

### The Phoenix Seeder

John W. Regan

Copyright © 2016 John W. Regan

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Table Of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

#

The husky redhead, Sherman's wife, is lying on her side, head on pillow. There's a dreamy look-on-her face as I remove my shirt. I know this guise. It ain't love. Not quite. No, more like... _"I can't believe I'm doing this"._ The fatso's prolly been with one man her entire life, the joyless string bean she calls a husband. I'm not here to blow her socks off, but an experienced lover helps. I hate doing all the grinding.

"How does this work, Brother John?" she asks.

I'm yanking down my shorts and regard her with annoyance. Great. She's chubby and chaste. How did I get so lucky?

"You a virgin?" I ask.

She shakes her head and then says, "No...I mean-"

"No different than it works with your husband," I answer. "Fornication is fornication. Lie down and let me go to work. God willing, I'll be through lickety-split."

"Can we talk for a minute?"

No doubt I seem impatient...because I am. Sherman's old lady is going to take focus. I'll be thinking about redheads, alright, but not her. Debra Messing or the skinny one from Heart ought to work. If I get desperate I'll conjure the image of Gary Triano's skull and sternum, fractured like an eggshell, and his crispy body smoldering like a pissed-out campfire. Or the train I once derailed, steel cars strewn like rubbish and the carping figures beside. Or flames. The tingle of fire tickles my fancy. Or all-of-it, at once. A maelstrom of conflagration, corpses, and copulation, set to the chorus of "Magic Man".

Repulsed? You don't understand. I need all the help I can summon. I got three to seed tonight. Two of 'em are barren wombs but I've been told to try again. It seems pointless but I can't argue. Besides, I'm paid by the load. Which means I got to produce...and producing means I got to get busy. Stat.

"We can talk," I tell her, "but I have a full schedule. I can't chit-chat 'til the sun comes up." And with those kind words, I slip off my underwear and kick it to the side.

She's bashful or intimidated. Prolly the latter. I watch her eyes zero-in on my pecker. "Brother," she says in a whisper. "I-I'm not ready yet. I'm nervous."

I rip through the usual suspects with aggravation: "I don't have any diseases. I'm not going to hurt you. You don't have to take pleasure from this. Prolly better if you don't. It's a process, nothing more."

"Sherman explained it to me but it feels wrong. Unholy."

"Hey, I'm not here to convince you about morality. Let the word of the Pastor be your inspiration."

"Do you enjoy...this?"

I stare at her lumpy shape and summon a charming smile. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know..."

"There's no need to be self-conscious. I'm not judging you," I lie. "We have a mandate from Pastor Morobito to procreate." I close my eyes and recite the Seeding Psalm. "God's will to rule, by God's will I'll use thy tool, bestowed to me I fruit thy womb, let God's fluid make you bloom."

"I love those words," she gushes.

"If this chant brings comfort, we'll say it together as we enjoin."

She rolls on her back and closes her eyes. "And after? Sherman told me to bring my legs to my chest."

I nod, wondering if she can manage such a profound task.

"I'm ready," she asserts after taking a breath.

I crawl onto the creaky bed and wait for her to start.

"God's will to rule," she begins with her eyes closed.

"By God's will I'll use thy tool," I say, spreading her legs.

"Bestowed to me I fruit thy womb," she continues, her eyes opening as I hover over her face.

"Let God's fluid make you bloom," I finish as we come together.

#

My mind is stuck in neutral. Debra Messing fails to materialize in front of my eyes. Instead I think about the past. Why? Seems like a natural response. Mental gymnastics do wonders when physical gyrations are arreptitious and insipid. What would you do? Perhaps I'm questioning my place in life as I rut with Sherman's wife. How'd I get here? Bad luck, good genes and a sprinkle of fairy dust from the wand of Providence. Or something along those lines. I mean...it can't all be random happenstance.

Two years ago I was a community college student, an inane eighteen year-old, when the Phoenix got its hooks in me. I was the perfect age when nonsense made sense. Subtraction by addition. Dogs livin' with cats. Merlin the Magician and his reverse life-span. In other words, I found veracity in gibberish.

Some kids go to boot camp after high school and get rebuilt by the military. I was constructed by the Mission. The thing about brainwashing is it doesn't seem like it's happening. Me? I was too smart to be a sucker...or so I believed. The bits are sewn piecemeal, scraps of fabric until it's a quilt you're shaking out. Soon you're covering yourself with it, sleeping under it, sleeping with others, getting warm and cozy. It's nice being snug, feeling the heat of your bunkmates, getting toasty while the cold rages on the rest of mankind. Comfortable, content, clever...and yes, conceited. All those saps outside the quilt are the senseless ones, uh-huh, indeedy. And so, after a spell, the quilt is home and I snuggled with it, even though I know it's more like a strait jacket and not a blanket.

This is how it happened but how I got wrapped in the comforter vexes. I thought I had a strong mind, fashioned from years of cynical models. My parents never discussed religion when I was a kid. My father was raised Catholic, the old school variety. Parochial hell, altar boy servitude, frosty nuns and frisky priests...the whole nine. Dad claimed the Church was full of deviants and abusers. I wasn't sure what he meant by it when I was knee-high. He'd tell stories of the nuns whacking him with rulers. He'd question the sagacity of the vow of celibacy. I got the sense the old man was a bad kid. Well, not only a bad kid but a smart ass to boot. Dad said the Church was rotten. So rotten he'd never set foot in one again. And by God he didn't. Although Mom had a spiritual streak, Dad had final say in the matter.

Speaking of Ma, my memories of her are ephemeral. From what I recall Mom was naïve and hippy-like, a free-spirited woman who loved Joni Mitchell and Carole King. In her soft voice she'd whisper about the harmony of nature and sing me to sleep. She liked to pick flowers and put them in her hair. And my hair. And my sister's hair. Mom talked about the world as if it was wonderful, flush with splendor. Each insect wasn't a pest without a brain; it was a complex organism with the same desires as us. If we found spiders in our house, we captured them and freed them outside. You get the gist.

It didn't seem fair she was killed by one of nature's beasts. The park ranger at the Northern Minnesota camp we were staying said it was a Black Bear. They wouldn't let us see her body so we had to take his word for it. She'd gone for a walk and hadn't returned by sundown. They found her remains the next day. Or most of them. The rest of her was shat out in some spot of the forest where bears poo-poo. Mom, concentrated into a steaming pile of feces. An ugly end to a beautiful life. Or the circle of life...if you wanted to believe in stupid fairy tales. Dad tried to find light in the darkness, but I wasn't buying it. In due time I'd find my own light.

The only bear I'd ever seen was Smokey, with his peaked khaki hat and guileless smile. Smokey was a misleading caricature; real bears were mean. After one killed Mom, I didn't care if all bears on the face of the Earth burned up in forest fires.

I felt betrayed by the environment. In my defense, I was eight years-old. I still thought Santa was real. So what did I do? I started lighting fires in the timber behind our house. It seemed like a pertinent reaction. Tit-for-tat, bear assholes. There was something magical about creating fire. It was like bringing new life into the world. From the first spark and perky lick of flame seeking oxygen, growing healthy and robust, to the unrestrained fury of conflagration...nothing could withstand fire's fury. I figured once I mastered the ferocity of fire, I'd be all powerful. Unstoppable. I'd torch everything until there was nothing left to burn.

I'd watch my masterpiece and get excited. A peculiar sensation, delightful prickles, washed over my skin. Heat from the fire aroused; the hotter I felt, the hornier I became. My pecker grew solid as the fire scorched. Each leaf or twig it consumed drove me to ecstasy. At this age I discovered the joy of masturbation and I erupted in the shadows of the forest as fire boogied around me. The rush from the first time was a high I sought to repeat, and I tried often. I no longer cared about destroying bears. I craved the intensity of orgasm, defiling the foliage with streams of my jizz. The closer I stood to the fire, the bigger I'd stroked the flames, the more stimulated I got. Rich, milky rivers of love, spilled into a tapestry of smoke and incandescence.

Dad found me one afternoon when I let one of my little creations get out-of-control. I didn't think it was a big deal, but he did. I don't know what scared him more: the fire or me jerking off to it. _Never, ever, ever, do this again,_ he scolded. _This is bad boy behavior._ For a while I stopped, but the compulsion gnawed at me. I didn't want to be a bad boy and I felt anything but naughty when I was doing it. Dad didn't understand it made me feel good.

In the third grade I lit paper towels on fire in the school bathroom and caused quite the reaction. I wasn't jerking it; I just wanted to see my old chum named Fire. I caught a thrashing from Dad, never mind the rest of the adults who lectured me about my _Bad Behavior_. There was a whole mess of angry people: the school principal, firemen, policemen and miscellaneous adults sounded the same alarm. What I was doing, young man, was Wrong. They'd waggle fingers and scowl. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_ , like I was a dog. I'd submit to the castigation with a hung head. The worst was the counsellor I had to chat with. She tried to get to the root of my problems, but I didn't think what I was doing was aberrant. Fire made me feel good. Fire made me engorged. Fire was invigorating.

You can't understand the feeling if you don't know the excitement. It's like trying to explain why some people get crazy about _General Hospital_ while others like _Major Dad_. Everyone has proclivities. We have to find our jollies from something. Macramé, model trains, Cleveland Steamers...what's your fetish? Don't be a prude and say you don't have one. Mine happened to be fire. Big deal!

Well, it turned out it was a big deal, a deal so big I was told to put a stop to it _post haste_. Commands wouldn't do the trick, so the counselor took to graphic images. I was shown pictures of burnt people. _Fire isn't your friend,_ she said. I thought feeling the fingers of fire on my skin would be soothing but this...this didn't look satisfying. _Acting out was naughty,_ she warned. If I didn't burn myself up, I'd get banished to a wicked place called Jail with other Bad Boys. Jail was no place I wanted to go and I subdued my arsonist desires. As a consequence, I was bottled like a bomb, waiting to explode. I tried to relieve the discomfort by jerking off, but I wasn't aroused unless fire was around me. The tension became too great; I had to find other outlets. Sports, for instance. Dad got me into baseball and football. I was pretty good at both but the moment the competition ended, so did the release. Then I discovered something called exhibitionism. It was glorious. I may've been weaned off the need to play with fire, but I'd never get tired of playing with myself.

Look, I'm not proud to declare any of this. In my defense, I was young and chaotic. I didn't do anything to anyone...I just couldn't get off unless there was a sense of danger. Being caught turned this innocent behavior into something thrilling. I'd lurk the fringes of playgrounds, in bushes, and satisfy myself while watching people frolic. Soon hiding wasn't rousing enough. I got bolder and started doing it in places I knew I would be caught. The more folks around, the better. One thing led to another and I started showing off to kids in school. Instead of going to recess, a mob of adolescent perverts followed me to the bathroom and I'd perform like a circus monkey. Gawking and hooting, my peers watched me climax. I'd charge a quarter each per show. Some guys wanted to touch it. Touching cost fifty cents. Pretty soon I had a money-making enterprise going. I was the John D. Rockefeller of elementary school with my Ziploc baggie full of coins. However, like everything else, it came to an unpleasant end. I was caught by a teacher and hustled to the principal's office, the discharge crusty on my knuckles.

The stigma of my comportment became a constant thorn. Schoolmates called me names and their parents looked at me like I was dangerous. I was labelled a deviant and forced to spill my guts to more stuffy shrinks. _Why do you do this?_ they inquired. I'd shrug and mumble something halfhearted in response. Like fire, I was told this behavior was abnormal. I shouldn't touch myself, least of all with people watching. Didn't they know how exciting it was! The rush was supernatural! I wanted to scream _they_ were the fools who didn't get it. Instead I said nothing. I weathered the onslaught of questions, clammed up, and fabricated repentance. I vowed never to act out again. My pecker would be sealed to the world.

Dad was ashamed. First the fire, then this. _What am I to do with you_? I told him it wasn't his fault. It was nobody's fault. It was who I was. He said if he caught me again he'd chop it off. I didn't think he would, but the threat was potent. I tried to imagine a hole in my groin. A big, gaping wound where urine dribbled out. Most important, Dad said, never let a boy touch you there. This was evil, awful conduct.

To escape everything, bad memories and behavior, we moved to Arizona when I was in the fourth grade. I don't like to think it was because of me, and Dad was a single-parent with three young kids to care for, so I tell myself it was a fiduciary endeavor. Why not? He _was_ looking for a way to make money. People flock to the West because of the allure of gold. In the old days it was goldmines. For Dad it was casinos and legalized gambling. He wanted to turn Phoenix into the new Las Vegas. Like all prodigious dreams, he had to start small.

Arizona was the perfect place to abscond. I liked it the first moment I set foot on the dry soil. Can you guess why? It's fucking hot here...scorching in the summer and temperate in the winter. No more snow, shoveling or wearing boots and mittens. There's also forest fires. In the summer, when the needles from the pine trees are crispy and the shrub is desiccated, lightning (or man) gives birth to infernos. Bulbous smoke blooms, a-bomb in appearance, and plugs the sky. It's sublime, stirring, and stimulating. I wanted to stand under the ashy canopy of conflagration and inhale the scorch until my lungs were seared.

Arizona is a wild place, more like a cinematic creation of a post-world society than a State in the Union. Reptiles abound, arachnids haunt and scruffy coyotes creep the suburbs in ragged packs. The people here, most of them transplants, are tatty too. Folks are half-cocked (and well-armed), the politicians' loony and the atmosphere is...how should I say? It's like anything goes. Hell, a lot of people come to the Grand Canyon State because they're fleeing their past, or cold weather, and pursuing prospective visions. Arizona is a good place to hide, start a cult, or chase other interests. Watch as I tick them off with my fingers.

There's the New Age weirdoes populating the Red Rocks of Sedona, a grungy collection of Carlos Castaneda wannabe's polluting the pristine ether with crystals, auras and shamanistic posturing. I get the sense Mom would've felt at home with these whack jobs. Next are the gun-toting maniacs, Randy Weaver worshipping nuts with their cabins in the mountains. Of course, no discussion would be complete without mentioning the migrants. Mexicans swarm across the border, working under the counter, slave labor primping landscape and building mansions while plump old farts puff on cigars and play eighteen. The retirement communities, gated divisions, are full of ancient Reagan worshippers. Their conservative leanings are almost as insufferable as their driving skills. Don't get me started about the meth heads. Skinny tweakers roam the night, bug-eyed and dangerous. Their jittery reality is abstract and crawling with shadows. Every other day a meth lab blows like a bomb, levelling corrugated trailers or a portion of shitty rent-controlled apartments. To complete the cast of characters, we have the entrepreneurs and real estate moguls. This is where Father fell into the ranks.

When we moved to Arizona in 1987 the governor was Evan Mecham. Mecham, a Mormon elder, was a former used car salesman and, depending on whom you ask, a bigot or staunch Constitutionalist. I didn't know enough about politics at age eleven to care, but it was impossible to escape the onslaught of discussion. In his first act of power after election, Mecham rescinded the state-paid MLK holiday because the Governor claimed King didn't deserve one. He fought with the state legislature, crooks themselves, and said the Governor had to answer to the divine word of God, spelled-out in the U.S. Constitution. Thus, the governor treated the lawmakers as impotent flunkies. This friction would spell his doom.

Mecham was impeached, at last, and a few years later in trotted Fife Symington. He's still the big cheese today. Symington is the great-grandson of Howard Frick, a steel baron, and is married to an Episcopalian deacon and heiress to the Olin Family. How do I know all this? Well sir, Dad got involved with the Symington Group, a real-estate development company. Dad and his partners, slimy fellows named Tony Vincent and Gary Triano, had majestic ideas.

The old man got nutty then; not Born Again or firestarter crazy, but work crazy. He fashioned himself an entrepreneur and started one shitty business after another. The parlance for a man like him is what Melville termed a "Confidence Man." Most of you would call my father a con man. I didn't know what Dad was until he went to prison, not like it would've mattered.

I did realize it wasn't normal to be tackling an endless deluge of phone calls from angry people. Most spoke in crude, broken English, like Tonto from the old Lone Ranger black-and-white shows I watched on Sunday mornings instead of the church programs. They claimed Dad owed money. I wouldn't have a satisfactory answer to the inquisitions. Lying became a necessary measure of defense. Pretty soon I became adept at deceitfulness. I didn't know what else to do. Dad would laugh at the accusations and say it was a big misunderstanding. Turns out he was a liar too.

The good times came to end when my old man was thrown into the pokey. Anyone living in Arizona in the early-90's has heard of AzScam. Dad was part of a group of entrepreneurs who paid lawmakers to make gambling legal in Arizona. Bribed was the expression used in the court papers. There were other charges: money laundering, embezzlement, racketeering. The newspapers said he had ties to organized crime, but I think this was a stretch. No...Dad, Tony Vincent and Gary Triano tried to weasel into the gambling business and got caught cheating.

From what I've come to understand in the years since, the crackdown was sponsored by the Tohono O'odham Indian Tribe. The chiefs got into the ear of a certain Democratic Senator from Tucson named Dennis DeConcini, who happened to lose a good chunk of change when Dad and his partners failed to develop land DeConcini sold them for a nominal price for casino property. DeConcini expected a hefty return on his $850,000 investment but got bupkes. So, like the Indians, he got mad and brought the hammer down. Unlike the Indians the good Senator had clout, although he kept his fingers out of the investigation and simply got the ball rolling. The honorable Senator didn't want his name associated with this malfeasance; DeConcini had gone through the ringer due to his link with Charles Keating and the Lincoln Savings and Loan fiasco. Make no mistake, the Senator didn't initiate the AzScam investigation out of the goodness of his heart or to pursue justice for the Indians. But this is splitting hairs.

I'd like to give my father the benefit of the doubt when he claims he was set up. After all, there was something hinkey taking place. The man who turned crucial evidence was Dad's partner Tony Vincent...whose real name happened to be Joe Stedino. Stedino bragged he had mob connections (perhaps he did as his alter-ego) and the AG (an Oliver Stone look-alike named Grant Woods) bought his claims and dreamed of catching bigger fish. Joe turned state's evidence, managed to avoid jail, and got a book deal out of the affair. Gary Triano avoided jail time too, prolly 'cause he had deep pockets and had Dad do all the incriminating lifting. Triano declared bankruptcy soon after the shit hit the fan but avoided prison. Not so fortunate was Dad. He and ten percent of the Arizona legislature got shipped to correctional facilities.

The police served a warrant one evening in '91, complete with battering the front door down, and hauled him away in his robe and slippers. Imagine what our pious Mormon neighbors thought. There were so many cops it looked like they were arresting John Gotti. I saw my old man a few days later and he was unrepentant. Dad blamed everyone but himself for the situation. Like I said, it all wasn't on the up-and-up and it didn't seem fair he went to jail while others skated. However, Dad didn't help his cause by lying in court to the grand jury. Oh yeah, the grand jury knew all about his phone calls and sit-downs with lawmakers, promising a piece of the casino pie if they voted a certain way. Stedino had taped these conversations ahead of time, just in case shit went south. How convenient it did. It's like Joe had a sixth sense when it came to covering his ass. I wonder why...

But hey, you know what they say about the cookie crumbling. The last time I saw Dad, more than five years ago, he didn't inquire as to how I, or my sisters, was doing. Nope, the old man complained about what lousy cards he'd been dealt. Dad bitched about his incompetent attorney. Entrapment was a word he bandied about like a beach ball. I listened stone-faced and then hung-up the phone in the visitor room. Across the pane of safety glass, Dad continued to spout, his face growing rosier as I turned my back and walked away. My father is scheduled to be released sometime in early 2000. I won't be waiting.

My sisters and I became wards of the state, a fancy way to say we got sent to an orphanage in Phoenix. In no time we were separated and sent to foster homes. I haven't seen them in forever. It's like they never existed. CPS claims they like to keep siblings together but this is lip service. My youngest sister, Julie, was three when Dad was arrested. I don't think I'll see her again and if I do, I doubt I'll recognize her. I know she won't remember me.

I bounced around for a couple of years. Some places were better than others. The foster program isn't rewarding needy families with unwanted children. It sounds good, but the reality is more like this: families get an allowance from the state for each kid they are approved. Often, people take as many kids as they can get their paws on. Not all parents are like this, but the ones I was dumped with were. Luck of the draw or fate...who can say?

One couple I stayed with for six months were white supremacists. They weren't great parents, as you can imagine, but once I got used to their rules things weren't awful. At least not at first. When word of a CPS visit would filter through the pipeline, we'd work to make the house look clean and un-Aryan. I pictured the same theatrics were employed at Auschwitz when the Red Cross came to inspect. Nothing but milk and honey here, move along. This charade was made pressing by the threat of punishment. My "father" was a plump, raspy-voiced meat cutter named Tim. He popped prescription pills and complained about his back. By the end of the evening, his voice would grow furry and lethargic.

When Tim found out my mother had German roots and my father had been sent away by the government, he thought I was ripe for the kind of life he advocated. I looked the part too, pure-blood and cut from ivory: tall, blond haired and blue-eyed. I become the favorite "son" of my "father", to the animosity of my "brothers". My "mother" was a doughy woman who wore Mumu's and watched gameshows on the tv. She smoked Menthol Lights and had a hacking cough. Their living room had no lights and was kept tepid by a swap cooler. They had four Doberman pinchers named Adolf, Reinhard, Heinrich and Max. The dogs were frightening. If you were bad you had to spend a night in the shed. Because I was the favorite son, I got to sleep in my parents' room. You can see where this is going.

Timmy had grand ideas. He hated the U.N., liberals and the ATF, among a million other things. He complained our nation was becoming a police-state, enforcing a doctrine intent on reducing the privileges of white males. _The proof was in the pudding._ He said this a lot. I wasn't sure what he meant by it, but if I had a nickel for every time Timmy claimed the "proof was in the pudding", well...I'd have a lot of nickels.

He listened to talk radio on 550 AM, KFYI, and the cavalcade of right leaning hosts didn't help his paranoia. They'd stroke his fury about something frivolous and he'd roar and say, "The proof is in the pudding" while I tried to make sense of it. Pick a topic and he'd grow outraged. Abortion, gun control, Ev Mecham's impeachment, illegal immigration, equal rights, Jew-boy cabals controlling the banks. The list was endless. It must have been hard to hate so many things but Timmy found a way because "the proof was in the pudding".

Timmy thundered, "You, and your brothers, are going to be the cornerstone of my army. We'll call it the 'Sons of the Gestapo'. You know what the Gestapo was, don't you?"

I knew they weren't good because Timmy claimed the police were "Gestapo thugs". Now he wanted us to become what he hated? I was confused and shook my head.

"Whatcha a dummy?" he asked, punching me in the chest. "The Gestapo kicked ass for the Third Reich. Elite soldiers is what they were."

His plan was to use foster kids to construct a new Gestapo, forged from his addled mind. Fantastic, I know, but I'm not one for hyperbole. Timmy was certifiable but we had no choice, lest we enjoyed getting thumped-on for insubordination. Even as fourteen-year-old I recognized a number of flaws in his vision. The obvious one was our ages, but this was the tip of the iceberg. Timmy wasn't a good leader. Say what you will about Hitler, he had one characteristic beyond criticism: the Führer could motivate a crowd.

Timmy, on the other hand...eh, not so much. He couldn't motivate himself to get up for work in the morning. How'd he plan on constructing an army? He had zero charisma, various addictions, and lacked a rousing reason to accept his rhetoric. Point A to Point B didn't run in a straight line, instead zig-zagging through a number of non-pertinent plots. To get to "New World Order" (something Timmy was afraid of) required a whimsical leap-in-faith. It might have made sense to a brain blitzed by muscle relaxers, but to me it sounded absurd. After a while I wondered why it mattered. It didn't because "the proof was in the pudding" and I ate a lot of pudding.

I was made to swear the Eidformel der Schutzstaffel, the Oath of the SS. I had to learn it in German. Each time I slipped up, Timmy beat me with a switch. Needless to say, I've committed it to memory:

" _Ich schwöre Dir, Adolf Hitler, als Führer und Kanzler des Deutschen Reiches treue und tapferkeit. Wir geloben Dir und den von Dir bestimmten Vorgesetzten Gehorsam bis in den tod. So wahr mir Gott helfe!"_

#

I recite it, in a whisper, and Sherman's wife looks at me wide-eyed.

"You're speaking German," she says.

"Hush," I scold. I want to blame her for my flaccid performance. Instead, I tell her, "You have to be quiet. I need to concentrate."

"Sorry." She closes her eyes and lays there like a mannequin. I feel bad for scolding but whatevs. This is serious business we're engaged in.

Sex shouldn't be a complicated endeavor. It's a function of biology, a touch tangier than taking a piss. People have done a good job turning procreation into a mental exercise instead of an act. I include myself in this category. Seeding has opened my eyes to the burden of fornication. Poets and the romantics try to put lipstick on this horrid degradation and call it love. Love, ha! What's there to love about any of this? The ripples of lumpy flesh, carbuncles of cellulite, the sweat and smacking? Even the brief moment of unpolluted joy, release, is bittersweet. The charm of blowing a load evaporates like a turd flushed down a toilet, replaced with humiliation and dishonor.

Christ, I hate it when they look at me. I want to gouge out their eyes. I know their stare isn't malicious but I see judgement in their fat pupils. Fear, too. And always, no matter how much I convince myself there isn't, a hint of desire.

Bullocks, I say! Fucking is rudimentary, serving one purpose, and you bet your bippy it ain't to whistle Dixie. No sir. This ain't no carnival ride. I approach the job like I'm back at Merle's Garage changing oil or inflating a tire. This drudgery is preventative maintenance, nothing more. I work quick and hard. There is no room for emotion.

Of course, there are times I enjoy what I'm doing. Whadda ya think I am, a robot? I can get funky, but the mood and partner have to be just so.

When I'm with the Pastor's wife, for instance. Even when the Pastor's watching I'll prolong the humping. With Sherman's wife, I have no intention of making this an all-night endeavor. Based on my train-of-thought, it's going to turn into one.

She notices the contortions on my face and asks, "You look like you're in discomfort."

"I'm fine," I claim.

I guess I'm not convincing because she launches into dirty talk: "I want to feel your explosion."

This doesn't help and I shush her.

With a sigh, she closes eyes. I decide it's time to step it up.

What I conjure is my neo-Nazi foster mother, the dowdy woman who fussed over my fifteen-year old body. I guess she got lonesome; her old man paid more attention to the couch after getting high on pain pills. While he dozed, she got frisky. It started with cuddling, evolved to petting, and before too long we were bumping uglies.

I never thought of it as molestation. She encouraged me, promised she'd protect me if I did what I was told to do. Seemed like a splendid tradeoff. Too bad she was liar. A real shame, but not a shocker. Everyone fibs to get what they want.

"Oh Johnny, you're such a good boy," she'd say, wrapping her arms around me. "You're a good boy to please your Mama." In her grip I felt warmth, dare I call it love, and I adored the sentiment. Timmy found us once, snug in intimacy, and beat the stuffing out-of-me. He told me I was a strumpet (damn if I knew what _that_ was), full of the Devil, and made me sleep with the dogs in the shed.

The next day he jerked me off, while his Frau watched, until my pecker was raw. He said he was trying to remove inducement. She encouraged him, said I was a tempter, and blamed me for her covetous inclinations. Afterwards I got a couple of his opiate pills to help with the pain. Stoned, I fantasized about burning down his wretched house, the shed and the stupid dogs. I was done being the favorite child and my "brothers" kept a wide-berth. This was fine because it allowed me time to plan my attack. I stole his pills and floated in wispy fantasies, surrounded by smoke and their singed corpses. I dreamed of dancing around them naked, frolicking with the flames.

Yes, this memory impels me. I'm angry and fertile. This is good. Angst translates into frenetic energy. I pound Sherman's wife and our bodies slap like hands clapping.

She moans and I go harder until the fire in my groin is raging.

#

"How'd it go?" Sherman asks after I step from the room. He's nervous, twisting his fingers around each other. Sherman has oily skin and a mullet. He wears white dress shirts and black slacks no matter the occasion. At our gatherings outside, like Papago Park in the middle of summer, Sherman dresses like this, sopping like a sprinkler. Under each arm are giant puddles of perspiration. He stinks like Irish Spring and Juicy Fruit. He's got acne; bulbous, vicious pimples as big as volcanoes. Sherman looks like a teenager in the throes of puberty. These eruptions speckle his face and forehead, begging to be razed. I feel bad for him but his appearance is testimony to the work I'm doing: his awful genes don't need to be passed down.

I pat him on the shoulder and say, "It went fine, Brother."

He nods and reaches for the doorknob.

"Give her a minute," I suggest. "Let her incubate."

"Thank you, Brother John," Sherman says. "You are a blessing."

I brush of the compliment and move down the hall.

"By the way," Sherman calls after me, "you're done for the night,"

I stop and pivot, putting my hands on hips. "I'm supposed to have two more," I tell him.

"No. Brother Heath will seed. You've been busy.

"I can handle it."

"You've earned a respite. Enjoy your evening."

There's no point to argue and besides, I'm a mite relieved. Sherman's wife took a lot of chi. I'd do well to have a breather. Off I go, down the hallway lined with fake wood paneling, to my room. I hop in the shower and scrub the stench of Sherman's old lady with the small generic bar of soap. The bottle of shampoo is also standard hotel issue and I pour it over my scalp. After I'm through, I wrap the towel around my waist and sit on the bed. The curtain is open and I can see the motel's gaudy neon sign. The letters flash one-at-a-time, in sequence:

_T-H-E R-E-S-T S-P-O-T_.

The "R" is burned out, has been since last summer. I look at the "E-S-T" and substitute letters. Red Rover, send "B" on over. _The Best Spot_. How 'bout a "Z". The _Zest Spot_. J, J, bo-bay-banana-fanna-mo-may...J! _The Jest Spot_. Okay, now an "N". I giggle and whisper, " _The Nest Spot_." Perfect.

Underneath, another colorful sign proclaims "COLOR T.V. & FREE HBO". A third sign, also in neon, announces "NO VACANCY". There's never vacancy at The Rest Spot. There's a strip of similar places along Main Street, east of downtown Mesa, but those motels always have vacancy. Most charge by-the-hour, if you catch my meaning.

If you follow Main Street east it becomes the Apache Trail, US 88, in Apache Junction. 88 winds through Lost Dutchman Park, then the Superstition Mountains, past Canyon Lake, Tortilla Flats and follows the Salt River to the junction of 188. At Government Hill, US 88 terminates. If you keep going straight you'll end up at the bottom of Theodore Roosevelt Lake. Sometimes I dream about escaping, but I doubt I'd get further than Brother Tony. Tony tried to go west, towards California, but didn't get further than Palo Verde, Arizona. If you're keeping score, he made it about 50 miles as the crow flies before the wheels fell off the train. In other words, not far.

So I'll stick around for the time being until I can think of something better than what Tony conjured. You could say I'm procrastinating, in denial of the future, like there won't come a time when my seed becomes a pumpkin. The proof is in the pudding; the calendar isn't going to stop for me. I'll be 21 come November and my value in the Mission will be redefined. Until then I lounge at The Rest Stop like a dumb shit.

The Phoenix owns the motel. All the patrons are members of the congregation. Some, like me, are kids with no place to go. Others are down-and-out families. There's a hierarchy here. I'm about middle-of-the-road. Pastor Morobito is the pointy-top of the pyramid but he doesn't stay in the motel. He lives in Scottsdale, snug in a 10,000-foot square house, with his wife and four kids. None of the rug rats are mine, but this isn't for lack of trying. His wife is named Rochelle, a busty blonde who smiles at me every time I see her. She was my first in the Phoenix, the initiation fuck, and I think she kind of likes me. I like her too, but I'm not stupid enough to make my feelings known. I've tacked her twice and I'm certain the last time was the money shot.

The Executive Officer, Number Two on the chain, is a humorless man named Bobby Reed. He also lives in Scottsdale with his wife and two kids. They're not my seedlings, but they don't have Bobby's blood flowing their veins either. Before she was saved, Mrs. Reed was a something of loose woman. Bobby's no goody two-shoes himself. Hell, none of the people in the Phoenix are here because they were born infused with the Good Lord. Everyone is fractured, spilt apart, and looking for redemption. The usual temptations led them astray: drugs, booze, sex, gambling...all manner of vices big-and-small. You name it and we have a person who did it, tried it, or overdosed on it. A number of recruiters hang out at AA or NA meetings and cherry-pick the weediest souls from a field of weaklings.

Back to Bobby. I don't trust him and catch him sneaking glances at me. I perceive jealousy in his eyes and have made it a cause to keep my distance. Bobby is an avowed survivalist and gun nut. The Phoenix has a lot of these sorts but most are congenial. You can have a modicum of civil discourse before the conversation evolves into something apocalyptical. Bobby, however, goes right for the juggler. He rants about the decaying morality in society and "End Times". I get the feeling he'd like to accelerate the process. Like all pious, Bobby talks out of both sides of his mouth. He gives lip service to decency but he's no saint. No sir.

Bobby and I share sordid secrets, another complication in our relationship and one giving rise to suspicion. What we've done is grounds for imprisonment, perhaps the death penalty, and our shared complexity defines the bond. I shouldn't give him reason to worry and I think he's wary of me. I mean, I don't know if he is but it's nice to daydream I hold a sliver of power over his head. I'm tight with the Pastor and this offers a righteous force field. When I'm no longer a seeder, though, things might change. I don't want to dwell on it now anyway. Like a good procrastinator I'll tackle the future at a later date. My involvement with Bobby led to bad things and my guilty cognizance is a compelling argument to find an eraser. Time to blot out chunks of brain matter.

I power on the tv, which isn't in color and lacks HBO, flipping through the channels I do get. Local stations and PBS. Public Broadcasting is my favorite. There's a show on every Wednesday evening called NOVA and it runs the gamut of fascinating subjects. Space travel, deep sea exploration, old west bandits and countless other things I can't comprehend when I'm of sober mind. I sit in front of the television and stare slack-jawed on most nights, but NOVA keeps my full attention, even if I don't know what it is they're talking about.

I open the dresser drawer and dig through my meager wardrobe of shorts and t-shirts until I find the bag of weed. I roll a copious joint, open the window, and listen to the traffic before lighting up. Drugs are considered taboo but good luck enforcing this mandate. Everyone in the motel is into something. Some are meth heads. Others, like me, stick to the "Devil Root", as the Pastor calls it. He may not like it but it's how we make money. Getting high is not the best idea but it's what I do most-of-the-time when I'm alone. When I was younger I'd masturbate. Trust me, I'd don't need to seek solace from my hand anymore.

Instead I get high and meditate. Blazing is the closest thing I can get to consuming fire. I take deep drags, inhaling until my lungs are scorched. I stand at the mirror until my skin is translucent. Every fiber of muscle glows and my body is keen. I hear my heart beating and the atmosphere grows murky. My brain gets cloaked in a heavy cloud, a fog so gorgeous I get lost in its texture. I'm no longer myself. I'm beatific like a spark, smoldering with radiance, full of passion.

***

My eighth grade P.E. teacher noticed the bruises on my backside one day when I was getting dressed after gym. Mr. Ressler took me aside in the annex and asked if I was being abused. I'd been conditioned to lie for so long I shook my head.

"Nobody's going to hurt you," he pressed. "I'm here to help."

"I deserved it," I said, and I meant it.

"Deserved what?"

I told him to forget it; he wouldn't understand. To my consternation Mr. Ressler wouldn't drop it. He thought he was helping but I had other plans. Shit, what about my self-esteem? I must've been one lousy kid to get parents thrown in jail and eaten by bears. Just once, I wanted to claim a hunk of flesh before it was too late. Therefore, before things got into the hands of the authorities, there happened to be fire at Timmy's cluttered estate. Not only did his house burn, so did the ramshackle shed where the dogs lived. Their howls were heartbreaking, but what're you going to do? All-in-all a tragedy. The mutts and my Nazi parents burned to a crisp. Ole Timmy, wrecked on pills, must've passed out with a cigarette in his hand. An open-and-shut case of death by misadventure. Through the grace of God, my foster brothers and I managed to escape the house as the roof collapsed. Back to CPS went I, off to the next family. I didn't think it could be any worse than what I left.

One thing Arizona has is a lot of is Mormons. Before Dad was arrested he bought a house in Mesa, Southern and Val Vista Avenues, and our neighborhood was a stronghold of these people. I'd never met a Mormon before we moved to Arizona and let me tell you, they weren't designed to make good impressions. Nice people, perhaps, but underneath the smiling façade was a calculated, censorious intellect. Dad said they were nuttier than the Catholics, which was a damning revelation considering Catholics were worse than cockroaches.

We were greeted by Elders or Bishops or whatever they fancied themselves. Between the phone calls and the house calls, I developed a callous attitude. I had no problem slamming the door in the faces of these charlatans. I looked at their families, eight, nine, ten kids with Biblical names like Isiah, Jacob and David, and marvel at the awfulness of their situation. The kids were docile and dressed in rags from a 19th Century Goodwill store. I had 'em pegged as rubes. Their houses were dilapidated shitholes. We had neighbors with chickens because they were too poor to buy food. They'd come to our house and borrow milk, sugar or sundry items.

Wouldn't you know where I got stuck after the molester Nazis? Yep, a Mormon family.

They weren't cruel, but they had agendas of their own. It wasn't SS loyalty oath worthy, but it required another form of commitment I didn't enjoy. There was seminary and visits to temple. The Mesa Arizona Temple, known as the Lamanite Temple, is a huge concrete structure five stories tall. I wasn't allowed to go past the visitor center because I wasn't deemed worthy enough to gain entrance. The Mormons do all kinds of secret-squirrel stuff in their sanctuaries. They hold marriages and prepare people to become kings for the afterlife, among other things. It's not far from The Rest Spot in downtown Mesa and I blow a cloud of pot smoke in its direction.

I figure ole Joe Smith smoked a lot of wacky-tobacky when he penned the Book of Mormon. It's nutso stuff. But, there's more than just the one book. On rainy days, instead of watching soap operas, take a look-see at the _Pearl of Great Price_ and see how it tickles your fancy. It's ain't light reading material, lacks humor (think Andy Capp without the alcoholism) but boy does it provide fantastic insight. I think Joe put down the spliff and dove headlong into a chamber pot full of hallucinogenic mushrooms or whatever mind-twisting tinctures they had in the 19th Century. For instance, check out the Book of Abraham. Joe claimed to have purchased Egyptian papyri from a travelling museum show and translated the ancient documents. He accomplished this despite being a farmer from Upstate New York with no understanding of the Rosetta Stone. Among the text, according to Smith, are references to Kolob. This is a star or planet depending on whom you ask in the Church, but what is agreed upon is Kolob is the nearest cosmic body to the throne of God. Needless to say, we spent many nights in the Hanson household looking for Kolob with a telescope

I learned about the "Great Whore Of All The Earth", the Roman Catholic Church. Seems a mite harsh, I suppose, but havin' heard my old man call the Church worse when I was a kid, I figured there had to be a morsel of truth in this declaration. The other things, though, were too eccentric for a jaded kid like me to believe. The Mormons idea of God and Jesus is confusing. God, Elohim, was once a mortal being, made of flesh and bone. He completed the process of becoming an exalted being, meaning He transcended the mortal cloaks. This was the stated goal of Mormons but it took a lot of hard work and dedication to make it to this realm.

Jesus was the physical form of God... or something along those lines. After his crucifixion he became a God named Jehovah. See, this is where I get confused and I'm not the only one. The entire Church is ripe with different theories and philosophies. There's a branch of Mormons who practice the fundamental tenants of the religion. This includes polygamy and child brides. Their interpretation of Joseph Smith's writing, as well as his disciple Brigham Young, is literal. Once upon a time, President Buchanan declared war on the theocratic Mormons who ruled Utah Territory as if it was their own nation. Like everything else regarding Buchanan's presidency, the Utah War was a bungled operation and the Mormons emerged emboldened. This didn't mean Mormons were accepted; for much of the 19th Century their practice of bigamy offended the sensibilities of chaste Christians. The latter day Latter Day Saints have tried to make Mormonism palatable by toning down the child brides and plural marriage doctrine. Nonetheless, there are bastions of these relics in little pissant communities littered throughout the American West. A few, like Colorado City, sit in Arizona. One day the AG might go after these pious perverts when they get through prosecuting people for bribing politicians.

Here's what I've realized: like all religions, Mormonism began out of the sexual repressions of one man. Joe Smith wanted to get laid. He figured his personality wasn't going to seal the deal so he invented a way. It's no different than what Manson, Koresh, Jimmy Jones and thousands of other horny anonymous dudes have done in the years since. One thing about the Phoenix is there's no wife-swapping taking place. No sir. It's the opposite operation. Only a select few get called to do the seeding. In this way the sinfulness of the congregation cannot be derailed by personal lust. Therefore, the seeders assume the burden of sin.

Anyway, I'm getting off track. I ended up with the Hanson's, a Mormon family about to burst the seams of their 1,000-square foot house. I'm not sure why CPS thought the Hanson's needed another body in their squashed domicile but this is where I went. The Hanson's had five other children, two boys and three girls. One of the girls was my age. She called herself "Sister Janelle" but I had a hard time thinking of her as a sister. She was blonde, buxom, curious and cute. I tried to flush the sinful thoughts in my mind but the Devil kept tempting me with Janelle. I guess she got tempted too. The both of us, tempted into heavy petting. We never consummated our relationship but we did everything else. The act of intercourse, according to Janelle, was sinful if we weren't married.

For a time I thought I'd marry my sister, but it's 'cause I wanted to plaster her insides instead of procreating with her hand. I don't know what got her off more: being naughty with someone who wasn't Mormon or making me beg for something besides hand jobs. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't swatting her paws away from my genitals. They were apt, but practiced. I got the sense she'd learned the art of male milking from someone other than me. She had plenty of brothers... and a father I started to view with suspicion.

My Mormon father, Dale Hanson, got wise to our liaisons. He caught us one night making out in the basement, her hand on my pecker, when we were supposed to be immersed in religious study. Like my Nazi Dad, Dale claimed I had the Devil in me. He sent me to live with his brother on the other side of Mesa, which was against the rules of CPS, but I wasn't going to raise a fuss 'cause I didn't want to go back into the system. Merle Hanson owned an auto body shop and I worked there the summer between my sophomore-and-junior years of high school. He let me throw a wrench and taught me about the electrical systems of cars. I got paid and he didn't make me go to Church if I didn't want. Which I didn't. Merle wasn't as devout as his brother and we spent the evenings drinking beer in the shop as we fiddled with vehicles.

"You can work for me when you're out of high school," Merle promised. "Or before."

I mulled this over for the summer until Merle got frisky. Don't get me wrong, I could've dropped out without batting an eye. High school had some positives and, while I wasn't a great student, I played sports and had friends. The thing was I didn't know what I would do after high school. I figured college wasn't an option. No way would I be able to pay for it and I wasn't smart enough to get an academic scholarship, nor good enough at sports for an athletic scholarship. Merle's offer was gracious, but I didn't want to work on cars until I was an old man.

Over time I understood his intentions weren't benevolent. I wasn't much of a drinker and a few beers would get me buzzed. Once I was inebriated, Merle swooped in. He'd masquerade his lascivious groping with tongue-clicking petitions. I looked stiff, or sore, and he'd ask to rub my shoulders. At first it was brisk massages, the light tickle of his calloused fingers over my neck and arms. Feeling me out, finding his boundaries. Later he became blatant in his desires. The first time his hand wandered up the inside of my thigh I froze. His leer was predatory but my brain didn't want to comprehend the malice. Spurred by my soundless consent, Merle became bolder. He tried to cop a feel and I snapped. One punch to the jaw stopped the probing.

"What's the matter?" Merle asked.

"Boys aren't allowed to touch me," I told him.

"Don't be shy. I'm not going to hurt you," he claimed, but I didn't trust Merle. Point-of-fact, every time my pecker saw the light of day it got me into trouble.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't sleep sound in Merle's house. Every night I locked the bedroom door and waited for the knob to rattle. Or the cheap plywood door to cave in. This didn't happen, but the threat was enough to keep me stoked. Many nights I feel asleep convinced Dale Hanson had sent me to live with his brother as a form of carnal punishment.

***

My joint is down to a nub and I suck the last of the smoke before it joins the other roaches in the ashtray.

I flip thru the channels with my finger because the remote is broken. Thar she blows, the gem of my pathetic life: NOVA. Hot damn. However, I'm not firing on all six cylinders at the moment. It takes me a minute to comprehend the subject matter: domestic terrorism. The show recounts the exploits of John Brown, the Tulsa Outrage, anarchists from the '20's, the SLA, the Weather Underground, Randy Weaver and Tim McVeigh. The new threat to America's safety, according to the narrator, is the crop of Aryan/neo-Nazi nuts springing up like weeds in Oregon, Idaho and yes, good old Arizona. Timmy would've been ecstatic to know the "Sons of the Gestapo" were mentioned as one such group for their role in the October 1995 sabotage of railroad tracks and the subsequent derailing of an Amtrak train near Palo Verde, Arizona. The typed epistles found at the scene claimed the "Sons" were enraged by the ATF and the siege at Waco. Yeah, well, the rhetoric was apt but the bombast contrived. The Sons of the Gestapo didn't give a rat fuck about politics.

"An Amtrak employee was killed in the attack of the _Sunset Limited_ ," the voice-over says as a camera pans over mangled sleeping cars strewn across the desert. "Another man was never found. Seventy-eight were injured." I reach over and turn off the television. This isn't something to dwell on while stoned, no sir. I need to go outside and get some fresh smog in the lungs.

Down the hallway I pad towards Brother Neil, waiting outside another room. He's leaning against the wall, pretending to read a _Sports Illustrated_. I hear the sounds of seeding from behind the door. Neil's wife is getting plowed, and how! Brother Heath is going to town, groaning like a stroke victim.

Neil glances at me from over the magazine and says, "I thought you were going to do it."

"Change of plans. Guess I'm not taking to your wife."

He rumbles and returns to his magazine. I linger for a second as Heath's moans intensify.

Neil tosses the magazine to the floor. "Why's it taking so long?" he asks.

I shrug and then say, "You didn't hear it from me, but I think Brother Heath uses those pills. You know...the hard-on medicine."

"Is this allowed?"

"Why not?"

"It seems, I don't know...besides, you guys aren't supposed to enjoy it, are you? It sounds like he's having fun."

"You'll have to ask Brother Heath," I say with contrived solemnity.

"Pastor Morobito says lust is decadent. It leads the soul astray. I wouldn't want my wife steered awry."

"I can only testify to my work."

As if to put an exclamation point on the conversation, the headboard thumps the wall. Once, twice, three times. There's a pause, a murmur and the then the sound of laughter. A woman's voice says "thank you Brother for your gift" and Neil reaches for the doorknob with a trembling hand.

"Give them a minute," I say. "They're still engorged. Don't interrupt the process."

Or, perhaps, I'm diverting him from finding his wife getting it up the pooper. There's a reason Brother Neal's wife isn't on the nest, and it isn't because her womb is barren. I mean it might be, but the birds-and-the-bees don't use the exit slot...if you catch my drift.

There are a few women like this. Our repeats are into the kinky and they're sure as shit ain't getting it from their husbands. Someone's got to provide for the well-being of the Phoenix.

Sometimes it's a burden being the bearer of sin. The proof is in the pudding.

#

Bugs float on the water and I dip a toe into the flotsam. The pool hasn't been skimmed in God-knows how long. Folks staying in the motel have jobs. The housekeeping and maintenance is done by the newest members, designated Stage 1. If they want to live for cheap they got to pull their weight. Many of 'em are straight from the street, raw and undisciplined. The notion of work takes some getting used to.

I grab the pool skimmer from the hook on the fence and scrape the dead creatures and a viscous film from the surface. No doubt the chlorine hasn't been added and the acidity level is out-of-whack. Algae grows on the tile in the shallow end and the water level is about four inches less than normal.

I was the pool boy for the first few months I was in the Phoenix. Pool boy, errand boy, the lowest stone on the pyramid. Shirt off, I laid out on the old lounger and baked myself a golden brown. I looked Moorish. These days I still get a few hours a week lounging, but the other work I do for the Phoenix occupies most of my time. The rest of it is spent at my part-time job at Bill Johnson's. I don't need the money, and being a grill cook isn't fulfilling, but it gets me out of the motel for a few hours each day. It's refreshing to be amongst the non-Phoenix. And then there's Courtney...but I don't know how to handle her. Each day I step foot into work I've convinced myself to talk to her. And, each day, I find a reason not to. It's a hopeless, frustrating situation.

I jump in and roll onto my back, floating from deep-to-shallow end. The moon is a cat's eye, hoary and bright. I'm weightless, high, and full of rumination.

***

Dale Hanson retrieved me after the summer with Merle. Janelle had been sent away, banished to St. George to get "reeducated". I never saw her again. I wasn't long for the Hanson's anyway. Dale's sermons got to be too much and I carried a chip on my shoulder I wanted to cash. He chided me for being uncouth. He told me I'd be damned to Hell if I didn't listen to him. Was I ready for eternal damnation?

Why not? This didn't scare me. I figured getting whipped by a pill-popping skinhead for having sex with his fat wife was a version of hell I'd already lived. What could be worse?

I got the sense Dale was jealous of me. He was obsessed with making me pure and denounced my lustful ambitions. I told him his daughter was the Jezebel who wanted to get touchy-feely but this insight made him angrier. I'd been up against worse and laughed in his face. We had a real fight, kinda, and I pushed him down. Being 165 pounds of muscle, I could've hurt him. Dale was a pudgy middle-aged weakling, soft and flaccid. His only defense was hand-slapping and Biblical insults. Even as he hollered at me from the ground, I avoided doing what I know he deserved. My brain screamed to burn the place down but I didn't want to hurt anyone but Dale. The house was so crammed with people there would've been collateral damage.

I left the Hanson's and their strange brood for good. I didn't care if I had nowhere to go. Staying on the streets would've sucked but I had one lifeline I could call. It wasn't Merle. He would've taken me in, but I wasn't desperate enough to cross this Rubicon.

I walked to a Circle K and called Amon Spillane, a friend I knew from high school. We played on the football team, two white atheist guys amongst the Mexicans and Mormons. He'd moved from Southern Cal before our junior year and we struck up a friendship, united as outsiders. Amon was tall and thin; his long dark hair stuck out from the bottom of the football helmet, earning the enmity of our old-school football coach.

"Spillane, you need a haircut! You look like a hippy," Coach Howard bellowed, like clockwork, every afternoon until the season ended. Two straight years of scolding but Coach Howard was wasting breath. Amon never got it cut. In fact, he bleached the mane white when we were seniors.

Howard put up with it because the kid could play. He was one of the best athletes on the team. In practice, though, Amon didn't seem to care about utilizing his natural talent for anything but screwing around. He slouched, walked through his routes and cracked jokes. In the games, however, he brought intensity. They inserted him in as the starting strong safety and Amon shot across the field like a cruise missile. He had no regard for personal safety and shrugged off pain like it was a nuisance. I figured his lack of self-preservation hid a greater darkness because I did the same. Football, for me, was a way to purge anger and I did so with no compunction.

With me at free safety and Amon at strong safety, along with two corners who would play D-I ball, our secondary was a force to be reckoned with. Amon and I created mayhem and our destruction was primed by the coaches. If we didn't hurt somebody in the course of a game, we felt like we had failed. In a way, and I sense our coaches knew this but didn't care, the two of us were sociopaths. Our insanity was perfect for football. Hell, it was celebrated. We could act on our indignation without fear of punishment.

My resentment needs no explaining. Pardon my French, but life is a torrid shit pile. Amon's wrath was similar. He lived with his divorced father in an apartment a half-mile from Mesa High School. Amon's mother had bumped uglies with another man and his father, Andy, had moved out-of-spite. Andy had problems of his own: he smoked a lot of pot, drank like a sailor, and worked construction. Absent would be a better way to describe Andy Spillane, which left Amon to do as he pleased. In turn, Amon smoked ample amounts of weed and thus by addition, so did I. Like football, drugs presented a method of escape. I never thought of it as anything but a recreational activity, something we did to unwind. Needless to say, we unwound a lot.

The long-and-the-short of it is this: when I phoned and told Amon I needed a place to stay, he didn't hesitate in offering his couch. He scooped me up, no questions asked. I wanted to blab about Dale Hanson but Amon wasn't interested in hearing my sad story.

"Forget about him," he lectured. "He's a shithead. You're better off now."

"Your dad won't care I'm shacking up here?"

Amon laughed and then asked, "Are you kidding?"

I wasn't because every adult I'd met had been more fucked-up than I wanted to believe. As a kid you think adults are beyond reproach. I never thought they could be devious, insecure, criminal and sneaky. These behaviors were supposed to be reserved for children. Then you grow up, mature and become leaders of business, politicians, pilots, policemen...whatever. This isn't what happens. Adults are worse...they're children with authority and many abuse their power. A blanket statement, for sure, but the so-called grown-ups I encountered sure did.

Anyway, Andy Spillane didn't raise a fuss. He welcomed me into the apartment like I was his second son. Shit, he fired up a bomber within minutes of me stepping through the door as a sort of house-warming gift. _Mi casa su casa_. Who was I to argue?

"What's your deal Johnny?" he asked as we got baked.

I told him the _Readers Digest_ version of my life, minus the stuff about arson, Mormon handjobs and neo-Nazi cuckolding. When I finished he whistled, low and slow, and shook his head. The rest of it...Mom dead, Dad in jail, the odd foster parents, was enough to blow his stoned mind.

"I guess things couldn't get worse," he said with a chuckle.

This was true. After a few days, I phoned Dale Hanson and told him I wasn't coming back. Never, ever. He wasn't happy with my defiance and threatened to call CPS. I told him this wasn't in his best interest, for a number of reasons, but the biggest because he'd lose the $500 a month I was worth to his income. So we reached a compromise. He'd remain my legal guardian until I was 18 and collect his allowance as long as I didn't have to spend another night under his roof. Problem solved. Whenever I needed a "legal guardian" to sign whatever paperwork needed to be signed, I'd take a ride over to the Hanson's and ole Dale would scrawl his mark.

For the next two years this was my home and Amon became the closest thing I had to a friend in this life. We did everything together. When I think about it now, it's the only time I was happy. We'd blaze a huge fat one and laugh at the world. We'd hit the bong and solve global complications. We'd drive around, puff on blunts, and listen to music.

Amon didn't give a fuck about anything. He had no moral barometer. We'd go to the airport and I'd push him in a wheelchair while he acted retarded. Babbling, spitting, having seizures...the whole nine. Real highbrow behavior, I know. We'd hang at Mill Avenue, near ASU, sit around and drink Big Gulps laden with whiskey. We got high and his old man didn't care one iota. It was like he didn't have a dad. It was glorious.

Amon's father used to be in the military and collected firearms. He had a cache of handguns, shotguns and semi-automatic weapons stocked in the hall closet. I'd never shot a weapon before and shied from the instruments like they were mephitic. Amon made fun of my insecurity and dragged me to the Gila Indian Reservation south of Chandler to purge anxiety. You know what? I enjoyed it. I pictured a lot of people I wanted to see on the bad side of my gun. The list wasn't long, not yet, but those who made it deserved a bullet or twenty. This isn't to say I was going to shoot them because the fantasy was more satisfying than how I would act if I should've run across them in real life. In the real world I'd have put my head down and slunk away. Baked on the Rez, blasting holes into abandoned houses and destroying beer bottles was adequate.

I also got into making explosives. Amon had a copy of the _Anarchists Cookbook_ , an adequate guide to the construction of pipe bombs, smoke bombs, booby traps and other amusing trinkets. It was innocent stuff... I swear. Blowing up abandoned homes and mailboxes was a time waster and none of God's creatures ever got hurt. I never planned on committing acts of terrorism, although I knew these things had a practical use beyond entertainment value. Moreover, I became adept at plaiting nails, tacks and other projectiles into the body of the pipe bomb. When the device exploded, it would splatter sharp bits into the dehydrated plywood and drywall. The effect was awesome and I took pleasure in the destruction. The bigger the result, the happier I became.

I'll cop to one thing we did, a spur-of-the-moment activity for teenagers with pent-up energy. We made a shitload of bombs, or I made them while Amon giggled, and we drove around Mesa one night lighting them off and throwing them at Mormon Churches. Later we hit the Salt River Reservation and destroyed mailboxes. The next day our petty acts of vandalism were scrawled across the front page of the _Mesa Tribune_. The paper said the police were investigating "hate crimes" aimed at the LDS. Imagine how much Amon and I laughed. Hate crime? I swear, if we were guilty of anything it was boredom.

One thing we also did a lot of was play video games. Amon enjoyed those computer based war simulations and we spent hours recreating World War II or Civil War battles. He favored the Allies or the Union, which left me directing the "bad guys". I didn't mind; in fact, I figured in some past life I was a Nazi Stormtropper or Waffen SS. Why not? I had a natural ability to be immoral. I also had the added the luxury of lacking much of a conscious.

Logistics were the handicap of the downtrodden armies. The Wehrmacht was hamstrung by lack of resources but I managed to stand fast in a number of key battles. Forget the Civil War nonsense; the Confederates were undone by their lack of industrial infrastructure and men. Amon channeled U.S. Grant and threw endless waves of men at my redoubts. He'd laugh, toke, and send animated soldiers to their death with glee. What did he care?

However, he met his match when I took the reins of the Nazi forces. Don't get me wrong, I didn't relish turning the world into a Nazi-controlled police state. Yet I felt a kinship with the Heer leaders of yore. The German generals, those of the aristocracy, weren't big fans of Adolf and his henchmen, but they had a job to do and so did I. And...it was kind of fun to rewrite history.

I learned the power of Germans resided not in numbers, but in superior equipment. Well...this and frugal plotting. The Germans had wicked breakthrough armor ( _Panzerkampfwagen Tiger Ausf. E._ (the computers name for the Tiger I) and the _Königstiger_ , (aka King Tiger or Tiger II), jet airplanes and rockets, among other goodies. Coordinated attacks and perhaps my SS loyalty oath propelled me to victory in Europe. This and the Waffen SS, which were brutal units with high success rates in battle. I'd never seen Amon angrier than when I swept the beaches of Normandy clean of the Allied scourge. Once the Western Front was pacified, I turned my sights towards the East and the Russian barbarians. Whole divisions of the Red Army were erased by Amon's imprudent assaults. In no time I pushed into Moscow with Field Marshal Paulus's 6th Army, securing the parameters of victory the computer had programmed into its system.

"This is bullshit," Amon lamented. "The Russians suck. This isn't a fair fight."

"Maybe," I said, "but war isn't reasonable. You have to adjust your tactics for every fight. Throwing your throng of savages at my men might've worked in the 1800's, but this is a different time."

"I thought sheer numbers would overwhelm," Amon griped. Then he flipped the computer two middle fingers.

I folded my arms, smiled and then said, "Sorry, chum, but you're on the first train to my death camp. No hard feelings."

Our weekends were spent picking up girls. Or, I should say, he trolled the waters. I was shy. I hadn't had great success with women. It seemed every time I got involved with one, something awful happened. I didn't know if it was me or what.

"Dude," Amon lectured one night, "you gotta be energetic. If you stand like a fish out-of-water and refuse to engage, you'll never get action."

"I'm not the go-getter type."

"Why not? You're a good-looking guy. Don't sell yourself short."

I guess in his mind I was, although I saw it as something different. Self-preservation. Shame. Bashfulness. All of the above. Sex had been nothing but woe and I decided it was better to be an outlier. Despite Amon's nagging, I kept to myself. Then I had a breakthrough. I like to think of it as a spiritual encounter, although the distortion of senses helped plant this germ. What it was and what I thought it was are divergent roads joined at a similar point. In the moment, though, it felt like destiny.

Our drug of choice was pot. We had an endless supply of it thanks to Amon's dad and we smoked before school, during school and after. During the football season we'd get high outside the sports annex before practice. I thought I played better stoned because I couldn't feel anything. The point is I spent an inordinate amount of time in the fourth dimension my senior year.

After class one afternoon, Amon tracked me down and presented a sly grin. I knew something devious lurked behind the smirk.

"Why are you so happy?" I asked.

"Excuse me while I kiss the sky," he said.

"Huh?"

He looked around before removing a little Ziploc baggie from his pocket. Inside was a small square of aluminum foil.

"What is it?" I asked.

"We're going to take a trip tonight," he said with a giggle. "It's LSD."

"LSD?"

"Keep your voice down," Amon hissed. "You don't need to announce it to the world."

"I don't know man," I said. Pot was one thing. LSD was a different realm. I'd heard stories about bad trips. I didn't want to gouge out my peepers or jump off a building.

"It'll be fun," Amon said. "Trust me. Would I lead you astray? We'll do it at the apartment and it'll be cool."

I blew air out of my lungs and then mounted my lame defense: "I heard LSD is not safe."

"Not safe?" he scoffed. "Who says? The cops? Nancy Reagan? Fuck them. This will blow your mind. I've done it before. There's nothing to be worried about."

"I'm holding you accountable if I go insane."

"More than you already are?"

"Fuck you."

"There's something else. You know Debbie Masters?"

An alarm bell sounded in my ears. "Yeah," I answered with hesitation.

"She's gonna join us. Debbie and a friend of hers."

Debbie was a capricious blonde who spent time at school passing notes or smoking in the parking lot. She'd mooch rides with Amon, flirt and flick his mullet. I knew he was gunning for her.

"Don't look so worried," Amon chided. "Good times for all."

"Who's her friend?"

"Gina Abbot. You know, the girl who-"

"Yeah," I finished. "I know her." Gina was another girl who'd I classify as having "loose morals". Or so I heard. The scuttlebutt in the locker room was like the propaganda from the Third Reich: often exaggerated and not to be trusted. She was a cutie, though, and someone I figured was out of my league. Way out. I got nervous thinking about talking to her. I didn't know how I'd manage with the real deal in front of me.

We scooped them at the smoking pit in front of the school and they chatted non-stop on the three-minute drive to Amon's place. His dad was gone for the weekend, off to Vegas or Laughlin to gamble. Amon doled the acid, a little piece of paper, and we dosed ourselves by sticking it on our tongues.

"Now swallow," Amon encouraged. He flipped on the lava lamp and turned on the television. The girls giggled and huddled on the couch. I fell into a beanbag chair and relaxed.

"How long is this supposed to take?" I asked.

"Half-hour. An hour at most," Amon answered.

I looked at the clock on the VCR and made a note of the time. _The Deer Hunter_ was on the tube. Steven and Angela were tying the knot. I'd seen the movie, knew what was ahead in Act II, and wondered if this was suitable viewing. The Roadrunner cartoons seemed like a better option. I attempted a halfhearted lunge to stand, picturing myself turning the channel, but the body refused to comply. The beanbag chair was too comfortable.

At some point I realized the world was changing, and not in a good way. Or a bad way. It just was. And you know what? I was A-Okay with it. Everything felt fine and dandy. The wall melted into the carpet. The curtains into the wall. The ceiling was shrinking, closer to my head, then bouncing up like elastic. No problem here, I thought. The little voice in my brain working Mission Control hit the "launch" button. All systems were go.

I became ultra-sensitive to everything. The actors' expressions, their gestures and shouts, seemed so goddamn real. I knew _The Deer Hunter_ and LSD weren't suitable companions, not like peanut butter and jelly, but holy shit. I sat slack-jawed as the VC dragged prisoners out of their river pen to play Russian Roulette and flinched with each pull of the trigger. When I glanced at the digital time on the VCR, one hour had passed. I couldn't believe it. It could've been days, weeks, seconds...my perception of time was skewed.

Amon said something, garbled and fuzzy, and I turned my head. It took forever to focus on him, longer to think of something to say. I gave up talking and resorted to grunts as I pointed at the television. The warbling of an NVA captor had reached a fever pitch as he handed a revolver to De Niro. The skinny gook kept screaming "Mao!" I was spellbound.

"This movie's a downer," Amon said. "Let's make a cocktail." I understood him this time, although I'm not certain how. Everything was distorted. I'm not talking twilight gray, hard to see. I mean it felt like the world was cartoonish and weightless. I flexed my hand and watched it form a fist. How did I work? I wondered. Movement is derived from need, which is determined by desire. My brain wants, comprehends a way to achieve, and sends electrical impulses thru the body to perform. Fed by senses, the mind reacts.

I began to understand behavior wasn't the result of logic. It was a complicated reaction of known and unknown variables. From Earth Science I recalled weather occurs because of the differential heating of the Earth. High and low-pressure centers are formed to balance this discrepancy. Perhaps human conduct works in the same manner. Who knows what motivates us? It could be something as subtle as a change in air pressure. Nonetheless, being complicated organisms meant the answer had to be convoluted.

My eyes, through whatever filter they see the world, disseminates light. Light turns to tangible objects as the brain comprehends. Those entities take form in appellations I learned through education and experience. A chair is a chair because this is what I've been told to call it. My reality was shaped by the perceptions I'd been instilled with since birth. Everything had been constructed by others. Buildings, governments, down the names of the smallest bacteria. I had no talent to discern anything on my own because it'd been done for me. What was left to discover?

My mind turned down a dark road. Perhaps the answer to this question resided in death. The moment when essence dribbles out, transporting soul to threshold, is a mystery beyond elucidation. I was born so I could die, to gallop into the sublime. This was the undiscovered demesne. What was I doing about it? Nothing, except wasting breath. It was an impotent sensation and I felt helpless. How could I comprehend demise? I closed my eyes and imagined naught. It was a futile exercise. Even by thinking of nothing I was working my imagination. What do you call this? A Catch-22? I had to be dead to understand the state, which meant I'd never get it because death wasn't a place. It was a condition devoid of noise, sight and poise. In death one could only pose, a mannequin to be disposed. There had to be a way, something I could beseech. Who or what? My thoughts were a clutter of puzzle pieces. I had to fit them in place. Shoving them together wouldn't create a masterpiece.

Then I had an epiphany. Like high and low pressure, life had to have a natural order, a flow to it. Living couldn't occur without dying. Everything in between was a path from Point A to B. Some of us get there faster than others because nature seeks equilibrium. Mom's death, for instance, fed a bear. The anguish of her death thrust me in a direction. What was it? This wasn't clear but it prolly involved fire. Could it be so simple? There had to be more.

This blast of self-awareness was overwhelming. What about the others? Were they overcome by the complexities of existence? The girls were moribund on the sofa, inspecting their hair. I shook my head and the living room became wavy and distorted. I felt like Astronaut Bowman aboard the space pod in _2001_. It's true, I realized with horror. LSD makes you insane.

"Didi mao," Amon warbled, drawing my attention. "Didi mao. You're zoning."

"I'm losing my mind," I said. I'm not sure if we communicated verbally or telepathically.

He understood and grabbed my arm. "Didi mao. The booze will help balance you."

His reasoning was beyond criticism at this point in the evening. I stood on legs like stilts and ambled into the kitchen.

Amon grabbed a bottle of rum and set it on the counter. I inspected the label like it was written in Cyrillic. When I looked up, Amon was standing at the refrigerator, gazing into the interior.

"Gozer," he croaked.

"What?"

"From _Ghostbusters_. Dana saw demons in her fridge." He slammed the door and studied the handle before announcing, "Wow, I'm fucked up."

"Me too."

"We don't have any Coke. Can't have rum-and-Coke without the Coke. We should go to Bashas."

The idea of walking the streets filled me with dread. "No way, man," I said. "I'm not going anywhere. Either are you."

Amon shrugged, glided away, while I went back to decoding the writing on the bottle.

Later, Amon and Debbie disappeared into another room. There weren't many hiding places in the apartment but at this point in the evening it was like walking through the Palace of Versailles. I got lost trying to find the bathroom. I didn't see them go, but I could hear them. Every word. I stared at the lava lamp and tried to make sense of the shapes. There was music playing. _The Deer Hunter_ was replaced by another war flick. I couldn't watch anymore violence and turned the channel until I found Erkel. Erkel became _Boy Meets World_ and then _Step-By-Step_. The sitcoms sucked me into their ridiculous universe. I blotted my surroundings, sucked into the cloying realm of fantasy families with miniscule problems, always resolved in a quaint half-hour, minus the commercials.

"You don't talk much," Gina said, drawing my attention. When I looked at her it seemed like her neck was string, her head a balloon and it ascended to the ceiling.

"No," I said, trying not to laugh.

"How come?"

"I don't know. Not talkative."

"You live with Amon?"

"Yeah. I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"What about your parents?"

"I was a foster kid. My mom's dead and my dad is in jail."

"Oh my God. How awful."

In my trippy mind it didn't seem so awful. It just was.

"How'd your mom die?" she asked.

"Ma got eaten by a bear."

Gina flinched and her mouth opened. I thought she was going to cry. Maybe she thought I was exaggerating on account of the acid.

"It's true," I said. "We were on vacation in Northern Minnesota. She went for a walk and never returned."

"And your dad went to jail?"

"A few years later." The thought was bumming me out and I said, "I don't want to talk about it."

"So...what happened to you?"

"Foster care. My sisters and I got passed around. I spent time in a few families. When I couldn't take it anymore I ran away." I thought about elaborating but decided stories of neo-Nazis might send her head fluttering.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It sounds like you've had it rough."

"It hasn't been a picnic, but it's better now."

"I think everything happens for a reason."

I shrugged. Her explanation sounded as good as any at the moment.

This conversation broke the ice. We talked more. Dreamy shit about the nature of the world. Our eighteen-year old minds, dripping in lysergic, connected the dots to the mysteries of the universe. I got the feeling she didn't want to explore the labyrinth I wandered into before so I let her steer the conversation. She talked about sweet things: sunsets, Palo Verde blooming and life after high school. Later we sat outside and stared at the stars.

We tripped the whole night. Twelve hours later I was begging for it to end. I'd close my eyes and see shapes forming against a background of a million stars. Triangles, squares, diamonds. Building, expanding, crashing into themselves and reforming. I felt like I was going to jump-out-of-my skin. Gina lay with me on the floor and we watched the lava lamp until I felt her nuzzle against my neck. Soon we were kissing. Her hands touched my face. I fondled frenetic energy.

One thing led to another and we fornicated on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. This hadn't been my intention but shit happened. Her body was blazing, sweating; gooey like hot wax. When I looked at her I saw an inferno. Her essence floated from skin in profuse puffs. Gina was smoldering. Picturing her as a flame instead of a girl helped me accomplish a dream I'd had since I was an eight-year-old: I was fucking fire. Worse, it burned. I worked fast, the friction of my groin shooting sparks all around. I had to put it out, quell this blaze before it consumed me too.

My ejaculation was cold and excruciating. It felt like shards of glass were shooting from my pecker. The moment I blasted my burden, her skin grew frigid and I watched her body turn from red to blue. I thought I'd hurt her but she said I hadn't. Rather, she claimed it was magical.

I'd be foolish to call it love, but I convinced myself we were meant for each other. My stupid ego, helped by the LSD, took control of me. Gina needed my dose of rime to keep her from turning molten. I was vital to her well-being.

Afterwards I fell asleep, sapped and exhausted, while she rubbed my forehead. I was sick for a day after my dose and promised never to do it again. It wasn't the physical effects I wanted to avoid as much as the mental gymnastics. I didn't want to accept the reason for life was death. But what if it was? What's the point? See what I mean? It was a maddening circle I got stuck in, like a snake chasing its tail. There was no end, no right angles, and I was spinning.

And Gina? I made more out of our liaison than she did. I was sensitive to affection and desired her attention. _Love starved_ would be the proper definition. I didn't think of it as a "one-night stand" or an act of lust. To me it was special. I obsessed about it then, and I obsess about it now. Gina had a more pragmatic view of relationships, one I would adopt later. At the time, I didn't know how we could be intimate and then move along like we shared an ice cream cone. As it turned out it was easier than I realized. With the right mindset I became a pro.

The long of it was I felt connected to this person in a way I didn't think I could achieve through normal interaction. More horrifying, at least in my eyes, Gina needed to get altered in order to sleep with me. At school the following Monday she acted like I didn't exist. Didn't she know I balanced her? I could stop her from becoming a cinder.

Shunned, I badgered Gina for weeks. I wouldn't say I stalked her...but she did. I just wanted to make sure she was safe. You see, I was too kindhearted for my own good. Amon took me aside, at last, and told me to cut out the creepy shit. I was scaring her. Christ, it was hard. It was like turning my back on fire again. What was I going to do now?

Looking at it with a sedate, non-judgmental cognizance, I get the sense much of my life has been spent, in vain, trying to find acceptance. Some people are natural socializers. I'm not. I've always felt like an outsider and carried on this way. So how'd I end up in the Phoenix Mission? Well sir, over time the need for companionship dwarfed introversion. Or the need for camaraderie bred a willingness to nibble at the baited hook of religion. Yes, I fall into this group. Is this bad? Time will tell, but it does mean I'm willing to forfeit self-respect for recognition. This describes me in a nutshell.

When I graduated high school I had no clue what was next. I mean, besides death. Death would always loom. I didn't want to obsess on it and needed to distract myself in the interim. My skill set wasn't vast and I had few interests which weren't criminal. This led to a dose of depressing introspection. In the past, depression was an emotion I handled with aplomb. I could climb out of the depths of sadness in due time. However, after school ended I couldn't get my head above the surface. All summer I stayed moribund in the doldrums of "what's next", understanding I didn't have anything to look forward to. Except death. No family, no career, no girlfriend...nada. No matter which way I flipped the sign, a giant question mark manifested on the path at the crossroads.

Amon's father got us a job working construction in Gilbert, hauling timber and drywall eight hours-a-day in the summer heat. The pay was lousy and my muscles ached. I looked at these guys and fast-forwarded to the future. There was no way I could do this until I dropped dead. Was it any wonder these guys drank when the workday ended? You had to numb yourself or go insane. I tend to fixate on the extremes, if you hadn't noticed.

Amon got me on my feet, although he didn't do so by anything he said. It was more what he did, which was nothing. It didn't help I wasted the summer getting high. The both of us, high and suspended in time.

"What's next?" I asked after another day of drudgery.

He was rolling a doobie and gestured at it with his head.

"Same routine as last night," I pronounced. "I'm bored."

"Bored?"

"Aren't you?"

Amon shrugged and then answered, "No."

"So this is it?"

"Whadda mean?"

"Working shit jobs. Getting stoned."

"What else is there, smart guy?"

"I dunno, but this is getting old."

"Bite your tongue! There are old stoners, and there are young stoners, but there ain't no way getting baked ever gets tiresome." Then he lit the joint and winked.

"I'm not arguing I'm tired of weed, but I don't think I can do this menial labor forever. There's got to be light at the end of the tunnel, you dig?

"Oh, chill out. All of this is a means to an end. _Melrose Place_ , music, drugs, work, sex...shit, they're distractions. I say find a vice and hop on. Might as well enjoy the ride."

I could think of another but decided not to share. In fact, I'd been thinking a lot about fire. How nice it would be to torch these houses I helped build, for instance. This was another reason I needed to do something else.

"If you're so unhappy," Amon said, "then do something about it."

"Like what?"

"Hell if I know, but you look miserable. Maybe you're not cut out for construction. No biggie. What do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

"You could try college. MCC isn't far. Start there and figure it out."

I wasn't the best student in high school. Not the worst, not by a long shot, but distractions kept me from reaching my full potential. If I could get serious...

"Or don't," Amon muttered before taking a hit.

"I suppose I could scrape together the money. MCC can't be too expensive." I took the joint and imbibed. The more I thought about it...well, why not? I've had worse ideas.

I decided to give college a shot and enrolled at Mesa Community. It turned out to be an auspicious decision. I was trying to find my way, but the way found me.

#

A few weeks into the first semester at MCC I was sitting outside reading _The New Times_ when a tall, gangly guy with a high-and-tight smacked his ass down next to me. I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes and went back to the newspaper. I'd seen him before, prowling the commons like a predator. I gathered he was selling something. He'd stop and engage people walking in the courtyard and chat with them like they were good friends. At the end of these exchanges he'd hand them a card and move to the next. I suppose it was a matter-of-time before he got to me.

"Whew, it's hot," he said, like this was a shock. He wiped his brow and shook his head. When I didn't respond he continued talking to himself: "Beats Iraq. The summer's there are brutal."

"I'm sure," I said, flipping the page. I should've known better than to engage but I didn't want to be rude.

"You a student?"

I thought it was a stupid question but nodded. I had a pile of books sitting next to me on the bench.

"What year?"

"First year," I answered, setting down the paper.

"Good for you. I'm getting my Associates next spring. I hope." He chuckled, extended his hand and then said, "By the way, I'm Matt."

"John," I told him, shaking it.

"Nice to meet you. What classes are you taking?"

"I reckon the usual for a first-year newbie. English, Philosophy, Film History. A math class."

"What's your major?"

"I haven't decided. I'm doing this to figure out what I like."

This statement, although innocent, sparked a twinkle in his eyes. "Yeah, figuring out what you like isn't easy. Take it from me. After high school I joined the army. Five years being a grunt is something I wouldn't recommend."

"I don't think I'd like it myself."

"What about God? You think about God much?"

I laughed and mentally kicked myself for opening my mouth. I should've known.

"What's funny?" he asked with smile.

I raised my hands and said, "You can save the speech. I've been down the God road before."

"With who?"

"Mormons. Whatever you're selling, thanks but no thanks."

"I'm not Mormon."

"Good for you." I grabbed my books and started to rise.

"Hold on a second. We're just talking. Conversing. I'm not trying to scare you away."

"You ought to try a different approach."

He decided to skip the hackneyed bullshit and asked, "Do you believe in God?"

"I don't know, but it's not something I like to discuss with strangers."

"Hey, I'm asking. I'm not trying to pry."

"Well you kinda are, don't you think? I've seen you around."

"I'm spreading the word, my friend."

"Spreading the word, huh?"

"Spreading it, not selling it. I'm not a salesman. I'm part of a little church, but growing bigger by the hour. We're people like you, trying to figure out the way. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Right about what?"

"You're trying to find your way."

"If you say so," I said, gathering my books. "I got to run, Matt. It was nice talking to you."

"Do me a favor," he said, removing his wallet. "This is my card. Give me a call if you want to talk. We're not a cult or anything crazy," he said with an exaggerated wave of his hand. "So many people are quick to dismiss. Keep an open mind." He removed a card and handed it to me. I thought about turning my back and leaving him with the card between his fingers. For whatever reason I didn't. Instead I plucked it and jammed it in the Pre-Calc text.

"Call me anytime," he said as I walked away.

Fat chance, I thought.

I didn't crack the math book often. Shit, who am I kidding? I didn't crack any book. I lollygagged through the 1st Quarter, struggling to keep up with the instructors. I found college to be a drag. I had good intentions when I registered, honest, but dreams and reality make bad companions and reality struck me in the face like a brick wall. Amon didn't help. He wanted to goof off and sucked me into a pot-smoked maelstrom. He teased me, called me "Brainiac" and said I'd gotten snotty at the institute of higher learning. It didn't bother me...at first.

The more he needled, the more I felt the need to prove I hadn't changed. I started skipping class to hang with him and slacked on assignments. The work I submitted was awful and juvenile. My crowning achievement was a seven-page paper on Jean Bodel, a Medieval French poet. Amon and I composed it one evening out of boredom and a creative burst infused by marijuana. We fabricated Bodel's life story. All I knew was ole Jean was from Arras, France, and died in 1210 from leprosy. Everything beyond this was fashioned by our tacky minds. We kept adding things with each puff of the joint until we had assembled a life so rich in detail, it was like we had spent it with him.

When we were done, Amon took my math book and opened it.

"Anything in here about this Bodel guy?" he asked, rifling through the tome.

"Unless he was a genius in algebraic expressions, the answer would be no."

"Look at this fucking shit! What're you going to do with this crap?"

"Beats me. I gotta take math and boy does it blow."

"Stupid," Amon said as he flipped a couple of pages. Then he stopped and asked, "Hey, what's this?" He had found a business card and held it under the lamp. "The Phoenix Mission," Amon read. "An Undertaking For God." He slapped the card on the table and mumbled, "Where'd you get this?"

I had forgotten about the card. I took a hit, giggled and then said, "Some weirdo at the college."

"He trying to save you? Good luck!"

I swept the card and stared at the words. There was a red crucifix atop a hill. The words were printed beneath in black letters. When I turned the card over I saw the name "Brother Matt" and a phone number written in ink.

"This guy, Matt, is passing these out to everyone."

"You should call him," Amon said.

"What?"

"As a gag."

"No way! You call him. I've already done my ten rounds with the Mormons."

"C'mon, man. Let's have a little fun."

"I doubt he knows the meaning of fun."

"Do it," Amon begged. "Let's fuck with him."

"And say what?"

"Tell him you're high. See what he says."

I flicked the card onto the floor. "I'll pass."

"Ah, don't be a wet noodle."

"Forget about it," I said, returning to Bodel's made-up biography. "Let's get this finished."

We pawed at it, or at least I did, for another hour. After another joint and a few beers, Amon talked me into making the fateful call. I could blame him, but nobody forced me to dial the numbers. It was close to midnight when the phone rang on the other end. I figured if Brother Matt was a good Christian, he'd be sound asleep and dreaming of Jesus. It turns out he wasn't.

"Hello?" he asked.

I looked at the receiver and struggled to think of something to say. Meanwhile, Amon was laughing like a madman.

"Hello?" Matt repeated.

"Um...is this Matt?" I asked.

"It's Matt. Who wants to know?"

"Um..." I raised my eyebrows at Amon and tried to hand him the phone. He pushed it back to me.

"It's late, my friend," Matt said, "so whatever you have to say let it fly. Otherwise I'm going to hang up. What's on your mind." His voice was pleasant and soothing, inviting me to open up.

"I got one of your cards a month ago. I was phoning to-"

He interrupted before I could continue. "From MCC?"

"Yep."

"Awesome. If you're interested, you should check out one of our meetings. Every Tuesday and Friday evening we get together at seven. Who am I talking to?"

"John," I answered before thinking.

"Good to hear from you, John. Say, if you want, we can meet tomorrow. I have class until one but we could grab lunch after."

"Sure," I said, like it was nothing. Why? Who the Hell knows? It was like I didn't want to disappoint him by declining.

"Can we meet in the commons about one? By the flagpole?"

"Ah...okay."

"Nice. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright."

"John, don't disappoint me by not showing up," Matt added with a chuckle.

"I won't."

"Great. See ya."

He hung up and I set the phone on the hook.

"What the Sam Hill?" Amon roared. "You were supposed to tell him you're stoned."

"Shut up, man," I snapped. "I told you I didn't want to do it."

"What'd you agree to?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, eh? Sure you didn't. How could you screw up a prank phone call? Jeez."

"Forget about it."

Amon had no problem forgetting about it. He rolled a doobie while I stared at the card.

I should've blown him off. I could've blown him off. But I didn't. I felt obligated to Matt. What's a meeting anyway? We'd bullshit, eat food and then I'd walk away. I reassured myself, as I stood in the commons, I owed him nothing.

The clock chimed one bell and a moment later Matt appeared through the multitude. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt, a backpack strung over his shoulder, lopping towards the flagpole with a concerned look. When he saw me, his face reassembled into a smile and he waved a hand.

"John, great to see you," he greeted.

"Sorry about the call last night. I know it was late."

"Don't worry about it," Matt said pointing at my chest. "I thought you might ring. I had a sense when I was talking to you. I thought 'this boy needs guidance'. I prayed on it. Lo-and-behold here you stand."

"You prayed for me?" I prolly should've been weirded-out by this information, but I wasn't. Instead I felt tingling and warmth in my extremities.

"Yeah, and the Lord heard my petition. I'm glad you called. I know a great wing place down the street. You like wings?"

"What's not to like?"

"I know, right? Good answer. You have a car? You want to follow me?"

"No car. I take the bus."

"No problem," he said, slapping my shoulder. "We can take mine." He shook his head and grinned. "It's great you called. We're doing wonderful things at the Phoenix. You'll like it."

The fact Matt assumed I was interested in joining his Church group had me alarmed but I didn't walk away. Like I should have. Nope, not me. I just stared at him like a deer in headlights. He took my silence as affirmation. What a dope I was.

Over a plate of chicken wings he rapped about himself, and the Mission, nonstop. Matt would only pause to wipe his fingers on the napkin. It was a hard sell, something I learned about later, and it connected with the loneliness I felt.

Matt said, "I joined the Army out of high school 'cause I had no options. I was a slacker, didn't like school and hated working fast food. Plus I liked to party. Sound familiar?" He looked at me knowingly and I nodded.

"Anyway," he continued, "I don't know what I was thinking when I enlisted. It sounded like a great deal. The Army would set my head straight and I'd have structure in my life. Besides, when was the last time we fought a war? Well, as fate would have it..."

"You mentioned Iraq the first time we talked. You were in the Gulf War?"

"Yep. I was 41st Infantry, based in Germany, when Iraq invaded Kuwait. We got sent to the sand box, merged with heavy armor, and were first across the desert when Desert Shield kicked off. Talk about a life-changing moment, John. We engaged the enemy several times but the Iraqis weren't well-organized. The firefights were stilted. You'd have thought we were doing a military exercise and not engaged in battle. I don't mean to say there wasn't fighting. There was and men died but I felt...invincible. You heard of the Battle of Norfolk?"

"Nope."

"Not many have. It was one of the last battles of the Gulf War. We had to breach the Iraqi artillery defenses before the armor could proceed. I killed two men in combat. Up-close-and-personal. I didn't think about it at the time because it was them or me. Later I felt a burden. I know I was doing my job, but I felt guilty. Like...how can I sleep at night knowing I killed people, type of guilt? You follow? Then I started thinking about all the stupid decisions I'd made in my life to get me to the point in time where I'm standing in the desert shooting people. If I would've studied harder in school, or not drank, or listened to my parents...all of it weighed on me.

"For years I tortured myself. I purged emotion through alcohol and drugs. I existed but I was a shell. You got to reach a point when you say enough-is-enough or you'll end up killing yourself. I almost did. I wanted to die. You don't know how many times I sat with my Glock in my hand, staring at it. I never had the guts to pull the trigger. Something was forcing me to live. I was too short-sided to understand what it was.

"Then I met this guy about a year ago. He was trolling the campus the same way I ran into you. He handed me a card and spouted about God. I thought _no way_. I don't need God. I'm fine. But I wasn't. I went to my apartment, got drunk, stared at my gun, and realized I was far from fine. I don't know what compelled me to call him, but I did. It was the best decision I made in my life."

"Oh yeah?" I asked, dipping a wing in ranch. So far his story did not impress.

"The Phoenix got my mind straight. No joke. I've come to realize this all happened for a reason. It's part of a great plan. I didn't kill those men in Iraq. I delivered them to God. I was an instrument. You are one too. We're all instruments. We have to listen to the voice." He tapped his head and smeared sauce on his noggin. "You hear it, don't cha?"

"No offense," I said, "but people rationalize nutty behavior with this logic. I've heard criminals from jail say they've found God. It's hard to believe."

"Is it? Why are we sitting here?"

I didn't want to tell him why I called and shook my head. "I don't know."

"Sure you do. Don't deny what compelled you."

"Look, I found your card and called. There's no master plan. It was a lark."

"Yeah, yeah, but you got to think beyond the phone call. Why are you here? Think location, time...specific place on Earth. The big picture. Running into you is more than coincidence."

"You think?" I thought back to my acid trip. Matt was peddling the notion of fate like I didn't have a hand in this. Maybe I didn't, but it was difficult to admit as much to a stranger.

"What's your story, John? What's your explanation?"

I shrugged and tried to appear diffident. "My childhood wasn't the best," I admitted. "I am trying to make a go of it."

"What happened?"

"My mother died when I was ten. My father got thrown in jail. I was raised in foster homes. Not the best environments. I ran away from the last one. I'm living with a friend. Decided to try college but I don't think I'm cut out for it. I guess I'm spinning my wheels." I realized I'd confessed more than I wanted and shut my mouth.

"I'm sorry to hear of your struggles. You have other problems too, I gather. Alcohol? Drugs?"

"I wouldn't call it a problem. More like a way to blow steam."

"Those things deaden your senses and make you susceptible to bad thoughts. The Devil lurks in those feelings."

"My thoughts aren't a rose garden to begin with. Booze or not."

"It can be better. God is presenting you with a chance. I ask you keep an open mind. Don't dismiss me because you're jaded."

"What do you get out of this? Nobody does anything out of the good of their heart."

Matt raised his hands and smiled. "Not everyone in the world is evil," he claimed. "I understand your hesitation to trust. I was stubborn until I met the Pastor." His eyes grew wide and he said, "The Pastor is infused with the Holy Spirit. He knows how to make sense of the Lord's words." He closed his eyes but his voice continued in the same dreamy tenor: "The Pastor's amazing. He can help you too, John. We all can. You have to give it a chance."

***

There's a splash from behind me and I'm jostled from the memory. I roll over and see Brother Heath standing in the shallow end. He's my competition, if such a thing exists, and I assess his physique, looking for flaws. He has blond hair like me, but his is shaggy like a mop. Mine is shorn. He's well-built and tan, but his eyes are set close together on his face. He looks cross-eyed. I don't know his story, nor do I care. We don't converse much, so it's surprising to see him.

"You look like you're enjoying yourself," Heath says.

"Me? Ha, you sounded like you were too when I walked by Brother Neil. Neil, on the other hand, didn't seem to appreciate the tumult."

"Neil's stuffy," Heath says, splashing water on his chest.

"Guess he's vexed 'cause his wife can't catch the stork. You know what the Pastor says about childbearing."

"I did my best," Heath says with a grin. "If she doesn't take it's because her womb is bad. That's the story, right? It ain't my old six-shooter firing blanks."

"I've been in her too. Lost cause, I think." I smirk and subdue a giggle.

Heath is laughing. He can't help himself. "I'm not sure, but the last time I checked it's hard to get pregnant going in through the backdoor."

I've joined him, the two of us howling about Brother Neil's randy old lady.

"Time will tell," I say after I catch my breath. "Maybe her anatomy is wonky."

"It'd have to be real wonky. I'll say one thing: I wouldn't mind trying again. She's spunky."

"She's one of the better ones. I got stuck with Sherman's wife earlier."

Heath giggles and then snorts, "Suey. Here piggy-piggy."

" _That_ was work. Maybe you'll get a crack at her if I didn't do the job."

"No thanks. She can be your project." He wades closer to me, treading water as the bottom falls away. "Hey... I've been asked to seed Bobby Reed's wife," he says in a whisper.

"Oh yeah?" I ask, trying to sound indifferent. I'm envious. Not because she's a fine piece, but because her old man is Number 2. I should have first crack at her but Bobby Reed and I haven't been seeing eye-to-eye as of late.

"Tell the truth, I'm nervous. I don't think he's square in the head. You dig?"

"You're preaching to the choir. Bobby's intense, no doubt about it. I thought they were done having kids. She's got to be close to forty. I wouldn't have guessed Bobby wanted another."

"Thing is...he didn't ask. His wife called me earlier."

"She called you?"

"Strange, huh? Not the normal routine."

I drift onto my back without another word. This information was odd, but I had a feeling it had nothing to do with Mrs. Reed's desire to shit out another rug rat. Perhaps Bobby's wife had gotten wise to his liaison and this was her shot at revenge in the form of gratuitous sex. Still, giving Brother Heath the honor seemed like a pointed insult aimed at me. Or maybe I was being paranoid. Weed has this unfortunate side-effect. I had to accept one inevitable truth and this wasn't born out of distrust: in a few months I'd be kicked-to-the-curb. I'd better wrap my mind around it and not obsess about perceived slights. Brother Heath was her choice because he was younger. End of story.

Being a seeder is short-thrift. The Pastor has specific age guidelines. Don't ask how he devised the rules. In all his Bible study he discerned a magic number and stuck to it. After I turn 21 (a date approaching in a few months), I would be forced from studding and expected to settle down with a woman. The man I had replaced had been forced from service and I remember his consternation. Or was it joy? Brother Tony had been transparent when he tutored me and made clear the job was a means to end. Make your coin and get the hell out of Dodge, or verses to this effect. True to his word, Tony disappeared, never to be seen again. I was beginning to feel the same emotion. Heath was not better looking than me, not by a long-shot. I'd be virile for years and my seed was strong. It seemed a shame to force me aside. However, I couldn't do this forever. The longer I did, the less spiritual I felt.

#

I attended my first Phoenix meeting a few weeks after talking with Matt. I was on-the-fence about appearing but he had an uncanny ability to track me down at school. I felt like I was being stalked, but he never came on as being anything but enthusiastic. He wanted me to try a Phoenix get-together. See if you like it, Matt beamed. I'm sure you will. If you don't, though, you don't have to come back. What would it hurt? Blah, blah and blah. To get him to leave me alone I relented.

At Matt's apartment there were six others, guys my age. A few looked nervous. I gathered they'd been corralled like me. A couple of others shook my hand and greeted me like we were old friends.

Us newbies sat Indian style in the living room while Matt stood in front of us and began the sales pitch.

"We've a few new faces tonight," he began, rubbing his hands. "So here it is. The Phoenix Mission is like none other. We preach the Bible, sometimes we thump it, but we're not your old school fire-and-brimstone Increase Mather incarnations. You're at a crossroads in life. You're looking for something, a trail to happiness. You've tried a lot of things to get you there. The Phoenix is the path and the congregation is the compass. By helping others, we achieve happiness. So will you. I'm not saying it's easy. It takes a commitment, but the good things in life aren't handed to you. You have to work for it. Make sense? Brother Nate. Front-and-center."

A bald chubby guy struggled from the couch and waddled next to Matt.

"Nate's been with us a few months," Matt said, slinging an arm around Nate's shoulder. "What do you think so far?"

"Everyone is great," Nate beamed. "We get together, have fun. _Clean_ fun."

" _Clean_ ," Matt repeated, looking me in the eyes. "Wholesome."

"Yep. It's a young crowd. People our age. I grew up in a Catholic house. God was shoved down my throat." Nate frowned, scratched his double chin, and then confessed, "I didn't like it. This is different. We meet in parks. Play games. It's a big party, but _clean_."

"Wholesome," Matt repeated.

"I can't even believe this is religion," Nate asserted with a laugh. "It seems too good-to-be-true!"

"Nope, not too good," Matt said. There was a knock at his door and he turned his head. "Ah, I think Brother Sherman's arrived. A few minutes late, but better-late-than-never. Like the Second Coming." Then Matt elbowed Nate in the gut and the big guy giggled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

The cat sitting next to me, a scraggly-haired burnout wearing a Nirvana t-shirt raised his hand.

"Sorry man, but this isn't for me," he said.

"Now hold on a second," Matt said as he opened the door. "Hear us out before you leave. I know you're anxious to rush down the road into intemperance and sin but keep an open mind."

The kid sighed, leaned into me, and whispered, "Jonestown, dude."

Brother Sherman walked through the doorway and shook Matt's hand. He impressed me as serious. Could've been the dress shirt and slacks or his grim mouth, a firm line across his face. His eyes squinted as he judged us. He was thin, bony, and appeared humorless.

"We've got a few newbies," Matt reported. "Kyle, Brian and John."

"Good looking group," Sherman said as he eyed us. He pointed at the kid next to me and asked, "What's your name, brother?"

"Kyle."

"Are you ready for a better life?"

"Matter of fact," Kyle said, "I was thinkin' this isn't for me, dude. No offense, but you guys sound crazy."

"Go then," Sherman said, pointing at the door. "We don't want you here if you're not staid."

Kyle looked around and then shrugged. "Okeydokey," he said. "I mean, this is kinda weird."

"The door's always open if you should change your mind," Sherman said.

"I don't think I will," Kyle said as he stood. He walked out without looking back.

"Anybody else?" Sherman demanded.

Part of me admired the cat for up-and-leaving. Another part felt irritated at his shunning.

"Nobody?" Sherman asked. "We're fixing to get serious."

I didn't budge.

"Great," Matt said as he shut the door and locked it.

"This life isn't for everyone," Sherman explained. "Some are too weak to accept it. There's a word addicts use. _Denial._ You'll run into denial when you're trying to save people. Get used to people walking out of your lives. The more you bathe with Christ, the more who'll walk away. This is part of the deal. You better wrap your mind around it now and come to the realization." Then Sherman pointed at me and asked, "What's your name, brother?"

"John."

"Brother John. Why are you here?"

All eyes were on me and I was nervous. "Matt invited me and-"

"No," Sherman growled, "it's time _you_ embrace why _you're_ here. It isn't because Matt made you come. You're here because you want to be. You could leave like Kyle. But you didn't. You know this is where you belong. Yes, you're here for a reason. Do you believe me?"

"I don't know."

"Well, let's see if we can't make you."

From the beginning I was told I had a purpose at the Phoenix. What it was became clear later, but at first I thought it was to be saved. Or an approximation of this. I can't say I was sold on the Phoenix Mission but they didn't seem kooky. Not at first. Enthusiastic, cloying, but not crazy. There were lots of families with small kids and I thought no parent would drag their children into a dangerous environment. Turns out I was wrong about a couple things.

Amon knew I was up to something and pressed me for details.

"I don't see you anymore," he complained. "You find a girl? Huh?"

"No. I'm busy with college...and stuff."

"What stuff?"

I didn't want to discuss it with Amon. I knew his reaction wouldn't be sympathetic. He'd have a field day at my expense. The more I clammed-up, the greater his badgering. It got so grating I finally popped off and told him. In fairness he was in the fastlane to nowhere. We both were. It was the same tired routine with him: drugs, video games and chasing tail. I had college but, to be clear, it was community college and I was doing "D" level work with an "F" level effort. Oh yeah, I also had my shitty job at Bob Johnson's. Whoopee. I was back in the rut and it felt lousy. I was having a midlife crisis at 18 and didn't expect him to understand.

"I'm spending time with people from the Phoenix Mission," I said. "You remember the card you found-"

"I remember but...those bozos? Why?"

"I decided to give it a try."

"Shit man, you're getting involved with nutcases."

"I'm figuring out who I am. I'm having a spiritual awakening."

"A spiritual awakening?" Amon cried. He looked at me like I was cracked and then asked, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means I'm unhappy with who I am."

"Unhappy?" he squawked, sounding like a parrot.

"I'm not satisfied with this," I said, sweeping my arm around the living room of the apartment.

"What are you talking about? We have a good thing. Tell me you aren't having a blast."

"I'm not. There's got to be more than whatever this is."

"John, I'm not saying this because I'm your friend but...you know this is a cult, don't you?"

"It's not," I said with a straight-face. I meant it and his words pissed me off. "These are good people." I almost said the word "wholesome" but didn't. Not yet.

"You need to be careful, dude" Amon said. What did he know? Amon was a pot-smoking miscreant. I figured he was jealous of my commitment to something other than what he was interested in.

Indoctrination required a commitment to immersion. Matt wanted hours of my day and night. Between work, school and my living arrangements, I had difficulty adhering to the schedule. The Bible Study involved careful analysis and meditation. There were levels of understanding I had to master to move up the chain. The first step was to denounce the sinful life I'd left behind, which wasn't easy at first. I'll get more into this later.

The first situation to be remedied was school. By the end of the semester I stopped going to MCC. I didn't see the point and Matt didn't bother to talk me out of it. It wasn't like I was walking away from Harvard.

My living arrangements were the next to change. I didn't own a lot so moving from Amon's didn't require exertion. I stopped in one afternoon and filled a duffel bag with clothes. I didn't leave a note. No "thanks" or "goodbye" or "I'll call"...no, I vanished. At first I roomed with Matt until I was baptized. After the ceremony I was prompted to move into The Rest Spot. I was required to work at the motel, as I described, and was paid a pittance for the toil. Although outside employment was frowned upon, due to the threat of "contamination" from the sinful world, people maintained jobs. I had a part-time job working minimum wage but had to give a quarter of my take-home to the Phoenix. They called it a tithing. I thought $100 a month for a room wasn't bad.

Being new meant I had to do menial work at the ceremonies. Setting up chairs, sound equipment, posters and distributing literature. The Phoenix didn't have a church. Space was rented in amphitheaters or parks. Our Sunday service was a combination revival and picnic. When I joined in the fall of '94 there were a couple hundred members. Most were my age, but there were a few older people and some were active members of the community. You'd recognize the names if I spilled them. These public figures made the Phoenix respectable. We had a couple members of the Phoenix Cardinals, a player from the Suns and local celebrities. Sprinkle in some television news folks, a Mesa city councilman and a renowned musician, and the Mission seemed reputable.

As a new member I was also pressed into recruitment. A few of us would hop in one of the shitty panel vans and volunteer at homeless shelters, pass out cards, pamphlets and rap all things Jesus. We went to AA meetings and did the same. I was never good at selling. Too shy I guess. Many people laughed or ridiculed. It was insulting and maddening. I was trying to help these people, not hurt them.

Matt had a good attitude about being shunned. He'd say you can't lead people to salvation. It was their loss. The least you could do was try. Jesus was shunned the same way. He was tortured and executed for his commitment. Getting mocked was nothing, Matt said.

About four months in, I was made to confess my transgressions to a group of people, all strangers, at Bible Study. It was called "purging". If the purge was deemed successful and I appeared repentant, I was allowed to progress to the next level of enlightenment. I'd been working up to this, trying to embrace my frailties. I didn't want to fail. Matt said the way to gain salvation was through penitence. I was nervous but relented to the process. Matt reassured me nobody would judge. Relax and tell the truth, he said. It didn't go as well as I imagined.

In front of twenty I was made to strip down to my underwear and stand in judgment. This was a serious event and the room was dark except for one light above where I stood. Brother Sherman was the interrogator and he looked at me like I was scum.

"This is Brother John," Sherman began in a whisper. "From the Bible, First John says: 'If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.' The confession must not be contrived. If we are to accept you as one of our own, to be amongst families and our trust, your purge must come from the heart. Let God open your soul to us. Are you ready?"

I stared at his greasy face and nodded.

"Denounce fornication," he spat.

"I denounce my lustful past," I said. "I have committed acts of degradation for personal pleasure."

Sherman tiptoed around me and leaned next to my right ear. "Such as?"

I thought of the neo-Nazi woman and said, "Adultery."

"Is there more?"

"Pre-marital sex."

"What else?"

"I got a handjob from my sister."

Someone laughed. Sherman appeared in front of me and put his hands-on-hips.

"She wasn't really my sister," I clarified. "She was a foster sister and-"

"Be quiet," Sherman instructed. "Have you been with a man?"

"No!" I answered, but then I thought about getting jerked off by the pill-popping neo-Nazi Timmy. My face must've betrayed the memory.

"Tell the truth," Sherman prodded. "The truth will set you free."

"One time someone, you know, jerked me off but it wasn't consensual."

"Did you go to completion?"

"I didn't have a choice," I stammered.

"You were fondled by a man who used your tool to satisfy your desires. God gave us the ability to reproduce. Beyond this your yearnings are a matter of self-control. If you completed the act, you were filled with lust. If such lust was stimulated by activity outside of reproduction, your lust is sinful."

I figured Sherman misunderstood my particular situation and tried to argue. He was in no mood to debate.

"You relished it, Brother John. Don't lie and heap more sins atop your mountain of decadence."

"No!" I cried. "He beat me too!"

"Did you enjoy it?"

"No! No way, man. I didn't enjoy any of it. Are you kidding?"

Sherman licked his lips and then said, "You've defiled your body. Brother John, you are a wayward soul."

"I am," I said between sobs.

"What else?"

"I-I...used to set fires."

"Fires?" Sherman shrieked. Someone gasped. "You're an arsonist?" Brother Sherman asked.

"I never hurt anyone," I fibbed. "Honest."

Sherman wasn't satisfied. "You are a heathen," he thundered. "You've abused alcohol and drugs, haven't you?"

"All of it. I'm unclean," I wailed. I wasn't crying because I was contrite; tears were flowing because I wanted it to stop.

Afterwards, Matt said I did well but had not passed to Stage 2. He claimed I hadn't shown sufficient culpability.

"It's no big deal," he said, rubbing my leg. "We have to study harder."

I found out later nobody passes this gauntlet of judgment on the first try, no matter how rueful they appear. Tears, anguish, pleading...none of the theatrics made a difference. At the time I was devastated. I'd admitted more to these strangers than I thought possible. Not passing also meant I was relegated to the same drudgery as before. Recruitment, cleaning the pool, being a slave for all intents. I was determined to not fail again and worked twice as hard in study.

Not long after, I played the role of waiter at a gala at the Pastor's mansion. I'd never met Pastor Morobito before. I'd seen him, of course, at the sermons. He was a short guy with a crew cut, thin with wide eyes. He spoke in quick, rapid bursts of dialogue, like a machine gun. Before we left the motel, we were warned not to engage the Pastor, or anybody at this party. This was impressed upon up with grave consequence. Even eye-contact was frowned upon.

I got trussed in a tuxedo and walked around the living room holding a serving tray of chips and crackers. There was the usual smattering of local celebrities, looking bright, polished and plastered with gleaming smiles. The Pastor made the rounds, shaking hands, with his blonde wife by his side. Mrs. Morobito was stunning. She had shoulder length blond hair, soft and curly, and a tight sequined dress. Her cleavage was bouncy and I fought not to stare.

At the end of the party, as I was finishing the last pass with the hors d'oeuvres tray, the Pastor snapped his fingers and pointed at me.

"You there," he said. "Bring your tray so I can pick it clean."

I did as requested, head down, and held the tray towards the Pastor.

"Quite a shindig," the pastor mumbled as he stabbed a square of cheddar with a toothpick.

I mumbled acquiesce, avoiding eye-contact.

"It's okay if you talk to me," Morobito said. "I won't bite."

"Yes, Pastor. Your house is beautiful."

"What's your name?"

"John."

"No. Try again."

I must have stared at him for five minutes. I knew my own name, for crying-out-loud.

"Son," he said, "you're not John. You're Brother John. Try again."

"I'm Brother John," I said like a robot.

"You're new. I don't recall seeing you before."

"Eight months in the Mission, Pastor."

"Hmm," he purred, eyeing me. "A newborn, still wet from the womb. Who brought you into the Phoenix?"

"Matt."

He blinked his fish eyes and frowned.

"I mean, Brother Matt. I'm living at the motel. Thank you for the accommodations," I added, trying to win a sliver of his favor.

"Oh, it's nothing. Thank you for your work. You must be a Stage 1."

"Yes, but I'm working to get to the next Stage."

"In due time. It's worth the effort, Brother John." Then Morobito winked and walked away, putting his arm around the trim waist of his wife.

I didn't think I'd advance past Stage 1 at the rate I was progressing, but his encouragement made me hopeful. Later, as I vacuumed the living room, I caught the Pastor watching me from the top of a curving marble staircase. He nodded before turning away.

I passed Stage 1 in the spring of '95. Second try, which I was told was rare. I got hugs and handshakes. Matt articulated I was progressing ahead of schedule and I warmed under the glow of adulation. As I moved onto Stage 2, my responsibilities increased and I got to do other things. The tasks were menial, but it beat walking the streets. I edited the _Phoenix Weekly_ , the Mission newsletter, and spent hours at Kinko's printing and laminating. I got to attend the sermons on Sunday as a spectator, not an usher, sitting with other Stage 2 candidates. Being Stage 2 meant I was allowed to mingle with more people and it felt good to be accepted. Faults and all.

It also opened the door to what the Mission was about. You wouldn't have known it from the sermons, but the Phoenix had drastic views. The common religious staples, the Bible thumping and adoration of Jesus, were appetizers. The other beliefs were a four-course meal, fantastic and rich. However, they would've frightened a sane person from the get-go. Hence the rigmarole.

The first order of business was the notion of the Second Coming.

"Make no mistake, we are in the End Times," Sherman said. "We're not approaching the End Times. We are in them. This is why it's important to make yourself clean. There is no do-over once God begins Judgement Day. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," the group intoned. There were about a dozen Stage 2 applicants sitting at desks in a damp and moldy conference room at The Rest Spot. Some, like me, were residents.

"It's my job to make you ready for the End Days," Sherman continued. "The signs are evident. Wars, pestilence, riots, diseases. This Hantavirus in Northern Arizona, for instance." He scoffed and then said, "What more do people need to discern the End is near? God's scribble decorates the wall. His glorious doodle! Big, blocky, letters underlined and exclamation pointed. He's drawing an arrow to the exit sign. Take heed, He's saying. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," we chanted.

"It's not going to be a trumpet sounding a warning. It's just going to happen. You don't want to be caught off guard. Do you believe me?"

Again all of us, as one, answered, "Yes."

"Pastor Morobito thinks the key knowing the Second Coming is mentioned in Ezekiel. Open your books."

And we did like good students.

Sherman held up his book and shook it. "Most of you have heard of Ezekiel's Wheel. Who is unfamiliar with this description?"

I hadn't but withheld my ignorance. In fact nobody raised their hand.

"Hm...you all know?" Sherman asked. "I doubt it. But fine, we'll assume you do. One thing I have a problem with is people who think this is a portrayal of a UFO. There are no such things. UFO's are angels and Ezekiel says it in so many words. Brother Chet, read Ezekiel 1. 1 through 28."

Chet cleared his throat and then recited, "In the thirtieth year, in the fourth month, on the fifth day of the month, as I was among the exiles by the Chebar canal, the heavens were opened, and I saw visions of God. On the fifth day of the month (it was the fifth year of the exile of King Jehoiachin), the word of the Lord came to Ezekiel the priest, the son of Buzi, in the land of the Chaldeans by the Chebar canal, and the hand of the Lord was upon him there. As I looked, behold, a stormy wind came out of the north, and a great cloud, with brightness around it, and fire flashing forth continually, and in the midst of the fire, as it were gleaming metal. And from the midst of it came the likeness of four living creatures. And this was their appearance: they had a human likeness-"

"Stop," Sherman commanded. "What does this say?"

"They looked like humans," someone answered.

"And?"

"They came from a ship."

"Right. A metal ship. People today call it a UFO. Inside were angels." Sherman crossed his arms and dared a rebuttal.

I studied the words and tried to comprehend the text. I suppose, in a round-about-way, the script could be interpreted like this. Sherman opened a folder and passed out papers. There were two dozen passages from the Old and New Testament, each describing similar occurrences to Ezekiel's testimony.

"Brother John," Sherman said. "Read the passage from John 18:36."

I found it and delivered, "Jesus answered, 'My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would have been fighting, that I might not be delivered over to the Jews. But my kingdom is not from the world.'"

"What does this say?"

"Maybe...Jesus is an alien," I said.

"No," Sherman snarled, "it doesn't say any such thing. You have to think outside what you've been conditioned to believe. Aliens don't exist. Look it all this," he said, shaking the paper. "Genesis, Ezekiel, John, Revelations, Samuel, Joel, Mark...Acts. Plain as the sun! This is testimony on how God presents Himself to mortals. We don't call them UFO's in the Phoenix. We call them Angel Wheels. When the Wheels come, you can expect they're full of angels. Isaiah 66:15: 'For behold, the Lord will come in fire, and his chariots like the whirlwind, to render his anger in fury, and his rebuke with flames of fire.' Seems clear to me."

I wasn't sold but whatever...I could pretend if need be. Some of the others, though, took the words as Truth. We'd sit outside at night and they'd point to something in the sky. Star, planet, airplane, satellite...who knows what, but they'd point at it and say it was an Angel Wheel. I'd stare at the fuzzy shapes and scratch my head. Are you sure? I'd ask. No doubt, they'd answer with solemn nods. And do you want to know something? After-a-time I'd look up and think 'Hey, maybe it is an Angel Wheel.' Why not? Who can say?

Spotting an Angel Wheel led to speculation about when the Rapture would occur. Sherman was clear you couldn't put an arbitrary date on it. Sure, all kinds had tried. Since the beginning, prophets had tried calculating the end. It seems The End is the only thing worth noting. All your life is spent waiting for the End of it. You want to find meaning to the randomness, and inevitability, of death? It's easy if you believe death is like a graduation ceremony. If you work hard, remain faithful, and do what God wants, you'll be rewarded for all the shit you're made to endure. Here's the truth: life is so depressing most people can't wait for it to terminate. Instead of killing ourselves _en masse_ , we're sold a bill of goods to keep us off the crooked path. Heaven and Hell. Some would rather it end sooner and go about figuring out the time of this blessed culling.

So these prophets would pick an End Time and their followers would do rash things as the date approached. Sell everything, quit paying their bills, stand outside holding hands and wait for deliverance. When the end didn't come, they'd commit suicide or try to figure out why the prediction was erroneous. Bottom line, they looked like fools and deserved ridicule. Sherman said the Phoenix would make no such claim. The end comes on God's terms, Sherman said, and no man knows when this will be. In the interim the only thing a worthy follower could do was prepare. So we did.

We even had a plan of evacuation. If Angel Wheels appeared we were to flee to Pinnacle Peak, and huddle on the jagged rocks north of Scottsdale. There, amongst the 3,100 feet elevation, we'd gather and wait. I figured the chances were slim Angel Wheels would appear but if they did, I reckoned I'd head to Pinnacle Peak to see the show. And if, by chance, I got a seat on a ship to Cloud 9, I'd take it.

Not like it was going to happen...but, you never know.

#

Stage 2 included another great area of study: seeding. I took it to mean the verbatim interpretation the Bible presented. This was one area I thought the Word of God was clear. In study we discussed the Parable of the Mustard Seed.

" _What is the Kingdom of God like? To what shall I compare it? It is like a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and put in his own garden. It grew, and became a large tree, and the birds of the sky lodged in its branches."_

Luke 13:18-19, World English Bible

"The kingdom grew from a small seed," Sherman explained. "Look at it now! Jesus planted, nurtured, and it propagates into a mighty plant."

Seeding was akin to farming. Plant, cultivate, water, and watch it bloom. We, the humble servants in Stage 2, were shrubs budding under care. If we continued, we would mature into Stage 3, Stage 4 and beyond. So far so good.

"Seeding isn't just learning scripture," Sherman said. "In order to feed the plant you need food. In order to get food you must have money. Seed money. The Mission cannot survive if it does not have money. We can't seed more plants if we can't support them. Up to this point the Phoenix has asked little of you. Your time, your commitment, and your willingness to accept the Word. Now we need a greater contribution, one invoking the ritual of seeding. You will work like farmers to nurture a garden."

Sherman pointed at boxes in the corner of the room. "Inside are books, buttons, hats and shirts. It is material we sell at Sunday gatherings, bookstores, flea markets, outside shopping malls...anyplace we can peddle. Stage 1 does grunt work. It's important, but making money keeps the Mission moving forward. If we don't have money, we can't prepare our souls for judgement and God will be enraged with those not bathing in His glow."

We all got a box. Before we took our box, we were made to sign "contracts" for the property. These contracts were binding in a court of law, should it come to this, Sherman warned. Each box was valued at one hundred dollars. The instructions were explicit: we had to flog one box a week. We weren't working hard enough if we didn't. Not selling meant our names got scribbled in a book kept by Sherman. This was bad. Not only did we catch a tongue-lashing, but we owed the Mission money. Let me tell you, from personal experience, those boxes added up. If you got too far in the hole, you'd be forced to work without pay until square. Getting square was impossible; every week there was a new box to sell. Some of those deep in arrears got the boot out of the motel. Their banishment was meant to be motivation, and it worked.

Those who had steady jobs paid for the junk out-of-pocket. I doubt they sold a shred of the Mission's crappy merchandise. Who'd want to buy a button adorned with Jesus's face? Or a ten-dollar book with forty pages of aphorisms? I recognized the con game but I kinda owed these people. Or so I convinced myself. Yet I couldn't afford to pay them another $100 dollars-a-week.

One chap, an emaciated dude my age named Jake, started dealing bud from his room. It had to be a surreptitious operation given the Mission's stance on drugs. I weaseled into it by accident. Jake was a Stage 2, like me, and we shared the same complaints about the stupid boxes we were forced to hawk. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Jake confided his operation to me and two others he deemed "trustworthy" associates. It's not hard to decipher the impurity of a dope head. There are certain mannerisms, inflections and postures evident to the trained eye. Or, as Amon put it: _once a pot head, always a pot head_. Jake had me pegged from the beginning and I joined the risky venture he proposed. He wanted to expand his enterprise beyond the border of his room but needed a few associates to make it possible.

The four of us contributed $40 a week and Jake procured two ounces of medium quality weed from his source, which we portioned into 70 dime bags. Two ounces would normally yield a little less than 60 grams, so our product was light. It was also shoddy, full of shake, seeds, and Bermuda grass if we got desperate. Luckily, our customers weren't complaining.

We sold the dimes for $10 dollars-a-pop and split the profit four ways. We peddled to some in the motel and had regular miscreants, of a lower socio-economic circle, along Main and Center Streets. The Rest Spot wasn't in Mesa's high end. There were scuzzy people hanging around, the equivalent to gypsies in both appearance and temperament. We also drifted into Pioneer Park, where the homeless lived. Instead of spending their meager savings on rotgut, the bums pooled their money and bought our cheap weed. The profit wasn't great and I forked over some of it to Sherman every Monday evening for my box, but I never fell in the hole.

The problem was we had weed galore and, of course, what we didn't sell we smoked. Medium quality was good enough to blast the brain into orbit. It was also an apt time waster. Of course, getting high was not approved. The Phoenix was clear drugs were grounds for immediate expulsion. Since there were a handful of us doing it, the secret was maintained for a while. However, when addicts resume their old vices they become unreliable. A few upped-and-left. I didn't, natch, because things were pretty damn sweet. I was making extra coin and had a place to stay. Plus I had all the weed I could handle. And I got stoned. A lot. It seemed like a good deal.

And then it got better. At least I told myself it did.

In early September of '95, I got a visit from Brother Bobby. Bobby Reed. He was another character I'd seen but never met. Bobby was intense. At the sermons he'd sulk on the periphery with a furrowed bald dome. He watched people. Pastor Morobito would be in a lather, the crowd cheering, and Brother Bobby seemed oblivious to it all. Instead he glared. I got the sense he was security. When he knocked at my door and I saw his face in the peephole, I thought the weed gig was up.

When I opened the door his face transformed into a leer. I gathered he was trying to smile but it looked contrived.

"Brother John?" he asked.

I braced for trouble and nodded my head.

"I'm Brother Bobby. I've been asked to collect you. We're going for a drive."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing," he said, showing sparkling white teeth. "The Pastor would like to talk with you."

"The Pastor?" Now I knew I was in deep do-do. I must've looked deflated. Bobby Reed sensed my angst and tried to soothe.

"You're not in trouble," he claimed. "You've been selected. Hand selected for a special job."

"What kinda job?"

"The Preacher will tell you. Let's go. He's waiting."

We drove to Morobito's mansion with the radio playing gospel music and the air conditioner cranked up full blast. It wasn't hot, evening September high-70's, but I shivered the entire way. As we left the city limits of Scottsdale it began raining. Not the kind of soaking rain you get everywhere else in the country; this was a deluge, hard and dense. In the desert, downpours like these cause flash floods. I couldn't see anything but rain and the occasional ragged bolts of lightning.

"Skies are opening up," Bobby said. "It's a sign."

I gripped the armrest and agreed. I wasn't comfortable enough to question what kind of sign it was.

When we arrived, Bobby walked me to the door and mashed the doorbell.

"I can't come in," he said. "I'll be waiting to take you when you're done. Good luck."

Then he was gone, sprinting to his car in the monsoon while I stood on the stoop and listened to the thunder. I was trying to process what I was doing there when the door opened and Morobito's wife greeted me with a wide smile.

"Oh you poor thing," she clucked. "You're soaked. Come inside. I'm Rochelle."

"I'm John," I said as I stepped into the foyer. "I mean, Brother John."

"I know who you are. My husband is in the den. Straight ahead through the living room, first door on the right. Leave your shoes on the mat. Don't want any mud on the carpet." She locked the door as I removed my stompers. I heard children giggling upstairs.

"Go ahead," Rochelle instructed, nudging me forward. "The Pastor's waiting."

There are times when things are committed to memory. Stress makes imprints. I remember the entire ordeal as if it's happening in front of me now. The slow walk to the den, padding across lush white carpet, seeing family pictures tacked to the wall. Past the piano decorated with a vase of red roses. The first door on the right was closed. A voice was talking behind it but hushed as I turned the gold knob. Pastor Morobito was sitting on a tartan divan, bare feet on a footstool. He had a phone to his ear and waved me in. Then he pointed at a leather chair and motioned for me to sit.

I plopped and crossed my legs multiple times while he finished the phone call. The Pastor's side of the conversation was grunts and chuckles. His fingers were adorned with rings and he wore a giant gold necklace around his neck. I could smell baby oil. When the Pastor was through, at last, he hung-up the phone and wiggled his toes.

"And endless amount of work," he complained. "Sorry for the wait."

"No problem," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I was a heap of nerves.

"You are working on Stage 2. How's it going?"

"Well, Pastor."

"The backbone of the Mission is Stage 2. Purging one's soul is necessary, but it does you no good if you can't accept the truths of the Good Book. I've spent long hours working it out, Brother John. The Bible is not complicated but it doesn't speak to everyman. I'm like a conduit. My gift to you is the word of the Lord. Do you believe this?" He peered at me and tapped his chin.

What could I say but, "Yes, sir."

"Oh," he chortled, "don't call me sir. It sounds informal. Call me Pastor."

I nodded.

"Brother Bobby collected you?"

"Yes, Pastor."

"He can be intense, but Bobby has a _strong_ heart. It beats for the Lord. Some people mistake intensity for cruelty, but Brother Bobby is passionate. I've known him ten years. He used to be a policeman, and I was... well, it doesn't matter what I was. Or what he was. Or what you used to be. Brother Bobby's focus is on the Phoenix, as is mine. If you put your focus on faith, your heart is pure. Do you believe this?"

"Yes, Pastor."

"You believe you have a pure heart?"

"Yes, Pastor."

"Good. Conviction is a great asset. I'm blessed to have Brother Bobby as my right-hand man, just like I'm blessed to have you. Not only am I blessed, I'm _convinced_ you're a divine gift."

"Me?" I thought he was bullshitting with these cloying words. The praise, along with his Cheshire Cat-like grin, made me suspicious.

"Of course. The Good Lord saw fit to deliver you to this congregation. You have a place here and your presence is ordained. Do you believe this?"

"I guess, Pastor."

"No," he scoffed, "don't guess. It is. What's your background, Brother John?"

I relayed a bit of my life, skipping some parts, but Pastor Morobito cut me off before I could finish.

"You're not being truthful to yourself or to God. I know what you've been through. You've had a rough go-of-it. We're led down the road of sin, my son. This is by design. The Lord tests our mettle. We either forge a suit of armor or became casualties. Like so many others you wavered. Then you were found, perhaps at the last possible moment before slipping into the abyss of temptation for good. Does this describe it?"

"Yes, Pastor."

"And when I looked at you, at the party...do you remember? When I looked at you, I knew you were special. I said to myself the Good Lord delivers." He shook his head and then whispered, "It's a miracle how the Lord works."

I wasn't sure where he was going but I agreed with a curt grunt.

"We all have singular duties within the Mission. Some of the flock are noble recruiters. Others are teachers. Everyone is unique and each brings a skill the Lord saw fit to grant them. I'm sanctified with the ability to divine the Lord's word. So is Brother Bobby. The two of us put this humble Mission together from a dream we shared. From two a seed was planted and today it thrives. This will continue as long as our fellowship delivers. Does this make sense?"

"Yes, Pastor."

"You're a Stage 2 so you've learned about seeding. This is an important leitmotif. Without the seed the Mission won't grow. If the Mission doesn't grow, the word of the Lord falls on deaf ears. Who will save the world if not us? The Devil will run amok and this is worrisome. Seeding can only take the Mission so far. There's always the danger our words will fall on deaf ears. As you know, temptation is a powerful incentive. The plunder of the flesh is a pleasure few can resist." The Pastor clenched his hands into fists and then rumbled, "I'm _aggrieved_ for the future. I'm worried-"

"I'm selling my boxes," I interrupted.

He relaxed his hands and looked at me like I was a simpleton.

"I've never missed a payment," I added.

"I'm not speaking about boxes! Aren't you listening? I'm talking about the forthcoming dawn. Our Mission is a society of outsiders, brought together through misery, seeking salvation. This is a good base, but loyalty is bought-and-sold to the highest bidder. When the message gets old, or boring, people will move to the next promise of salvation. I've seen it happen and it vexes me. So many at the motel slip to their old ways. We lose newcomers, and some of the old ones, at an alarming rate. Why do you think this is?"

Drugs were why, but do you think I was going to cop to it? Hell no!

"Weakness of mind," I answered.

"Weakness of mind," he repeated. "Yes, weakness is a kink. A bad gene, a...crack in the soul of a person. The Mission tries to inculcate a loving, caring atmosphere for those with personal flaws. It's not always enough. There's something missing from these people. Something which leads them out-the-door, back to depravity and sin. What do you think it is?"

I didn't know what he wanted me to say, but his eyes bore into me like he could read my mind. Damn if I wasn't about to confess I'd been selling dope just to get him to stop staring at me.

"What is thicker than water?" the Pastor asked after I failed to respond.

"Um...blood."

"Yes. Family. The Mission is a family, but the threads are the word of the Lord. A deeper connection is needed to secure the tribe. A true family. The future is secured through a blood line."

The dots were starting to connect. At least I thought they were. Like the Joe Smith, Pastor Morobito was talking about getting laid. This revelation disappointed me and he perceived the discomfort from my face.

"What's the matter?"

"I think I know where you're going with this," I said.

"Do you?"

"You're talking about having a harem."

The Pastor winced and exclaimed, "No! I am not qualified for such a calling. I mean..." he laughed and shook his head. "Look at me. God granted me the power of observation, but not the physical beauty, or stamina, to be a stud."

"So...like, what are you talking about?"

"The seed is more than metaphorical, Brother John. And it's more than money or knowledge. It's also the seed of life. Each woman is a garden. They are incubators. The seed comes from man, bestowed onto him from the Lord. You shall not sow your vineyard with two kinds of seed, or all the produce of the seed which you have sown and the increase of the vineyard will become defiled. Do you know this verse?"

I shook my head.

"Deuteronomy 22:9. We need a common seed in the Mission. This is what you're blessed with, Brother John. The gift of seed."

"Um..." I sucked in my breath and squinted at the Pastor. What the hell was he babbling about?

"You're a gorgeous specimen," the Pastor cooed. "The Lord made you this way. It would be a shame to waste your seed. Don't you agree?"

"I'm not sure what you want me to do," I said, but I did. Meanwhile, I was thinking of an excuse to get out of the room.

"Yes, you do. I'm not being coy. I want you to be a seeder."

"Pastor, I appreciate the compliment but this is an odd request."

The Pastor looked insulted and gasped, "Odd? In what way?"

"I mean...this is _not_ what I was expecting."

"You'd be doing the Lord's work. This isn't an exercise in degradation. You can deliver gifts, Brother John. You can be the lifeblood of this Mission. From your loins grow the seeds of the future. Isn't it glorious?"

Before I could respond he snapped fingers.

"Get up," he commanded. "Remove your shirt and pants." When I didn't move he snapped his fingers again. "This is not me asking. The Lord's summons. Do it!"

I stood and walked to the door, opened it and walked from the house. I punched Brother Bobby in the nose, tossed him from the Range Rover and drove to Amon's. We smoked a joint and I called Gina. We got married and lived together until we grew old, grandchildren on our laps. This is what I should've done. Instead, I stood and remained rooted in place.

"Take off your clothes," Pastor Morobito said. "We've wasted too much time. I can call Brother Bobby and he can help if you're hesitant. Why make it hard on yourself when you know this is what you've been selected to do?"

The Pastor didn't give me a choice. It was going to happen and it could be traumatic or...less traumatic. I opted for less drama and removed my shirt and pants, standing there in my boxers while he gazed at me and rubbed his chin.

"Beautiful," he whispered. "Now your boxers. Take them off."

I wavered and he clapped his hands. "Nobody is going to hurt you," he insisted.

So I did. What could I do?

The Pastor relaxed and sat down. "You'll do," he said. "There'll be no talk if this to anyone outside the people who approach you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Pastor," I said. "Can I get dressed?"

"This is a secret the higher Stages of the Mission are privy. I'd rather not make threats, so let's agree this won't be a problem. You'll be compensated for your work. You won't have to sell the boxes anymore if you don't want. We have a seeder now, but he'll be aging out in the next few months. After age 21 you become a...how shall I describe it? A pumpkin."

"I don't understand."

"Each cycle brings forth a new seed. The seed is the word of God, but the seed becomes flaccid after time."

I was confused but I figured it'd do no good to argue. So I didn't.

"We're clear then," Pastor declared.

Clear as mud. I just wanted to make a clean getaway before anything else weird transpired. I bent to retrieve my clothes but he clapped his hands.

"No, Brother John. I've granted you the commission, but not the blessing. The blessing is completed through process. You have work to do. Let's see if you have the calling."

The Pastor's wife was standing next to the bed when I entered. Morobito guided me to her with warms hands on my shoulders. I was trembling but his grip was firm.

You could ask why I went along with this and no answer I could give would be satisfactory. The entire thing seemed to be happening at half-speed and I was an observer of the proceedings from afar. The truth is I had a weak mind and a poor capacity to resist pressure. I felt intimidated by the surroundings, by the Pastor, and by the knowledge Brother Bobby was sitting outside. We all know the moment when we're in too deep. Whatever the circumstance, the pit of the stomach shrivels and the brain reacts with bolts of uneasy electricity. I knew this was wrong. But I didn't resist. I felt obligated, as if my refusal would be shameful. I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings and I didn't want to be cast out, viewed as a pariah.

Anyway, it wouldn't have mattered. Later I realized nothing I could've done would've made a difference. The Pastor was a smooth talker and delivered guilt with no effort. He selected people who could be manipulated. I was perfect, as he said, not because the Lord made me this way but because I was conditioned to being treated like a piece of meat.

And last of all, I'd be lying if I didn't say it was exciting. Perhaps this was the biggest impetus. I felt special to be selected. I stood above the rest of my peers. I was being used in a way which would have an impact far into the future. What's more important than progeny? As an eighteen-year-old male, I never thought beyond the act. Children didn't concern me. Mine, theirs, whomever...I was being compelled to do a job and my responsibility ended with the best part of sex. Seemed like a pretty sweet deal.

The first time, though, I was nervous. I was being auditioned and no amount of acting would suffice. This was the real deal. Rochelle was stunning, wearing a silk negligée which ended below the crock of her crotch. Her breasts were large and the nipples poked through the fabric. She smiled at me and offered her hand.

"Seed me," she said.

We skipped the basics of foreplay. I hiked up her nightie and felt the dampness of her groin on my fingers as her hands gripped my pecker. Whatever reservations I had were crushed as we collapsed on the bed. This moment, as I've discovered, is empowering. The act of penetration, the instant we join, is sublime. It's like the women are blocks of ice and I am the embodiment of fire. I can feel them become pliable and mushy under my control. Our bodies soften together, eyes fix on each other, and the confection of senses swirl into a miasma of consummation. Everything, from their essence to their expressions, is organized by me. Yes, this idea of power is stimulating and their subjugation is erotic. My prowess is ordained; there is no consequence for completion. They can't help but be thrilled as my love turns to liquid and runs through their loins. My gift is not wanton. It's an investment. The women should be thankful.

So it was with Rochelle. I'll remember her not only as my first in the Mission, but because it appeared, for the first time, I had a purpose in this world. My perversions of youth, shunned by so many, were given importance. I wasn't twisted; I was in need of the proper channel. An orifice, if you will.

"Fill me up," Rochelle implored.

It didn't take me long to satisfy her demands. I don't know if she got any pleasure from the act but she played the part. Some women lay with their eyes closed, impatient expressions on their faces. Rochelle was interactive.

Pastor Morobito hovered next to the bed, watching and chanting. His words were hypnotic:

" _God's will to rule,_

by God's will I'll use thy tool,

bestowed to me I fruit thy womb,

let God's fluid make you bloom"

I learned later this was called the "Seeding Psalm".

"Are you close?" Rochelle whispered as she grabbed my face.

"Yes," I hollered.

Pastor Morobito put a hand on my head and laid a hand on his wife. He baptized me in the name of the Lord as I climaxed. My vision went wavy and I felt fortified. Getting the Holy Ghost while blowing a load is better than making love on acid. Everyone ought to try it, just once. Rochelle smiled, kissed my lips and locked her legs around my hips. I collapsed on her, breathing hard, and put my head on her chest. The Pastor rubbed my back.

"He will do," Rochelle said into my ear. "Congratulations, Brother John."

On the drive to the motel, Brother Bobby glanced at me.

"The Pastor explained the consequences for talking," he said. "Do I need to repeat them?"

"No," I answered. I had no desire to tell anyone what I had done. After the moment of ecstasy passed, I saw myself as I was in the bedroom, like I was floating on the ceiling looking down. What the fuck was I doing? I mean this in the most literal sense. Laying in the arms of a woman I didn't know, the hands of her husband blessing me, strong-armed into having sex...I was ashamed. It'd be a feeling I'd get used to a lot in the near and distant future.

"I'll be by to pick you up tomorrow," Brother Bobby said. "You need to be tested before you can be allowed to continue."

"Tested?"

"Whadda think this is?" he growled.

"I don't know...I was with the Pastor's wife and I wasn't tested."

"The Pastor and his wife are immune from disease. It's God's will. The others are not."

I decided I wouldn't argue and stared out the window.

#

This stroll down memory lane takes a few minutes of real time, long enough for the moon to glide about two degrees thru the sky. It's almost straight above, shining gray light. The pool water looks metallic under the night sun.

Heath swims a lap, steps out, and shakes his soaking hair. I hope he's enjoyed his dip in the brackish water, and our chat, but now was the time to leave me in peace. I watch him out-of-the corner of my eyes, willing him with my mind to depart, but he slaps his wet ass on a lawn chair as he clears his throat.

"Have you been with Brother Bobby's wife?" he asks.

I take a long time to answer because I'm annoyed. At last, I say, "No, and I've never been asked. I don't think Bobby likes me."

"I don't think he likes anyone."

"A wise assumption."

"You think I should tell him?"

"Tell him his old lady wants you to seed her?"

"Should I?"

"What do you think?"

"I think it wouldn't be smart."

I touch my nose.

"Maybe I ought to tell her, _no way, Jose_."

"I guess it depends on how bad you want the money. If you're hard up, put it out of your head and dive in, buttercup. Look at it as another deposit. Five hundred bucks to caulk a frustrated middle-aged woman."

"Lucky me," Heath says in a voice lacking joy.

Yes, lucky him. Perhaps I should be thankful I don't have this hanging over my head, not jealous I didn't get hit-up for the honor.

"You think I'm being paranoid?" Heath asks.

Enough of this. If he won't leave me alone, I'll take the bull-by-the-horns.

"Look, I don't know what you want me to say, Heath. It's your deal, not mine." I step out of the pool and reach for the towel. "I'm gonna call it a night. Nice talking to ya."

"Sorry, man. I'm not trying to be a pain. It's just-"

"You don't have to explain. I get it."

"I wish I could stop thinking about it. You know, like take a big ole rip off a bong. Taste some herb." He looks at me with a hung-dog expression.

"Getting high isn't gonna help your paranoia."

Heath huffs and shakes his head. "Do I gotta come right out and ask?"

I stare at him like a dope.

"Fine," he says, his eyes darting towards the darkness. In a low voice he asks, "You got any bud?"

I stop drying my chest and cock my head. Heath and I aren't chums. I don't know how much I trust him seeing as we're both in the same line of work.

"Do ya?" he prods.

"What makes you think I'm holding?"

Heath frowns as if I've insulted his intelligence. "I know what you're up to. Do you think I'm stupid? I can smell it coming from your room."

I dry my scalp and turn away.

"I need to get high," Heath whines. "Bad. Help me out."

"Can I trust you?"

"Man, I'm not a rat."

I hesitate and he resorts to begging. "Come on, John. I got to mellow."

Like I said, I'm a sucker under pressure and Heath looks pathetic. "Alright. I got some in my room but you can't tell anybody." I jab his shoulder, solidifying the threat. "If I go down I'll take you with me."

Heath crosses his heart and then says, "I swear, Brother."

Whelp, we go back to my room and I roll a fatty. Heath flips through the channels on the tv and stops on a rerun of the _Simpson's_. He pauses to giggle at a joke and I recognize the spaced-out laugh of a pothead. I light the end and take a hit before passing it to his anxious hands.

"Fuck man, this is nice," he says after a lengthy drag. "Just what the doctor ordered."

"Remember what I said. If Bobby catches wind we're in deep do-do."

"Fuck Bobby. He's a creep."

"You're preaching to the choir."

"Do you like it here?"

"What's not to like? I'm living in a motel and getting paid to bang women."

"Sounds like a dream job."

"There are worse things."

"Are you happy?"

"Happy? I don't know. Like I said, it could be worse. Pass it back."

He hands me the joint and says, "I thought being a seeder would be fun."

"It sounded like you were having a good time earlier."

"I mean what happens after we, you know, get too old?"

"Like the rest of society, we get hitched and live out a dull, sexless life with our wife."

"Good times."

"I'm creeping on the magic date. My advice is to get it while you can, when you're young. Make memories to keep you warm at night."

"I don't think it's fair we have to retire. Not fair at all."

I stare at the burning end and watch smoke spiral to the ceiling.

***

The seeder I replaced was named Brother Tony. Tony was swarthy and refined. He drove a Thunderbird and wore bright, open-collared shirts, accentuating his thick chest hair. He didn't live at the motel but in an apartment in East Mesa, surrounded by orange groves. The day after my baptism, Brother Bobby took me to a decrepit clinic to get tested. With this business out-of-the-way he drove me to Brother Tony's and knocked on the door.

"This is the guy who'll give you the particulars," Bobby said. "He's about to time out."

I'd never met Tony, nor did I know who he was because I'd never seen him. When he answered the door he was wearing a towel and sunglasses. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. I couldn't read his expression, but he didn't look thrilled to see Bobby based on the fact he inhaled smoke and coughed. His head rotated to me, back to Bobby, and he removed his glasses.

"Who's this?" he asked.

"Tony meet John," Bobby said. "John was baptized last night. He'll be the new seeder."

"Haste makes waste, eh Brother Bobby?"

"Show him the ropes, T. Take him to the motel when you're done." Then Bobby turned and walked away.

Tony opened his mouth and the cigarette dangled on his bottom lip. "Wait, hold on, Bobby," he whined. "Hey fuckhead, I was about to go for a swim!"

"Not my problem," Bobby called over his shoulder.

"Christ," Tony muttered as he looked me over. "Fine, Chico. Come inside. I guess I got to ed-u-macate."

Tony's apartment was small, dark and smelled like smoke. I sat down on a couch and saw a stack of nudie magazines on the coffee table.

"Take what you want," he said as he shut the door. "You want a beer?"

I shook my head and grabbed a copy of _Big Black Assblaster_ from the top of the stack.

"Sometimes I need motivation," Tony explained. "Just wait. It sounds like you're walking into every guys dream. Not everyone is Rochelle Morobito. In fact none of 'em are. Most look like Divine."

"Who?"

"Forget about it. You'll get the idea soon enough."

"I'm not sure I'll ever get it," I said. "It happened so fast...I didn't know what to say. The next thing I knew I was upstairs with the Pastor's wife."

Tony sat next to me, mashed the cigarette into an ashtray, and asked, "Did you get the whole seeding speech?"

"Yeah. Seeding and... other things."

"The whole enchilada, huh? Well, I'm not gonna tell you it's milk and honey but it could be worse. The fact the Pastor selected you is good for career advancement. If you're interested in such a move when it's over...which I'm not, by the way. But this is between you and me, okay? How old are you?"

"Eighteen. I'll turn nineteen in November."

"So, you'll get almost three years of seeding. When you turn twenty-one your seed becomes bad. The Pastor tell you this?"

"Yeah."

"My advice is make as much as you can and set it aside. When the time comes, and it will, make like a banana and split. Unless you fancy becoming a slave to the Mission...and you will be a slave if you stay, Chico." Then Tony pointed at his hairy chest and declared, "Which I will not. I don't know how much of this stuff you believe, but if last night didn't open your eyes, then I'll drive you back to the motel right now because nothing I'm gonna say will make a difference."

I dropped the magazine and said, "I'm all ears."

"You know this is a crock of shit."

"What?"

" _What_ you ask? All of it, I answer. The Bible, for starters. You know it says in there Samson slayed an entire army with the jawbone of a donkey?" He giggled and then continued, "What else? Angel Wheels, seeding, the levels of heaven, the-"

"Hold on," I interrupted. "What are you talking about? The levels of heaven?"

"You ain't there yet? Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. So you think you're gonna be plugging these women, right? Making babies for the future of the Mission? Capisce?"

"So far."

"Why didn't you run screaming when the Pastor dropped the bomb on you?"

"I didn't have a choice. Brother Bobby, my ride, was sitting outside. The Pastor made me...you know."

"Yeah, I remember. You're overwhelmed, scared, intimidated. The Pastor finds people he can push around. No offense. I used to be the same way."

"I know I should stand-up for myself. I was...scared and couldn't process what was going on until I was, you know, getting it on."

"And you feel wanted. Important. Ego stroking is part of the scheme. I got it and the same things went through my mind. It's what they use on the women you're gonna be with. After two years of being their sperm donor I'm aware of the tools."

"Why are you still here?"

He laughed and rubbed his belly. "I'm a whore, man. A gigolo. My value is my schlong. If they're willing to pay me to have sex, more power to them. Alas, my gravy train is coming to an end. I play the part, say their phrases and do what they ask, but I'm not sticking around. No way. These people are loco. Anyway, there's no future here if you believe the Pastor. We're in the End Times. All we got left to do is sit around and wait for Angel Wheels." He wiggled his fingers and then asked, "Why do anything?"

"Good question."

"It is, isn't it? These people think they're getting saved when the end comes. They're willing to fork over money to make it so. Buy their way into heaven. Think about it. If the Pastor cared so much he'd be giving his boxes o' crap away. Look at his house. It's a testament to avarice. Why do you need a mansion if the end is coming?"

"Beats me."

"'Cause he's a greedy mo-fo is why. I stopped caring long ago, bro. Listen to me. I'm telling you so you don't get bamboozled."

"I don't know. What's wrong with having nice things?"

Tony blew a raspberry and then asked, "How many slaves you think he has in the motel you live in?"

"We get paid."

"It's a big pyramid scheme, Chico. Take it to the bank. So you get you paid? And this job, seeding, is worth something to him but it ain't to keep lineage pure. The true believers who buy into the whole bloodline thing...lookit, The Pastor baptizes you a seeder and because of this your seed is flawless. Don't bother to ask why. Like magic it is. The men are horsewhipped into thinking they're less than optimal benefactors. It sounds strange, but they accept it."

The problem was I wanted to accept it too, even though I knew it was horse-patootie. I liked feeling important. Sue me.

Tony peered at me and scratched his cheek. "You don't believe in it, do you?"

"No," I mumbled.

"Hmm...I'm telling you it ain't true, and anybody with something firing between their ears will tell you the same. The thing I've been trying to figure out is what the Mission gets out of it."

"Maybe the Pastor is a pervert," I offered.

Tony looked around the room and then confided, "I have a theory. I haven't told anyone but I might as well throw it out. The Mission hasn't been around long. Ten years or so. I'm the third-generation seeder and you're now the fourth. You wanna know what happened to the first two seeders?"

I was breathless, expecting a huge bombshell, and nodded my head.

"Well...I don't know."

"Thanks for raising my blood pressure! I thought you'd tell me they were sacrificed or something."

"They're not around anymore, this I do know. Poof. Like they never existed."

"So? Maybe they left the Mission."

"Maybe," Tony said, dropping his voice. "Or maybe they were killed. Maybe the Mission took out life insurance policies, through the mothers of the children they seeded, and cashed them in when they died."

His idea seemed far-fetched and I laughed. "Do you have any proof?"

Tony shrugged and said, "It's _my_ theory. Take it or leave it. Anyway, I'm making a break for it seeing as I have a replacement."

"If you believe this, why haven't you left before now?"

"Don't think I haven't thought about it, but why look a gift horse in the mouth? You ready to walk away from big bucks? Big bucks for _fucking_? I could leave, or I could milk it. You have the same choice. I'm a greedy mo-fo so I say go forth with milking. Get what you can. When your time is up, when you're gettin' a visit from a better lookin' guy than you, spread this message. We're like a fraternity, man. We got to help each other." He reached for a pack of cigarettes and shook out a smoke.

"A business enterprise," I whispered. "I guess I could get onboard with this. I have to admit, you have a way with words."

"Bro, not only was I gifted with a golden dong, I was gifted with a golden tongue. I could sell you shit and tell you it was chocolate. But hey, I'd be an asshole if I didn't mention it ain't all wine-and-roses. Don't be flippant. You got to play the part. They pay you to fuck, so fuck you will. No matter what, no matter if she looks like Manuel Noriega and her kootchar smells like 10,000-year-old limburger. You gotta grind on them bitches like they are special. If you don't, your ass will be back selling boxes of shit. You can't make jack squat selling the Mission's junk."

"Your tongue isn't so golden now. I don't know..."

"You can, and you will. Visualize," he said, gesturing at the pornographic material. "It's not like you're banging ten women a day. It's a few a week, some repeaters, but it's not mountainous. Better than selling boxes. Any questions?"

"Is this the extent of the apprenticeship?"

"Shit bro there's more, but let's say it's on the job training. I bet you're a quick learner anyway. For every seeder they choose, fifty more fail the audition. Only the cream of the crop gets the Pastor's blessing."

I thought about Rochelle and shuddered.

"It's true," Tony said. "Loco, huh? Whether you want to believe it, you are special. Don't go getting a big head or anything. Take what you can, be a humble servant, and then make like a banana. Come on, let's go for a swim."

For the rest of the afternoon we lolled under the sun. Tony didn't seem interested in doing anything but dawdling and gawking at chicks. And talk. God, he had a big mouth.

"I've always wanted to travel by rail," he told me as we sat next to the pool. While he gossiped, his eyes followed the asses of a few women in revealing bikinis. "Relaxing and scenic."

"Sounds boring."

"Naw. Riding the rails is old school travel. See the country up close, brother. I'm taking the train straight to Cali. Set myself up on the beach and stare at pretty girls."

"Airplane is quicker."

"I hate flying. I don't like being miles in the sky and don't try to convince me it's the safest form of travel. I don't care if it is. If you happen to be one of the unlucky mofo's on one of those things when an engine blows or the pilot decides to see what the inside of a thunderstorm looks like, guess what? You ain't walking away with no Band-Aid and a lollipop. Then tell me how safe air travel is. If a train breaks down it stops and you wait. I'm not driving either. Can't enjoy the backdrop. Anyway, I wouldn't put it past those assholes in the Mission to put a tracking device on my car."

I thought he was a paranoid and snickered.

"What? Do you think I'm crazy?"

"You sound crazy."

"I ain't, Chico. Take it to the bank. Give it time, you'll see. Wow, check out the caboose on these ladies."

I ignored the request and hit him with a question: "You're leaving the Mission?"

"You got to listen, bro. What'd I tell you back in the apartment?"

I shrugged and he slapped his forehead.

"I'm a little overwhelmed by all this," I explained.

"Aye Caramba, bro. Get your jollies, make some cash, and get the fuck out. I might even have room at Casa de Tony if you wanna kick your feet up someday. You'll have to look me up in SoCal."

"Okay, you're leaving. Why you telling me all this. Aren't you worried I'll spill the beans?"

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe I feel like gloating. I got a big mouth. Always gotten me in trouble. I guess I don't give a fuck." Tony tapped his noggin and then said, "Chico, I've got so much up here I could write a best-selling book. Or make a movie. I've got seed money. It should get me far in Hollywood." He coughed and shook his head. "Forget it. What matters is I'll be tapping what I want, not whatever frumpy, dimpling ass I have to."

"You're making me reconsider."

"Oh, kid, there's no such thing as a change of heart. You're ordained. You're a seeder until you're 21 or your dick goes limp. There's no backing out, not after you plug the Pastor's wife. By the way, one of 'em is mine. Little girl, olive skinned. Fuck...I can't remember her name. It doesn't matter. Get your slice and get out. Or leave now if you're apprehensive. I suggest you do it quick, before things get hectic."

There was more I wanted to ask but, at last, Brother Tony was through talking. He lay back on the lawn chair and closed eyes. Tony split not long after, but he didn't get far. The Pastor thought he vanished into thin air but I knew better. I knew where he was going and how he was going to get there. Palo Verde, Arizona, wasn't his final destination, but it became his last stop. He slumbers for eternity beneath the broiling grit. I reckon by this point Tony's nothing but bones. Still, he taught me a valuable lesson: if you're going to leave, do so with your mouth closed. Tony couldn't help but run his and it cost him.

Will this be my fate? I don't know. I've been careful to stay on the good side of the people who matter. At least I think I have. Tony was ostentatious and glib, daring the Mission to stop him. I'll be discreet. I've got money stashed, not as much as Tony, but enough to go places. The problem becomes a matter of distance. How far can I get and will it ever be far enough?

***

Heath's question lingers as I inhale. I could answer, but I don't know how much I trust him. I hand him the smoke and test the waters.

"You ever think of leaving?" I ask.

"Sometimes," he says, "but I've got nowhere to go."

"You have money, right?"

"Yeah, but...this is the steadiest I've been in years." He looks at the joint and then admits, "This is nothing. Pot's a sip of water. I was in bad shape when the Mission found me. Crack, booze, acid...all the good stuff turned me bad. My mom threw me out and I lived on the streets. Here I have a place. There is something to this God stuff. I thought it was baloney at first, but look at me. I've a purpose. I need the structure or I'll fall off the rails. You?"

"I'm not sure what I believe," I confess. "I like the unity, but some of the stuff is out there. Angel Wheels?"

"Who's to say this is wrong? Do you have a theory about UFO's?"

"You said the magic words. _Theory_."

"I'll grant you it sounds crazy, but I don't have a better explanation. Without the Mission, though, I don't know where I'd be. Dead, in jail...take your pick. I think this is fate, divine will. It's got to be something finer than pure luck."

"Have you figured out what kind of luck?" I meant it as a joke but Heath doesn't react with a smile.

" _Good_ luck," he says, standing up. "Why would it be anything but good? Thanks for the smoke. I'm going to turn in."

I watch him depart and wonder if I pulled a Tony and said too much.

#

On top of everything else I've got the job at Bob Johnson's Big Apple down the street. Minimum wage is around five-and-change an-hour. Sure it's not much, but it allows spending money when the weed dries up, as it is wont to do. Brother Jake can't work miracles all the time. Drug droughts are common.

I keep to myself at the restaurant. Most of the workers are my age but they have real lives. They don't live in a motel, for starters. I come-and-go, no drama, and keep my nose clean. I envy my co-workers because I'd like to experience a normal life and engage in ordinary activities. In a subtle way I live through them, even though I know their lives aren't perfect.

Being quiet means people are interested in you. Indifference fuels curiosity. When you're working a grill line there's little to do except talk and watch food. I don't have much to contribute to the conversations about restaurant politics or who's fucking whom.

I come into work at nine and prep my station. I'm handed a list from the manager and start grabbing things from the freezer. Bags of fries, onion rings, mozzarella sticks...today I'll be shackled to the deep fryer. For the lunch rush I'll be dropping racks and getting splattered by hot grease. The smell of fried food will soak into my clothes.

Before we open I grab a coke and sit outside, my last break before the blast of elderly and office workers. I don't normally smoke cigarettes, but another cook offers one and I take it. Patrick is an older guy with frizzy hair and a New England accent. He came to Phoenix looking for a goldmine and got a job cooking at a steak house. He sips from a flask and talks about the upcoming lunch, his mind preoccupied. He's been with Bill Johnson's Big Apple for 10 years and runs a tight-ship. If the orders aren't coordinated he'll start barking. Barks turn to insults. I've seen him throw plates at people. More than one cook has walked out in the middle of their shift because of him. To Patrick the work of the kitchen is akin to running a nuclear submarine.

The door opens and a couple of waitresses appear. One of them is a skinny, dirty blonde named Courtney. She glances at me but I avoid her eyes and watch flies dive bomb a dumpster. All I have to do is walk over and say "hi" but I can't make myself commit to the act.

Patrick flicks the butt and stands.

"Time to get rolling," he says. "I'll see you inside."

"Yeah," I answer, dropping the cigarette onto the concrete and stomping the life from it. I pass Courtney and she brushes a strand of hair from in front of her eyes.

We had the beginning of something, not long after I started seeding, but it became awkward. She seems hell bent on trying to engage me but I maintain a neutral expression. The truth is I like her, but I can't drag her into my life. Not right now.

***

The first womb I tried to seed was the mousy wife of a muscular Bohunk named Brother Gabriel. I didn't know Gabriel before the event, or his wife, and it was a shit show. Tony picked me up in his car and we drove south to Queen Creek. Beyond the dairy farms and pecan trees he found a new development surrounded by desert. A few houses rose like mirages. The cow flop polluted the air.

"Why would anyone live out here?" I asked, trying to make small talk. I was nervous and my legs were bouncing. "It stinks."

"Houses are cheap," Tony said. "You can buy a 3,000-foot place here for the cost of a 1,500-foot place in Mesa." He accelerated down Ellsworth, craning his neck at the street signs. "But, Chico, I agree the smell is awful. It's a small price to pay. Real estate, my man, is where you want to plant your money. Seed money," he said, elbowing me in the ribs.

"How's this supposed to work?" I asked. "Do I walk in and start boning the missus, or do we shoot-the-shit?"

"You can chit-chat if you want. Word of advice, my friend: try to get sexy talk going. Don't gab about the weather. Most of 'em want it done quick. I go into the bathroom and get myself stoked. This is what I recommend."

"And after?"

"Do your service and get out. Cuddling is for lovers."

"Is it normal to visit their houses?"

"House calls are common. Sometimes they come to us...I suppose they don't want their beds and homes defiled. We use the motel in those cases. If they ask for a house call, you got to bring a chaperone. You don't do anything on your own. Open the glove box."

I comply and see a handgun.

"In case shit happens," Tony said. "Ninety percent of the time nothing will, but you never know. I've had a few guys lose their marbles. If I'd have been alone, who knows what would've happened?"

Good thing Tony was there with his weapon. Gabriel burst into the bedroom not long after we started. His wife was moaning, or screaming, not out of pain but this isn't what he heard. He thought I was coercing her but she needed no stimulating. In fact, Tony warned me there was no strong-arming. If someone wasn't a willing participant you had to let them go.

Up until then it was going better than I expected. I was a natural stud and had no problem getting it up when it was show time. She had no difficulty accepting it and did so with greedy thrusts of her groin. I was almost to completion when the bedroom door slammed open and Gabriel threw me from the bed.

"Get out of here!" he yelled. "This isn't holy!"

Tony stood in the doorway and told him to relax.

Gabriel was beyond calming. He covered his wife with a blanket and stared daggers at me.

Tony motioned at me and said, "Alright, Chico. Fun time's over. Let's get out of here."

I started to rise but Gabriel wasn't done. He threw a punch and caught me in the right eye. I retaliated and we brawled while Tony tried to split us apart. The woman cowered and screeched. I landed a timid blow, caught a few more, and got a nasty scratch on my arm. We rolled around for a minute or two before I heard pounding on the wall. Tony had enough and held the Glock in his right hand. He wasn't aiming it, but Gabriel raised his arms and backed away.

"Get your clothes," Tony said to me. "You agreed to this," he told Gabriel. "You promised."

"I thought he was hurting here," Gabriel claimed.

"He wasn't."

"Just...just get out-of-here," Gabriel stammered. "Go! I can't handle this."

"Fine," Tony said. "No problem, but your reluctance is between you and the Pastor. We're not leaving until we get paid."

"I'm not paying!"

"We offered the service as agreed upon. You're reneging. Give us the money and we'll go. Otherwise I'll be forced to make a call. Trust me, you don't want me to use the phone."

Gabriel looked at the gun. His face was bright red and I could see him working out scenarios in his head. I sure as shit was and none of them ended well.

"Come on, bro," Tony said. "Don't be unwise."

"Fuck you," Gabriel seethed. "Fuck all you."

"You know the deal," Tony said.

In the end we got the money, a thick bundle in an envelope. Tony handed me my portion, five hundred, and put the remainder in the glove box, beneath the weapon.

"You see," he said as we drove away. "It's not always easy. It was a good thing I was there. Never go anywhere alone."

"What if he wouldn't have paid?"

"Then you call Bobby Reed. He takes care of the money business. Don't ask me how. I don't care."

"What happens after they...get pregnant? Do you ever see the children?"

Tony laughed and then said, "No way. I mean, I see them at the sermons or the picnics, but I'm not interacting with them. You can't have a guilty conscious or you're never going to perform. Block it from your mind. You're providing a service. Nothing else."

"Wow. You're so matter-of-fact."

"You mean callous. It's not like I don't care but...okay, I don't care. This is a means to an end. Before the Phoenix I was a burnout. I wasn't going anywhere. Now I have cash, more than I'd ever thought I'd have. Praise the Lord," Tony added with a laugh.

"If it's like this all the time, I don't think I'm going to last long. He clocked me good."

"Yeah, Chico, he tagged you with a good pop. You'll have a war wound on your left eye. You need to ice it."

No amount of ice diminished the battle wound. I had a shiner, purple and ugly. The next day at work my coworkers at Bill Johnson's gawked at it like they'd never seen a black eye.

"I hope he looks worse," Patrick kidded in his annoying Mass accent. "What were you fighting over?"

"A woman," I said with tact.

"I hope she was worth it."

"Not really."

"They never are," he muttered, patting me on the back.

I walked to the back and navigated around the Mexican preppers and dishwashers. I had a greasy pan to soak and found an empty sink. As the water warmed I felt a tap on my shoulder and spun. Courtney stood in front of me, on her tiptoes, and examined my nasty eye. We'd chatted a few times in the past, icebreakers, but nothing beyond this. More often I watched her bounce around the restaurant, energetic and perky. I figured she was out-of-my league and taken. Not like I would find out.

"I saw your eye," she said, scrunching her face. "Does it hurt?"

"It's not painful," I said, trying not to fumble over words.

"What happened?"

"One of my friends had too much booze."

"Jeez."

"You know how it is."

"No, not really. I don't get in fights and I wouldn't have guessed you were a fighter."

"I'm not. Just this one occasion."

"Special occasion, eh?"

"You know it."

She leaned closer until I could smell perfume and stare at the gold locket dangling from her neck. Her blouse was unbuttoned to the bust and her bra was visible. Lacy and pink.

"If it helps," she said, "it doesn't hurt your looks."

My face got warm and I looked at my feet, a cartoonish "ah shucks" moment.

"You're blushing. How cute."

"I'm not used to compliments."

"You're not? Nobody's ever told you you're gorgeous?"

I couldn't believe she had the balls to say this. I mean, it _was_ nice to hear but I was embarrassed.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said, fidgeting with my fingers. "I'm shy."

"So you're bashful, huh? Some of the other waitresses think you don't like girls."

I laughed and shook my head. "I do. I'm..."

"All along it's because you're shy. Well, I'm not. If you won't talk to me, I'll talk to you."

"I guess you got me cornered."

"John, right?"

"Yep."

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"Lots of 'em," I tell her with a straight-face.

"I wouldn't doubt it."

"I'm joking."

"I'd love to go out with you. Don't make me look like a fool for asking."

I sighed and tried to think of a reason why this wouldn't work. I had a few on the tip of my tongue but instead swallowed them down. "Okay," I said. "What's your plan?"

"My plan? I'll tell you what, I'll give you my number and you call me when you think of something. I'm not going to do all the work."

"I don't have a car," I told her.

"So what? I do. Any other excuses?"

"I haven't gone out with anyone in a long time."

"Me neither. I have a baby I'm talking care of."

"A baby?"

"You might as well know my big, dark secret. I have a child. She's a year old. I'm damaged goods."

I took another peek down her shirt and she cleared her throat. "I'm up here, John."

I must have blushed again because she laughed and flicked the strands of hair from in front of her face. "You're either real smooth or immature," she said between giggles.

"It's not the latter."

"Just so we're clear, my baby doesn't bother you? 'Cause some guys say she isn't but then it becomes one. I want you to know upfront."

"Thanks. I don't care."

"Good. Your lack of vehicle and my baby aren't gonna cause issues. You have no reason not to call me."

I didn't have a good reason, I had a great one. Seeding kept me busy, Stage 2 study kept me occupied, and I had little free time beyond the twenty hours a week I spent at work. Courtney pestered for weeks, asking when I'd call, but I shrugged her off. My excuse: I was busy with my other job. When she asked what it was, I told I her I did lawn care. It seemed like a suitable answer.

So, for a time, things were fine and dandy. My life wasn't normal, but it was no worse than the lives of millions of other people. You know, if you do something long enough it becomes a routine and the routine becomes part of your essence.

On the early evening of October 8th, 1995, I got a visit from Bobby Reed. It wasn't expected and the pounding at my door was clamorous and authoritative. Needless to say, I wasn't pleased to see him.

He barged into my room and put his hands on my shoulders. "Tony," he growled.

"Um...what about Tony?"

"We're going to get the fucker."

Not pious lyrics from the mouth of a cherub...Bobby was fuming. His face was red and his hands clammy.

"Get him?" I asked.

"He called the Pastor and left a..." Bobby grimaced and fumbled to find the words.

"Left a _what_?" I asked.

"He left a nasty message. It's so blasphemous I won't bother repeat it. When I went to his apartment, he wasn't there. The fucker thinks he can waltz out of here spewing invectives. Guess what?"

I gulped and shook my head.

"Not on my watch."

"I bet he's long gone, isn't he?" I asked, trying to diffuse the tension.

"No, he isn't. This is the kicker. He's a smug bastard. The fucker left a note. He's taunting me."

I thought Bobby was getting a little worked-up over nothing and shrugged. "So what?"

Bobby tightened his grip and steered me to a chair. "Nobody insults the Pastor. You have experience with fire, right?"

"Fire? I don't-"

"Drop the bullshit. This is no time to act guiltless. Tony's going to spread lies, write books or go to the media. I have to find him. You have to help me. I knew delinquents like you when I was a cop. Fire, explosives, the bigger the bang the more turned-on you'd get. This about describe it?"

"I haven't touched fire in a long time."

"I'm right, though, aren't I?"

"It's a part of my life I'd rather not revisit."

"Tough shit."

I tried to stand but Bobby forced me into the seat and stared into my eyes.

"He's heading to Palm Springs via Amtrak," he said. "There's a culvert outside Palo Verde where we can mess with the tracks. I'd do it myself but I don't like playing with explosives."

"And I should jump at this opportunity?"

"You don't have a choice."

My skin pimpled. I have to admit, I was growing excited at the prospect.

Bobby noticed my enthusiasm and smirked. "Yeah, I see you're eager," he taunted.

"What do you want me to do?"

"It's going to be complicated and we can't be careless." He found a little notepad and a pen and started writing. When he was finished, Bobby slid the paper to me and watched as I studied the rudimentary sketch. Palo Verde is a small town west of Phoenix bisected east-to-west by the Southern Pacific Railroad Track. Bobby had circled a portion of track curving south outside the town and marked an "x" for good measure.

"The rail runs over a river bed," he explained, hovering over my shoulder. "There's a bridge there. We got to knock it out, but not so much it severs the signal telling the engineer the track is out-of-commission."

"How do you know this?"

"I hunt Javelina's in this area. The river bed is dry. It's called Quail Springs."

"How do you know he's going to be on this train? What if he isn't? What if I do this and it injuries a bunch of people?"

"Do you care?"

I did, but the allure of destruction was inviting. I hemmed and hawed for a moment, staring at the paper.

"We won't kill anyone," Bobby soothed. "I need to have a chat with Tony. Set him straight."

I knew he was lying, just like I knew if we disabled the track and derailed a train someone was bound to get hurt.

"If he tattles," Bobby continued, "our Mission is kaput. The Feds will take everything. You know what they did to the Branch Davidians?"

"I'm aware." The standoff and garish images of David Koresh's stronghold burning to the ground plastered the news for weeks. Seventy-six died in the assault, a fact Timmy (my long dead foster father) liked to repeat during our "lessons".

"So you know what we're up against. We don't have time to discuss morality. This is about the survival of our Mission."

"The Pastor gave you the green light to go Rambo?"

"He's upset, but he doesn't need to know about this operation. The less he fathoms the better. This is between us."

Between us... those two words used in tandem always lead to bad things. I don't know what would've happened if I refused, but since I didn't this speculation is pointless.

Bobby said, "In his profane note, Tony wrote he's taking Amtrak, leaving tonight. He's daring me to stop him."

"Maybe he's lying," I offered. "Trying to lead you on a bad trail."

I guess this thought never occurred to Bobby. His face turned white and he clenched his hands. "No...T's cocky. He doesn't think he can be stopped."

"Well...what do we do if we derail this thing? How do we get to him?"

"Ever see a train go off the track?"

It seemed like a stupid question but Bobby was staid. I shook my head.

"I have. When I was a cop I responded to a derailment. A freight train tipped crossing Grand Avenue. There were cars and cargo strewn everywhere. It was a mess. The engineers were dazed and battered. We toss this thing, they'll be passengers littered all over the place. Finding Tony in the chaos won't be difficult."

"Find him and do what?"

"Like I said," Bobby growled, "I need to clear the air with him."

"So we're going to walk up to this wreck, find Tony, and have a conversation?" I snapped my fingers. "Won't this look a mite suspicious?"

Bobby jabbed his stupid drawing as he answered, "There isn't anything out there. Palo Verde doesn't have a fire department. The nearest first responders are in Buckeye. It'll take 'em some time to answer the call. We plant ourselves near the culvert and when Amtrak goes boom, we amble in, kick some dirt and dig out Tony."

It sounded like a shitty plan; wading through twisted metal, fire and the injured to catch one man wouldn't be easy. Bobby watched me as I processed this and clucked his tongue.

"You don't think it will work, do you?"

"No," I answered. "First of all, how many people are on this thing? Second, I don't know if I can do what you want. Third, won't we look suspicious walking up on this accident like we're out for a stroll?"

Bobby dug into his back pocket and extracted his wallet. He flipped it open and flashed a police badge. It looked realistic and in the dark and confusion of a catastrophe it would help.

"Okay," I said, "but what about finding him?"

"I'll get him," Bobby said as he jabbed me in the shoulder. "You do your job and I'll do mine."

I cracked my knuckles and mused, "I can put a bomb on the track, or a couple, but I can't make a timing device. I'd have to light it when the train approaches, almost on top of me, but I can't guarantee it'll derail."

"I don't want it blowing the engine. I want the train to get halfway across the bridge before it falls. The first few cars are baggage. The sleepers are in the middle. What we got to do is make the track weak, but not weak enough to collapse until it's bearing the weight of the middle of the train."

"You don't want a bomb."

"What do you suggest?"

"How much time do we have?"

"A few hours. The train departs Phoenix around midnight."

"Why don't you go to the station and find him there? Be a helluva lot easier."

"Too many people around. He'd make a scene."

"And derailing a train is a better option?" I laughed and shook my head.

"This isn't a joke, shit-for-brains."

"Calm down. Help me think this through."

"I didn't expect you to be reticent."

"Look, man, I don't have bomb materials lying around this room." I thought of the pot sitting in the dresser, buried beneath my clothes, and decided it'd be in my best interest to keep him from rooting through my things. "I need gun powder, pipes, tissue paper and fuses. Besides the tp, do you have any of this at your place?"

"I have gunpowder. We could get the rest. Shouldn't be difficult."

"It's not, but it takes time to construct. Time, patience and I need to test one. It's been awhile."

"Shit," he muttered.

Then, like divine inspiration, I was thunderstruck by a thought. I remembered watching a documentary on bandits in the Old West one night on NOVA. The Reno Gang developed a tactic to combat the armed Pinkerton detectives riding shotgun and removed railroad spikes to make the track fragile. When the train passed over, the vibration would cause the rail to jiggle and cars to wreck. The outlaws would set upon the carcass of the Iron Horse and plunder the remains.

I cleared my throat and said, "I have an idea. What about taking out the spikes?"

"Huh?"

I explained my idea and Bobby nodded his head like I was rapping good poetry.

"This could work," he said. "I imagine we'll need a crowbar or something to jimmy them out."

"It'll look intentional," I added. "There's no way around this. We should plant something at the scene to put the authorities in a twist."

"Like what?"

This is how the "Sons of Gestapo" took credit for this act of domestic terrorism. To date it's their one and only deed. I composed the four typewritten notes found at the scene, mixing in Timmy's verbiage about the ATF, Ruby Ridge and Waco to lend an air of authenticity.

Bobby and I drove an hour west in silence. Interstate 10, Highway 85, joining Old Highway 80, a two-lane strand littered with tumbleweeds through bucolic Buckeye and then the ghost-like town of Palo Verde. He guided the four-runner off 80 and negotiated a number of turns until I had no clue where we were. We joined a rutted road and bounced along for a while, the dust cloaking the truck in a fog so dense the headlights failed to penetrate the sandy miasma and instead reflected their halogen glow into the cab. It was like travelling inside a buttery shroud. I looked out my window and listened to the pebbles speckle the Toyota like hail.

"The tracks are to our right," Bobby finally said.

"If you say so. I can't see anything."

"Trust me." He checked his watch and then said, "Up ahead is Crag."

"Crag?"

"It's an old mining town, abandoned. Past Crag is Gillepsie and then Harqua. Quail Spring Wash intersects there."

"It's going to take forever to get emergency personnel out here."

"Yep."

I fingered the four letters I'd written as the "Sons of Gestapo".

"You got a quick mind," Bobby said. "I can see what the Pastor saw in you. Beyond your obvious physical qualities, I mean. You'll go far if you keep your nose clean. Stay on the right side of the scripture. Don't go straying like Tony."

Right side, wrong side, I didn't care what you called it as long as I wasn't the one being pursued.

"You know this is how it'll go down, don't you?" Bobby asked.

"What?"

"The End. It's building up to this."

"What're you talking about?"

"It'll be the Government versus the Patriots. The liberals talk a big game about equality but they're the first ones to take away the right of the citizen who disagrees with their pandering. And they pander, Brother John. They pander to fags, blacks and women. But if a man should so much as stand their ground in defiance, the liberal will throw them in jail. They'll take away guns. They'll tell you what you can and cannot worship. What you can say. You feel me?"

"Yeah," I offered with a tepid smile. Bobby was on a role; I knew enough not to argue politics with a madman.

"You're damn right. You'll see. They'll make laws saying you have to serve fags in restaurants. What about personal choice? They want our guns 'cause without it 'em we can't fight back." He shook his head and then asked, "You know what Hitler did in Germany after he took power."

"Kill the Jews?"

"Well, yeah, later. First, he banned citizens from carrying firearms. He knew what he was doing. Who was going to stop him? _Then_ he killed the Jews."

"Smart."

"You bet it was. Same thing is happening in this country. The End is coming, coming to a boil. Perhaps we kick-start it with your missive."

I didn't want to start a revolution, and I didn't think we would, but Bobby had grand ideas. Lofty and ridiculous, I don't mind saying.

Off the trail we bounded, fishtailing into a dry wash. The truck hastened on the hard-packed soil and the cloud of dust dissipated as if pulled apart by plucking fingers. Above shone the moon, luxuriant and bright. Ahead I saw the silhouette of a bridge stretching over the wash. Bobby brought the truck to a skidding stop and turned off the lights.

"Here we go," he said with a sigh. "No time to dawdle. We have about two hours."

We pried-out twenty-nine spikes with the crowbars, using gray moon shine as our torch. The first few were tricky; fitting the tapered end under the spike and finding leverage was hard on the narrow trestle. I leaned the bar against the rail, Bobby used a mallet, and our donkeywork freed the first spike. After a couple, the tension on the stretch of track slackened and the spikes became easier to dislocate. Through the sweat dripping in my eyes I pictured an old timey Iron Horse chugging pell-mell as we worked, pushing us to jump into the wash, but only sounds of the desert serenaded our activities.

Each spike, once removed, was dropped into the gulch below the bridge, about a 30-foot plunge. They fell into this void, striking the ground with a dull smack. I remarked it would be a brutal landing for those in the train and questioned how nobody could get hurt. Bobby told me to shut up and work.

Once finished, we drove out-of-the wash and up a knoll about a quarter mile from the culvert. Then we sat. Bobby checked his watch and scanned the area with binoculars.

"It was supposed to leave Phoenix at midnight," he said. "It'll be here soon."

There was something I wanted to ask but hesitated to broach the subject. The situation added to my angst until I could no longer subdue the query. I needed to reassure myself Tony's theory was bunk. I put a dismissive lilt in my tone as I picked imaginary lint from my shirt.

"Hey, Brother Bobby, does seeding have anything to do with life insurance?"

His head turned slow-like as he lowered the binoculars. "What?"

"Like...does the Mission take out life insurance policies on the seeder? In case, you know, something should happen."

"Yeah, I get it," Bobby groused. "Tony filled your head with this nonsense, didn't he?"

"He might've mentioned-"

"Do you know how life insurance works?"

"No, but-"

"Right, of course not, because if you did you'd understand how stupid his idea is. If Tony believes this, it goes to show you how messed up in the head he is. All the more reason I got to talk to him before he starts spreading ridiculous rumors."

"What about the seeders before me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are they around?"

"Around? Yes. Don't ask if you can meet them. They're retired, have families of their own. They've put their past in the rearview." He said it like they were ashamed of their work.

I tried another tactic. "It might help me if I could talk to one, seeing as Tony was screwy. I don't think he was a good tutor."

"No," Bobby barked, putting the binoculars to his eyes. "And don't go prodding anyone. The Pastor is particular about who knows about the seeding. You don't want to make the Pastor uncomfortable. If he's upset, guess who's got to deal with it?"

Shunned, I sealed my mouth and stared out the window.

A few minutes later Bobby nudged me and pointed. "Looky...I see it!"

I squinted and made out the pale glow of lights approaching from the east. My heart beat faster and, God help me, I began to quiver. Not from fear, mind you, but excitement. I knew it was wrong but I missed this moment before all hell broke loose. It was like foreplay. Shit, it was better than foreplay. I felt my pecker get hard as I watched the lights get brighter.

I don't know how fast the train was moving, but the engine and first few cars in tow zoomed over the bridge with a clacking. Everything looked normal and I wondered if we'd done enough.

With a grinding sound my question was answered. Like it was happening in slow-mo, the eighth car buckled, leaned right, and flew off the bridge. In free-fall, it dragged the car behind it into the gulch and so on until the sequel of brakes could be heard and the lead engine stopped perpendicular to our hill. Bobby slapped my back and raised the binoculars.

The Amtrak looked like a dead snake, dark and coiled. A billowy cloud of dust rose into the air, undulating in the breeze, masking the carnage. Moans and screams filtered through, puffs of humanity the grimy veil failed to blot. I groaned too, quiet-like, as I shot seed into my shorts. I couldn't help it. I closed my eyes, bit my knuckle, and willed myself to stop. It was like trying to plug a burst water balloon. Nothing can stop true passion and I was full of adoration as I thought of my beautiful creation.

Bobby mistook my cries for sadness and tried to soothe me: "Yo Brother, no need to get gloomy. I doubt anybody got hurt. See, look!"

A few people had dragged themselves from the wreckage. They sure didn't look unhurt, ambling out of the dust cloud, weaving like drunks. However, I wasn't a doctor and the fact they were moving meant the crash was survivable. Or so I believed.

"Boy-o-boy," Bobby whistled. "What a sight." For a moment there was something akin to humanity in his tenor. Then he shook his head and was all business. "Alright, enough gawking. We got work to do. You leave those letters under some rocks near the wreck. Don't let anyone see you. I'll find Tony."

I wasn't prepared for the level of carnage littering the desert. It wasn't just the railcars; they were a spectacle, strewn like discarded toys but a thousand times larger. No, it was the people, either trapped in the train, prone on the ground, or milling in tattered clothes with petrified looks on their faces. None of them paid Bobby or me notice. We could've passed for displaced passengers, such was the state of our clothes covered in filth and perspiration from our drudgery. I wasn't taking any chances, though, and made sure the coast was clear as I scattered the four letters under heavy stones around the perimeter of the site.

As I finished with the last one, I saw Bobby moving among the masses, his arm slung around a large figure. I wasn't sure, but I reckoned it was Tony. They moved off, towards the knoll, and I trailed a respectable distance until I lost sight. I waited and surveyed the jumble I had a hand in creating. I didn't feel excited anymore; I felt shame. Well, shame and soiled drawers. You know how it is, or maybe you don't, but for comparison think of the afterglow after lovemaking, how it wears off, quick-like, until the stink and slime of your lover is all you can comprehend. One second you're be-bopping, the next you're lying atop this pitiful creature itching to extract yourself from their grip. The grossness, the realization of what you did, how you did it, how they enjoyed you...the embarrassment. This. A thousand times this, though, multiplied by moans. When I closed my eyes, the wretched people sounded like they were in the throes of fornication. Then it hit me again, the delight, and I felt my pecker growing hard. I had to open my eyes to shred the fantasy from my head.

Bobby returned and looked surprised to see me leaning against his Toyota. Tony wasn't with him.

"You place those letters?" he questioned, brushing his pants.

"Yeah. Did you find Tony?"

"Naw. Too many people. Needle-in-a-haystack."

"I thought I saw you with him."

Bobby crossed his arms and asked, "Did you?"

"Looked like it."

"It's dark. Hard to find him among these pathetic whiners."

The whapping of helicopter blades, distant but closing, filled the air.

"Hear it?" Bobby asked, tipping an ear. "The cavalry is coming. We gotta split."

The return trip was circuitous and tedious. Bobby took us north along the wash, bypassing the approaching parade of strobe lights, until it intersected an asphalt road. A leaning sign had two names stenciled upon it, one arrow pointing left and the other right. We turned right for Phoenix, 60 miles that-a-way. Skirting Buckeye, we passed through Wintersburg and joined Interstate 10. I dozed off to the sounds of Art Bell yakking about Bigfoots and Yetis.

"Wake up," Bobby said as he shook my shoulder.

I opened my eyes, rubbed them of dirt, and saw the neon sign of The Rest Stop blinking across the grimy windshield.

"What time is it?" I yawned.

"Little past four."

When I reached for the door handle, Bobby grabbed my arm and said, "I don't think I need to remind you, but just in case. Not a word of this to anyone."

"I'm not an idiot. Who do you think I'm going to tell?"

"Not even the Pastor."

I opened the door and he dug his fingernails into my wrist. "Look at me. I'm serious. You can't tell a soul." He released his grip when I swore obedience, but his eyes were squinty and his countenance stern.

Dwelling on this, which I did often in the sublime quiet of my room with a head-full of pot, was disquieting but emboldening. Reliving Bobby's comment: _'You got a quick mind'_. What my quick mind was capable of producing. Picturing the great silver train, once sleek, crashing because of my handiwork caused my heart to skip a beat. Not always in a good way, for the wrecked bodies wretched in repose, delivered pangs of regret. This compunction was a mere sniff of my foul order, for I exhaled the burden of bloodletting and fondled excitement. Excitement always lurked in splendor. Red hot, shameful, passionate excitement. Often it got the better of me and I cleansed myself of seed, staring into my eyes of the bathroom mirror as my pecker shot round-after-round of hot kernel like a howitzer. I'd never blink, not a wink, so stoic had I become at the moment of eruption. Daisy chain sessions of flushing excitement and I _never_ made a whimper.

The next day I saw the news on the television: one dead, scores injured and a man missing, identified as Tony Donnitti. Claiming responsibility were the "Sons of the Gestapo". The derailment had caused quite the hub-hub. Commentators speculated about this fringe group of extremists. Who were they? What would they strike next? The conjecture was absurd. How foolish these folks would look if they knew the truth.

For me it was another secret in a chamber full of furtive actions. They kept stacking up. After a time it'd get buried by something else. Something worse, no doubt. Something else I wanted to bury, but couldn't, was the notion Bobby would be keeping a close eye on me. Who was I kidding? I knew I was in his crosshairs.

#

I graduated Stage 2 in November '95, on the day of my birthday as a matter-of-fact. This wasn't a rigorous ordeal, not like the Stage 1 purge, and required a pithy recap of the Phoenix's beliefs on the Second Coming. At the conclusion of the ceremony, I had to raise my right hand and affirm I was devoted to saving the multitude of misbegotten and wayward creatures roaming the Greater Phoenix area. Yes, every obstacle was the Devil's foot trying to trip. I vowed I would step over the appendage and truck headlong into salvation with whomever I could drag with me.

When I left the conference room I ran into Matt. He was dropping off new recruits at the motel. I hadn't seen him in a while and he gave me a hug.

"How're you doing Brother?" he asked. "Things going well?"

"I'm now a Stage 3," I told him

"Congratulations. What's it been? A year or so since I ran into you?"

"Yeah. Wow, I can't believe it."

"Hey, if you want to get out of this motel, I have room at my place. Rent's not bad, but I could use some help. Better than staying here."

"I don't mind the ole Rest Spot. It's rustic." I had no intention of moving. Matt's place was across town, a haul to get to work. Plus I had the whole weed distribution going on out of the motel.

"I'm only talking another fifty dollars a month. You work, right? It wouldn't break your back."

"Money's not the issue. I make out well with the seeding." I didn't need to tell him about the other enterprise.

Matt scratched his head and asked, "Seeding?"

Whoops. I forgot not everyone was privy to the information. "It's a landscaping gig I walked into. Part-time."

"If you change your mind, let me know. I don't know how long I'll have space."

I seeded a few in November but was busy working towards Stage 4. This involved mentoring new members and leading Bible Study. Before I could graduate, I had to show sufficient knowledge in all books of the Old and New Testament, as well as the doctrine of the Phoenix Mission. I can recite them today as a matter of fact. Not only the Pentateuch but the Historical Books, from Joshua to 2 Maccabees; the Wisdom Books and all the Major and Minor Prophets from the Old Testament, The Gospels and Epistles from the New Testament. It was mind-bending. Sounds like a blast, doesn't it? Well sir, there was more.

I learned Pastor Morobito was a Prophet and was working on a volume of divinations called the Phoenix Codex. His interpretations were received through dreams and study of the Book of Jeremiah in Aramaic. I couldn't believe the teacher expected us to believe this but it was presented as fact. He showed the class a manuscript of the Pastor's work and read some of the text.

Morobito called himself "The Shephard of O'odham" and claimed a kinship to Jeremiah. Where Jeremiah failed in his prophetic undertaking, Morobito had promised to prevent his "Judah" from being defiled. He claimed oppressors would come to wrest his Temple and an army of loyal seedlings would subvert the heathens. Once secured, Judgement from God would be rendered and Angel Wheels would come to claim Morobito and his faithful.

My drug dealing associate, Brother Jake, laughed about it later as we smoked a spliff.

"Fuck this," he said. "An army of seedlings? If I wanted to be in the military, I'd have gone to the recruiter. I ain't fighting nothing."

I had a better idea of what this army might be. I realized the Pastor was planting a seed of his own. Beyond the obvious, I mean. He was fueling his followers for a potential showdown. There'd come a day when law enforcement would move against the Phoenix. Morobito was forecasting this action because he knew it would happen. When it did, the congregation would join him in solitude to fight the modern day Babylonians known as the ATF, FBI, Grant Woods, or whoever dared wrest control of his kingdom.

I knew plenty of people who didn't buy what the "Shepard of O'odham" was selling. Conversations made this clear. However, spirituality is a great pacifier and death is a hard concept to grasp. The absence of existence is scary. The belief in an afterlife helps mitigate daunting fate. So is putting a reason on the myriad of problems plaguing man. I'm not rapping about wars, earthquakes or the world at large. I'm talking about our own problems. Self-doubt, addiction, problems with relationships. I should know. I have these doubts too. In a group of people looking for order and absolution, religion makes sense. I felt the spirit of acceptance in transcendent moments. Everything has a reason, all will be okay, your life has meaning. The crazy things can be chipped down to parables made neat in relation to our struggles.

However, even the nuttiest stuff requires a monumental leap of faith. More often, this elucidation is accomplished by individuals claiming a divine gift from God. We, modest beings, are incapable of self-discovery. The Prophet takes the burden of our frailty and makes it palatable.

There is something else at work. It's evident in the Phoenix and, I suspect, in all religions, cults or groups with devoted, rabid followers. The need to believe, to become blind to falsehood, is outweighed by acceptance. Cuddling the tenets, ludicrous as they are, makes it easy to move up the chain. In the end altitude is what matters. The view is mighty fine from the penthouse suite. There's also luxury at the top of the pyramid. No more groveling or selling boxes of shit. There's one catch: you gotta sell your soul to climb over the rest. Acceptance to the inner circle meant forgoing sanity and reality.

I should know. I abandoned the pretense of lucidity when I became a seeder. Who was I trying to please? I should've walked out the door when Pastor Morobito told me to strip. I hadn't because I wanted to be accepted, to be cherished, to feel special. My lack of self-esteem made it easy, like it made it easy to convince these others.

The point is I was busy and never called Courtney. She hounded, much like Matt had done when he recruited me, but I stood tall to her beseeching eyes. I'd ignore her or lament I was busy. I developed a backbone at the wrong time.

At last, she had enough. Tired of being spurned, she confronted me during the lunch rush.

"I'm not going to wait much longer," she threatened.

I had dropped a vat of fries and started the timer. Patrick was howling from the depths of kitchen hell and I was tired of her nagging.

"You're distracting me," I said.

"Good. I'm going to keep distracting until you shit or get off the pot."

"Jeez," I laughed, "are you comparing yourself to a toilet?"

She put hands on hips and said, "It's an expression, moron."

"You're persistent. I didn't know I was worth the trouble."

"Are you? I'm hoping to find our one way or another."

I hawed. Then I hemmed. Or was it the other way around? Okay, the order doesn't matter. What matters is she stomped her foot and sighed. Her eyes blazed with fury and her creamy skin turned red. Yes, you see? There was fire in her. I guess it was time to take a dump on the commode known as Courtney.

"Tomorrow night?" I asked.

She flinched and blinked her eyes. "Tomorrow?"

"Sure, but you're going to have to get me. Remember? I don't have a car."

"I remember and yes, I can pick you up. Where do you live?"

"Down the street at The Rest Spot."

"The Rust Spot?"

"Rest Spot. The motel."

She screwed up her face, wrinkled her nose, and appeared disgusted. "I know what it's called. You live there?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"You live in a motel. Why?"

I wiped my hands on the apron and then said, "It's a long story. It's the only night I have free this week. Take it or leave it."

"How 'bout seven."

"It's a date," I said, returning to the deep fryer.

The next evening, as I waited on the curb, I wondered if this was a hot idea. What was I hoping to accomplish? How could I have a relationship with her? Or maybe I was jumping the gun.

Courtney arrived in a white Ford Escort. I heard the car before I saw it. The thing squealed and backfired. As I got in, I saw the baby seat in the back.

"Charming, huh?" she asked.

"What? The car seat or the car?"

"Both speak class, don't they?"

As we accelerated the car shrieked.

I grimaced and said, "It's prolly your fan belt. And a timing belt."

"It doesn't matter what it is. I can't afford to get it fixed right now."

"I could do it. I used to work on cars."

"You did?"

"Yeah, my...Uncle Merle taught me," I explained. "It's been a couple years since I've thrown a wrench but I remember how to replace a belt. Of course, it could be a worn alternator bearing but seeing how it's yelping when you accelerate, I'd say it's a loose belt."

"I bet you could make more money fixing cars than cooking at Bill Johnson's."

"I'm doing okay."

"Are you? Living at the Rust Spot is okay?"

"Convenience."

"I've heard the only people living there are drug addicts and prostitutes."

"What? Who told you?"

"It's not a well-kept secret what these dumps on Main are about. By the hour rates?"

I chuckled and then said, "You've found out my secret. I'm a male prostitute."

"Why don't you get an apartment?"

"What movie do you want to see?" I asked, changing the subject. " _Jerry McGuire_ is playing at the dollar theater at seven."

"Wow, big spender."

"Excuse me, but the tickets to Broadway were a tad expensive. What with the plane fare and all."

"I'm joshing. Anyway, I can't do a movie. My babysitter can only watch Grace until nine. How 'bout dinner?"

"I know the perfect place. Bill Johnson's?"

"I'd rather eat sawdust."

"Sounds like a dare."

"I'm in the mood for a root beer float and a corn dog."

She drove to one of the few remaining A&W stands on Alma School and Broadway. We sat outside at a picnic table and enjoyed the high-class fare.

"When I was a girl I wanted to be a waitress on roller-skates," she confessed. "It seemed glamorous."

"You're halfway to your goal," I said. "Slap some wheels on your shoes and you'll be rolling around Bill's."

"Bill Johnson's wasn't in the picture."

"We dream and then we live. Reconciling the two is what drives people crazy."

"What was your dream?"

"Oh..." Furtive flames appeared before my eyes and I shook my head. Better to leave this tidbit buried. Fire and masturbation isn't first date material. "You know, what do all boys dream about?"

"It couldn't have been to cook and live in the Rust Spot."

I cleared my throat and said, "When I was a kid I wanted to be a baseball player. I had the team picked out, my position and number. The whole shebang. Even the team. Minnesota Twins."

"I don't know anything about baseball."

"It's a dumb sport and my fantasy was stupid. Like I said, reality took the wheel and steered my ship. I wasn't cut out to be a professional athlete."

"Why Minnesota?"

"I grew up there. We moved to Arizona when I was ten." Because I liked to start fires. You know, sweetheart, one of those fads kids get into to. Like _Dungeons and Dragons_ or Matchbox cars.

"Big move. Divorce?"

I dabbed a fry into catsup. "My mother passed away and my dad decided to pursue other options."

Courtney reacted with the appropriate amount of sorrow and touched my hand. "I'm sorry."

"Well, nothing worked out the way it was supposed to. Good lesson to learn while you're young."

"I can't top yours."

"It's not a competition. Besides, you got your own predicaments."

"Huh?"

"Your kid. Don't tell me it was planned."

"Gawd no, but I don't consider her a predicament. Grace set me back but I'm not going to be working at Bill Johnson's for the rest of my life."

"Got your crosshairs on A&W?"

"I'm taking classes at MCC. A couple every semester. It'll take time but I'll get my degree. I won't be serving tables forever."

"What about your dream?"

"I have other dreams now. You could try college. You don't have to cook forever."

"I tried MCC for a semester. It didn't take."

"What about working on cars?"

I shrugged.

"You don't want to be stuck in limbo forever," Courtney lectured.

"I don't think in terms of forever. Life changes fast."

"So, you live in the moment?"

"I have for a long time."

"Grace's father, Charles, is a hedonist too. Can't pin him down to get support. He blows his money on life's pleasures. Dealing with him is maddening."

"I never said I was a hedonist."

"Living in a motel? It doesn't scream ascetic."

"Whoa. Big word alert. Too bad I left the pocket dictionary at home. I didn't know I'd need it tonight."

"It means someone who denies desire for religious discipline."

I drank my malt and mused. Perhaps Courtney was more perceptive than I figured.

"Why the motel?" she prodded.

"I'm trying to make a go of things. I won't be there forever."

"A dream of yours?"

"I suppose. I didn't have the best upbringing. I consider the motel a step up."

Courtney frowned and said, "If you say so. What happened?"

"Besides my mother dying? Lots of things, but it's not important."

"I just want to know the kind of guy you are. A girl can never be too sure."

"Hey, _you_ wanted to go out. I was minding my business. I'm the one who should be leery."

"Oh, no. Don't blame this on me, mister. I've seen you looking at me. Don't pretend you're not flattered."

"Sure, I'm flattered, but I don't know if I'm ready for a relationship."

"Relationship? You're taking a big leap. This... whatever you want to call it, is a chance for us to get to know each other."

"I mean...I don't need to drag you into my life. It's complicated."

"I bet it is," she said with sarcasm. "You want complicated, you should spend a day with me." She glanced at her watch and sighed. "Speak of the devil. We got to get going."

She dropped me off in front of the motel and shook my hand.

"Thanks for dinner," she said. "Sorry I have to ditch you. Maybe next time we could catch a movie."

"Maybe."

"Maybe, huh? Okay...I'll see you at work." Then she nodded at the motel and said, "Have fun."

We went out a few more times but our dates were cut short by child care. I liked Courtney. She was quick witted and spoke her mind. I wasn't sure what I was doing with her, but I felt a whole lot better hanging with her than sitting around the motel. Trying to keep this part of my life a secret wasn't difficult, but she probed for more information about my background. I offered scraps, embarrassed by my father and the foster homes I'd grown up in.

I never invited her to my room at The Rest Spot. This was tempting disaster for a number of reasons. Besides the strange creatures hanging out in abundance, there was also the pot. Courtney didn't like drugs; she confessed her ex, Charles, was a dope head. Based on the descriptions, I drew a picture in my head of the guy: pretty, promiscuous, puffed-up and a pot-head. I gathered he and I could've been twins. Courtney could sure pick 'em. The only thing Charles lacked was pyromania.

Since she lived with her parents, she had no privacy. Our dates were a chance at escape for both of us. Still, I didn't know what she expected from me.

Early in September of '96, she took me to her house to replace the tatty fan belt in her Escort. When we got there, she introduced me to her parents.

"John, eh?" her father said as he shook my hand. "Which one is he?"

"Dad!" Courtney shrieked.

"There's so many I lose track," he said with a wink. I didn't know if he was joking, but I got the sense he was cynical.

"John's a friend from work," Courtney said. "He's going to fix my car."

"Have at it," he said. "Your mother and I are going out. We'll be back in a couple of hours. Fair warning."

"I don't think he likes me," I whispered as he walked away.

"He's being an asshole. Forget about it."

I worked on the car for an hour while Courtney fed her daughter. I got the fan belt replaced, then the timing belt, and ran the car. It sounded better and didn't scream white trash, at least at first glance. When I went inside, covered in grease, the child toddled to me and wrapped her little arms around my leg.

"Hi," she babbled.

I stared at this dirty kid in diapers and didn't know what to do. I wanted to swing my arm and club her to the side like Frankenstein.

"She won't bite," Courtney said. "And, if she does, it won't hurt."

I lifted my hands and wiggled my fingers. "I don't want to get her dirty."

"Sure," she said, snatching the kid. "Bathroom is down the hall to the right."

I cleaned up as well as I could with hand soap and then washed my face. When I came out, Courtney was in the living room.

"Car sounds good," I said.

"Awesome. I'll make you my full-time mechanic."

"Where's your daughter?"

"Her name is Grace. She's taking a nap. If she doesn't get one she gets cranky."

"I know the feeling," I said, sitting down in a recliner.

"Thanks for helping," she said. "I didn't have the money to get it fixed."

"No problem." I wasn't trying to sound diffident or macho. I enjoyed doing it and missed tinkering on vehicles.

Courtney smiled and rubbed her arms. "You know, I don't bite either. And if I do it doesn't hurt."

She looked gorgeous but I didn't move a muscle. I don't know why. How many women had I been with? After a while they blurred together until they meant nothing but a dollar sign. This was different. I liked her but felt intimidated. I wondered what she saw in me.

"You can sit next to me," she said, patting the cushion with her hand.

Like I robot I complied. I sat down, ramrod straight, and grabbed the television remote on the armrest.

"Look at this," I said, holding it up like it was Excalibur. "What do you wanna watch?"

She responded by leaning into me and kissing my cheek. "No tv," she mumbled.

I dropped the controller as she cupped my face in her hands. Courtney licked, nibbled and caressed but I didn't reciprocate. After a minute, she stopped and stared me in the eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I don't know if this is a good idea. I mean...your kid's in the next room and your parents will be home soon."

"I just want to kiss you. Don't you want to kiss me?"

"Yeah...but kissing leads to other things and-"

"Other things?" She pushed me in the chest and stood. "What do you think? We're gonna start humping on the couch?"

"I don't know. One thing leads to the next."

"It does?"

"Um...what are we doing then?"

She put hands on hips and said, "We're getting to know each other. Have you never had a girlfriend before? Why are guys so one-dimensional?"

"I'm trying to understand. I didn't mean to be presumptuous. To be honest, I'd rather not, you know, get the juices flowing."

"Sure," she scoffed. "It's either fucking or nothing."

"No! I'm trying to figure out what to make of this."

"So, you're nervous?"

"A little."

"Are you a virgin?" she asked with a cock of her head.

I chuckled and then answered, "No."

"Hmm...is my body language screaming _fuck me_?"

"Not at this moment, but things can change. Look, I like you but I don't know what you want from me. I'm not boyfriend material. Honest. I live in a motel, I don't have a car...I'm not good around kids. I've never had a real relationship with anyone."

"You're a love 'em and leave 'em type," she muttered. "Just my luck. Why do I always end up with the duds?"

I shrugged, perhaps not the right way to answer the question. Courtney stomped her foot and glared at me.

"You know, I thought you were quiet and different. Turns out you aren't." She disappeared into her kid's room and returned with the child in her arms. Grace rubbed her eyes and laid her head on Courtney's shoulder.

"Come on," she said, grabbing her keys and purse. "I'll take you back to the Rust Spot."

We drove in silence...literal silence since I fixed her car. I kind of wished the Escort squealed. It would have made for better conversation.

"I'll see you around," she said as I stepped from the car.

I leaned in through the passenger window and smiled. "Hey, I didn't mean to make you mad. No kidding. I'm not like everyone else you've run into you. I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. If you want to catch a movie-"

"I'll think about it," she said, shifting the car into first. "See ya, John."

I waved as she pulled from the curb.

Who was I kidding? I was like everyone else, perhaps worse than everyone else. In-a-way I was thankful it fell apart like it did. I wouldn't have the ability to keep her happy because I figured she needed a lot of attention. I had enough women who required my courtesy and they were paying me.

#

In 1996, the Phoenix Mission added five hundred new parishioners. According to Brother Sherman, the Mission was two thousand strong and growing. I was doing my part; I had seeded twenty women in the first months after Tony "retired". Besides Gabriel, I had no issues. All of them took my generous gift and I grew brash with each successful outcome. I viewed it like a job, one I made good money doing. I took my earnings and tried to open a bank account. So naïve was I, the teller stared at me as I plopped an envelope stuffed with 6,000 dollars in front of her. I thought they'd stash it in a vault, no questions asked. Turns out they needed id and I had to fill out paperwork. I said no thanks and resorted to the tried-and-true duffel bag I hid in my closet. It wasn't prudent but I didn't have a choice.

You would've thought I'd have kept a low profile after pulling off an act of terrorism... but you'd be wrong. Bobby and I killed again on November 1st, 1996. The victim was a new member of the Mission, a wealthy donor from Tucson named Gary Triano. Yep, the same Gary Triano my father was business partners with. I dispatched him with a pipe bomb constructed in the basement of Bobby's house. Triano met his end in the LaPoloma Country Club parking lot on his fifty-third birthday.

Bobby drove me in a rented Monte Carlo to the site of the execution. We waited for him to emerge from the clubhouse and I threw the pipe bomb, stuffed in a blue backpack, into the open passenger window of his Lincoln. It had a timing device set to blow five minutes after I triggered it. There was a tense moment after he get in the car and picked up the bag. The expression of confusion was obvious, but he set it down when a couple stopped to chat with him.

"You should've tossed it in the backseat," Bobby complained.

He was right, but I had moved onto bigger concerns. I didn't want Jack and Jill to get vaporized too. Every second they stood talking to Gary made me anxious and I watched the digital clock on the console change. One minute, two, three...

"Fuck," I said, "they're all going to bite it."

"Who cares?" Bobby asked.

I gritted my teeth and waited for the explosion. Bobby glanced at me, then the clock, and exhaled. "Fine," he said. "If it makes you feel better."

He rolled the car abeam Triano's Lincoln and honked the horn. The couple turned and waved. Bobby motioned them to his window.

"We're from out of town," he said with a phony smile. "Can you tell me how to get to the U of A campus? My, um, kid...he wants to check it out."

While Jack and Jill described the route, I kept an eye on the time. Four minutes. I elbowed Bobby and he thanked the couple.

They ambled towards the clubhouse, waving one last time at Gary, as Bobby shifted into drive. I craned my neck as we passed our victim. The bastard had seconds to live and was chowing down on a sandwich. We hadn't gone more than three car lengths when the inside of the Lincoln exploded, blowing out the windshield and peppering our rental with shrapnel. The bomb was loaded with nails and ball-bearings and the blast tore open his skull and chest. His body was a blackened stalk, a facsimile of Thích Quảng Đức minus the Buddhist Monk dignity. My bomb was stronger than I wanted; I desired suffering but I'd loaded the device with too much gunpowder. We stuck around long enough to observe the gruesome aftermath before hitting the road for the hour-and-a-half trip north on I-17 to Phoenix.

The circumstances for the murder weren't convoluted, although the press speculated it was a mob hit brought about by Triano's irresponsible business decisions spanning back two decades. He'd made a lot of enemies. Sure, it sounded steamy but the truth was less compelling. In fact, the moment I saw Triano I had revenge on my mind. Good ole Brother Gary was seeking solace from the Mission for past transgressions. I decided he'd never find peace, at least not in this life and not the next, God willing.

Strange it wasn't me who proposed the idea of whacking him. This should've been a clue something hinky was taking place, but I didn't care. I wanted Gary Triano dead. What did I care if Bobby Reed wanted the same?

"See the big fella?" Bobby Reed whispered to me during one of the fall Sunday afternoon sermons. Triano wasn't front-and-center, but close enough, a smug grin on his tanned face. He was hypnotized by Pastor Morobito's lecture and didn't notice me and Bobby staring at him from our position on the side of the pavilion. Triano was tall, six and a half feet or so, and dressed the part of big spender. He didn't go unnoticed, nor did he try, but I decided to play dumb to see why Bobby was singling him out.

"Who?" I asked.

"The guy with the wicked bronze. Third row, 'bout middle of the chairs."

With a lazy turn of my head I scanned the worshippers before presenting Bobby a bewildered look.

"He's right there," Bobby hissed, trying not to point an incriminating finger. He jerked his head and barred his teeth instead.

Once again, I furrowed my brow and inspected the rows of people.

"You can't miss him," Bobby insisted.

"Oh yeah," I pointed. "I see him."

Bobby slapped my hand. "Don't gawk, you fool."

"Jeez, Brother Bobby. Chill out. What about him?"

"He's new, joined a month ago. Lives in Tucson. Already a Stage 2, if you can believe it."

This got my attention. "Wow, he must be a quick learner."

"Has nothing to do with learning. He's got money and the Pastor likes money."

I scrutinized Morobito at the pulpit, gesticulating and spitting.

"I'm not saying money is bad," Bobby continued, "but I think this guy is rotten. A regular poison apple. If the Pastor isn't careful, he could be eating from his tree."

I didn't need to do fancy math to know why Bobby was consternated. His voice outlined the angst. Bobby was envious and prolly afraid Gary Triano was buying more influence than Brother Bobby could afford.

"We're all sinners," I said. "The Mission is here for redemption."

"This is different. His name is Gary Triano and he's bad news. I've vetted him. He needs to go."

"A rash decision," I said with indifference. "But hey, it's your Mission."

"Rash?"

"Just 'cause he's got money doesn't mean he's a bad guy."

Bobby leaned close to my ear and whispered, "He's a narc, bozo."

I didn't believe it, not for a second, but registered sufficient shock. Gary Triano might've been many things but I knew he wasn't working for the cops. No way.

"Alright," I said. "What's your bright idea?"

Bobby straightened and watched Triano. I could see the wheels turning in his head. The Pastor thundered behind us and Gary Triano applauded each syllable. You don't know how bad I wanted to wipe the smile off his face.

"I'm thinking bomb," Bobby said.

"Oh...you mean you want to get _rid_ of him like you did Brother Tony."

"Tony went missing," Bobby insisted.

"Look, if you want me to blow his ass to pieces, don't treat me like a fool."

"Don't worry about T. He was a charlatan and he's yesterday's news. Can you make something to do the job on this guy?"

I pretended to consider the request before replying, "Yes."

"Good. We'll talk after the service." He patted me on the shoulder and moved away.

Talk...not so much. Bobby ranted about rats, how he hated them, and I listened to his monologue with contrived attention. He wanted to suck me into the same mindset, propel me into spilling blood again, but I needed no impetus.

Bobby tailed him for a week, figured out his schedule, and I went to work on the bomb. Since Gary split his time between Tucson and Phoenix, Bobby decided it'd be better to do the deed in the city to the south. It added distance and potential suspects. Turned out there was a long line of prospective defendants. I should've been given a medal for offing Triano.

It also turned out his ex-wife and two children collected on a two-million-dollar life insurance policy. The scuttlebutt of the media circus forgot about the mob and concentrated on her. Widow Triano's picture flashed on the television about one thousand times, always with the same speculation sopping from the mouths of the reporters. _Did she hire a hitman to kill her ex-husband_? they asked.

Once again, the media concocted stories while I sat snug in the Rest Stop safe from suspicion. And, once again, life in the Phoenix went on.

A movie house was rented in downtown Phoenix for Christmas Gala '96. Not one or two rooms, mind you, but the entire complex. Pastor Morobito went from theater-to-theater spreading pious lyrics to his enthusiastic followers. I was Stage 3 at this point and joined them in the designated auditorium. When he appeared in front of us, I stood and clapped like the rest of the zealots until my hands were numb. Nobody wanted to be the first to stop.

"We have big plans for next year," the Pastor said. "The word is spreading. Praise the Lord."

"Praise the Lord!" the people answered in unison.

"We can never be sure when the end is coming, but we got to prepare like this maybe the last night," he continued with a solemn shake of his head. "We can't relent in our fight for salvation."

There was mingling and conversation after. I saw some of the women with their husbands. None would acknowledge me, which was part of the deal, but as I stared at them I knew what each of them was beneath their dresses and painted faces. What they liked, how they liked it. I had intimate knowledge, true power. Not the kind of power one could run a ministry with, but the kind I'd use to help me go to sleep at night when my bed was alone. They had a piece of me, too, baking inside them. It was a sense of accomplishment.

Brother Bobby cornered me towards the end of the night and led me to a private room where the Pastor, his wife, and several others drank wine. Rochelle greeted me with a hug and the Pastor shook my hand.

"Our stud," he announced with his arm around me. "Brother John is doing the Lord's work."

"Here, here," someone cheered, raising their glass.

"Would you like a cocktail?" Morobito asked.

"I'm too young to drink," I answered with a straight-face.

"It's the holiday season. No harm in enjoying the blood of Christ."

"Twist my arm."

He handed me a glass and we toasted.

"You're doing well," the Pastor said after we sipped. "Sometimes there's a learning curve."

"What can I say? I guess I had a good teacher."

"Yes...Brother Tony was apt." Morobito lowered his voice and said, "A shame he lost his bearing. Do you reckon why he went kooky?"

"Prolly the Devil," I declared. Every time I screwed up it seemed the Devil had a hand up my back like a puppet master.

"No _probably_ about it. Let his demise be a lesson to you. He tried to play me for a fool, but God snuffed him out. At least I think He did. You know he was on the Amtrak, the one knocked-off in the desert by the supremacist group? The news said he went missing."

"I heard," I said. I saw Bobby over his shoulder, hovering within earshot of our conversation.

"Don't get me wrong," the Pastor said. "I hate losing my sheep. One less soul to salvation. Such a waste."

"Yes, Pastor."

"A shame, but based on the number of people tonight we're more than making up for his absence. This year has been fruitful. Next year will be fertile, too. Look at the turnout tonight and," he winked, "you're doing your part for the Mission. The fruits of your labor will be in full bloom."

"I enjoy doing the Lord's work," I said with no modesty. Bobby had moved away, satisfied I wouldn't blab about Tony. I relaxed and watched him strut across the room. He joined a group of well-dressed donors and put his arm around the waist of a slim blond...who wasn't his wife. Intrigued, I watched him while the Pastor droned about inane church-related subjects.

Adultery, outside of seeding, was a big no-no in the Mission. All of the Seven Deadly Sins were grievous, of course, but lust was one the Pastor circled back to time-and-again in his sermons. Bobby and the blond sure looked chummy and the way he smiled at her (believe me, Bobby didn't crack many grins) made me think he had strayed onto the path where lustful ambition turn into carnal exhibition.

Moreover, I recognized the skirt. How could I not, seeing as her image had been smacked all over the news after her ex-husband had been blown up. Yep, you guessed it. Gary Triano's ex-wife, in the flesh.

"Holy crap," I said without thinking.

The Pastor stopped talking and followed my bulging eyes. "Oh yes, she's one of our newest donors," he mentioned.

"I've seen her on the news."

"A tragic situation. Her husband was killed by a bomb. Brother Gary had an unsavory past. Sometimes it's impossible to outrun demons, though he was trying."

"Aren't they divorced? I mean...this is what I heard on the television."

"Yes, but they were working towards reconciliation with our counselors when he was murdered. She took his death hard."

"I'm sure," I said, watching her flirt with Bobby Reed.

The Pastor snapped his fingers and redirected my attention. "Pay heed, Brother. This year will be busier. Many in this room will be ready for another. My wife...you and she didn't take the first time. It'll be necessary to try again."

"I'd be blessed to have another opportunity."

"Rochelle will be your first priority. Then we shall tackle the rest. So many, in fact, I'm searching for another seeder."

I recoiled. I thought I was doing a good job.

"It's not personal," Morobito soothed. "The volume is too much for one stud."

"If you say so."

"I do. You can't do the work alone."

His declaration troubled me but I forced myself to remain neutral as the Pastor prattled on. There was much he wanted to say, and he monopolized the conversation. Stuff about Angel Wheels and comets...I got lost in the labyrinth of Biblical passages. Like a dolphin he'd stop swimming through the sea of the scriptures and inhale. These brief moments of restoration allowed a respite of relief and I used the peace to pry into Bobby's private conversation. He and the widow had retreated into a near corner of the room, chatting like old friends.

"Aren't you listening?" the Pastor squawked, interrupting my intrusion.

"Of course, Pastor."

"I don't expect you to understand the significance, but there will be a solar eclipse on March 9th of this coming year. I am of the opinion this will be an important sign for the future."

"Of what?"

"We'll have to wait and see, but I have hopes for Angel Wheels. All the more reason your work progresses in earnest."

"Yes, Pastor."

"Now you understand the need for another seeder, yes?"

I didn't, but nodded my head with enthusiasm.

After the New Year I was introduced to Brother Heath. He lived at the motel, same as me, but I had never seen him before. And to be honest, I didn't think much of him. He strutted into my room like he was the cock of the walk. Bobby watched him with a scowl and then looked at me.

"Show him the ropes," Bobby barged before departing.

So I tried, much like Tony had done with me sixteen months earlier. The problem was Heath wasn't receptive and I wasn't as cynical as my predecessor. Not yet.

"So...you're the guy I'm supposed to replace?" Heath asked has he sat on my bed.

"I have another eleven months," I responded.

"Oh? Morobito said you were a short-timer."

"Did he? News to me," I said with indifference, trying to hide anxiety.

"Whatevs. We can tag-team if we have to."

"There's no tag-teaming."

"In the figurative sense. Is this all it's cracked-up to be?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's no strings attached? Just the ole three pumps-and-dump?"

"No strings."

"It seems too good to be true. Getting paid to fuck? Unreal."

"It's a big responsibility. You got to be respectful. Some of the women are nervous and their husbands grumpy."

"Sure they are. Do any of 'em want to watch?"

"No."

"The creep Morobito was watching last night when I plowed his old lady. I'd never been more turned on in my life."

"Good for you."

"Did you fuck her too?"

"I gather it's a rite of passage."

"Yeah, sure it is. She likes the cock is what I gather. My snake is ten inches long. I measured it with a ruler once. I could see her wincing." Heath slapped his hands. "In." _Slap._ "Out." _Slap._ "Did you get her to come?"

"I don't know. I don't think it's important. Our job isn't about gratification."

"Good to know. I've been told I'm not a considerate lover. If so, this is a dream come true."

I winced and gritted my teeth. "You can't be callous," I said. "Some of these women are apprehensive."

"Sure they are. They'll be more nervous when they see my snake creeping at them."

I gave up trying to talk Heath. He wasn't interested in listening.

A few nights later, Heath got his first customer. Her husband had driven her to the motel and they entered one of the seeding rooms while we stood outside. The old man leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and waited for the deed to be finished. After a few minutes of silence, the door opened and Heath motioned to me. The pasty woman was lying on the bed, naked, and staring at the ceiling. She had tattoos on her legs and huge, deflated breasts. Her hands were tied to the bedpost. Heath had his boxers on and appeared nervous.

"I can't do it," he confided. It was refreshing to see his bluster gone.

"What do you mean? This is your job, big guy. If you can't do it, the Pastor will find someone who can."

"Jitters, I guess."

"You better find a way to get past it."

"Could you...you know." He poked his right pointer finger through a circle between his left thumb and middle finger.

"No," I said. "She's yours."

"Somebody do something," she muttered. "Or untie me."

"Did you put the ligatures on?" I asked Heath.

"No, it's my thing," she said. "I like being tied up."

"Either do it, or don't, but make your mind up," I said to Heath.

"It ain't happening for me," he admitted with a frown.

"Untie her. It's a bust."

"I want to get fucked," she whined. "My husband hasn't touched me in, like, forever. Come on."

"This is the man of the hour," I said, pointing at Heath. "It's his deal."

"Just do her," he hissed. "Show me."

The woman was begging for it and I felt bad she'd come to this shithole to get tied up for nothing.

"Alright," I said, undoing my shorts. I glared at Heath and said, "I'm getting paid for this. The whole 500."

"Sure," he said. "No problem."

I didn't care if he watched. Well, maybe a little, but in the end it didn't matter. She got her seed and Heath got his taste of the business. He realized it wasn't all it was cracked-up to be.

"She wasn't my type," Heath said later. "I don't like 'em chubby."

"Appearance has nothing to do with it. It's about completing the act. If you can't do it you better tell the Pastor now."

"I'll be fine."

I had my doubts but Heath found his mojo. Still, his presence made me leery.

As it turned out, I didn't need to be wary. I got another visit from Bobby, another trip to the Pastor's mansion and another shot at seeding Rochelle Morobito. This time the Pastor left us alone. No Seeding Psalms, invocations, voyeuristic malingering...it was me and her. Trust me, I didn't have to pretend she was anybody else.

I spent the night next to her while the Pastor slept somewhere else. Downstairs in his study, or one of the guest bedrooms...what did I care? I had Rochelle to myself and it was fabulous. For this evening I became the most important member of the Mission. She made me feel loved and I wanted to satisfy her. This passion couldn't be contrived. Of course it was, and Rochelle Morobito was a conjurer of lust, but damn if I wasn't enamored with her.

Brother Bobby brought me back to reality the next morning as he shuttled me to the motel.

"Don't go thinking you're special," he gnashed. "The Pastor's other kids were seeds too. You're just a tool."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I understand how this works."

Bobby glared at me. "This is a ritual," he said as his eyes returned to the road. "A sacrament. Your value begins and ends at the bedroom door."

There was angst in his voice. Jealousy too. His icy demeanor hid insecurity. I decided to enjoy the scenery and not further the conversation. Then he opened his mouth and kept yapping.

"My advice to you," he added, "is don't let your britches get too big."

"What's with you? Your goomba not putting out?"

My comment struck a nerve and he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "What did you say?"

"I saw you at the Christmas party with the Widow Triano."

"So?"

I snapped, "Your tool comment...am I one of yours too? Can't do the dirty work so you get me to do it? Am I gonna get a taste of some of the two mill she got?"

"You don't know what you're talking about. I told you he was a narc."

"Sure he was. It's a coincidence you and his ex are getting cozy. At least do me the honor of not lying to my face."

"You better watch your tone, mister. I don't like what you're implying."

"What would the Pastor say if he knew?"

"He'd appreciate my vigilance. I keep things from falling apart, buster."

"Do you? Forget Triano, I seem to remember you came to me when you had a problem with Brother Tony."

"If you're not careful, I'm going to have a problem with you."

Great. At least I knew we were on the same frequency.

"You best watch your p's-and q's," Bobby warned. "I'm watching you. The first sign of trouble, your ass is mine."

"How 'bout you mind your garden and I tend mine. You don't want me blabbing to the Pastor about your indiscretions, do you?"

"Reformed sinners are wanton recidivists. Addicts are liars. The Pastor won't believe you."

"Who said I'm an addict?"

"Don't kid yourself. I used to run into punks like you when I was a cop. Besides, I heard your confession. If it wasn't for the discipline of the Mission, you'd go back to your depraved behaviors. Chastisement keeps you on the righteous path. My purpose is to keep order."

"No shit?"

"Yeah, and don't you forget it," he barked.

"I won't, considering I've helped on a few of those occasions." I didn't want to antagonize Bobby but his hypocrisy was maddening.

"I know you're in the good graces of the Pastor, but I got my eyes on you. Believe it, mister."

***

This exchange was a few weeks old and now, in the present, it seems absurd. I'm not sure what crawled up his ass but maybe it was marital discord. Yeah, gotta be. Now his wife was seeking comfort from Brother Heath. Or perhaps she'd ratted on him to the Pastor.

I'd be wise to keep a wide berth from Bobby in the near future, but I'm not scared of him. Don't get me wrong. I should be frightened. Bobby Reed is a bad man. However, I'm not warm and cuddly either. Hell, I figure he's frightened of me. Knowledge is power. Tony talked about putting his experiences into a book. I could do the same. And I've got another ace-in-the-hand I could play. If a tell-all doesn't do the trick, a well-placed bomb would work just as well.

The first tickets come through the printer and Patrick rattles orders. The managers want each entrée out in less than 15 minutes, which means the cooks have to be on their game. At the deep fryer I don't have to be as attentive. Everything takes a couple of minutes to simmer and I can load the wire hoppers with a buttload of fries and rings. They have a hold time of about five minutes but every order comes with fries or rings. They won't go to waste.

I should be concentrating on work but my mind wanders. Why am I thinking about Bobby? Maybe 'cause he's been lurking at the motel the last few days. It's made our drug operation grind to a halt and everyone is walking on eggshells. I don't know what he's sniffing out but his malodorous presence isn't something to ignore. We've had a lot of newcomers, so perhaps he's keeping an eye on everyone. Some have left, too, not as many as have joined but the Phoenix doesn't like it when people abscond.

"I need fries," Patrick bellows from across the kitchen.

Jostled from thought I see the timer has run to zero. While I've been daydreaming, the fries have been boiling. When I lift both baskets, I see the contents are black and crusty. Shit.

"Three minutes," I yell, discarding the crispy rejects into the trash.

"What the hell?" Patrick yells.

"Sorry, got distracted."

Patrick slaps his spatula on the edge of the grill and mutters. He's verging towards a meltdown and the restaurant hasn't been open for a half-hour. I rip open a bag, dump the shit into the baskets, drop 'em, reset the timer and cross my arms. Then I take a breath. I won't screw this up again.

Or will I? Courtney materializes from the back and passes my station. Out of the corner of my eye I see her head appear from behind the partition.

"How's it going?" she asks.

I wipe sweat from my forehead and gesture at the fryer. "Livin' the dream," I tell her. "Like always."

"Whatcha been up to?"

We've made small talk but haven't gone out since the time I fixed her car. I gathered I'd insulted her or she found someone else to spend time with.

"Right now I'm heading for Patrick's doghouse if I fuck up again."

"Ah...a bad place to be."

"Yep, and I'm one foot in." I motioned at the wastebasket.

"Yuck. Smooth move, Ex-Lax."

The timer goes off and I dump the baskets into the warming tray. "Fries are up!" I shout as I rip into another bag.

"I got my own place," Courtney says. "Well, not my own. A friend and I are sharing it. And Grace."

"Awesome," I answer. I'm half-listening to her as I go about repeating the process of dropping fries.

"Couldn't take it at my parents anymore. Money will be tight but...you know, it's better than living at home."

"We're short onion rings!" Patrick yells.

"Comin' up boss," I rejoin. "One minute."

"You should check it out," Courtney says.

"Yeah," I answer without thinking.

"I could pick you up tonight."

"Wait...what?" I look at her and frown. "You want to go out?"

"Sure. I could show you my place and we could grab a bit to eat. What do you think?"

The timer beeps and I grab the baskets. "Um, if you want. I thought you didn't want to see me anymore."

"Just because you thought I was a slut?"

"I never-"

"Jeez, lighten up. I'm joking. I need to have thicker skin and you need to learn decorum. We can help each other improve our behavior. So, why don't we try again? I promise I won't make the same mistake and try to jump your bones."

From behind, Patrick screams for an order of rings.

"Okay," I say. "Look, I gotta get back to work."

"Great! I'll come by at seven. Don't make me track you down."

#

"Where are you off to, hotshot?" Bobby Reed asks as I push open the glass door in the motel lobby. It was like he materialized out-of-thin air. One minute the coast was clear, the next he was hovering over my shoulders.

"I'm meeting a friend," I tell him.

"Who?"

"Someone from work."

"A member of the Mission?"

"No. They're a friend."

"Do you think it's smart to be hanging with non-believers?"

I turn around and face him. "I'm talking them into joining," I lie. "Besides, I didn't know I was restricted to who I could and couldn't talk to."

He looks around and leans into my right ear. "You need to be careful, Brother John. There are bad people at work. They'd love to introduce you to sin. If you've found a convert, I'll pass it along to the right people. You have other responsibilities."

"Good enough to seed, but not good enough to spread the word?"

"It's tricky. The temptations in the world are pulling members from the Phoenix. I'm trying to look out for you. I don't want you getting antsy like our old pal Tony."

I wonder if he believes this or is trying to stir a reaction. Either way it didn't matter. I was out-the-door into the warm evening before he could say anything else.

Courtney had pulled into the parking lot. I emerge from the lobby and wave. She waves back as Bobby grabs my shoulder and spins me around.

"Her?" he asks, jerking his head at the car.

"My friend," I tell him.

"Your friend, huh? You know you're can't seed anyone who isn't a member of the Phoenix. You'll pollute your body with her imbalances."

"I'm not seeding her," I growl, before pushing him away.

"You better not be!" Bobby yells. "Your seed is property of the Phoenix!"

I climb into the car as Bobby glares at us.

"Who's _that_ guy?" Courtney asks.

"Some crazy dude who lives here. He's always pestering me."

"Why was he talking about seeds?"

"You heard him?"

"He woke the dead with his shout."

"Like I said, he's crazy. Crazy ole Bobby. Come on, let's get out of here."

"Another reason for you to get out of the Rust Spot," Courtney says.

In the backseat Grace spoke, or made an attempt at speech.

"Everyplace has nuts," I observe. "Neighborhoods, apartment buildings, motels. One place isn't safer than another."

"There are places less safe. You can't disagree."

"So what's up?" I ask, changing the subject. "You haven't been chatty at work and then all-a-sudden you want to be chums again."

"I don't know. I was looking at you this morning and wondered how you were doing."

"Me? I'm great. Same old. And you're moving up in the world, right? New apartment, new freedom."

"I've been better. I tried getting back with Charles but it wasn't a good idea. I knew it, but he sweet-talked me into believing he had changed. What a fool I am. He's the same old too."

I look out the window without comment.

"It's frustrating because I love Grace but hate her father."

"You knew how the biology worked when you...you know."

"Thanks for the object lesson, Dad."

"I'm just saying."

"How 'bout you don't. I'm reminded every day."

"Sorry. Where's your new place?"

Courtney brightens and says, "Across from MCC. Pretty nice. We got a good deal because my roommate's dating one of the building managers. Three bedrooms, two baths. I got to pony up for daycare every other day, but my parents are helping out. I think they're relieved I moved out."

The apartment is empty when we get there. Courtney shows me around then we go to into the living room. I sit on the floor and play with Grace while she goes into the kitchen.

"I could make something to eat if you're hungry," she offers.

"I didn't know you cooked."

"I cook and serve. The whole enchilada."

"Sure. What do you have?"

"I'll surprise you."

Grace and I play catch with a squeaky ball while Courtney goes to work. The little girl is cute, adorned with blond ponytails and a plump round face. Every time I throw the ball she squeals and chases it across the room. At one point I look up and see Courtney leaning against the wall, arms crossed, smiling.

"You're doing more with her than her father," she says.

"Oh..." I look at the ball in my hand and then shrug.

"Charles has a short attention span. All the drugs he takes."

"Will I confuse her by being around?"

"You don't know anything about kids. They like attention. Anyway, I think it's cute."

I get the sense this is an audition and warn, "I don't do diapers."

"Charles doesn't either."

"Or breastfeed."

"No? Darn."

"Sorry."

"Maybe you can read her a story while I finish with the pasta."

***

She made spaghetti and meatballs and it might have been the best chow I consumed since I left Amon's. No exaggeration. For the last year my diet has consisted of Bill Johnson fare or food from the AM/PM down the street from the motel. Two day old hot dogs, potato chips and Mountain Dew. Sounds good, eh? While I ate, Courtney got Grace prepped for The Sandman. She came out and gave me a hug before going to dreamland, saying "night-night" in her sweet voice.

"How is it?" Courtney asks as she returns from the bedroom.

"It's delicious."

"Don't lie because you don't want to hurt my feelings."

"I'm not. I haven't had real food in ages."

She sits down across from me at the table. "Yeah, I bet. I don't like to think of you living in the Rust Spot. It's seedy."

"It's really not."

"What about the guy chasing you tonight?"

"I told you he's a whack job."

"You could stay here, you know."

I put down my fork and ask, "What?"

"Why not? You could sleep on the couch. I'm sure Monica wouldn't mind."

"Courtney, you don't know me."

"I trust you. You're not a mass murderer, are you?"

I wonder how many bodies delineates a mass murderer from a casual murderer. It'd have to be a question for an authority on the subject, not the woman who was inviting me to live with her. "It's just," I begin, snapping my finger.

"What?"

"Okay...how do I get to work? I don't have a car."

"Bus, bike, I could take you. There's a way. Bill Johnson's isn't on the other side of the moon. Or you could find another place closer. It's not like you'd be leaving the best paying job in the city. What other excuses can you think of?"

Plenty, my dear, and prolly a few worse than living with a mass murderer. I doubt she'd be cool if she found out I was seeding. Or selling dope.

"I'm leaving Bob's," she tells me.

"You are?"

"I got another job. At the hospital. It'll help with my nursing degree. I put my two weeks in today."

"Wow. Congratulations."

"Thanks. More money, better hours and they have child care at the hospital. I don't know if I could last another two weeks at Bill's, to be honest. I might say screw it and not bother going in."

"I get it now."

"Get what?"

"Why you're being nice to me."

"You do, huh?"

"I don't need pity."

"Pity? I'm trying to be a friend."

"Nobody does anything out of the goodness of their heart. There's always strings attached."

She huffs and her face turns red. "You have issues, John. Gawd, why do I get blamed for trying to be nice?"

The hurt on her face isn't manufactured and I feel awful for being an asshole. However, I can't think of another way to make her reconsider. I stare at the spaghetti and twirl some noodles on the fork.

"Why are you so difficult?" she asks. "Most guys would kill for an invitation like this. I'm not saying we have to be boyfriend and girlfriend."

I push the plate away and exhale. There's only one thing I can say, which isn't the entire truth but I hope enough of an explanation to satisfy: "It's not easy for me to trust people. My father was thrown in prison when I was thirteen. I spent the next few years living in foster homes with lousy people until I ran away."

Courtney's mouth drops open and her eyes widen. "What'd your father do?"

"Racketeering, bribery, embezzlement. He got involved with some shady people and got busted."

"Oh my God."

"Those foster families weren't the best environment. I don't want to elaborate but it wasn't a walk in the park."

"Did they hurt you?"

"Sort of. Like I said-"

"What'd they do?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"I'm not going to judge you, John."

"Forget it," I mumble. I'm trying to keep my voice calm but unpleasant memories are welling inside. I can feel tears forming and sniff them back.

"Alright, alright. I won't ask again."

For some reason I feel the need to elaborate. Perhaps it's her interest or the way she was talking to me. "It's just...I didn't mean to do anything wrong, you know? People keep taking things from me." I wipe my eyes and then ask, "What did I do to deserve this?"

"I don't know," she says in a whisper.

"It's not my fault," I implore. "You'd think they'd understand, but they don't"

"Who?"

I catch myself before I can elaborate. "They...the system. Shit, it's my problem, not yours. I got stuff to work out and I don't think moving in with you is going to make it better."

"It'd be better than living at the motel."

"I can't leave. Not yet."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I'm fucked up in the head, okay?" I look at her and see pity etched on her face. "So there you have it. My sad story. Real nice, isn't it?"

"I feel awful. I didn't know."

"Can you take me back now?"

"I just put Grace down. I don't want to wake her up. Monica should be back soon. When she returns I'll take you home. I mean, back to the motel."

My appetite gone, I walk into the living room and collapse on the couch. Courtney follows and sits next to me. We don't speak for a few minutes.

"Lay your head down," she says, tapping her thigh. "Come on."

I'm too tired to argue and comply. She rubs my forehead with soft fingertips and hums. I close my eyes and listen.

"I do this to Grace and it puts her to sleep every time," she explains.

I grunt.

"Every time," she continues. "Would you like to hear Mary Had A Little Lamb?"

"No," I chuckle.

"Too bad," she says. I don't know how long it took but I was asleep before the end of the song. The next thing I know she's shaking me. I open my eyes and look at her with no idea where I was.

"John," she whispers, "come on. You can sleep in the bedroom."

"I need to get back," I tell her.

"It's after midnight."

I sit up and yawn. "Is your roommate here?"

"No, she's not back. Let's go, sleepyhead." She takes my hand and I follow her to bed. There's no mention of anything untoward, not like I was in the mood. I crawl into bed and, while she changes in the bathroom, drift off.

#

I awake and stare at the ceiling for a long time before I remember where I am. Not the usual brown water stains on the popcorn ceiling of The Rest Spot. This one is creamy, free of blemishes. The bed is soft and I stretch, spying a picture of Courtney and Grace on the nightstand.

Courtney's side is empty and I hear Grace giggling from the living room. I lie like this for a while and enjoy the peace. Then reality takes a chomp out of my ass and I stare at the digital clock. I need to get going.

"There he is," Courtney says as I emerge from the bedroom. Grace points at me and claps.

"I hope I didn't snore," I say.

"No. You were a gentleman. Didn't even hog the covers."

"So we didn't..." I raise my eyebrows.

"No."

"Thanks for letting me crash. I guess I was tired."

"No kidding. I don't think you moved a muscle."

"Again, thanks, but I've got to get going."

"Work today?"

I nod.

"I'm going in at noon. What time are you working?"

"Not at Bill's." I think of a lie and say, "I'm going to help a guy fix his car. It's something I do on the side. Little extra cash."

"See, you could get a job at a garage," Courtney says. "MCC might have an auto repair degree or something."

I shake my head. "I don't want to fix cars for the rest of my life. It's a hobby."

"I'm trying to help, but whatever. You want to leave now?"

"Yeah, he's picking me up at ten-thirty."

Courtney looks at me like she thinks I'm lying but doesn't call me out. "Okay," she says as she scoops Grace into her arms. "Let me get her dressed."

"I can take the bus if it's a big deal."

"No, I can give you a ride. I got to get Grace to my parent's anyway. The least I could do is drop you off."

***

Bobby Reed's sitting in a pool chair, flipping through a newspaper, when we pull into the parking lot. He sees the car, throws the paper on the ground, and stands up. His expression isn't one of joy, but to be fair he never cracks a smile. Still, I have a feeling he's got some words for me.

Courtney hugs me and I pat her back, watching Bobby through the windshield.

"You can stay anytime," she says.

I push her away with a gentle shove. "Thanks."

"I mean it. You don't have to stew alone."

I open the car door and wave at Grace. "I'll see you later," I tell Coourtney.

She smiles as I close the door, then frowns when she spots Bobby. "Is he following you?" she asks.

"Crazy dude." I slap the hood and motion for her to backup. Courtney glares at Bobby as she pulls into traffic and I stand there with a smile plastered to my face as she disappears. In a moment Bobby is by my side, the newspaper tucked under his arm.

"Have fun last night?" he asks.

"Best night ever."

He scowls and grabs my arm. "I went through your room last night while you were off fornicating with unclean whores."

I try to free myself but he's stronger and leads me to the motel entrance.

"Don't fight me," he snarls. "I knew there was something about you I didn't like. First the woman. Now the drugs. Yep, I found them. You and the Pastor are going to have a talk."

"Fuck off," I tell him, but my voice cracks.

"Yeah, you should be scared. If it was up to me you'd be getting more than a tongue lashing." He guides me, past a few gawking loiterers, down the hall. When we get to my room, the door is open and my things are tossed like a tornado ripped through. On the dresser is a bag of weed, the ashtray full of roaches and my duffel bag of money.

"Sit down," he says, shoving me towards the bed. He slams the door and reaches for the phone. "If you move I'll beat your ass until you're bloody."

He watches me as he dials and I look out the window. A new guy is out front, trimming the palm trees with huge sheers. Another member is picking weeds from between the sidewalk cracks.

"I got him," Bobby says into the phone. "Yeah. No. Okay." He glances at me and rubs his chin. "He'll be ready, Pastor. See you then." He sets down the receiver and cracks his knuckles. "Take your clothes off," Bobby demands.

"What?"

"Pastor's orders."

"Fuck you."

"No, fuck you," he smirks. "Take 'em off." Bobby reaches into his coat and produces a handgun. It looks like a Glock, but does it matter?

"What're going to do?" I ask. "Shoot me? How many people will hear it?"

"Oh, I can make sure it's quiet. Besides, do you think anyone will say a word?"

Bobby's right, I suppose, but if he's wrong it won't matter to me. I'll be dead. I'm not scared but I'm not a fool either. Yeah, I'm kinda in a pickle but I can explain this to the Pastor. He'll be reasonable.

"Everything off," Bobby demands. "Then we're going to sit here and wait."

What choice do I have? I strip to nothing, piling my clothes on the rumpled bedspread at the foot of the bed. Bobby takes a seat by the door and stares daggers at me while I watch the guy trim palm tree.

"I guess we're not friends anymore," I say.

"We were never friends."

"Hmm...so does this mean I can tell the Pastor about our activities?"

He leans forward and leers. "Do you think he's going to believe a dope head?"

Prolly not, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

"I guess you're the bad cop," says I.

"What?"

"You know, the whole good cop/bad cop routine. You're the bad one, aren't you?"

"What you're talking about is a ploy. Cops have to play games because punks and their lawyers bellyache about rights. Like criminals deserve to be pampered! At the Mission, nobody has rights. Once you screw the pooch, you get punished."

"Look, I made a mistake. Take the weed, slap my wrist, confine me to the motel but there's no reason to stick a gun in my face and make me strip."

"You know the rules. You only have yourself to blame."

"You should try some ganja. Might mellow you out."

"I don't do drugs and if you don't shut your mouth, I'll shut it for you."

"I think I know why you're not a cop anymore."

Bobby starts to rise and I flinch. He grins, satisfied he provoked a reaction of fear, and settles back into the seat.

"I ain't giving no more warnings," he states. "Zip it."

Got it, pal. I raise my hands and turn towards the window, watching the tree trimmer. Every few minutes I look at the clock. It's the longest half-hour in my life. Bobby doesn't say anything in the interim. He seems content, though, humming a nameless tune. When the knock at the door comes, he looks through the peephole and puts away his weapon.

Pastor Morobito enters with another man, a huge ape I'd never seen before. The Pastor looks me over with a cluck of his tongue as the three of them stand shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the bed.

"I'm disappointed," the Pastor mumbles, at last. Then he gestures at the weed and says, "Defiling your pure body with devil root? Not Godly behavior, Brother John. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Murder isn't pure either," I say, believing I can take my way out of this situation.

The Pastor recoils and asks, "Murder?"

I gesture at Bobby. "Ask this ugly goon about the train derailment. Or Gary Triano."

"He's delusional, Pastor," Bobby says in an unruffled voice. He looks bored and yawns. "The pot has made his brain wacky."

The Pastor wavers for a second. I reckon he knows the nature of Bobby Reed but in the end, having an attack dog is better for business. He nods and stares at me with consternation.

"Where'd you get this poison?" the Pastor asks, dismissing the talk of homicide.

"It's not like it's hard to find weed around here."

"Answer the question," Bobby demands.

I shrug.

"Dead nigger, right?" the new guy asks.

Morobito laughs. "This is Brother Gregory. He's a friend of mine. His language can be uncouth, but he is righteous."

"Indeed I am," Gregory claims.

"We're going to tear this place apart when we're done talking to you," the Pastor continues. "All contraband will be discovered. You can make it easier on yourself if you fess up."

Easier? "Go to Pioneer Park," I say. "Under the Corsair replica the kids climb on. There's a guy named Ramon. He's the one."

"Sure he is," Morobito says. He gestures to Gregory and the guy balls his fists. "Last chance." When I don't respond, Gregory steps forward and throws a punch. It catches me on the left side of the face and propels me off the bed. I see stars and my face throbs. Before I can get up, Gregory kicks me in the side and knocks the wind from me. I curl up and try to catch my breath. Gregory pulls me from the floor and throws me onto the bed. I lay there, staring at the mattress, as blood drips on it.

"You're defiled," Morobito informs me. "No longer pure for seeding. No longer pure for the Mission."

"He's fucking a woman outside of the Phoenix," Bobby says. "I saw her drop him off this morning."

"Yes, I should've known," Morobito says. "How long has this been going on?"

I shake my head and droplets of blood paint the headboard. "I'm not sleeping with anyone," I say.

"I don't believe you," Morobito says. "You're a liar and a sinner. A fornicator and a dope head. We've tried to save you, but the devil is in your head."

"Fine," I say, "you're right. I've got problems. Nobody's perfect."

"I let you seed my wife!" Morobito cries. "The holiest of temples. This is how you repay me? Do I not take care of you, compensate you, and give you a place to stay?"

I figure a little groveling wouldn't hurt. I slump my shoulders and muster a pathetic plea. "I'm weak, Pastor. Please, I'm not trying to insult you."

"But you have. The Lord gives us free will because it tests mettle. Even with the guidance of the Mission you've chosen the other side. There's nothing more I can do for you."

"Where did you get the drugs?" Bobby asks.

Fuck it. I decide I have nothing else to say to them. If they want to cast me out, so be it.

"If thou chooses the path of sin, thou is a sinner," Morobito says. "The path of a sinner is a rough road, paved with depravity." I hear the snap of a buckle and turn my head. The Pastor has removed his belt and holds it in his hands. He lets it unwind until the buckle is almost touching the floor, shaking it like a snake. Before I can protest, he whips it and it strikes my ass. It's a searing pain soon compounded by a repeat strike. Then another. And another.

I try to twist, squirm, raise my hands, but it doesn't matter. Whatever the belt strikes leaves a red gash. Arm, thigh, buttocks, legs...soon the silver buckle is crimson and I'm screaming.

At last it stops and I'm whimpering with my eyes closed. I hear the belt drop to the floor and open my eyes. They want me to talk, sure I'll talk. No more belt, please. I'll give them Brother Jake just to avoid another thrashing.

"It's Brother-"

"I don't care," Morobito says. "You had your chance. Roll over onto your stomach." He starts to unbutton his slacks and untuck his shirt.

"No, hold on!" I exclaim.

"Only the seed of the holy can cleanse you," Morobito claims.

I know what this means and I try to sit. Gregory and Bobby leap on me. I try to fight them but they're too strong. One of them grabs my right arm and twists it behind my back until I think it's broken.

"You'll thank me when I'm through," Morobito says from behind me. I'm certain I won't but he doesn't care. I can't see him because my head is shoved into the mattress, but I can hear him removing layers of clothes. My legs are pried open.

"Relax," Morobito says in a soothing voice. "I will clean you."

I close my eyes, bit my lip and inhale. This pain is worse than the punching or flagellation by a magnitude of a thousand. I don't think it's going to end. Once the Pastor finishes, Bobby takes a turn. After Bobby the big ape Gregory. By the time he enters, they don't bother restraining me. I'm a worthless pile of goo.

When Gregory climaxes, he pulls out and sprays my back with jizz. It stings as it mixes with the myriad of cuts. Then he kisses my neck, pulls my head back by my hair and whispers in my ear:

"I'm not holy enough to wash you clean," he explains with garlic on his breath.

When he releases me, I cover my head with my arms, blanketing myself with darkness. I lay prone on the bed like this while they shower. I try to wish them away with my mind, like a witch trick.

Sometimes I imagine I'm the only creature in the world. The rest of this, from the dirt to the stars and all in between living and static, is a figment of my imagination. When I close my eyes, the universe doesn't exist and won't again until I open them. All things in history are my creation, which goes to show you how fucked up I am if I can conjure the likes of Hitler, Stalin and Pol Pot, just to name a few. Anyway, at times like this I want to make it all disappear and I try. I try real hard, so hard it feels like the blood vessels in my head are about to burst.

But I keep at it. After a while I hear the door open and voices retreat down the hall. I lift my head and look around. It shouldn't be a shock, but I wasn't successful. Bobby Reed's tucking in his shirt. He kicks the door shut and turns his head as the bed creaks under my movement.

"I can't believe you'd lie there and take it," he taunts as I struggle to my feet.

I don't respond because what's the point? I did take it, but it wouldn't have mattered if I'd have fought or been compliant. The end result would've been the same. The only thing I want to do is get out of this place, far from these people. I've got money in my bag and Courtney's invitation. This would be a start. I haven't sharpened my urge for revenge. This will come later, no doubt, as I digest what happened.

"Yeah, I always knew there was something about you," Bobby continues in the same jeering voice. "I was the one who suggested Brother Heath as your replacement. Turns out I was right. It's too bad you've defiled so many in the interim. What's done is done, I guess. The Pastor is opposed to abortion but your seedlings won't be welcomed into the arms of the holy without lots of education. You've set us back."

"What I shame," I say, wiping my cut lip.

"It is."

"Good thing your wife is getting it from Heath instead of me, considering my seed is poisoned."

This elicits a reaction. Bobby leans forward until he's inches from my nose. "What?"

"You didn't know? Whoops. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

"What did he tell you?"

"It's prolly better if you talk to your wife about this, seeing as she is the one who set it up."

He punches me in the gut and I double over.

"You're a dirty liar."

I catch my breath and cough. Fuck I'm in bad shape. I can only get the smallest satisfaction from seeing dismay on his red face.

"What's-a-matta, Bobby?" I sneer. "I'm not lying. Heath was nervous about the whole thing. He was afraid you'd get mad if it was an unsanctioned seeding. Turns out he's got a good reason. You're a rapist."

Bobby blows a raspberry. "What do you think you are?"

He's right, I suppose, even though I could lie to myself and claim what I was doing was sanctified. Bobby would say he was acting in the same capacity when he buggered me.

"What's next?" I ask. "You gonna kill me now?"

"The thought crossed my mind, but the Pastor has other ideas. You're getting the rare chance of rehabilitation. Yeah, it's not going to be pleasant. Too bad, buster. Purging your sins requires the seed of the holy. I imagine you'll need to be cleaned again," he says, rubbing his groin. "You'll be our cum-dumpster until the Pastor deems you are cured."

Sounds inviting, but I won't be sticking around. I stumble into the bathroom and look in the mirror. My chest and back are shredded with lacerations and there's a horrid bruise on the side-of-my-face. My lip is split and my nose is bleeding. I don't bother to check the nether regions as I turn on the shower and wait for the water to warm.

I don't cry. I won't give Bobby the satisfaction of hearing me. Instead, I think of escape. When I'm done, I emerge from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist.

"No sense in being modest," Bobby says. He's holding my phone under his arm, the cord wrapped around the molding. "Pay attention. This is how it's going to work. You will not leave this motel. If you want something, go to the front desk. Brother Gregory will keep an eye on your needs. He is the only one you may speak to."

"Wonderful."

"Don't worry. We'll get you squared away. I won't even take your money. I put the bag in the closet."

"Ain't you generous?"

"It's not my call. The Pastor said you earned it. Don't look so spiteful, Brother John. You got yourself to blame for this predicament. Rehabilitation won't be enjoyable, but you'll get on the right side of the Lord. Tell the truth, I kind of hoped this day would come. You were a joy to comingle with. I'd like to stay, but I've got other matters to attend." With those kind words he departs, slamming the door behind him.

My room is a disaster. The phone is gone and the weed with it. I don't have anything to numb the pain. My matches are gone too, or I'd burn this place down. The bed is disgusting. Never mind what happened upon it. Blood stains on the mattress remain as emblems of my compliance. I turn on the television and try to manufacture distraction.

Part of me can't believe what's transpired in the span of a few hours. I've been molested before, so this is nothing new, but I've crossed a threshold by being violated by these men. I feel an impotent rage I have no outlet for. Running away would be a start, but I need to think long-term. I want revenge. If there's a God in this wretched universe, He wouldn't endorse this abuse.

For the next several hours I stare at the television, not watching what's on but thinking. Outside, the landscapers are finishing up. Cars flash by on Main. Courtney would be down the block at Bill Johnson's, but I can't get to her by walking out the lobby. The window is large enough to fit through and I'm on the first floor, so I wouldn't need to worry about a drop. However, I do have to slink past the lobby entrance. I figure this won't be hard. I could take off in a sprint. Gregory wouldn't be able to catch me. The problem is I'm sore and I don't know how fast I could run, or how long. Long enough to outrun the fat fuck Gregory, but who else is lurking? I spy the parking lot and see a few empty cars. I also see one, a brown Chevy station wagon, with someone inside. For the next hour I split my attention between the television and the window. The car doesn't move and the person inside sits like they have nothing better to do.

I don't want to believe the Mission would go to the trouble of having a car chase me in case I flee, but who am I kidding? After what happened to me earlier, I know they'll do anything. Is it worth the risk? Why not? What's the worse they could do to me they haven't done? I'm not afraid of dying. There are worse things than dying.

I pace around the room, testing my strength, determined to be quick. I feel good enough to give it a shot. Once I got onto the street, in daylight, a commotion would aid me. People would stop if they saw someone being shoved into a car or beaten on the sidewalk. Or maybe they wouldn't. Regardless, it was a chance I'd have to take. As I slid the window open, I remember a NOVA episode about Jeffery Dahmer, how one of his sufferers escaped and was found bleeding from the rectum by a couple of Milwaukee's finest. Dahmer told the police they were having a lover's spat and the cops returned the sodomized victim to the cannibal.

Fuck. I gotta quit thinking and act.

Whoops. I almost forgot something. I go to the closet and pull the duffel bag from the top shelf. It's full of money, the exact amount unknown to me. I zip it open and paw through the bundles of cash. Ten and twenty-dollar bills are secured by rubber bands. There are at least twenty wads with fifty notes in each. I give up counting when I hit 10,000 dollars. I throw some shorts and shirts on top, zip the bag and take a breath. If I don't move now, I may never get the chance.

I slide open the window and look at the car. The guy inside has his hand on his cheek, like he's sleeping. Maybe he is, but I can't tell. It doesn't matter. If I'm quick, I'll surprise him.

I unhinge the screen and push it out, watching it hit the ground with a thump.

Still no movement from the car.

Great. I fling one leg over the window sill until I'm straddling. One leg in, one out. The pain from my rectum intensifies and I feel sticky fluid on my thighs.

I lean forward and look towards the lobby. Nobody's out front. Perfect. I swing my right leg over and push myself onto the ground. Feet planted, I place the strap of the bag around my neck. So far so good. Another look at the car. Not a rustle. The lobby entrance is ten feet to my right. I need to pass the double doors like The Flash. I crouch, like I'm breaking out of prison, and will myself forward. All I have to do is run.

My feet don't want to cooperate. It's like I'm rooted in place. Part of it is I'm scared of being caught. The other part is trying to explain to Courtney what's going on. I can't worry about the future. I need to deal with the present.

"Hey!" Gregory yells. I turn around and see his bald head sticking out my window. "Where're you going? Get back here!"

This is the impetus I need. I take off, past the entrance, turning right on the sidewalk. Full sprint now. I look back as I approach Horne. Gregory is nowhere to be seen but I keep trucking. The light is red and I stop and pause for a gap in traffic. When I see one I dash across the street, pass Pioneer Park, and hit the intersection of Mesa Drive staring at another red light. The traffic is denser and I have to wait. I look over my shoulder and see the station wagon down the street, weaving in-and-out of traffic. They hit the back-up at the light, seven cars behind. Gregory is in the passenger seat, pointing at me. I flip him the bird as the light turns green and keep the legs spinning.

Bill Johnson's is further than I remember and it's hot. I'm sweating as I jog, weaving around slower pedestrians. I feel blood running down my leg and ignore the sensation. Risking a glance backwards, I almost run into a street sign. The Chevy is at least a half mile behind, stuck at another light on Hibbert. Meanwhile I get lucky with the light at Centennial and scuttle through the intersection as it turns red, adjusting the bag because the strap is rubbing against my neck.

Up ahead is the restaurant. I slow to a walk and grit my teeth. The parking lot is empty, the lull between lunch and dinner. Before I can go any further, a crippling pain doubles me over and I feel like I'm going to puke. There's a throbbing in my lower abdomen, like I'm being stabbed. Before I know it, I'm spraying the sidewalk with vomit. Doubled-over, I don't see the station wagon until I stand. It pulls to the curb ahead of me and Gregory flings open the door. The driver emerges too, holding a small blunt object. A blackjack.

"Where you going?" Gregory asks, raising his hands. "No place to run."

"Leave me alone," I croak, rubbing my mouth with the back of my hand. I taste puke on my tongue and think I'm going to yak again.

"You not feeling well?" he chides. "Too much protein in your diet?"

They're closing in and I need to do something.

"Don't fight it, lover boy," Gregory tells me. "Like before."

Before they get too close, I sidestep the chunks and shoot to the right, into the scrub. Gregory reaches for me, grabs the bag, but I twist and free myself. The pain strengthens and I slip, skidding into a small cactus and stabbing my right ankle. It hurts but I got bigger problems.

The other fellow lunges, but misses, and hits the ground. Before Gregory can get another finger on me, I hobble into the parking lot of Bill's, miss getting hit by a honking car, and run towards the dumpsters. The back door is closer than the entrance and I hope someone is on break, smoking or chatting. There's got to be someone back there. Please let there be someone back there!

I turn the corner, around the aluminum barrier, and hear voices. The unmistakable New England accent is loud and comforting.

Patrick is deep in conversation with Jorge, another line cook. They have their backs to me and a cloud of smoke shrouds their heads. They're burning one, and the look on their faces when they hear my scuffling is comical. I might've laughed had I not felt awful.

Surprised, Patrick drops the joint and grinds it into the concrete. He coughs and fans the air. I can hear the footsteps of my pursuers closing in.

"Shit," Patrick says, "you sacred me." Surprise turns to frown when he examines me face. He blinks and scratches his cheek. "Christ, what happened to you?"

I start to answer, but the two goons appear. They put on the brakes when they see my coworkers.

"Hey guys," Gregory says with a cheerful lilt in his voice. "What's happening?"

Patrick looks at me, then at them, and steps forward. "These guys rough you up, John?"

"Don't you need to go back to work?" Gregory asks.

"Why don't you scram?" Patrick counters.

"This is between us. The kid...owes us money."

"I don't care. It looks like you collected your allowance on his face."

Gregory sizes up the situation and shrugs. "Alright. I'll see you later, kid," he says. He leans towards me and whispers, "The next time I'm gonna cum in your ass, pretty boy." He waves the fingers on his right hand and turns away. His buddy follows.

"Jesus," Patrick whispers, "who are those guys?"

I bend over and catch my breath, heart thudding. "Like they said. I owe them."

"You're bleeding."

"Ran into a cactus. It's nothing."

"We should call the police," Jorge says.

"No. The police can't help."

"I think he's right," Patrick says. "As much as I don't like cops...I mean, them two are fixing to mess you up."

Getting the cops involved would've been smart, but I had other ideas. To begin with, no punishment would satisfy what I'd been through. I wanted to be the one doling retribution. Also, I didn't feel like explaining my predicament to the police. Last of all the bag of money would garner a question or twenty.

Patrick and Jorge help me inside, past the preppers and dishwashers and into the manager's office at the back of the store. The office was a small room, big enough for a couple of people. The closing manager sat at a desk, flipping through a clipboard, when Patrick bangs on the wall.

"Hey, lookit what the cat dragged in," he proclaims.

The closer, Steve, is an amicable guy with glasses. I've never seen him without a smile on his face. Except now. He isn't smiling when he looks at me.

"What happened to you?" Steve asks.

"It's a long story," I tell him, trying to be dismissive.

He reaches for the phone and says, "I'm calling 911."

"No! You can't."

"We said the same thing," Patrick explains. "Two roughnecks were about to tear him a new one out back."

Pat didn't know how accurate his words were. "It's nothing," I say. "A misunderstanding, okay? I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine."

"I don't know," Steve says, his hand twitching.

"Is Courtney around?"

"Courtney?"

"I need to talk to her."

They look at me like I'm speaking gibberish.

"Guys, come on. Quit staring at me. Where's Courtney?"

"She left at three. She has class today," Steve says. "Are you sure you don't want me to call the police, John?"

"No." I sit down and tap my fingers on the desk.

"Go get him a glass of water," Steve tells Jorge.

"I need to use your phone," I say, infused with an idea.

Steve pushes it to me and watches as I dial the number. When the first one doesn't begin with "9", he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"It's fine," I tell him. "Go back to doing your order. I'm calling for a ride."

#

I stand behind the dumpster smoking a heater while Patrick scourers the parking lot.

"I don't see a brown Chevy," he says. "They might've switched cars."

"But nobody's hanging around?" I ask.

"Hell if I know. We're filling up with old geezers, so I think we can dismiss them. I don't see the two chasing you from before."

I finish the cigarette and snuff it out in an empty flowerpot full of butts. I feel better, somewhat, but jumpy. The cramping in my stomach has dulled, but I wonder if there isn't something wrong with me. Dwelling on it is making me crazy.

"A red Datsun just pulled in," Patrick informs me.

"Flag him down."

Patrick steps out and waves his hat. A second later I hear the familiar squeak of shitty brakes. Patrick nods and I totter from my hiding spot.

"Thanks man," I tell him. "I owe you."

"Just don't get yourself killed. Be safe." He pats my back as I reach for the car door. Amon leans over and opens it for me. I toss the bag into the back and tumble into the seat as Patrick slams it shut.

"Jesus man," Amon says. "You weren't kidding."

"Get me out of here. We can discuss this later."

"Sure thing." He hits the gas and we shoot out of the parking lot and join Main Street. I crane my neck to get a look behind but don't see anything unusual. Amon has eyes on the rearview. We get a couple of blocks before he declares, "You look like shit."

"I feel worse."

"I haven't heard from you in, like, forever and this is what I find? What the fuck is going on?"

"It's the Phoenix Mission. You remember them?"

"Is this what you've been up to?"

"Yeah, but consider me a refugee at this point."

"They did this to you? Why?"

"I can't begin to explain."

"If they beat you up 'cause you wanted to leave, you should go to the cops. Get their asses thrown in jail. If they did it to you, how many more people have they hurt?"

"You don't know the half-of-it."

"What else?"

I grit my teeth as I say, "They raped me."

Amon almost drives onto the sidewalk. "What? Who?"

"A couple of guys. Said I was unclean."

"But you know who it was?"

"I know."

"No police then," he snarls. "I get it now."

"Yeah. I know where the big cheese lives. I'd like to pay him a visit."

"Great, let's get busy."

"Not tonight. I'm in too much pain right now."

"You want to go to the emergency room?"

"No. They'll make a big deal, call the police...no thanks."

"You think? I mean, maybe-"

"They're professionals. I think they've seen people who've been violated before. Multiple dicks in my-"

"Enough, I got it."

"I could draw you picture," I cackle.

He frowns, jerks his head at the backseat, and asks, "What's in the bag?"

"My belongings. I'm not going back. Which is why I called. I need a place to hide, if you-"

"You don't have to ask. You know you're welcome. I wish you would've called me before..."

He lapses into silence. I look into the side mirror, stare at my face. Fuck, I'm pitiful. Bobby Reed was right in one respect. I laid there and took it like a chump. Prolly what I deserve, all things considered. How many of these women wanted to be seeded? Deep down I knew most weren't doing it because they thought I was an Adonis. Sherman's wife, for instance...I'm repulsed by my actions.

"I earned it," I say.

"You earned it?" Amon spits. "What? This wasn't your fault. A bunch of sick fucks, John."

"You're right, and I'm one of them."

"Dude, I know you're fucked-up but don't blame yourself."

"You don't understand. I was their seeder for the last...well, I guess it's been over two years now."

"Seeder?"

"Procreator. Dick-for-hire. Blessed by the Pastor for mating because he chose me."

"Are you kidding?"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

He stares at me before looking in the rearview. "This is some fucked-up shit, man. What the hell did you get into?"

"Nothing good."

"You can say it again. And again. Alright, what's done is done, okay? I guess the choice is yours. Far be it from me to tell you what you _should_ do. I don't know what's going through your head."

"Let's get to your place and burn one. I think better when I'm high."

***

Amon's father whistles as I enter the kitchen.

"Stand under the light," he instructs. I don't enjoy being the freak everyone gawks at, honest, but I position myself under the ceiling bulb as Andy Spillane jams a heater in his mouth and squints through the smoke. "Holy shitzky," he whispers. Then he grabs my chin, tilting it, and says, "I hope you got a few licks on the guy who did this."

"Sneak attack," says I.

He ruffles my hair and says, "Haven't seen you in a long time, John. I was hoping you were doing good things, but this isn't a positive sign."

"Dad, enough," Amon says. "He got the shit beat out of him. No lecture needed."

"I'm not one to lecture. You just got to watch who you're fucking with. What happened?"

"I owed some money," I say, deferring to my standard response.

"You need some cash to get square?" Andy asks. "I can help you out and I won't break fingers if you're late." Then he makes a fist and taps my chin.

"It's taken care of," Amon says. "John's gonna need to stay here for a bit until he can get on his feet."

"Like old times, eh? Yeah, whatever." Andy goes to the fridge and grabs a beer. "You know the routine." He tosses the cigarette into the sink, cracks open the suds, takes a drink and belches before saying, "I ain't gonna have any unwanted visitors, am I?" The question remains in the air, mixing with the cigarette smoke, long after he disappears into the living room.

***

We get nice and toasty. Each bong hit saps the pain and pushes the poisonous afternoon, the worst day of my life, into a tight little parcel I bury in the pit of my brain. Amon puts on the Doors and we listen to _The Soft Parade_ album while I stare at the lava lamp and watch blobs of wax alter in the mineral oil.

Side One: _Tell All The People. Touch Me. Shaman's Blue. Do It. Easy Ride._

I'd been a Doors fan since I heard their song "Light My Fire". Wonder why? I liked most of their stuff, but _The Soft Parade_ was schizophrenic and uneven. None of the songs went well together. Strings and horns on some, a disjointed and cheerful departure from their earlier music. Other tracks were their trademark cacophony. Sinister organ, slick lyrics and sleepy guitar.

"What are you thinking about?" Amon asks.

"I'm thinking the Doors sound like carnival music. You remember when you were a kid and you went on the merry-go-round?"

"Shit, I never rode on a merry-go-round."

"Really? I did. My mom used to take us to Como Zoo before she died. I'd ride the carousel, listening to cheesy organ music, until my ass hurt. 'Pop Goes The Weasel'. You know, happy stuff." I think about Courtney and Grace, making a mental note to call her in the morning. I'm sure when she goes to work she'll hear stories about how I was beaten to a pulp with two bad apes on my heels. It'd be better if she received the version from me. I don't know if I can lie to her anymore and I don't think I will. Or so I tell myself.

"I've never been to a carnival and I don't plan on starting," Amon says. Later, he flips the record to the other side and we listen in silence until I say:

"You're missing out."

"Missing out on what?"

"Carnivals. They're a blast. At least they were when I was a kid. I always had a good time going with Ma. After she died..."

"Don't go there," Amon warns. "You're going to bum yourself out." He hands me the bong like it's going to help. I don't care one-way-or-the-other. At this moment, I don't think I'll ever be unbummed. I hit it once, twice, and a third time for good measure as the title track blasts from the speakers.

"It's your song," Amon says. "When he was back in seminary school..."

"You cannot petition the lord with prayer!" I finish. A flood of thoughts, unleased by the dam bursting weed, drown me. Carousels, mother, the Phoenix, sanctuary. "The Soft Parade" doesn't help, at least the beginning verses. Then the music kicks in and a disco beat fills the room. Despite my misery, I smile.

We listen to the rest of the song, each in our domain of feelings. As it ends and the last of Jim Morrison's directive to "whip horses' eyes" fades, I look at Amon. He stares back and we share the same thought.

"Go ahead and bring your guns," he croons.

"We're going to have fun," I conclude.

#

It was like old times except we fancy we're training for war.

Amon drove south on Gilbert until it joined 87, then exited at Indian Route 84. We travelled for a half-mile, made a right on Olberg, crossed the Gila River and found a dirt trail winding deep into the reservation. Vacant, rickety homes dot the Rez. We could've been on an alien planet for all the traffic we saw.

"How 'bout here?" Amon asks, pointing at a single-room cottage on the right. Mounds of rusted junk litter the yard. The wooden sides are buckled and the place is leaning. There's no door and the windows are lacking glass. The roof is caved; shredded yellow fiberglass hangs like moss.

"This will do," I answer.

He parks the Datsun and we gather the weapons. It'd been a while since I shot. Shit...over two years. I used to be pretty accurate but, like all things, lack of practice erodes skill.

I start with the Glock 27, my preferred handgun because it only weighs 27 ounces with a full magazine, and empty a clip into the side of the house. I'm aiming for the same place, trying to put 9 rounds in one hole, but scatter them.

"You're flinching," Amon scolds, "like when you first started shooting. Don't anticipate the recoil. You'll jerk." He raises the Browning Double Action and snaps off a flurry like it's nothing. He clusters the rounds until they erode a small hole in the plywood.

"I'm rusty. How will I ever pop anyone in the heat-of-the-moment?"

"We're going to have the advantage," he says as he reloads. "The element of surprise."

Surprise, maybe, but Bobby was armed. He'd have to be the first to go. And Gregory had to be carrying, too. I wasn't sure, but I figured this was a logical assumption. Who knew how many members of security the Pastor had in his entourage? The thought was daunting and I shook my head.

"How are we going to do this?" I ask in frustration.

"You know where he lives," Amon reasons, aiming the Browning. He closes his left eye and bites his lip.

"We can't walk to the door, ring the doorbell, and waltz in."

Amon opens his eye and lowers the gun. "We watch, wait, and get him when he leaves. You said he's way out on Happy Valley Road. There ain't shit around. Straight ambush. I remember you dug those pipe bombs. What about putting a few next to his house? Create a diversion."

"I don't want to hurt his wife or kids. Plus, there are security cameras and thugs guarding the place."

"Where there's a will, there's a way. Am I right?"

I have my doubts. "Maybe I should go to the police."

"Sure, you could spill the beans. Don't forget to tell them you raped those women."

"It was sanctified. It wasn't rape."

"Whatever you want to call it, I bet your church will say something different. Then the women will come forward. Who's to say they haven't reported you already. Don't forget, there's the matter of the drugs, right? You told me they found your stash. How do think this will go down? It'll be your word against theirs, and they have more mouths."

"But I was raped! I have physical proof."

"Okay, but...I think they could find a way to blame you for it. It happens all the time. Besides, how many men get...you know..." his voice trails off and he looks at his shoes.

Amon's logic makes sense, but it also makes me angry. Angry because he's right. Anyway, seeing as Bobby is an ex-cop, I'd have more than a mountain to climb. It'd be his word against mine, plus whatever collective influence he had.

"I believe you," he adds, "but I don't know if they police will."

We fire the handguns and move to the semi-automatic rifles. First, I try the Howa Type 89, a Japanese model with a 20-round magazine. It's not heavy and the recoil is light. The gun is touted as being accurate from as far as 500 meters, almost 6 football fields, but I can't hit a beer can from more than 100 meters. Amon's father also has a Colt M4, but I'm less accurate with it. The 30 round magazine of the M4 yields extra firepower, and the odds are the sheer quantity of shots will do damage, but I prefer the lighter Howa.

Between the handguns and the rifles, we have the means to do serious harm. How we'll do this remains to be seen.

We take a break, sit on the hood of the car, and share a joint.

"Help me think this through," I request. "We're not knocking on the Pastor's door."

"No, it can't happen this way," Amon agrees. "We could get him in transit, coming from his house. Like the ambush in _Legends of the Fall_. Remember?"

"Be serious."

"I am! It worked for them."

"This ain't a movie."

"What's your bright idea?"

"I might be able to lure him. Call and tell him I want to turn myself in."

"You have nowhere else to go."

"I'm meek and destitute. Homeless."

"Indeed."

"He's not going to come and get me. He'll send Bobby or one of those goons. Or all of them."

"Yeah, so what? They'll be surprised when we start blasting. After they're worm food, we head to the Pastor's place and finish the job."

"Then what?"

"We don't stick around to find out."

"We gotta be smart. If we go in with no plan we're going to end up in jail. Or worse."

"Just like we're not Navy Seals, neither are these guys. They may have guns, but how will they react if someone is shooting at them?"

"How will we?"

Amon grunts.

"We're a couple of burnouts with firepower. It's not going to end well."

"So what do you want to do? Scrap it?"

The marijuana has made me introspective. Talking about doing something is easier than executing, but talking was proving just as elusive. I can think of a thousand excuses why this won't work, starting with my awful marksmanship. Yesterday I was angry enough to consider payback, but today is a different story. Now I feel drained and unmotivated.

"Maybe," I muse, "it's supposed to end the way it did. I walk away, a few grand in the pocket, and go on with my life."

Amon shrugs and sucks on the roach.

"No sense in ruining your life if this goes bad," I tell him.

"My life?" he chuckles. "Yeah, my life is so great. Wouldn't want to miss out on the mansion and fast cars."

"Better than being in jail."

"True. Jail would be no fun."

"At least I'd have the getting raped part down. It'd be old hat."

Amon coughs and then says, "Right there is a good enough reason to _avoid_ jail. And also a good enough reason to kill the motherfuckers who, you know...did you."

"Maybe, but it happened to me, not you. No sense dragging you down the drain with me."

"I told you those guys were bad news."

"Save it. You were right, I was wrong, life goes on."

"Man, we were tight. You leaving hurt, like a stab to the heart. It didn't make any sense. Life was good."

"I'm sorry. I just...I don't know. I needed something else."

"All you need is love," he sings.

"At the basest level, it is about love. All of this." I think about Courtney and do a mental palm slap. I forgot to call this morning.

"I guess you're right," Amon says with a frown.

"About what?"

"About us pulling this off. These weapons are legal and registered. The cops would trace 'em to my old man. Then he'd be up shit creek without a paddle."

"He would."

"Although...I bet he knows somebody who could hit your friends."

"Do you want to have this conversation with him?"

"Not really," Amon says with a laugh.

"Me neither." I look at the blue sky and inhale. "I wonder how many people are having this kind of discussion in the world."

"A couple thousand, I bet."

"And how many people do it?"

"You mean how many people have the guts to do it?"

"Guts or stupidity."

"There's a third option. How many have the brains?"

"True. Not many. Even with smarts, you still need luck to cut you a break." I think about Amtrak and Gary Triano. I'd been lucky then, but I had Bobby too. Amon was no Bobby and my luck had run out.

"Good planning means luck is a nonevent."

"No, I disagree. Luck always factors into the equation. Luck, fate, or whatever you want to call it. It's got to be on your side or you'll get screwed."

"Who are you, Carlos The Jackal?"

Not quite, but what would Amon say if I told him I derailed a train and blew up a man? This information isn't worth sharing. He'd pepper me with a million questions I didn't feel like answering.

"You're right," I agree. "What do I know? Nothing. You can't plan on luck. It is or it isn't. There's where decent planning comes into play." I hold the joint between my fingers. "And this is why our brains will never be good enough."

"What do you want to do?"

I shake my head. A thousand scenarios unwind before my eyes, terminating with Bobby Reed standing over my corpse. He's tenacious, a regular coon hound, and I'm the coon. This leads to the next unpleasant revelation. I flick the roach and toss the Howa into the backseat.

"Let's go," I say. "I'm gonna chalk this up as a defeat."

"You sure?"

"Yep. I appreciate your help, putting me up and all. I do."

"But..."

"But I need to hit the road."

"Hmm...get out of Dodge. Where're you going?"

"I don't know, but it's got to be far. At least for the near future."

"You think it's smart to take off on your own?"

"I have my reasons. I mean, beyond the obvious."

"I'm sure you do, and I'm sure you won't tell me why."

"More like I'm sure you don't want to know."

"I can't talk you out if it, can I?"

"I'm sure you can't."

***

So it went. We abandon the unwise idea of revenge and return to Amon's to get high. Places of refuge flip through my head, postcards scrawled with names of cities I've heard, no rhyme-or-reason to the order: Paris, Bismarck, Pierre, The Big Apple, Hilo. A thousand other locations big, small, medium, and tiny. I could afford to be like Goldilocks until I find one just right. I've got enough cash for the time being. Not enough to retire on, but plenty to start a new life. Seed money, one could say.

"I can't stand being cooped-up while the sun is shining," Amon laments. "Let's go sit by the pool."

"I'll pass," I answer.

"No you won't. The sun'll do you some good. Come on."

We trudge outside, squinting into the brightness, and plop our asses into loungers. Girls cruise by, flaunting their bodies. I recall the day Tony and I sat poolside. He had grand ideas of absconding. Didn't work out great for Tony, but he'd been careless. I won't. Nope. I'll edge out of Phoenix on an airplane. I'd like to see Bobby bring down a jet.

When I take off my shirt, Amon gasps.

"Christ! They whip you too?"

The welts are red and ugly but they don't hurt.

"Their version of foreplay," I say. Who said I can't find humor from my shitty situation.

He doesn't respond and I figure the joke went over his head.

I lied. The cuts hurt and the sun doesn't help. In fact, the sun beats the high out-of-me. I'm beginning to understand I don't enjoy being on the level. I'm forced to confront reality and reality sucks. I should call Courtney. She might be wondering about me. But why?

'Cause she likes me. And I like her. People who like each other spend time together. It's normal behavior. I should try being normal for once in my life.

I put-off phoning her until the nagging impels me to action.

"I gotta call a girl," I tell Amon.

"Oh...one of your concubines?"

"No. A girl I work with. She's not a member, just a friend."

He gives me a shrewd wink.

"We haven't slept together," I explain. "She's a good person."

"Anybody who'd sleep with you is a bad person? Insight into your soul."

"You know what I mean."

"Sure I do."

"Worry about your tan."

"No problem. Bring some water when you return. Pretty please."

Back in the apartment I dig her number from my pocket, slap it on the counter, and debate how to approach this. Call me crazy but ' _hey sweet cheeks, nice to know you, smell you later'_ prolly wouldn't be appropriate.

' _I was in a cult and I gots to beat feet because they want to keep me as their sex slave'_ wouldn't work either.

Why tell her anything? I don't owe her an explanation. It's my life. I'll do what I want. Come to think of it, I _shouldn't_ call her. It'll lead to an argument and a guilt trip. I don't need to feel any worse.

Then I understand the guilt trip has already started and it isn't Courtney pummeling my conscious. It's me. Shit, I've been running my entire life. At some point I need to stop and plant my feet. I need to say: "This is where I want to be." The frustrating thing is I can't convince myself; I need someone to tell me they want me around and Amon doesn't count.

I dial her number before I can talk myself out-of-it. The phone rings across town and Courtney answers after the third buzz. She sounds tired. I can hear Grace crying in the background.

"Hi, it's John."

"John? Hey, are you okay? I heard you got beat up."

"I'm fine. You remember the guy at the motel?"

"The one following you? Of course."

"He stopped being a pest and became a problem."

"Where are you?"

"I'm staying at friend's place for the time being. No more Rust Spot for me."

"Good. Who's your friend?"

"A guy I know from high school. But it's not going to be long term. It can't be."

"What's your plan?"

I blurt, "I'm heading to Europe for the summer," and hold my breath.

"Europe? Hold on a sec," she says, dropping the phone. I hear yelling and wailing, as if this vindicates my decision. Living with Courtney and her kid, as well as her roommate, would never work.

She returns to the line and apologizes. "Grace has been a shit today. I don't know what her problem is. Did I hear you say Europe a minute ago?"

"Yep. I've saved up and I've heard Paris is nice in the summer."

"Wow. What about your job?"

"Like you said, I could find another one. Maybe I'll work on cars again," I add, although I have no intention of doing so.

She sighs and I discern disappointment. "Do you think this is a good idea?"

"None of my ideas are good."

"I mean...what kind of a life are you trying to lead? Living in a motel, getting beat up by people. It isn't the first time."

"Are you trying to be the voice of reason?"

"Somebody needs to."

"I appreciate the concern."

"But you're still going to go," she pronounces.

"I don't know what I want to do, but I don't think it's anything I could find in Phoenix."

"I know you don't have anybody, but I'm trying to be your friend. I don't want you running away and doing something stupid. I care about you."

I close my eyes and rub my forehead. "Thanks."

"Could I make you dinner one more time?" she offers. "Maybe I could change your mind."

"I don't know. I hear the cuisine in Paris is outstanding."

"Tough to top French food. Or French women."

"I don't care about the women so much."

"Tell me about it."

There's an uncomfortable silence and I twist the phone cord in my hand.

"Anyway," she says, "I'm serious about dinner."

"We could do the root beer stand for old time's sakes."

"Well...I don't know. I'm stuck with my daughter at night. I shouldn't say stuck, it sounds bad, but you know what I mean. My parents are only good for watching her in the day, but with school and work I'm busy. So, dinner at my place, take it or leave it." I can picture her with her hands on hips.

"You talked me into it," I say, although I'm not sure why.

"Then...come on over. I'm doing nothing else today."

"You want to come get me?"

"Oh yeah," she mumbles. "You're needy, you know?"

"Forget it," I say. I have a better idea. "I got a ride."

"You sure? It's no problem. I was joking."

"My buddy has wheels. I'll swing by later."

"It's a date. Don't flake out. I'll be expecting you." Now I picture her waggling a finger at the phone.

I return to the pool with a glass of water and hand it Amon.

"Took you long enough," he complains. "I'm parched."

"I need to use your car," I tell him.

"What? Do you have a driver's license?"

"No. Do you want to drive me instead?"

"Where?"

"The girl. She wants to have me over for dinner."

"Look at you," he kids. "The Mack daddy. I don't feel like moving. Go ahead, but you better not do anything stupid with my car. The keys are in the kitchen."

"Thanks man," I say over my shoulder.

"Nothing stupid," he repeats as I close the pool gate with a clang.

#

She puts together a lasagna and it's baking in the oven when I arrive an hour later. The smell permeates the entire apartment and my eyes widen as I step inside. Her eyes widen too, but at me.

"Your face!"

"Am I ugly now?"

"No...but..." She touches a bruise on the side of my head and then asks, "Does it hurt?"

"A little." I ham it up a bit while she strokes the contusion.

"You have another one over here," she clucks. "And one on your temple!"

"I told you he was a nut job."

"What happened?"

"He was spouting gibberish about JFK and magic bullets."

Courtney frowns and says, "You can be coy, but this looks personal."

"Shit, _that's_ what I said about the JFK assassination. Verbatim. Connelly was in the wrong place, right time. You know what I mean? He didn't like my version of events."

"Okay, smart guy, what'd you do to make your buddy mad? He was following you around the night before, right? When I picked you up. Then he was waiting for you when I dropped you off."

"Why all the questions?" I ask, pushing past her into the living room. "Where's Grace? I want to say hi."

"She's sleeping and the questions are because I'm worried about you. Are you in trouble?"

"Yeah right," I scoff. "Me?"

"Patrick told me there were two guys chasing you when you showed up at the restaurant yesterday."

"He's got a big mouth, making something out-of-nothing. Jeez, if I knew I was going to get hammered I wouldn't have come."

She looks at me and shakes her head. "Fine, no more. I'll drop it."

But she couldn't. Half-way through dinner the conversation returns to my beat-down. Up until this point the meal was splendid. She'd made small salads, garlic bread and the main entrée. I was shoveling a piece of lasagna into my pie-hole when she wiped her mouth with a napkin and cleared her throat.

"Is this why you want to go to Europe?" she asks.

"Is what?" I say with a mouthful of food.

"The people chasing you."

I swallow and take a drink of milk before responding. "Nobody's chasing me." At least I don't think so. Thus, by definition, I'm not lying and I stare at her with wide eyes to appear believable.

"Why do want to go?"

"Why'd you quit Bill's? Why are you going to college?"

"It's not the same thing. I'm trying to make my life better. My life and Grace's."

"See? It is the same thing. I'm changing my life."

"Hogwash," she says and I burst out laughing.

"Hogwash? You sound like an old codger."

"You know what I mean," she giggles. "Quit turning this around on me, smarty pants. I see you changing, but not for the better. Are you a con or something?"

"Con? No. My father was a con artist and he wasn't good at it. I learned my lesson. If anything, I'm one of the stupid ones being duped."

"How do you figure?"

I wave my hand, dismissing the question.

"Hm...I don't know why you're being so skittish. Makes me think you're hiding something."

"I'm hiding no-" I begin, but the phone rings and cuts me off.

Courtney answers it and I watch her face. She scrunches her nose and her eyes dart to me. My stomach heaves, I can't help it, and I feel my face get cold.

"It's somebody calling for you," she says, covering the mouthpiece.

"Who?"

"Somebody named Amon."

I must have look relieved because I sure as shit felt better. I get up and take the receiver from her hands while she retreats to the table.

"Hey," I say, smiling at her. "What's up?"

"I'm glad I got you," he says in a panicked voice. "I found this number on the counter and hoped this was it."

"What is it?"

"Am I interrupting something?" he asks. I can hear the familiar jesting in his tone and I realize it must not be important if he can joke.

"We're eating dinner."

"Listen to me, Romeo. The guns we shot this morning are in the car."

I turn away from Courtney and whisper, "I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you."

"The guns. They're in the car."

"What the fuck?"

"I forgot to put 'em away when we got back to the apartment. They're in the backseat, under a blanket. I don't want you doing anything stupid and getting pulled over."

"Thanks for the heads-up."

"Just get 'em back here. If my old man sees they're missing, we're both going to be in a world of hurt."

"Gotcha."

"And there's some weed in the glove box."

"Say what?"

"Chill out, take it easy on the gas and signal yer lane changes."

"But hustle back, right?"

"Be smart, dude. I'll see you soon."

Amon hangs up and I stare at the phone.

"What's wrong?"

"I need to go," I say as I turn to Courtney.

"Right now?"

"I borrowed my friend's car and he... left something in it. I need to get it back to him."

"Must be important. He sounded agitated."

"Work shit." I feel awful lying but what's the alternative? Tell her I have drugs and guns in the car? I don't think she'll handle this information with tact.

"Damn. I guess you gotta do what you got to do."

She looks so sad. I curse Amon. To hell with it. I'm going to stay. We'll have to deal with the fallout if his father notices. _If._ Maybe he won't and I'd rush back for nothing.

"You know what?" I say. "Forget it. It's his dumb ass who forgot it. Why should I let it ruin our day?"

"Are you sure?"

"He'll have to make do with whatever he's missing. Besides, why would I skip on a meal like this?"

***

I help her wash the dishes after dinner. Grace wakes from her nap and we play catch. This piece of domesticity is refreshing and I feel myself getting comfortable on the floor. Courtney feeds Grace while I get cozier. I'm not going anywhere for a while, least of all back to Amon's. The phone sits on the end table and I expect it to ring. Amon's got to be antsy.

"I'll be right back," I say. "Potty break."

Courtney nods, distracted by her child, and I creep into her bedroom. It seems there's a phone in every room and there's one in here, on the end table. I pick up the receiver and set it on the bed, covering it with a pillow. Then I tiptoe out and close the door. I hope the screeching disconnect can't be heard in the kitchen.

Turns out I don't need to worry. Grace raises holy hell in her highchair, squirming and screaming. Baby food is smeared everywhere and Courtney looks ready to pop the child in the kisser.

"Sit still you brat!" she yells, trying to wipe the little monster with a rag. "What's your problem tonight?"

"Here," I say, yanking the wet cloth from her hand. "Let me show you how it's done." Of course, Grace calms down and giggles while I rub the grime from her skin. I cross my eyes and stick out my tongue, causing uproarious laughter.

"You're good with her," Courtney says. "Guess she's tired of seeing my ugly face."

I lift her out of the highchair and her legs are spinning as if running in place. "She's full of it," I observe. "She prolly wants to get out of this apartment. Let's take her for a walk."

"You want to go for a walk?"

"Why not?"

Courtney smiles. "Charles would never want to go for a walk."

"I'm not Charles."

"Sorry, I'm surprised. Yeah, let's do it. There's a park down the street."

With Grace in a small fold-up stroller, we walk down Dobson and make a left on Longmore. After a few block I recognize the area. Another row of apartments, these shittier than Courtney's. Brother Matt used to live here, or still does for all I know. Right over there, as a matter of fact, bottom unit of Building A, facing the street. Well go figure... there he is, sitting on a chair, flipping through a book.

I stop and Grace screeches displeasure. She pumps her legs, rocks the stroller, and makes a commotion. Matt looks up, sees me, and does the ole double-take. He stands, raises his hand and calls my name.

"Shit," I whisper.

"What's wrong?" Courtney asks. "Is he calling you?"

"Huh?" I ask, playing dumb.

"Over there. He's waving."

I play dumb, put my head down and resume pushing, not daring to look up. When we get past the complex I look back and see Matt's disappeared. Courtney wraps her arm around my waist and we stroll this way to the playground. While Grace frolics in the sand, I keep an eye peeled for trouble. Nobody appears but I'm on edge. I doubt Matt's aware of my misfortune, but if he mentions he saw me to the wrong people I'll be up shit creek.

***

On the way back I make her take a longer route and we ramble down Dobson, busy with traffic. Back at the apartment, Courtney's roommate has made an appearance. I'm introduced to Monica, who shakes my hand with a limp wrist. She doesn't seem impressed. Could be the facial lacerations, or maybe Courtney has more than me over.

"I tried calling," Monica says, "but the phone's been busy. Tim and I are heading to Mill. I wondered if you wanted to come but..." she looks at me and concludes, "I see you're entertaining."

"I've got boy and baby," Courtney says. "I'll take a raincheck."

After Monica departs, Courtney gives Grace a bath while I lounge on the sofa and watch the Suns. I really should be getting back to Amon's, but I don't feel like moving. The longer I sit, the less motivated I become.

Grace sprints to me, dressed in pajamas, and gives me a hug.

"Nite, nite," she says, lingering to touch a bruise with her finger.

"Come on, princess," Courtney implores.

She waves once more before entering the bedroom. All-of-a-sudden I'm thinking of little kids running to bed, their parents tucking them in. My kids. They'll have fake fathers and mothers forced to copulate with a stranger. Happy kids, like Grace, who would have no chance once the Phoenix got their hands on them. Or maybe sad kids, like me, who'd grow sadder. Either way, the thought is revolting.

How could I have done this? Brother Tony channeled Steve Miller: " _Take the money and run_ ". Easy, right, as if the rest of it had no consequence. I'd never be able to look at a child again and wonder if it isn't mine. This is why I have to go. This is why Tony had to go, whether he wanted to admit it or not. And the seeders before him and after me...I'd venture to guess the same outcome.

It was leave or take a flamethrower to the Phoenix. These were the two choices. I decided the flamethrower option wasn't feasible.

I'm standing, grabbing the car keys, when Courtney returns to the living room.

"I'm sorry," I tell her, "but I gotta split. Amon's going to be livid."

"Are you going to be around tomorrow?"

"I have to work," I say, although I won't be going in. Never again. I'll be long gone by noon. "Thanks for dinner. It was great."

"What about the next day?"

I shake my head.

"The day after the next," she tries with desperation.

"I think I'm leaving."

"So...that's it, huh?"

"I'm afraid it is."

"Wow." She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

"Hey," I say, trying to sound sincere, "you're a great person and mother. You've got your new job, school and good things ahead. You don't need me in your life. I'm nothing but trouble. Look at me. Look at my face. Do I look like I should be hanging around a child?"

"You're selling yourself short. Running away won't change anything, John. You'll be staring over from scratch. Always from scratch. Is this a way to live?"

"I don't know." I turn and reach for the doorknob. Before I can get my hand on it, she flings herself against my body and hugs me, laying her head on my back. I let her have a moment before opening the door.

"You're so dense," she warbles.

I pivot to shut the door and see the multitude of emotions on her face: hurt, anger, sadness. It breaks my heart. So I give in, throw my arms around her, and bury my face in her neck.

"Take care of Grace," I say. "She's a good girl."

Courtney doesn't respond. Instead, her lips find my throat. My skin tingles and before I know it, I'm kissing her. Spontaneity exists, my friends. We salivate until I understand not only can I not leave, I don't want to. I also realize how bad I need to be with someone who cares.

#

The next morning I wake before sunrise and stare at her as she sleeps. The memories of last night are fresh in my mind. What of it? It's hard to put into words but I have to decipher the sentiment. There's a lot riding on what I decide.

One thing is certain: she's trying to change my mind. No way is her passion contrived. Courtney wants me around. I know women; I recognize their tricks and fakery. I was expecting more the same from her before I got wet: a deep sigh, eyes begging for it but not really wanting, and apathetic gyrations. I've experienced it too many times to count. There was none of this from her. It's not smart to build a relationship around sex, but if Courtney was selling me a used car with four flat tires, I was reaching for my wallet.

There were a couple of hitches. The first was the phone in her bedroom.

"What happened to this?" she asked, pointing.

"Beats me."

"Grace must've been playing with it." She was about to hang it up when I took it from her hand and threw it down.

"No interruptions," I said.

The next was when I removed my shirt and she saw the scars on my skin.

"Where'd you get these?" she asked, touching a few.

I told her not to worry, and in the heat of the moment this wasn't an issue, but I know she'll expect an explanation today.

Last was birth control. We should've discussed it, natch, but we sorta glossed over this important topic. I would've thought she'd have been resistant, but once we got rolling she let me plow right in. And oh, it was intense. Intense the first time, and the second...and the third. So powerful I almost wept. This is high praise coming from me. For a moment I felt something analogous to affection. I wanted to hold her, be held, and not wiggle from her arms. I also knew, like a sixth sense, I'd put a put a baby in her. I don't know for certain, but my track record in this department is pretty good. Or bad, depending on who is keeping score. If I needed another reason to disappear into thin air, I had it.

Do I love her? I don't know for sure, but I like being with her. Clothes on or off, it doesn't matter. She showed me how much she wanted me, yes she did. I reckon she'd keep showing me if I stuck around. I scrutinized her and wondered how I could make this work. Would The Mission keep looking for me? Bobby was dogged. If I hung around Phoenix they'd find me. It's a big city, sure, but the encounter with Matt yesterday is food for thought. I could stumble into somebody by accident. I can't get wedged into a corner.

How could I confess this to her in a way she could comprehend? Come right out and say it? Sneak off with my gift in her belly? My parting shot, so to speak.

I don't know how long I watch her and meditate. I relive the previous evening a hundred times. Then I think about Bobby, the Pastor and the Mission. Maybe I could convince her to come with me. Courtney, her kid, the baggage of my past and a million questions crammed into them. Plus, she'd have to drop everything. No, this was a stupid. She'd never-

"Good morning," she says, tapping my shoulder.

"Hi," I whisper.

She turns on her side and leans on an elbow. "You look deep in thought."

"Reliving last night," I answer, patting her hand.

"What about?"

"You know."

"Come on," she giggles. "Tell me."

"I can't describe it."

She scrunches her nose. "Oh, you're going to be shy now, aren't you? Too late. I know what you are, even if you don't want to admit it."

I raise an eyebrow.

"You are passionate," she says with a smile.

"Me? What about you?"

"I was following your lead. I didn't plan on letting you have your way with me but..."

"Any regrets?"

"Oh my God, no! I loved it. Didn't you?"

I grunt and nod.

"See? We're good for each other. You don't want to leave this behind, do you?"

This conversation wasn't evolving the way I wanted. I cough and push the covers off.

"You still want to go?" she asks with a frown.

"It's complicated."

"It's not, John. You're making it complex. Think about what you'd leave."

"Thinking is hard. All my brains got blasted out of head last night," I say with a chuckle. "I'm slow today."

"Hmm, are your stupid brains contagious? 'Cause whatever you blasted went into me."

"Right... _that's_ another thing we should talk about."

She shrugs, like it's no big deal. "What's there to say?"

"Courtney, I need to tell you something. I mean, I have to-"

There's a strident pounding on a distant wall in the apartment, interrupting my speech.

"It's Grace," Courtney informs. "She stands in her crib and summons. Princess Grace, demanding her servant." She gets out of bed, leaving me with important words on my lips. "Get dressed and come out. I'll make us something to eat," Courtney says as she slaps my knee. "Oh, can you hang up the phone?"

So I do and the conversation dies. I promise to revisit it later, but the passage of time might make me second guess my revelation.

We sit, drink coffee, and watch one of those local news shows with a ditzy blonde, a straight-laced male counter-part and a frivolous weatherman. I recognize the woman; I'd seen her at the Sunday sermons more than once. I was hoping I'd get the chance to seed her someday. Back when I was doing this work.

"Going to be warm today," the weatherman says, as if this is shocking. "The average on March 13th is 76. We're expecting highs in the upper 80's. Maybe 90 by next week. You know what this means, Tara?"

The female brays like a horse.

"100 degree days are right around the corner," the weatherman articulates with a chuckle.

"I'm not ready for triple digits," the newswoman pouts.

Grace is lolling on the floor, happy and carefree. Courtney, even after a night of romping and little sleep, is beautiful. She smiles, strokes my hand, and lays her head on my shoulder. We're a picture of domesticity.

"I know what's bothering you," she says.

"You do?"

"Listen, I don't regret last night. I hope you don't either. I know you're hesitant to commit to a relationship, but this doesn't change anything. I'm not going to become foolish because we slept together. I like you. A lot. You're wonderful with Grace. I know you have a good heart. I want you to think about what you'd leave. Think hard, John," she says, nudging me in the ribs.

The conspiratorial part of my brain, well-lubricated, alleged an unnerving declaration: she's using sex to bribe me. Or shame me. Whatever you want to call it, I was getting played. I had to dump this notion and concentrate on what lay before me.

"I want to hear what you think," she says.

Christ, she's strident. I want to tell her she doesn't, no ma'am. This is the last thing she needs to hear. Why couldn't she be like the others I'd pumped my seed into? Take it, move on and forget about me. I try to muster something disarming but hear the chirping of crickets from all crevices of my brain.

"Spill your guts," she prods.

I want to snap at her to leave me alone. Before I can answer, the phone rings. She glares at it and shakes her head. When she leans over me to pick it up, I rub her back and feel her stiffen. In this position, she answers and hands it to me after a second of listening.

"Dude," Amon says. He's loud and cross; I'm positive Courtney can hear. "Where were you last night? You were supposed to-"

"Bring your car back," I interrupt.

"Yeah! And you didn't. You're lucky-"

"Am I to assume you didn't get in trouble," I say as Courtney lays her head in my lap. I stroke her hair and she purrs.

"No, I didn't. I guess you're occupied. Just get back before seven. Do you think you can do this, Casanova?"

"No problem," I say, hanging up the phone.

Courtney rolls over and stares at me while I rub her forehead. "He sounds angry."

"Can you blame him?"

"You never answered me."

"Do we have to do this right now?"

"You want to go, don't you?"

"I sorta have to."

"Tell me you'll stay. Don't run away."

I could tell her the truth, but I've never been good at being honest. My life has been full of lies. What's another one going to cost me? If there is a Hell I've got my ticket punched. An eternity spent in fire didn't sound bad.

But there she is, looking at me like a China doll. Perhaps I could have a future with her. As soon as I think this, like my mouth was waiting for confirmation, the words tumble from my pie hole. I can see the letters falling out, one-at-a-time, as they float into her ears.

"I'll stay," I relent, plastering a fake smile across my face. "I won't go anywhere."

"Say it like you mean it, not like I'm forcing you."

"I promise," I rasp, trying not to wince.

"Thank you. You don't know what this means to me."

"There's one thing," I add. "If we're going to make a go of this, I'd rather it be us... in our own place. No roommates. I don't want my life to become an episode of _Three's Company_."

"Are you serious?"

What the _fuck_ am I doing? "Yeah."

She looks smug and closes her eyes. "I'll think about."

I sit with her head in my lap, massaging her temples, and stare at the television.

"Once again, our top story," the female anchor announces in a somber voice. "A house fire last night in Scottsdale has claimed the lives of four people." Stock footage rolls and firemen are pictured trudging hoses and spraying smoking ruins. "Police aren't releasing the names of the dead until the next of kin are notified, but neighbors say the family was quiet and devout."

More footage, this of a fat woman in a sundress jabbering about her dead neighbors. I tune her out and stare at the vehicle, in the driveway of the razed house, visible over her shoulder.

"Shit," I croak.

Courtney, eyes closed, mistakes my sentiment for pity. "Tragic, isn't it?"

Sure...except the truck looks like Bobby Reed's, down to the stupid mud flaps with reflectors on them. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but something tells me he's not among the dead and I'd venture to say Heath is no more among the living. I'm also certain this was no accident.

As if to confirm my suspicion, the next picture to flash on the television is me. It's a dated photo, a glamour shot from my senior year at Mesa High, pulled straight out of the yearbook by the looks of it. I stare at myself and feel my asshole tighten.

"Police are looking for a person of interest," the anchor says while I scramble to find the remote. She manages to say, "John-" before I stab the MUTE button.

My vitals are slapped next to my face: five foot ten, 165 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. REWARD OFFERED, says the bold red lettering underneath my info. They manage to cram a phone number for CRIME STOPPERS on the screen for good measure. I can't help but chuckle. Boy am I fucked.

"What's so funny?" Courtney hums, opening her eyes.

"Nothing. Nothing is funny. At all."

"What happened to the sound?"

My image disappears and I unmute the television. "I didn't want the tv to disturb you," I explain.

"We'll have more information at noon," the newscaster promises with a wink. I sit dumbfounded as the news ends and a talk show with a panel of cackling yentas, a lesbian and a gay guy commences. They dissect Hollywood gossip while I gaze at the date on the calendar mounted on the living room wall.

March 13th, 1997.

I fixate on it because I'm certain my life is over. There's a picture of a cactus backgrounded by lush colors of an Arizona sunset. Orange, blush, and magenta swirl into a palliative confection. I've heard particulates contribute to this phenomenon. If so, Bobby Reed's doing his part. Poor Heath, never mind the rest of the Reed Clan. Bobby did his best impression of Chernobyl and turned his family to toast.

Of course, I'm the one on the hook. How and why don't matter. Like cancer it just is. I better figure out how to live with it. What's my next move? Go on the run? How far could I get? Turn myself in and claim this is a big misunderstanding? Rant and rave this is a setup? Shit, I'll sound like my old man. Like him I'll spew invectives until my face is red and nobody will believe me. I suppose you could call this karma for all the shit I got away with but little comfort is this.

So, on top of worrying about the Mission, I gotta avoid the police. I wonder if Bobby Reed is satisfied with his handiwork. I doubt it. It'd make his day if he could bag me. I picture him striding into Bill Johnson's, armed and homicidal. He'd mow down a restaurant full of old farts just to put a slug in my head. He'd prolly get away with it. Joe Arpaio would pin a Knights Cross to his chest, or whatever the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office equivalent is.

"Don't you need to go to work?" Courtney mumbles.

And then there's her. How can I explain this? In the moment I decide I won't. I'll mosey out of her life and call her one day from Yellowknife. Yep, it's the coward's way out but I don't have a better idea. Guess it makes me a coward on top of everything else.

"John, aren't you going to work?

Fat chance. I fake cough and rub my forehead. "I'm feeling under the weather."

"Maybe you should crawl into bed and get some sleep," she says with a smile.

Come to think of it, I could use a distraction.

#

Courtney put Grace down for a nap and we hit the sack for Round Four. I figured since the seal was broken...

Besides, what better way to deal with the looming specter of imprisonment and/or death than a good ole romp-in-the-hay? For a few minutes I forget about my dilemma and concentrate on Courtney. Eventually we fall asleep and I have an unpleasant dream of being burned at-the-stake. Brother Bobby, dressed as a Puritan, lights the pyre. It seems so real I awake with a spasm, sweating, convinced the perspiration is the result of heat from my dream-fire.

"What's wrong?" Courtney asks.

"Nothing. I had one of those falling nightmares."

"Oh..." she drifts off as I listen to my racing heartbeat.

Around three Grace pounds on the wall, our wake-up call, and we roll out-of-bed. I need to figure out what to do anyway. I'm stalling; every minute I waste at the apartment is one less I could use to put distance between myself and Phoenix.

"I've got class in an hour," Courtney says. "You're welcome to stay, but you'll need to make yourself useful and babysit."

This wouldn't be the best time to tell her I'm never coming back, not after I convinced her I was going to stay.

"Amon needs his car," I tell her. For good measure I add, "Or else I would."

"No problem. I'll have to take her over to my parents."

"I'm sorry, but he's kinda upset with me."

"I caught the vibe over the phone. You want to come over later? We've got more to discuss."

Sure we do, hon. Lots and lots. What I want to do is smoke a big fat one and forget life for a bit.

"What about tomorrow?" she asks. "I'm done at eight tonight and then have to collect Grace. Plus, my uterus needs a break. Oh wait, tomorrow's no good. How 'bout you call me on Saturday morning?"

"Sure," I lie.

"Cross your heart?"

"Hope to die."

"You know I'll come find you if you stand me up. I'm persistent."

"I'm not going anywhere," I fib, keeping a straight face.

"I know," she says, hugging me.

And then I'm out the door, waving to Grace and Courtney, expecting a SWAT team to scoop me or shoot me. I should've never come. I've complicated my life, and hers, because I'm a shmuck. Perhaps my heart steered me in a direction it knew I should travel. Well, thanks heart. Thanks for nothing. If I'm being honest, though, my pecker had taken the reins. Stupid, stupid, pecker.

I climb into the car and stare at my face in the rearview mirror, already growing beady with perspiration. I don't like what I see. Hate it, as a matter-of-fact. My eyes drift to the back, to the parcel of guns. Then to the glove box and drugs. Hold the fort...what else is in the backseat? I pivot around and wrench my duffel bag to the passenger seat. I'd forgotten about it too. After a cursory inspection of the contents, I toss it back and start the car. Wow, I have a trifecta of troubling passengers. Guns, drugs, money. Oh yeah, I don't have a driver's license either. This should be the least of my worries. An armed fugitive with a buttload of cash and drugs is bad enough. I'd be a cop's wet dream if I got pulled over.

I could start 'er up and travel as far as possible. Why not add grand theft auto to the litany of charges? No, I'll head to Amon's and see if he has any bright ideas. I'm sure he doesn't, but I don't want to ditch him again without a goodbye.

I drive like there's nitroglycerin in the car and make it to Amon's before five. The apartment is filled with pot smoke and voices. Amon stares daggers at me as I slink in and drop the car keys in his lap. I recognize the scruffy-face slacker sitting in the leather La-Z-Boy across from him. Don't remember his name, but recall he's a neighbor from upstairs. Our age but a step slower. He's blasted more brain cells than Amon and I combined.

"Dude," Amon says, "what the fuck?"

"What?" I ask with a sheepish smile, expecting an onslaught of questions.

"Didn't you learn not to answer a question with a question? You said you were coming back last night."

"Have you been watching the news?" I ask.

"The news? Fuck and no." He throws me an unlit joint and a lighter. "Fire it up. You remember Dustin, doncha?"

I light the end and take a couple puffs before handing it to Dustin. He looks like a slug but moves slower, his eyes red and puffy.

"What's up homey?" Dustin asks. "Long time no see." He giggles and then says, "What's shakin' bacon?"

"Oh, a little of this and a lot of that," I answer. I sit, waiting for the joint to make its way to me, and wonder when a good time would be to spill the beans.

This is good weed. We get high, or rather they get higher. Dustin stares at the television and chortles...humorous because the tv isn't on. He's laughing at his reflection on the blank screen. How long do we stew in this skunky fog? Time doesn't equate. It should, considering the mess I'm in, but this detail goes up-in-smoke.

I finally peel myself out of the recliner, wobble to the television, and turn it on. One-by-one I check the local stations, presenting their six o'clock stories in juicy morsels, until I come to the NBC channel. Whadda ya know? There I am, a handsome devil, wanted for four homicides and arson.

"Dude," Dustin croaks, "it's you."

"No shit," I answer.

Amon sits up, interested in the news for once, and asks, "Um...why are you on tv, pray tell?"

"What do you think? Have I ever looked better?"

We listen to the story. Let me tell you, it's surreal to listen to yourself being described as a heinous criminal while on weed. I was almost convinced I had done what was purported.

"Police believe the suspect is armed and dangerous," the anchor says. "They also believe he may have abducted one of the family members. Robert Reed, aged 45, is a former Mesa Police Officer and not among the victims found at the residence." Bobby's grim face makes an appearance as the anchor reports, "Detectives have yet to speculate on a motive, but evidence found at the scene indicates the female victims were raped and strangled."

"This is bad," Amon says.

"Gee, you think?" I ask.

"You didn't..."

"No! I was with a girl last night."

"Great, you have an alibi."

I stare at him and raise my eyebrows.

"Well, you do," he insists.

"If I go to jail, this is sticking. This and a few other things I haven't told you about."

"Like what?"

"I'd rather not say. You're involved enough. Knowing more makes you an accessory."

"You think you're Perry Mason now?"

"Zip it. I need to get out of here. Pronto. I figure the airport is a no go."

"What about the train?"

I flinch and shake my head. "Not the train, either."

"Which leaves..."

"Which leaves Greyhound. Or your car."

"I need my car. Honest. I'm sorry but-"

"Don't apologize. You've done enough for me. All I need is a ride and I'll be out of your hair."

None of us dopers know where the bus station is until I consult the Yellow Pages. Turns out it's within pissing distance of Sky Harbor Airport on Buckeye Road. I call Greyhound and find out they have busses going to all points on the compass, leaving as late as midnight. Well, I've always wanted to check out El Paso via Tucson, Benson, San Simon, Lordsberg and Las Cruces. From El Paso, I could slip south and cross into Juarez. Then I'll have to wing it.

"This is stupid," Amon says after I hang up the phone. "I'm not letting you get on a bus. Besides, there has to be cops hanging around the terminal."

"You have a better idea."

"I'll drive you to Nogales. I'll be your Al Cowlings."

I look at Dustin. He's got one ear on our conversation, another on the tv. About the time the term "REWARD" is used in conjunction with my apprehension, I hear the gears in his pea brain start grinding.

"What about him?" I whisper.

"Dustin? He's not gonna tell anyone."

"I don't know him and I don't trust anyone right now."

"You trust me, doncha?"

"Yes, you I trust. Him, not so much. I don't care if he blabs after I split, but we gotta keep him quiet for the time being."

"Hey, Dustin," Amon says. "We're going for a drive."

"Sounds great," he says. "I'll just head back to my apartment and-"

You're coming with," I interrupt.

He puts his paws up and says, "No thanks, guys. I'm good."

"This isn't up for debate," I tell him.

He glances at Amon, then back to me. "Shit," he says. "You ain't gonna hurt me, are you?"

"No," I answer.

"'Cause I won't tell nobody. Swear."

"You're not going to get hurt, but you have to come. Sorry."

"I don't have a choice?"

I shake my head.

"Alright. But could we stop for some food? I got the munchies something wicked."

Come to think of it, I'm hungry too. We'll grab some grub for our grumbling tummies and hit the road for the two-hour trek south. Should be smooth sailing as long as Amon obeys the rules of the road.

There's just one minor thing: I forgot about the stash until we're crawling into Amon's car at dusk. Dustin plops his ass in the backseat atop the blanket concealing the guns.

"What's this?" he asks, peeking under the blanket. "Oh shit!"

"Jeez, man," Amon scolds, "lower yer voice. Let's get these inside."

No sooner do we start to pull them out when, surprise, Amon's dad weaves his battered pickup into the parking spot next to ours. Amon sighs and throws the blanket over the guns.

"Where you punks going?" Andy Spillane asks in a slurry voice.

"A run to the border," Amon answers with a giggle.

"Great. Pick me up a few burritos, amigo. Comprende?" He pushes open the driver door, falls to the pavement and drops his keys. "Watch the first step," he cackles. "It's a doozy."

"Drunk as a skunk," Amon whispers as he watches his father.

"The good news is," I say, "I doubt he's gonna be checking his guns tonight. Or watching the news."

"Just to make sure," Amon says, opening the glove box. He digs out the baggie of weed and shakes it. "I hate to sacrifice good ganja, but I gotta knock his ass out."

"A worthy sacrifice."

Amon shrugs and walks the pot into the apartment, returning a minute later. "He'll be in la-la land until he passes out."

"What's with the guns?" Dustin asks.

"Don't worry about them," Amon says. "Keep 'em covered."

"And this bag?" Dustin fondles my puffy duffel. "You got more guns in here?"

"Dirty clothes," I interrupt, clapping my hands. "Toss it over."

He does and tries to rearrange his bulk in the backseat. "Is it true what they said about you on the news?" he asks.

"No."

"So, like, you didn't kill anybody or burn down a house?" Call me crazy, but Dustin looks excited. I recognize the mannerisms from personal experience: bouncy, sweaty and orgasmic.

"It's a misunderstanding."

"So why you runnin'?"

"It's a long story, dude."

"I bet," he winks.

I grumble but get into the car, holding the bag across my lap.

***

It's a Thursday evening and the usual suspects are hanging at Taco Bell around a quarter after seven. Suppertime for the Stoned. Who's not around? The Five-O. Amon drives around the place two times, making sure the coast is clear.

You can get twenty tacos for fifteen bucks and we'll eat every one of them, I promise. They can be consumed in three bites and I hoover four in minutes. Dustin also orders those little crispy cinnamon sticks for desert and we sit outside enjoying the pleasant evening with the rest of the riff-raff.

"So," Amon says between mouthfuls, "all you got to do is keep a low profile. Don't do anything stupid." He's talking like an expert on fugitive behavior. Easy for him to say; he's not the one in the pickle.

"Wow, you think? You're telling me I shouldn't go running across the border with a firecracker up my ass?"

"I'm just tryin' to help," he says. "What about money? How much you got?"

"Enough. At least for the time being."

"Maybe you can come back when this blows over."

"This ain't blowing over. Ever."

"This is it then?"

I nod. Until the police figure out Bobby Reed killed his family and Heath, and since Bobby doesn't seem to be in a hurry to turn up, I can't be found. Maybe Bobby will never turn up. He might've taken off too. He and part of the two mill from Triano's widow. Wouldn't it be funny if we ran into each other in Mexico?

Dustin peers at me and squints. "Dude, what happened to your face?"

"Did you just notice?" Amon asks.

He shrugs and crunches a cinnamon stick.

I'm thinking of a non-descriptive answer, sweeping the lettuce from the tabletop, and notice a couple sitting at the table next to us. I know they're not staring at me, but all-the-sudden I'm paranoid as fuck. It's a shitty feeling, one I'm going to have to get used to.

Anyway, these lovebirds remind me of the first time Courtney and I went out. The jaunt to the root beer stand, back in the good old days. Except they're a little more touchy-feely than we were. He's working his way down her neck when he stops and his eyes widen. For a second I think he's staring at me. It only looks like he is. No, he's watching something in the western sky. The guy points, jabs his mate; she pivots and covers her mouth. Fucking high-as-a-kite, those two.

"Johnny is a bad man," Amon says. "A real outlaw. Ain't you John?"

"Bad, stupid or both."

"I got to take a piss," Amon announces as he stands. "Then we make tracks." He walks past the two gawkers and follows their gaze to the heavens. I can't see the sky, but I read the puzzled-look on his face. Now I'm curious.

"What's the hubbub?" I ask.

Amon waves at me and hollers, "Dude, come and take a look at this!"

Dustin and I oblige. What could it be? A beautiful sunset? A flock of birds? Anything can be mesmerizing to a baked brain. The last thing I expect to see is the row of white-yellow twinkling lights high above the horizon, arranged in a straight line left-to-right, hanging motionless. It's either a giant airplane or a bunch of smaller ones, but neither of these answers seems plausible. It's hard to tell how far away they are, or how big, but the lights are brighter than anything I'd seen on an airliner.

"What is it?" the girl asks. Her voice is anxious and she grips the arm of the suitor standing next to her.

"I don't know," the guy answers. "F-16's from Luke, dropping flares? It's got to be flares."

"Wouldn't flares fall or drift?" Amon asks him. "These things aren't moving."

"I guess. Beats me. I mean, they are moving...sorta."

He's right. Although slow, they're turning south towards the distant antenna array on South Mountain. I count five lights or flares, or whatever it is, arranged in a "V". There's one at the point and two each on the legs.

Amon elbows my ribs and says, "Pretty cool, eh? What do you think it is?"

"Fuck if I know." I'm not an expert on aeronautics. It appears to be a giant craft since everything moves in unison. The shapes blink in intervals, like Christmas lights, with no discernable pattern. The twinkling repeats several times while we watch spellbound. Others at the Taco Bell have joined to rubberneck, including the employees. Cars have pulled over on Southern Avenue, their drivers and passengers getting out to watch the show.

"It's like a movie," someone observes.

"It's a UFO," somebody else says. "Got to be."

Like a snapped-finger waking up the hypnotized, I come to. I hear Sherman's words echoing in my ear. I think about the Phoenix Mission and their obsession with UFO's. But to them they aren't UFO's, they're...

"Angel Wheels," I whisper.

"Wha?" Amon asks.

I know I'm cracked but I can't help myself. This is a fucking sign!

"We got to go," I say, grabbing his arm.

"I gotta drain my lizard."

"Screw your lizard."

"No way. I gotta make water. We have a long drive ahead of us."

"We aren't going to Mexico."

"Whadda ya mean.

I gesture at the sky and tell him, "This is meant for me, man. These are Angel Wheels."

#

"Explain this again," Amon demands as he makes a right turn into Courtney's apartment complex. I've tried to run through the story three times during the ten-minute drive but he's not listening. Instead he's been watching the lights wink on-and-off as they cruise over the city of Phoenix twenty miles west of us. When we got in the car, I tuned the radio to 620 AM, KTAR, and the host was fielding phone calls reporting the strange phenomena over the valley. At first he'd been incredulous and had taken a break to see "what all the puerile fuss was about". When the radio program returned from commercial, he was a changed man.

"We have a UFO above Phoenix," the host proclaimed. "I was outside and saw it with my eyes."

"I'll enlighten you, again," I say, after turning down the radio, "when we're heading to Scottsdale. First, I got to drop this off." I shake the duffel bag. One way or the other I won't need the cash. I'd either be vindicated or wearing steel bracelets.

"Okay, whatever." Amon mutters. "I don't understand what you're doing."

I direct him to Courtney's complex and jump from the car. Things are going to happen fast and I need to hurry. I knock on Courtney's door and wait. Knock again, bouncing from one foot to-the-other. The door opens, at last, and Monica peers at me through a crack.

"I need to see Courtney," I demand.

"She's not here. School night. She'll be back about ten."

Shit, I forgot. Monica starts to close the door but I block it with my hand.

"I have something for her. Tell her it's from John." I hold out the bag and shake it for good measure.

I don't know if Monica's heard the news about me or what, but she's staring through the slant with one judgmental eye. She doesn't seem to be alarmed.

"Come on," I implore.

Her eye squints and she says, "I don't like you. I told Courtney you are _bad_ news."

"I don't give a fuck."

"She has a thing for losers. Don't ask me why. I know what you are. You're a loser."

"And you're pissing me off. Take the bag and I promise, you'll never see me again."

"Promise?"

"What did I just say?"

"Is it drugs? I told her I don't want drugs in the apartment. Her last boyfriend brought dope over and he-"

"It's not drugs. It's clothes." I open the bag, hold it under the entry light, and give her a quick peek before zipping it. "I was going to take them to the laundromat, but she said I could wash them here."

Monica clicks her tongue and opens the door wide enough to grab my shit.

"Don't go stealing my dirty clothes," I say with a smile, trying to sound flippant. "I know what's in there."

"I'm not going to touch your crap," she tells me with a frown.

I turn away, but Monica has one more question:

"Hey, what's going on out there? I'm watching the news and-"

I don't bother to continue the conversation. I'm down the stairs before she can spit out the question.

***

"Angel Wheels," I proclaim, pointing at the lights.

"Angel Wheels, eh," Amon says. "Wasn't that a Journey song?"

I know he's joking but I'm in no mood. "It's a belief of the Phoenix. Angels will come to Earth in vessels to pick-up the righteous. It's their preferred mode of transportation."

Amon snorts and then asks, "How much weed do those ding-dongs smoke?"

"Can you believe none?"

"I'm no expert, but they don't look like they want to land and gather anyone," Amon says. He's driving like a man possessed north on McClintock. In Scottsdale, McClintock becomes North Hayden Road and Hayden will take us to Pinnacle Peak, right to the slopes of the mountains where the Phoenix should be gathering to welcome the angels. If, I should say, the believers do as instructed.

"It doesn't matter," I tell him. "Look, I don't what this is. But, to those yahoos, this is a sign God is arriving. The Mission has strict instructions for this day. The congregation should be at Pinnacle Peak. Bobby Reed should be there with them."

"And so will your molester pastor?"

I touch my nose. "But we ain't gonna get there if we get pulled over. Take it easy."

"What are you talking about, dude?" Dustin asks from the back. I forgot he was there; he'd been quiet for the last twenty minutes.

"Nothing," I say. "We're going to meet some people. Have a little chat."

"You're not going to Mexico?"

"No."

"Wherever we go, I hope it's not far. It's cramped back here."

"It won't be long," I promise.

"What's the plan?" Amon asks in a low voice.

Good question. I'm not sure, but I don't want to admit as much. What was the Pastor's plan? Would he be at the meeting spot? Time to find out if he believes in the shit he shovels. Maybe he does, but did he think the moment would come? If so, would he be willing to accept his role as spiritual leader of his herd?

Of course, I didn't know if anybody would be there. I assumed they would. After all, this was it. Their ride to salvation. The purging, study, and sermons weren't meant to be lip service. The hard work wasn't for show.

But about the plan...I'd like to think I could arrive, denounce the Pastor, and explain the kind of man he was. Would anyone listen or care? I mean, these are people who'd let a man seed their wives because it was sanctified. My argument better be pretty damn good. Perhaps when the Angel Wheels didn't descend and collect the Mission they'd hear me out. Or would they? The Pastor might be able to convince them this wasn't the right time, or the Mission wasn't holy enough, or who knew what.

Did it matter if I had a plan? All I wanted to do was stick a Glock up his ass and deposit a bullet into his pooper. In order to fulfill this fantasy, I'd have to get close to the Pastor. Since I wasn't on the "VIP" list anymore this wouldn't be easy.

"How much ammo do we have?" I ask.

"It's in the hatch," Amon answers. "I think there are four of five magazines for the handguns and a few each for the rifles. We didn't shoot a ton yesterday."

"I don't think we'll need a lot."

Amon glances at me and reads my mind. "Are you sure?"

I look past him, out his window, and watch the lights. I'd said the only way we could pull something off was through divine intervention. Whelp...I suppose beggars can't be choosers. I don't know what's traipsing around the heavens but I realize it's enough of a distraction to help. Perhaps God had come through, for once, or I got lucky. The timing seems preposterous, but I'd be a fool to disregard the obvious.

So, I answer Amon with, "I'm positive."

"We aren't chasing our tails? They're gonna be there?"

"You have to trust me," I insist. "This is what these fools have been harping about since day one. We'll go and check out the Savior Spot. If we can get the Pastor isolated...you know what I mean." Then I gesture at Dustin and say, "He can wait with the car."

Amon wipes sweat from his forehead. "Talking is one thing. Doing is another. I'm nervous."

"I am too, but I got to do this." I'm like the Pastor, in a way, compelling Amon to take me into the jaws of danger, homicide and the unknown. Still, I feel like I'm on a righteous quest for vengeance. So virtuous I'm willing to endanger my future for the taste of revenge. And you know what? I don't care.

Meanwhile, the radio is spitting out a cacophony of insanity. Callers are cycling through with theories, conspiracies and out-right hysteria. Some claim it's an invasion; others are convinced it's the Second Coming. A meteorologist throws out the term "ball-lighting". Somebody claiming to be a pilot says the lights are a military training exercise. In short, nobody knows what's illuminating the Phoenix night.

Hayden joins Frank Lloyd Wright for a quarter mile before veering north. We're racing out of the suburbs and into higher land. There's little light and the houses are spaced far-apart. A stream of cars snake in front, following the road towards Thompson Peak. Amon turns right on Pinnacle Peak Road, left on Pima, and we're north again, a couple miles from the Savior Spot in a long line of vehicles travelling below the speed limit. It seems like the entire city is heading to the same location and I'm buoyed by the sight of so many. Not all-of-them are members of the Phoenix, but I bet a good many are.

"I used to come here with my girlfriend," Amon says in a pensive voice. "We'd make out under the stars and look at the city. I can't believe I'm doing this."

I'd never been here, but I know the route from rote memorization. The "In Case Of Apocalypse Plan". "We need to make a right on Jomax and go into the parking lot," I direct. "Then we climb the main trail to the first picnic area. This is where the Phoenix is supposed to gather."

"Easier said than done," Amon says, pointing ahead. The road was single-lane each direction and cars stood motionless. Many people had parked on the narrow shoulder and stood next to their cars, looking south. Some were walking towards the mountains. They couldn't all be Phoenix members. Or maybe they could.

"We're not getting any further," Amon declares. He turns the wheel and crams the Datsun behind a parked car.

"Like...remind me what are we doing here," Dustin says.

Amon reaches to the back, lifts the blanket and digs out the handguns. He hands me the Glock.

"We can't walk up with assault weapons," Amon says.

I inspect the gun before shoving it into my waistband. "No, and we're not going to be able to shoot anyone with these people around."

"What do you want to do?"

"Let's see what happens and go from there." I open the door and step out.

"Why you guys taking guns?" Dustin squawks from the backseat.

"Stay here," I tell him. "We'll be back in a couple of minutes."

"Stay here and do what?"

"I don't know. Listen to the radio."

Dustin gawks at the people passing and sits back. I can tell he's nervous. Hell, I'm nervous. Amon walks to the trunk, pops it, and motions to me.

"We have a couple magazines for each of these," he whispers, handing me one.

"Remember, no shooting," I instruct. "Let's see if my buddies make an appearance. If they do, we can reevaluate our options. If they leave, we'll follow."

" _If_ they leave."

"Right. Hell, maybe they won't show."

"I dunno man," Amon says, watching people stream towards the dark peaks. "Are all of them in your church?"

"I suppose." I knew the Mission had grown large, but I'd never seen this many at Sunday Sermon. I thought of the Christmas Gala at the theater. There were a lot of people in attendance, but this paled in comparison.

"'Member what we talked about the other day?" Amon asks. "The whole spiel about needing luck to pull this off?"

I put my hand on his shoulder and say, "I'm not going to press it. Don't make yourself a martyr at my expense."

He grips my hand. "I'm here for you, man. After what those guys did to you, I feel violated. I'll follow your lead, brother."

"Thanks."

Amon shrugs of my arms. Too much male contact, I guess. We meander from the car, leaving Dustin, and mill with the stragglers. Nobody is talking, just marching, head down. I shouldn't say nobody is talking. A few faint voices can be heard, praying and singing. Some break away and stare at the lights. I don't bother to look anymore. Whatever they are, whoever sent them, I don't care. I touch the gun, shrouded under my shirt, reassured by its presence.

It's like a death march, and in a way it is, except the glory at the end of the trail compels. We squeeze onto the trail at the Pinnacle Peak Park Entrance and start up the narrow path. It's not wide enough to accommodate more than three people abreast and the hike draws out at a sluggish pace. Plus it's dark and the passage is dirt. Some parts are steep and people have trouble negotiating the climb. A few give up and move to the side.

Soon we're at a standstill and the horde squeezes together, compressed and agitated. Rumors float forward-and-back via terse exchanges.

" _The Pastor is coming."_

" _The Pastor is behind us."_

" _The Pastor is speaking."_

I try to see above the heads but can only discern more people trying to do the same. It seems hopeless. We're stuck and have no way to proceed.

Then, from behind, comes a hoarse bark. I recognize the voice.

"Make way!" the fat fuck Gregory yells. I grab Amon by the shirt and pull him next to me. The sea of people part and a lane opens. A column of men pass, scowling and rigid. First Gregory, shoving dawdlers out-of-the-way. Next Sherman, woofing for passage, looking angrier than normal. Two more thugs and then Pastor Morobito. Rochelle is behind him, head down, holding his hand. I see the bump in her belly and feel cold. People are reaching for the Pastor, trying to touch him, but he ignores their fingers. Then a few more men comprising the rear guard. When they're gone, I step out and follow before the path closes, clutching Amon's arm. No sign of Bobby Reed.

" _That's_ the priest?" Amon asks.

"Pastor," I correct.

"Whatever. The guy with the woman?"

"Yes."

"Alright. What about the others?"

"One of the two in front, the chubby tip of the spear, raped me."

"Got it."

Nothing else needs to be said. We trail at a respectable distance until we're at the picnic area. From this spot the valley is spread out in front of us. The lights from...whatever, disappear in succession. Left-to-right they snap off, like they'd been blotted by a cloud, but the sky is flawless and starry. A gasp escapes the crowd.

I hear chattering and look towards the picnic tables. The Pastor climbs upon one and raises his hands. A hush murmurs through the throng and the Pastor nods his head with a tight smile. For a second I think he spots me, but I'm just another face lost in the sea of people. And it's dark. There's no way he could recognize me. Or so I tell myself.

People are surging forward, jostling, and I fear there's going to be a stampede.

"Stop pushing!" Sherman howls through a megaphone. "We must have order! Stop pushing!"

It takes time, but the ripples of energy subside. I'm so close to the folks in front of me I smell body odor. It's not pleasant and I'm getting claustrophobic.

The Pastor takes the megaphone from Sherman and places it to his lips.

"Testing," he announces. The feedback lets out a deafening squeal. "Testing," he repeats, moving it a touch from his mouth. This time there is no feedback. Satisfied, the Pastor raises his left arm and announces, "People, my people, welcome! How are we tonight?"

A volley of answers pepper and he absorbs the words with a patient smile. When it quiets, he points to the south.

"Quite a show, isn't it?"

More responses, urgent and frightened. The guy in front of me wails and trembles.

"Is this our angels, coming forth to carry us home?" Morobito inquires.

"Yes!" the crowd responds. Amon looks at me with apprehension.

"We will know soon," the Pastor continues. "If we are of pure mind and Holy Spirit, we will have a place on these great vessels."

"Why are they leaving?" a woman cries. "Why aren't they coming here?"

"A good question," Morobito says. "They have to allow us to gather. The flock is coming, but this will take time. Stand fast and remain patient. Your faith will be rewarded. Do you believe?"

"Yes!"

The Pastor nods, pleased, and his left hand turns into a fist. "By the power of God, we will be saved! What glory!"

The crowd erupts in applause. Men, women, some children...the lot of them transfixed and filled with hope. Hope for escape from their miserable, shitty lives. They've wasted a portion of their existence dreaming of this moment and here it is. The sacrifice is about to be rewarded. There are those with troubled expressions, as if this spectacle cannot be comprehended. I'm having a hard time digesting it but my focus is on the Pastor. I could figure out the rest later.

"I will be around, but I must be made ready to greet the angels when they arrive," the Pastor says. "I ask you to remain, sing songs and join hands. Our hour is upon us. Praise the Lord." He steps from the table and hands the megaphone to Sherman. The Pastor shakes some hands, reassures the weary, and then the group begins down the path, towards the road. The crowd shrinks to the side and makes way for the procession.

"Short but sweet," Amon whispers. "Now what?"

"I'm not sure, but we got to stay with him."

As they pass, the Pastor reaches and touches hands. I put my head down and stare at my shoes. It's chaotic in the crowd, a swell of limbs, sweat and adulation. Someone collides into me, a hippy-dippy type with stringy gray hair, his lithe body shirtless and slick.

"This is marvelous," he beams, flashing a peace sign. "Joy to you, my brother."

"Fuck off," I growl.

He recoils and hisses.

I push Amon in front of me, using him as a barrier and battering ram. We go in pursuit, bashing the joyous, keeping eyes on the prize.

#

At the end of the trail, or I should say the beginning, is a green Ford Bronco and the same brown station wagon my tormentors followed me in two days prior. The vehicles are parked in the middle of the road, smack on the solid yellow line, as if they owned the asphalt.

Amon and I mill with the cavorting parishioners and watch as the Pastor darts from his wife and climbs into the Bronco's passenger seat. Sherman gets behind the wheel and Gregory scampers into the back. The others jump into the Chevy and both vehicles execute "k-turns". With a squeal of rubber and a cloud of exhaust, they proceed the other way down Jomax, towards the west, hazards lights flashing and horns honking.

"Wonderful," Amon says. "You think he's coming back?"

"He's got to. If he doesn't, he'll miss his chance at saving face when the Angel Wheels don't land. This herd thinks they're going to Heaven. If he has any chance at keeping a congregation, he'll have to return and make excuses why God isn't harvesting the holy."

"What if he doesn't give a fuck? Maybe he's splitting for good."

I don't answer but watch Rochelle Morobito. She looks frazzled and rubs her belly. In absence of the Pastor, people crowd around and molest her. She has no bodyguards; her husband has left her to fend for herself in the madness.

"Come on," I tell Amon, dragging him with me as I claw through the throng. I decide I'll be her knight in shining armor, but my intentions aren't chivalrous.

Rochelle spots me when I'm an arm's length away. Her eyes narrow and nostrils flare. She doesn't look so ravishing at this moment. In fact, she looks like she wants to rip my head off.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses.

I grab her arm, pull her close and whisper, "End of the world is coming, sugar tits. Didn't you hear? I reckon this is the place to be."

"If you try anything I'll scream."

I lift my shirt and show her the Glock.

"Like you'd use it," she scoffs.

"Try me."

"I'm carrying your baby, you know."

"Big deal. You and a few others. You think I give a fuck? Your old man and I have a few things to discuss. Where'd he go?"

"You think I'd tell you?"

"Is he coming back?"

No answer. Blank, blue eyes. In the sack they sparkled. Now it looks like she's staring at a roach.

"Last chance," I growl.

She offers a meek defense. "He said you're unclean. A drug addict. I carry your poison in my womb. I'm tainted."

"Yeah? I should tell you what the Pastor considered a suitable punishment."

"Whatever it was, I'm sure you deserved it."

I want to slap her but instead tighten my grip. "Where'd he go?"

"If you're smart, you'll get out of here. You don't want to be around when he returns."

"I bet he ain't coming back. He's left you with these whack jobs. His Frankenstein. He's prepped them for the Second Coming and they're ready for it. Is he?"

My goading works and Rochelle snaps, "He's more than eager. He has to get his holy books from our house. He's the Shepherd, you know. Our mouthpiece. He'll be back!"

Not if I can help it.

"You hear about Bobby?" I ask. "He burned his house down. It's all over the news."

"Liar!" she screeches. "It was you."

"No, it was Bobby. Even you can't be this naïve."

"So what? Nobody will believe you. Besides, his wife and kids were sick. So are you. Revolting and dirty. You deserve to burn too. And you will."

I drop her arm and motion to Amon. We take off in a jog toward his car, leaving the mass of crazies behind. I don't look back but hear Rochelle calling after me:

"You'll never get him, John! He's divine and you're polluted!"

She cackles like a witch until the bitter howl blends into the festive cacophony.

***

Amon sits behind the steering wheel, biting his lip and weighing the decision.

"I'm not telling you have to go," I repeat. "I'll do it myself. I'll take the car and you two can wait here."

"What if you don't come back?"

I have no doubt I'll return, but my conviction doesn't comfort him.

"These are my father's weapons," he adds. "It's not like I'm guiltless."

"I've come this far. I know where he is. He's not expecting me. It's perfect."

"It's going to difficult to do this by yourself."

"And what about him," I say, gesturing to the back. Dustin is leaning forward, listening, slack-jawed.

Amon turns his head and asks the slug, "Can you shoot a semi-automatic?"

"What?" Dustin asks.

"One of those rifles. Make the boom stick go bang."

"Sure, dude, I can shoot. I'm not good, but-"

"Let's roll," Amon says. "Dustin's game. Where am I going?"

I don't know about this but Amon is already pulling out of the tight parking spot, grinding the bumper of the car in front.

"Make a right on Pima and head north," I instruct. "His house is on East Lone Mountain Road. It's huge. You can't miss it."

The Datsun accelerates and Amon weaves around stopped vehicles.

"We can't go pulling into the driveway," he muses.

"No. We'll have to go on foot when we get near."

"And if they're not around?"

"Then...if we miss him, I guess we got to go back to the drawing board. Something tells me we won't. I think he'll be at the house getting his shit in order. This is the thing he's been waiting for. He's got work to do."

"If you say so."

"I do. You saw those people. They're convinced this is the end."

"I can't believe you were part of it. What a wild scene. The land of weirdos."

What can I say in my defense? I know how it looks. I didn't believe in all the crap the Phoenix peddled, but I believed enough. It's easy to say, after I've been violated and cast aside, the Mission was full of nutcases. But my defense is tempered by the fact I lived almost three years with these people. Something struck a nerve.

"I guess I was weak to fall for it," I reason, "but I had nothing else."

Amon scoffs. "You had plenty of things," he says, cranking the wheel right to join Pima. The road is deserted and he pushes the speedometer to triple digits. The RPM's are redlining. The green light from the dash illuminates hopelessness etched on his face.

"What they did to you was evil," Amon says. "All-of-them are fucked-up. Don't try to rationalize their behavior."

"I'm not. I'm trying to make sense of mine."

From the backseat I hear the sound of a clip being withdrawn. I flip on the dome light and turn my head. Dustin's checking the magazine and fingering the trigger of the Type 89.

"What is this?" he asks with excitement.

"Careful," I warn. "You're gonna blast a hole in the roof. It's a Japanese gun."

"Yeah, and a sweet one, too."

I picture how this will transpire, a neat image delivered to me as I look at my reflection in the window. We'll march up, the gang will be in the house, and lie in wait. I wonder if we should leave Dustin in the car but decide three with weapons are better than two. When they appear from the house we'll surprise them. I don't want to kill anyone who doesn't deserve it. Three faces flash, like they're on one of them Old West Wanted posters: The Pastor, Gregory and Bobby...if Bobby's around.

With the element of surprise we'll get them on their knees, disarm them, and I'll take care of the rapists. Then we'll skedaddle. I suppose we could try to make it look like a robbery. Yes...

"Dustin," I say. "You need to listen to me."

He sets down the 89 and asks, "What's up, homey."

"We're gonna rob a guy. My asshole of a boss."

If Dustin is uncomfortable by this revelation he doesn't show it. "He rich?"

"The dude is loaded."

Dustin doesn't blink and leans forward. "How rich?"

"There's more money in his house than you could get turning me in."

"The thought never crossed my mind," Dustin says. I can't tell if he's lying only because he's one of those types whose voice never changes inflection.

"If it did, and I'm not saying otherwise, I'm telling you there's a bigger bundle to be had."

"You killed those people, didn't you?"

"It doesn't matter. I need your attention. Can I count on you?"

It's amazing how quick he's willing to jump into this. A grin spreads across Dustin's face and I understand he has no problem committing multiple felonies.

"There's going to be shooting," I continue, but decide there's no point in being deceitful. "There _will_ be shooting. You might have to shoot somebody. If you have a-"

"Naw. I got no problem, homey."

"You sure?"

"Do I look unsure?" Dustin picks up the weapon and growls, "Tell we who."

Allrighty then. No pep talk required. I flip off the dome and cross my arms as Amon slows the car. We're getting close; the glow of the mansion lights up the sky. It's hard to miss. In the darkness of the desert the place is like a beacon.

"I'll pull over," he says. "Then we hoof it."

I grunt, listening to the tires as they depart asphalt and join gravel. He flicks the high beams on and avoids a cactus before parking in a dry wash and turning off the car. We sit and listen to the engine tick.

"What did Coach Howard say before our games?" Amon asks.

"The Lord's Prayer," I answer.

"Think it would be appropriate?"

"It wasn't then. I doubt it's appropriate now."

"What's the layout? How are we going to do this?"

I close my eyes and tickle recollection: "Desert landscaping, no concealment. No neighbors near. Long driveway. Huge garage. The front door leads into a foyer and living area. Staircase on the left. Living room turns to hall and rooms connect. First right is a study, then a game room. First room on the left is...I don't know, maybe laundry, another bedroom, then a study. I don't want to go into the house, it's like a maze and I don't know the layout well. His kids might be inside, too. Better to greet them outside. Less chance of getting sloppy." When I open my eyes, Amon is rubbing his chin.

"We'll spread out," Amon says. "You want a rifle?"

"I'm not accurate with it during the day. I'll stick with the Glock."

"Can you shoot that thing?" Amon asks Dustin.

"Fuck and yeah. It's a gun. Nothing complicated."

"20 round clip," Amon says. "Be mindful of your shots. I've got extra clips in the hatch, but we shouldn't be wasting ammo." He reaches around the seat and selects the M4. "I'll take one side of the driveway, you two take the other. Best to engage when they're pulling out."

"If they leave," I say.

"They're going to at some point. We might need to take our patience pills."

"What if they don't split until morning?"

"Yeah..." Amon looks at the M4. "We'll reassess. As long as we have surprise, it should be quick."

Amon is talking like a commando. I can hear excitement in his voice, like he used to get when we were playing video games. He wants this, perhaps more than I.

"Anything else?" I ask.

Amon opens his door and steps out, slinging the M4 around his shoulder.

I guess not.

#

We wait for a car to pass before crossing Pima, then sprint to the other side of the road and proceed hunchbacked through sagebrush and tumbleweeds. My eyes adjust to the darkness and the other senses sharpen. Each footstep sounds loud, too loud, and I try to avoid a careless rustle or snap of vegetation. The mansion radiates a rupture of white against the black sky. A few more cars whizz past but they're hauling ass and we're concealed.

East Lone Mountain Road, a single lane of bitumen, bisects our path. You can hear things for miles in the open desert but tonight it's quiet. Not even the sound of a snake fart. I stick to the left side of the road and the others follow, panting from exertion. It seems to take forever to reach the foot of the driveway. I do head-math to calm down. I think I can walk a mile in 16 minutes. A half-mile would take 8 minutes but we're moving slower than this in our quest to be cautious. Say ten minutes for a half-mile. Longest 10 minutes of my life.

At last, the foot of the driveway is before us, lit by lamps stuck in the alcoves of stone pillars. It looks like a black river winding towards the mansion, which sits atop a small hill. From the balcony of the Pastor's bedroom the entire valley can be seen. I remember standing there after my last visit, naked and satisfied, staring at the city as Rochelle dozed in the bed behind me.

Shadowing the driveway, we crouch and scurry up the hill, avoiding stubby cactus and prickle bushes, until the land flattens and the entire mansion spreads before us. In the roundabout sits the Bronco and station wagon. Two men loiter by the hood of the wagon, staring in our direction. I doubt they can see us; we're a quarter mile distant. The front door is open and I hear talking, but the words are indistinguishable.

"How many guards?" Amon asks.

I shrug. He had five men with him at Pinnacle Peak...I think. I should've been paying better attention. I've seen the Pastor with as many as eight goons at his sermons.

"We could get them coming out of the house, one-at-a-time," Amon says, unslinging the M4.

I do more calculations in my head. A quarter mile equals 400 meters or 1,320 feet or 440 yards. Who said math wouldn't come in handy?

"You'd have to be a crack shot from this distance," I say. "It isn't worth the risk. We need to get closer." I roll over and lay on my back. "Amon, stay low and circle to the right until you've got an intersecting shot at the front door. Understand?"

"Si."

"Don't shoot until we do." I pat Dustin on the arm and say, "He's gonna put one in the Bronco, get them agitated. Then we'll see what we're up against. If they start working their way to us, you give them something else to consider."

"Got it."

"If we get swarmed, you have to come out shooting. If this means you got to put a bullet in somebody do it. But the Pastor is mine, understand. Everyone else is fair game."

Amon nods and taps my knuckles with his. "Easy as pie," he says. Then he stoops and scurries along the mound to the right, holding the M4 in his right hand. I lose sight of him but hear bushes stirring.

"How many times you been shooting?" I ask Dustin.

"My Dad took me to the desert when I was a kid. It's been a few years, but it's like fucking."

"You haven't fucked in a few years?"

He smiles and then says, "Walked into it, didn't I?"

I roll onto my stomach and crawl until I see the mansion again. Dustin is beside me, breathing hard. He sets the rifle in front of him and cracks his knuckles.

"You're going to pop a couple," I instruct. "Aim for the car or the truck. Fire for effect." I heard this line in a war movie and feel significant echoing it now.

"Fire for effect," Dustin repeats. He picks up the rifle and places the stock against his right shoulder. His left eye squeezes shut and his tongue pokes between his lips.

"Not until I say," I whisper.

He doesn't respond.

Amon has to be in position. I look his way but can only make out shadows.

The two men at the wagon stand with their arms crossed.

I wait a tick, deciding if I'm ready for whatever comes. I even say a prayer, as stupid it sounds. Would God condone what we're about to do?

Before I can give the greenlight, both bodyguards straighten and swivel towards the mansion.

"Now?" Dustin asks.

"Hold."

"I'm ready," he implores.

"Not yet."

The bodyguards move towards the door. In a moment I see why. Four children emerge, each carrying a suitcase. The Pastor's brood.

"Stand down," I say.

Dustin sighs and lowers the weapon.

I watch the kids climb into the backseat of the car. In a moment the Pastor is outside, leaning into the wagon. I hope he isn't leaving with them, but he's not. He gestures at the bodyguards, taps his wrist where the gaudy Rolex is wrapped, and shakes their hands. The two of them get into the front, start the engine and maneuver around the Bronco. The Pastor raises his hand as the car flies down the driveway. I sink down but there's no way we can be seen. At the end of the driveway, the Chevy turns left. I watch the taillights grow fainter until they're red smudges.

Out front, the Pastor puts his hands on hips and surveys the grounds. Perhaps he's taking a last look at his demesne. His head cocks and I wonder if he can smell us. I'd love to put a round through his melon and reach for the rifle. I'd miss, no doubt, but you never know. It'd be worth seeing his reaction either way.

I'm not shocked to see Bobby Reed emerge from the foyer with two gas cans. He looks ready to burn something else to the ground. He also appears in good spirits, smiling at the Pastor. I guess whacking his old lady, her lover and the two kids who weren't really his is good for the soul. Better than a Buddy Epson joke by the looks of it. Bobby's donkey laughter echoes in the ether.

Both of them are sitting ducks. Then Gregory appears with a briefcase. I could do it. Bang, bang, bang.

I slide the weapon towards me while Dustin watches, pick it up and fix the iron sights on the Pastor. Him first. I aim at his chest and I finger the trigger.

"Do it," Dustin whispers.

I know I won't miss. 400 meters, no wind, my cause is righteous. Take this seed, Pastor Morobito.

Before I can unleash retribution, the Pastor turns and presents his profile. Sherman appears from the house and motions at the sky. He waves his arms and Morobito scratches his cheek. Bobby and Gregory join the discussion and the group surrounds the Pastor until he's encircled.

"What are you waiting for," Dustin taunts. "You had him."

"I don't know," I admit, handing him the gun.

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to be face-to-face with the motherfucker when I pull the trigger."

"Wasn't a good boss, eh?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"I want to shoot my boss too."

I try to sound tough: "Aim for the Bronco. Amon knows what to do when the bullets fly."

"You ready, man?"

I removed the Glock, click off the safety, and nod.

Dustin grunts and adjusts the barrel. "No going back," he says, sounding excited.

"I know," I answer. "Let's play ball."

He closes his left eye again and I plug my ears with my index fingers.

"Aiming for the Bronco," he mutters. "Here it comes, baby."

The shot isn't loud but I flinch regardless. The driver's window shatters. The men duck and stare at the Ford...all of them except Bobby Reed. He keeps a cool head and has his hand halfway into his coat pocket when Dustin fires again. He's not aiming and his shots splatter soil around the Bronco. Bobby ducks into the house, doing a half-roll like a kung-fu master. He's abandoned the Pastor for the safety of concealment.

I'm up the embankment, Glock out, and Dustin's a step behind.

"Hand's up!" I shout. "All of you!"

I wonder what I look like as I materialize from the darkness. I must not appear threatening because nobody raises their hands. The Pastor even smirks.

"Hands up!" I repeat.

"You'll have to do better than this," Morobito says. He nods at Dustin, then me. "Two versus four isn't a fair fight."

Amon must be closer than I thought, or he has great hearing. Concealed in the brush, he squirts a volley into the sky. Morobito grimaces; his cheerful visage becomes craven and he takes a step backwards.

"Oh-oh, looks like we have another," I mock. "Come out, Bobby. The rest of you, hands up and get on your knees."

The three comply but Bobby's a no-show. I scan the balcony and glance into the entryway.

"He could be on the phone to the cops," Dustin says. "I'm going in after him."

"He's armed," I say. "And he's ex-police."

"Sure is," Morobito chuckles. "He's tangled with worse than pot-heads and a male whore."

"All the more reason to hustle," Dustin complains.

"What's in the briefcase?" I ask.

"My private papers," the Pastor says. "I'm bringing them to the peak. Did you see the light show tonight? The Angel Wheels are coming."

"You think?"

"I know. I saw them. We all saw them. Did you?"

"I saw something, but I don't think they were Angel Wheels."

"Why don't you run along, Brother John, and let me administer to my congregation. You can help yourself to whatever's in the house. I'm not going to need it after tonight. In fact, you can come with me. I'll save your soul and get you passage to the kingdom of light."

"If this kingdom has you in it, I'll pass."

"Your loss, Brother John."

"I hate to break it to, Pastor, but you aren't leaving the Earth in an Angel Wheel tonight."

I have to hand it to Pastor Morobito. He doesn't break character. Instead, he continues to smile. It's unnerving and starting to piss me off.

"I'm not afraid of death," he claims. "I've lived my whole life accepting mortality. It's you who is afraid."

I don't feel scared at the moment since I'm holding the gun, but Bobby lurking in the mansion is cause for apprehension.

Dustin has grown bored by the conversation. Or so it appears. He springs forward, grabs the briefcase and opens it. The contents fail to satisfy. He punts the case and the papers inside go flying.

"Where's the money?" Dustin demands, waving the rifle in the Pastor's face.

"Money?"

"It's in the house, isn't it?"

"Have at it, son," Morobito says. "I have no use for money where I'm going."

"Hold on," I tell Dustin, grabbing his arm.

"We came to rob these assholes," he spits. "Time is short. I'll deal with the dude in there. Hold these guys." Dustin wiggles from my fingers and marches into the foyer.

Hmm...I realize he's become a liability instead of an asset. This shouldn't be a surprise because after all...I mean, I don't want to be cruel but Dustin's not working with a lot in the brain department. The kid with Down's chained to the register at McDonald's is Einstein compared to my partner in crime.

"If you don't let us go," Morobito interjects, "you'll be facing Biblical wrath."

"Shut up." I need to decide what to do. I can't leave these men laying here and I don't want to bring Amon from his position of cover. I could shoot them, but Sherman doesn't deserve this fate.

I hear Dustin kick open a door with a thwack.

I look at Gregory and picture him coating me with cum, joy on his face.

"You raped me," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

"You deserved it," Gregory replies. No guilt, no shame, nope, nada, nothing.

Sherman looks at Gregory and recoils.

"You heard me," I say. "Tell him I'm lying."

"He's a drug addict and unclean," Gregory claims. If this is his defense, he could've picked a better way to present it.

My ears get warm and I hear a tone, high-pitched and punitive. I'm breathing though my mouth, loud-and-ragged. Sweat rolls down my cheek. I'd chosen to forget the experience but it's coming back. All-of-it. Without thinking I level the Glock, shoot...

...and miss. Gregory is four feet from me but the bullet strikes the house behind him. A neat hole appears in the white stucco. I can't believe it and neither can he. He runs his hands over his shirt.

"The Lord won't let you harm us," Morobito says.

Fuck the Good Lord. I've got eight more bullets and another nine in the clip jiggling in my pocket. I pull the trigger again...

...and score a hit. The bullet rips through Gregory's neck and he tumbles, gasping as blood pours onto the ground.

I raise my eyebrows and smirk at the Pastor.

"Brother Gregory is in a better place now," Morobito says in a whisper.

Not yet he isn't. Gregory wheezes and claws at the wound.

"Don't shoot me!" Sherman shouts.

I hear scuffling to my right and pivot. Amon emerges, sweeping the area with the M4. He's not interested in the casualty lolling on the ground.

"We've got to get going," he says. "Where's Dustin?"

"He went inside looking for loot," I report.

"Dustin!" Amon hollers. "C'mon man. Leave it." To me: "Finish up."

"There's still the other guy. Bobby. He's lurking."

"Prolly pissing his pants."

"I doubt it."

"Shit, all the more reason to shove off. Take care of these two so we can get the last."

I have no problem dispatching the Pastor. Sherman...I guess he's as much a victim of the Phoenix as me. It's a tough break, but what can I do? I raise the gun.

"No!" Sherman pleads. "Please, have mercy! I didn't hurt you, Brother John!"

From inside the mansion I hear the rattle of gunfire. A pause. More shots, the rapid discharge of the Type 89. A scream. Sounds like Dustin. Then small arms fire, four shots. A window shatters. Two more shots. Silence.

Amon walks to the entryway. As he passes the Pastor, he cracks him in the head with the stock of the M4. Morobito groans and topples on his side.

"Dustin!" Amon calls from the entryway.

There's no answer.

"Don't go inside," I warn.

"Hurry up," Amon hisses. His head is turned towards me and I see spittle flying from his mouth. Effervescent driblets illuminated by the lights. And then, like a magician's trick, his face disbands. Not _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ liquefy; it doesn't turn to mush. Amon...detonates. The sputum becomes blood and teeth. He keeps his feet and swats at his face like he'd been stung by an insect. The physical pain lags a second behind the demolition.

So does the gunshot. I heard it as Amon slaps his hand to the gaping hole in his cheek. His eyes roll, little pinballs, and he falls to his knees. Another report. The gravel at my feet jumps.

"Fuck," Amon groans. His finger squeezes the M4's trigger, a reflex action, and the gun discharges. It's deafening and I fall backwards on my ass. The barrel of the M4 isn't aimed at anyone and sprays rounds in a limited area. I'm not clipped. The pain in my groin is me about to toss Taco Bell. Not so fortunate is Morobito and Sherman. They're razed by the discharge. Shot in the torso and legs. And boy are they screaming. It's music to my ears.

From my seat, I see Bobby Reed taking aim from the entryway.

"Amon!" I yell. I know he's got bigger problems than heeding me, but I think he tries to acknowledge by opening the half-of-his-mouth which is visible. What can I say to him? Duck? He's fucked. A second later the top of his head explodes and he tumbles forward.

I propel backwards with my feet, sliding towards the embankment outside the glow of lights. Bobby takes a few more shots as I slither away, and then he retreats. I stop and take a second to collect myself. I hear the barrel of the M4 cooling. Morobito is wounded and his hands cover a growing stain of blood on his shirt. Gut shot. Good. Sherman isn't moving. If he's playing possum he's doing a good job. He has the no-breathing part down. Even got the fake blood working. It's pooling by his face. How does he keep his eyes from blinking? Method acting at its finest.

I laugh and my stomach hurts. I try to scoot but my legs don't work. They're splayed in front of me like pieces of kindling. No big deal. Take a deep breath. Remember how to use your legs, Johnny? Tell them to move. Brain, make the right leg kick.

Nothing.

How about the left? A twitch, a spasm...something!

Bobby pokes his head from around the front door. At least my arms work. I raise the Glock and fire. I miss, but his ugly mug withdraws like it's pulled by a string. Bobby Reed, the perverted puppet.

Something's wrong with me. I don't feel bad, but I'm not one hundred percent. My fucking stomach is throbbing and my groin feels squishy. Maybe I landed in a puddle.

"Give it up," Bobby tells me in a muffled voice.

My vision is distorted. I'm watching through the wrong end of binoculars. Morobito looks miniature and his legs spasm in slow-motion. I shake my head and try to restore my sight.

"Amon," I say in a strong voice. It booms through my head, vibrant and commanding, but the words never leave my lips. What's the point? He's not going to answer. Amon's been scalped. His brains have been splattered.

I lie back and stare at the sky. Breathing's becoming difficult. Well shit...I guess I've been shot. I'm not sad or angry. I knew there was a chance of this. The problem now is one of mobility. How will I get away? I can't crawl to the car. It's too far. I'd be dragging limbs over cactus. Think, man. I need to close my eyes. Gather myself. My legs might work after some rest.

Fuck, I'm cold. Shivering. I need something to keep me warm. It's stupid to go camping in the desert without a blanket. It's chilly 'cause of radiation cooling at night...I heard this on tv. NOVA. I learned more from NOVA than I did in school.

I don't notice the figure crouching over me until it nudges my face with a boot. It's dark and the form is shadowy. It steps on my wrist, this hurts, and I flex my hand, releasing whatever it was I was holding. It kicks it into shrubbery.

"I need a blanket, Mom," I croak. "And some water. I'm thirsty."

"I ain't your Ma," it says in a tinny voice.

"Where is she?"

"You've had it," it declares.

And I, confused, croak, "Had what?"

It bends and stares into my eyes. A man, stubble and sweat on his face. I know him, but how?

"Took balls to do this," he says. "Too bad your balls are blown off now."

I feel lightheaded and open my mouth to suck in air.

"I'll be back in a minute. Don't die on me. I've something special for you."

Sure, no problem buddy. Take your time. I'll kip. Lie here with Courtney. She's next to me, nuzzling her head in my neck. Kissing me. We're under the stars, at Peralta Trail, on a blanket. When we roll around, sand gets under my shirt. It's itchy and-

Courtney vaporizes. I'm being pulled. My head hits a rock. Then concrete. A stair, make it two, and then a third. The jostling rattles sense, awakens my moribund cognizance, and induces an agonizing reality. This isn't how it was supposed to go. I planned on standing over the Pastor's body. And Bobby. Stand over them and beat my chest. Not be dragged like a piece of wood and hauled into the Pastor's mansion to saturate his plush white carpet with blood. This wasn't my plan, goddamn it!

Next is the splash of gasoline, a pungent smell I've come to adore. I'm drenched in a fragrant, unctuous perfume.

I wrench my head to the right and see Brother Bobby emptying the gas can. He tosses it on the floor and puts hands on hips. His mouth is moving but I can't make out the words. His face is misaligned. A Picasso painting. Abstract. The fumes from the gas have made me dizzy. It's prolly better I can't hear him anyway.

I guess he realizes this as he flicks the lighter. He understands he's won. Why gloat? I recognize I've lost. At least for the moment. When my legs get better, I'll chase him down. I'll make him suffer. And if I can't...ha, I have a seed in a woman's belly. It's a clump of cells at this moment, but it'll grow. I hope it will form into a boy, like I once was. Courtney will keep it warm in her tummy and my seed will bloom. She's got my seed money to nurture our flower. And one day my boy will find Bobby Reed. Find him and make him suffer.

I grin at Bobby.

He drops the lighter; fuel ignites and flames form a barrier between us. They stretch across the floor, lapping the trail of gasoline, growing rosy and malicious.

Brother Bobby wipes his hands, leaving me to burn, and helps the Pastor to his feet. I see them through a ripple of smoke before the fire crawls up my arm. Fuck, maybe it's a mirage...I can't tell anymore. The only sense I know for sure is pain and I'm in a lot of it.

This is how it's going to end and I'm not upset. Trust me, I'm not. After all, death is inevitable. I accept the end because, deep down, I've always sought it more than living. I spent so much time escaping reality I might as well not exist. Now I have my chance and it's a glorious termination to a shitty life. Besides, what am I gonna do about it?

Fire, my first love, has come to claim me. If my genitals hadn't been shot off, I'd die with a hard-on. It's a fitting end, don't you think?

