned inquisitively hearing from a distant earthly somewhere, the faintest whisper of his mother's voice, as he gazed on Gabriel walking towards him in a business-like manner:

"MarDale sweetie, wake up. Honey, your father is here, please open your eyes".

# **_Author Bio_**

My name is J.D Lightner. I grew up in a rough 'your word is your contract,' coal mining town in the '70s, military brat and the second child of four. My mother fought the good fight of child abuse and mental illness until sadly, she could fight no more. My father served in the Vietnam war, highly decorated master sergeant. Second to last helicopter out before Saigon fell.

To the credit of most mentally ill people who maintain family, country, and God. I after fifty-odd years of contending with bipolar illness. Miraculously! I was completely healed on October thirteenth, two thousand and nineteen by my Lord Christ! A lifetime of my medical records still has the experts scratching their heads until this very moment. It is extremely astonishing to have the black veil lifted off your spirit, squinting your eyes, granted hearing and, for the first time gazing up hope-ward.

Afterward, "Mardale" was birth. My first creation of reflecting upon the story I could never properly express for over a half of a century, until now. As far as my writer's pedigree I fall in the category with some stellar company. Namely, Ray Bradbury, Truman Capote, Mark Twain, H. G. Wells, Jack London, and Charles Dickens. All of which had no formal education. A few not so much as a high school diploma.

Thank you so much for riding with me I guarantee the road looks good!

-- JD Lightner

P.S I cherish your honest review, please be so kind. <https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1014748>

Email Mardale4414@yahoo.com
