LOST IN TIME

(Lost Tales from the

Land of Broken Homes)


Vance Munraff


















Copyright

Lost in Time
(Lost Tales from the Land of Broken Homes)

First Edition

Copyright 2013 Michael Farnum/Flying Monkey Publications

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-304-52210-8


This work is licensed under the Creative

Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported

License. To view a copy of this license, visit:

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The following contains explicit language and descriptions
of graphic violence and sexual situations.


This is a work of fiction.
Any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.








For my first babies, Lillia and Zen.
And the future twins.
Keep the crazy coming .

And for Gram, may she rest in eternal peace.
Yes, we are all still working.






Synopsis: Lost In Time

The zombie apocalypse has already happened.
Or has it? Little Mikey Freeman, the strange and disturbingly silent young loner,
believes he can see the future. And it is not pretty.
Silent Mikey also sees and talks to dead people.
At least they speak to him. Or do they?
As a deeply troubled pre-teen was he in fact transformed
for all eternity into a blood-thirsty creature of the night
by his babysitter, the seductive vampire pedophile from next door?
Or is it all in his troubled little time-traveling head?
Tag along on this dark and twisted psychological journey from the white trash wilds of
western Kentucky to the unforgiving streets of Chicago, as our tragic protagonist
traverses the endless pitfalls of his own disturbed, idiosyncratic absentee father; attempts
to survive within the unenviable ranks of his hopelessly dysfunctional fractured family.
And then into adulthood, just a poor, oppressed bloodsucker trying to make it in this
vicious human-eat-human world; our moody anti-hero forced to navigate a precarious
gauntlet of big city villainsevil bosses,
bad cops and treacherous femme fatalesupon
his oft ill-fated quest for redemption, love,
peace of mind and, most importantly, gainful employment. Do you dare to become . . .
lost in time?










PROLOGUE: THE BEGINNING OF THE END




Judgment Day Down on the Farm

by Michael Lance Freeman

It's a hard livin' down on the farm
One hunderd sad acres to plow and to tend
Not one mother lovin' crop in the yard
At the evil day's end

It's so much drama
A dozen hungry little mouths to feed
So help me, Mama
All my animals got freed
And nothing but zombies on the TV

What was that noise I heard?
Here they come now
Ain't no cows
Blood-suckin Apocalyptic herd
Invadin' my sacred compound

This life down on the farm
It's so hard, Mama.
Not much long for this world, I fear.
Guess it's just my karma
Ya'll don't come round here no more, hear?
So help me, Mama . . .

















He did so love the smell of chlorine in the morning.
Freeman's hefty well-oiled Kalashnikov rifle, free-floating as it
rested on its own special jerry-rigged pool float, began to drift
dangerously towards the deep end. No worries, his favorite lethal
weapon of the week, more commonly known as the AK-47, was attached to a
six-foot leather drawstring should the need arise, double-knotted on
this end to his sinewy hair-trigger left wrist. The impressive weapon
of war--Russian-made, easy-to-use, powerful and fairly accurate, not
horribly reliable in the thick of the fight, at least according to the
dusty old American propaganda history books--had belonged to his wife's
quite possibly psychotic ex-husband. That asshole was long gone now.
But then again, so was she.
Who wasn't, really?
Outside the poolside courtyard, well-secured with a double better-
paranoid-than-zombified layer of archaic Bouncing Betty land mines, the
decrepit privacy fence topped off with a thorny Jesus crown of razor
wire, a murderer's row of mutant ravens and blue jays hovered like so
many starving turkey vultures. Even the normally docile flock of gi-
normous blood-red cardinals perched warily, suspiciously restless, upon
the lofty tops of the strangely blossoming nearby peach and apple
trees, the distant wind-swept evergreens. He dreaded the day the
actual turkey vultures showed up.
Michael had learned a lot about weapons, killing, survival in
general since the End of the World. Mainly through trial and error.
There were no more smart phone apps, no more Internet. All those
basically worthless 1-800 Help lines manned by idiot robots or clueless
foreigners, just a bad memory. And even getting to the pitiful Jethro
County Library, just a stone's throw away in this sleepy little ghost
town could be a real bitch. Too many bloodthirsty monsters out there,
freakish mutants controlled the back roads, the main roads, the better
part of tiny downtown Renaissance, Indiana, a godforsaken shit hole if
there ever was one. Thank the non-existent gods his wife, the nerdy
beautiful knowledge-hungry and sadly disgruntled country baby doctor,
had amassed quite the impressive eclectic collection of textbooks and
literature, trashy romance (soft porn) fiction and otherwise.
Or had it been her long-dead ex-whatever?
Lucretia never spoken much about the asshole. Simply called him
the Anti-Christ. An impotent, socially-retarded lunatic genius
hellbent on destroying the world if there ever was one. Said they had
a horribly overpriced wedding, a crappy honeymoon in Maui, also way too
expensive. Could count on one hand the times they had consummated
their lonely, short-lived marriage. Warmongering weirdo obsessively
collected countless mini-armies of those creepy little military
replicas. Literally millions of them scattered about the estate, from
Viking warriors to Roman gladiators to Desert Storm paratroopers duking
it out with Al Qaeda suicide bombers, just to name a few. Frequently
left her alone for days on end to attend his never ending paint ball
warrior weekends, his seemingly endless rigmarole of college reunions,
his incessant itinerary of War Re-enactor conventions. American
Revolution, Civil War between the States, Reagan's glorious Invasion of
Grenada, you name it. Supposedly the jerk left her out of the clear
blue nowhere. Took off with some mystery floozy he had speciously
hooked up with on some shady Christian Holy Rollers on the Make
Internet hook-up site. Asshole just disappeared off the face of the
earth one day years ago. Loser probably ended up living with his
mother back in godforsaken Iowa somewhere.
The last cotton pickin' straw for him apparently, the normally
timid-as-a-country-mouse Lucretia finally putting her foot down for the
last straw of the arrogant idiot's ridiculous self-serving nonsense.
She adamantly refused to allow him to host upon her conveniently
sizable back lot the official sesquicentennial anniversary of
Renaissance's famously bloody battle of Blackhawk Creek, fought in the
War of Northern Aggression on this very land almost precisely one
hundred and fifty years ago to the day. Of course this would entail
the extravagant re-creation of a full-scale battle complete with a
harrowing stampede of at least hundreds of his fellow war re-creation
nerdlings streaming in from the tri-state area. The refreshments alone
would break them financially, she rightfully feared. And what would
the neighbors think?
Not without good reason, she would later confess apropos of
nothing really, Dr. Strangelove suspected the very odd man was a
similarly evil-minded reincarnation of none other than John Wilkes
Boothe, himself.
Meanwhile, Michael would go on to diligently gather a bit more
from his own independent Internet investigation.
A prodigal bio-chemical researcher and professor discreetly
expelled from Harvard and M.I.T., respectively, due to some egregiously
unethical bio-chemical experimentation on animal and human subjects,
allegedly. According to unofficial sources the dirty scoundrel had
accrued a nasty reputation for using and abusing his unsuspecting
students,illicit fraternization, sexual harassment, extorting sexual
favors for grades, stalking, just to name a few off-the-record charges.
A top secret Black Ops anti-terrorist operative officially terminated
from each the National Security Agency in Washington, D.C. and
Atlanta's Center For Disease Control, respectively, for gross
misconduct, insubordination, treason, a fact confirmed on the Internet.
Subsequently, a chronically disgruntled demolitions expert kicked out
of the local National Guard unit for a battery of charges, including
the felonious assumption of a false identity, as reported in the local
Renaissance Reporter. A truly embarrassing scandal for the promising
young new town doctor, to say the least.
Anonymous sources also loosely confirmed the dim-witted local
keystone country coppers had even tentatively targeted Slick Rick as a
person of interest in relation to an unpublicized pattern of young
people, mainly lonely students far away from home, prostitutes and
street hustlers, mysteriously gone missing throughout the Midwest in
recent months. The man's subsequent job as a freelance exterminator
traveling widely throughout the tri-state area, as well as his short-
lived enlistment in the National Guard, certainly fit the profile of
means and opportunity. It was also no secretto everyone besides La
Senora Doc-tore, it seemedthat Tricky Ricky had fallen in with a rogue
faction within the Guard, a nasty band of criminal misfits, outlaw
bikers and skin head white supremacists who had been preying upon law-
abiding locals for decades from the well-armed confines of their
backwoods trailer park survivalist compound down yonder, the nastier
side of town.
Just a side note: Poor Ricky's mother had died under mysterious
circumstances over a decade ago, by the way.
Like most of the poor unloved thing's tragic life, some seriously
depressing stuff.

But frankly at the moment, Freeman, this godless world's lone
survivor was far more concerned with the damned nose-diving shitbirds
nabbing his half-eaten Hostess cherry pie, dipping into his fast-
melting Agent Orange Kool-Aid margarita. If one or more of the flesh-
eating freaks did manage to breach the painstakingly booby-trapped
perimeter he'd hear them coming a mile away. Dead silent out here now.
Just like he liked it. No more trusty Illinois Central or Santa Fe
Express rumbling Zen-like through this godforsaken town. No more sonic
reverb from the endless I-65 rat race just past the refulgent corn
fields. And even if he did carelessly drift off to a restful slumber,
he was pretty sure even a mediocre athlete like him could out-swim,
out-run and out-jump the pestilent slow-moving bastards. About a forty
yard dash away, the rope ladder hung fairly high from the balcony of
the master bedroom, the only entry to the Blue Mansion he had not
double-boarded up, inside and out, or spot-welded shut. If he did
somehow get outnumbered, surrounded, swallowed up by the bloody
darkness, well, he was getting tired of being on vacation anyways.
C'est la vie, what the hell. Day by day he was growing so very very
weary. Of everything.
When he did stop to think. he tried not to as much as possible, it
made him a bit sad this was his ethereal, fucked-up reality now. Here
today, gone tomorrow. Quite possibly by his own suicidal hand, or
whatever else was out there . . .


But it's blue under the waves
In the calm of my obsidian . . .

Seeing ghosts, hearing voices, Fiona Apple. Michael Freeman knew
he was going crazy. Oblivion? So far gone he could not even recall
the words anymore.
Yet another sad, haunting love-hate song played in his head
bittersweetly and likely would to all eternity. A lonely funeral
dirge, maybe a burial at lake or sea. A lovely post-apocalyptic piece
by his beloved Fiona. He was cautious to keep the volume level on his
Eighties era boom box well below Ten, so as not to disturb the not-so-
friendly neighborhood Creepers. His poor overworked songbird starting
to sound a frightful bit like batshit crazy Ozzie all of a sudden.
Perhaps it was time for a long overdue battery change. But then again
those bloody freaks seemed to detest the slightest hint of Big Hair
hard rock from back in the day. A seriously inconvenient deterrent.
Truth be told Michael could not stand it as well.

Seeing ghosts, hearing voices.
As if drop-kicked about the fenced-in courtyard by some phantom
child, a playful prairie wind, in constant motion, never resting, the
giant multi-colored beach ball bounced, rolled, somersaulted around the
pool side rectangle of white-hot concrete. Roughly skidding, smoothly
para-sailing across the ice-blue pane of grave-still water. On and on
he watched, inexplicably mesmerized by this mundane phenomenon. A body
could lay out here in the harsh Midwestern mid-summer sun forever, just
let himself burn to an unholy crisp, like a true vampire should, they
would say. Earth's last presumed keeper of time had lost count of the
month let alone the year. Hell's bells, any body's guess was as good
as his. Judging by the late morning sun: July, August, October, maybe.
But what else was there to do anymore, really, but watch the not-so-
green-anymore grass slowly die? These days it was more like knee-high
hay. Some real monster weeds out there. No telling who or what was
hiding in them. Freeman had not fired up the John Deere in ages, it
seemed.
He had a freshly sharpened machete for clearing a path should the
need arise. Obviously, it was not worth wasting the precious gasoline.

Seeing ghosts, hearing voices.
High above, he could still see them sometimes. Daddy's Terrible
Twosome. Respectively, little Zephyr, his rambunctious sometimes Zen-
calm son, and daughter Stormy, his beloved possibly bi-polar firstborn
by a mere thirty seconds or so. From the cathedral-esque arch of
their hopelessly bird poop-splattered picture window two floors above,
the spacious dream bedroom his precious little near-identical dark-
eyed droogs reluctantly sharedtwo weekends a month, one week at
Christmas, at least two during summer breakFreeman could still make
out their frenetic tiny forms desperately trying to get his attention.
Little shits furiously waving away like a pair of angry frustrated
avians who refuse to accept the fact they will never be able to fly
through that three-inch pane of glass no matter how many times their
hard, little bird brains try. Daddy's lost, little angels protectively
looking down upon him, misguided guardians nervously imploring him to
look up at them. To somehow acknowledge their tenuous, fleeting,
priceless existence.
Daddy, Daddy, please wake up. Please don't die, we need you,
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy . . .
Oh, the endless heartbreaking joys of being a part-time parent,
weakened weekend father. Sadly all semblance of sentimentality had to
be repressed, banished even, in times of pure life-or-death.
Freeman knew he should set out in search of them, but where to
begin? Shortly before the End, his first ex-wife, the flighty bitch,
had fled with the kids. In bold defiance of a meaningless court order,
probably taken that ridiculous government social worker job on the rez,
her do-gooder lifelong dream. Badlands of South Dakota? Navajo
Nation, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, who knew?
Batshit crazy braud.

Seeing ghosts, hearing voices.
His mind was tripping, slipping like a badly stripped lug nut.
The twins were not Big Daddy Michael's first born, Freeman had recently
come to find. He had another daughter out there, somewhere. Fragile-
looking Spanish beauty with a killer smile, just a teenager. He had
barely gotten a chance to know her, before all this. Born and raised
in the mean streets of midtown Manhattan, Katrina the second seemed
like a tough enough kid. She would have to be now.

Seeing ghosts, hearing voices.
Just like he had as a kid. Called him batshit crazy. No, boy,
you can't really see dead people, or speak to them. No you are not a
true vampire. If so, why don't you crumble instantly to dust the
instant you step out into the daylight, they would say. That was so
stupid, Mikey would righteously reply. A ridiculous, ancient myth.
Yes, of course direct sunlight at high noon could be a bit of a
headache, which was why he so painstakingly avoided it in his early
years, duh! Obsessively wore the Blues Brothers shades, indoors or
out. By now he was a highly advanced vamp who had obviously mastered
daylight tolerance, myriad other supernatural skills ages ago. A
little sunscreen, the highest SPF he could find under the sun, of
course, a giant beach umbrella jerry-rigged to his float, Freeman was
good to go. Fun in the sun.
Locked him up for years, they did, his reluctant heartbroken
parents; his no-nonsense totally Old School grandparents, a devout pair
of die-hard Roman Catholics from hard-knocks Chi-town.
Sadly, most of his human family had passed on, long before the
friggin' Armageddon.
Hey, Mikey! Wanna go outside and play?
From time to endless time his troubled mind briefly lingered on
his dead little sister, the one who had drowned just shy of her
thirtieth birthday that cold, late October day. Five, six, maybe ten
years ago now? The two of them had been close in age but little else.
As kids they fought like a street dog and an alley cat. That bony-
assed bitch was always the dirtiest fighter. I'm going to take
something of yours. And hide it forever! But a good little swimmer
was Alyssa Lee back in the day growing up on the Kentucky Ridge. Wild-
eyed crazy-haired little shit could outrun the daylights out of him on
land, but was no match for Michael in the water, though the older she
got come pretty darned close.
With no permanent grave site to mark her untimely passing, he
imagined the poor thing's eternally lost soul venturing the ends of the
earth like she had alive, forever but a ghost.
But who the hell wasn't these days, my brothers and sisters? What
else could you be in the midst of an entire planet-fucked zombie
apocalypse.
These days you were either a hunter, a monster or the meat . . .

Where was his precious Vampire Nation now when he finally needed
them? Two hundred dollars a year in non-voluntary membership dues, for
what? Government-mandated liability insurance. That around-the-world
(except for certain parts of China and North Korea) vampire crisis
counseling and legal referral service bullshit. So-called 24/7
emergency FUBAR assistance. If this shit was not totally Fucked Up
Beyond All Recognition, he didn't know what was.
Michael Freeman was dying, slowly, painfully. Obviously a vampire
could not survive the apocalypse with no healthy human hosts to feed
upon. He could not bring himself to feed on the flesh-eating freaks.
The devil only knew what that shit would do to him. The rats, raccoons
and rabbits; the bloody creepy-eyed possum, the pesky, pestilential
lawn-obliterating groundhogs; the occasional coyote, fox or North
American white-tailed deer were bad enough. He wouldn't touch the
skunks with a ten-foot swimming pool skimmer. He was growing weary of
killing Bambi. And all that was far too much work for the pitifully
meager payoff. Just like that tired, old John Deere or his gas-
guzzling stolen military Hummer, he was running on absolute empty.
The minuscule bit of humanity left in Michael would not allow him
to destroy the beautiful, sad-eyed creature from the abandoned farm
down the road. Though he had slaughtered the few surviving piggies
quite a while ago, he rescued the stunning silver-haired albino
Appaloosa without a second thought. And, however reluctantly, her
little friend, the ornery black goat aptly named Satan. Breathtakingly
gorgeous, she was, the white horse, like nothing he had ever seen,
before or after the apocalypse. He brought her into the backyard pole
barn, faithfully visited the noble old lady hoss several times a week.
Fed her and the insatiable little black-horned beast from the seemingly
endless bounty of apples, peaches, berries and hay growing on the good
doctor's estate. Slowly but surely gaining the old girl's trust,
cautiously walking her about the back lot. Perchance to ride his own
personal unicorn someday, his foolish private fantasy. Lovely Lady
Pegasus.
Tragically, Freeman would have to go to ground soon, he knew.
Literally, deep down into the ground; enter a state of deep, mindless
hibernation, not unlike secret vampire prison. Pray to the gods by
some miracle the human race would re-populate itself to some viable
degree in the tenuous centuries to come. The mere thought of it scared
the bloody bat shit out of him. But what was the alternative?
Surrender. Just lie here and let the bleeding Creepers devour him.
And they would, sooner or later. Blow up all his diligently lain
gauntlet of head-chopping booby traps and de-limbing land mines,
penetrate the perimeter like a bloody raging stampede of the Black
Death. Closing in fast, they were.
Like the non-existent human race once upon a time, likewise mostly
brain dead, way too many of them for his liking.
Michael prayed his wayward trio of vamp children instinctively
knew enough to do the same.

Seeing ghosts, hearing voices. Losing his grip on reality.
After Fiona, another lovely bit of music now playing softly on his
old 1980s boom box. Ben Harper's soulful rendition of Strawberry
Fields. Anything remotely Beatles-like brought the bloody freaks
running like a house of fire, a mad stage rush of hysterical mutant
teenagers. They seemed to detest heavy metal. But then again so did
he.
All things considered, it was still a beautiful night. July,
August, early October maybe, judging by that big, spooky, fulsome
harvest moon. He had the Tiki torches fired up to ward off the bat-
sized skeeters.. The slowly dying string of Japanese lantern solar
lights gently haloed the old, wind-battered privacy fence. Blinking,
fading, silently biting the dust like so many capricious fireflies in
the velvety darkness. Oh how little Zephie and Stormy did so love to
chase those elusive little buggers to cap off another blissful day of
their fast-fleeting summer break. The humid night air heavy with the
turgid aroma of burning charcoal and lighter fluid, something else not
quite right. He had a real nice bonfire ablaze out back. Another
hellish mother lode of charbroiled flesh eaters lighting up the night.
A virtual poor man's feast: foot-long hot prairie dogs, coyote burgers
and venison sizzling up real nice on the grill of his poolside fire
pit. Supper's on! Come 'n' get it while it's hot, kiddos.

Seeing ghosts, hearing voices.
How he did so love the smell of germ-killing chlorine bleach in
the morning. And most of all Freeman loved his beautiful, still nearly
pristine, sky blue Olympic-sized swimming pool, complete with spring-
action diving board and irresistible corkscrew water slide. Still
plenty of pool chemicals in stock by some miraculous back stroke of
luck. And much more. Reams and reams of cat food, dog food, baby
food, batteries, candles, toilet paper, household cleaning products,
cosmetics, hair and beauty enhancement shit, arts and crafts,
scrapbooking supplies, Dr. Love's bizarre everything-Barbie-under-the-
sun private museum (probably worth a bloody fortune back in the day),
an unspeakable quantity of relatively soft-core lady porn and personal
sexual enhancements, freeze-dried rations, canned goods, bottled water,
Kool-Aid, Twinkies, bloody Mountain Doo-doo and diet Dr. Pee-per. Very
sadly, not a drop of true genuine unadulterated Coca-cola.
Thank the non-existent gods for small favors, Dr. Strangelove had
been quite the hoarder back in the day, bless her precious little
penny-pinching Polish Bohemian heart. It almost made him regret
tossing the tons of expired food in her pantry; donating or trashing
the bags and bags of meaningless clutter and closet detritus left over
from the doctor's troubled, mysterious past. He had been prudently
downsizing for their planned move out west, pre-apocalypse. Their
brand new post-modern luxury desert home would have to have a kick-ass
swimming pool, of course. It was a bloody shame lovely Lucretia had
never learned to swim, poor thing . . .

Hearing ghosts, seeing voices. Dead Civll War soldiers.
Blackhawk Indians. Countless lost and bloody-faced dead girls, and
boys, ceaselessly begging for his help. I wanna go home, I wanna go
home, just help me, help me, somehow to get back home.
Michael Freeman knew he was going off the deep end, sinking fast.
Perhaps just a wee little bit batshit crazy, brothers and sisters.
FUBAR. FUBAR. FUBAR. Not with a Bang, but a whimper.
This was a lonely life. Enjoy it while it lasts.





















PART ONE: GROWING UP


CHAPTER ONE: SILENT MIKEY

Yes, indeed, today was surely another beautiful day in his beloved dirt poor
Deep South paradise. Here comes your Daddy's next nervous breakdown . . .
Young Mikey Freeman wakes to find himself sitting alone on the slightly crooked
cement porch of Uncle Mick and Auntie Tatiana's weather-beaten old canary yellow
trailer, back in the days of his tempestuous, short-lived Kentucky childhood. Courtesy
of the Top 40 AM station out of Chicago, from somewhere nearby a crappy transistor
plays the Eagles' debut release of Hotel California for the umpteenth time. This is
weird. It's been decades since any of his people has lived in these godforsaken
backwoods. With the notable exception of old Uncle Mickey, the last he had heard.
The malformed front half of the dilapidated carport roof still hung dangerously low.
Jagged corner railing still conspicuously bent in like an old crone's misshapen limb from
Auntie Tatiana accidentally bashing into it countless times with that giant old boat of a
Delta 88. He hoped poor Titi's driving had not improved with age, God bless her.
He remembers most of all being upset over his missing pet, a mercurial black cat
stray that disappeared that last summer, just as mysteriously as it had materialized on
their front doorstep the year before. Mikey called him Lazarus, after his favorite-New-
Testament-character-of-the-week. Baby sister Alyssa Lee called it by some sickeningly
cutesy little kid name not even worth mentioning. Poor thing probably could not
tolerate the identity crisis. Though, truth be told, all these wayward spirits of the dead
wandering about would fuck with you. He suspected they might be behind that shit.
Tricky little bastards did not always own up to their supernatural hi jinx.
Discreetly looking over his strangely shrunken ethereal body, Mikey realizes his very
young self cannot be much older than his very own twin monsters, little Zephyr and
Stormy, maybe seven or eight.
Somehow he has fallen down a mystical rabbit hole in Dr. Love's atrociously critter-
ravaged yard, traveled back in time. Or maybe had stepped on one of his own
precariously placed land mines, somehow ascended to Heaven. Or landed right back
here again for the umpteenth time, back in hell on earth.
Hey hey there, Mikey Mike! What do you say, you precocious little shit?
Not much of nothing, never ever, ol' Mr. Clever. Out of the clear blue nowhere his
favorite one and only Kentucky Uncle greets the boy with a big grin, grasps his delicate
shoulder with that painfully zestful Geronimo-vice grip. Who should appear right there
before his young, disbelieving eyes but loquacious Mick the Mustache, his very own
Godfather. His Daddy's slightly more sociable twin sibling. Suspiciously under-dressed
in shiny yellow Happy Face boxers, the man's tall, wiry form saunters out the ragged
front screen door with a disconcerting slam of corrugated metal and cheap-ass plastic
glass.
It's hotter than unholy hell out here today. His entire skin itching something fierce,
from head to sneakered feet. He could certainly use an ice-cold Coca-cola quite badly,
but at this point would settle for a drink of lukewarm water. His nicely tanned little
stomach is growling something fierce, emitting noises like a caged tiger. Much to the
defenseless kids' peril, their less-than-diligent patriarch Big Daddy Freeman must be in
charge of kid sitting today. Tricky Dick, the man child. Good ol' Daddy dearest,
perennial Absentee Father of the Year.
Just across the gravel pathway, past his own humble home, that sadly run-down old
piss-green fishing cabin, Mikey spots old Miss Ellie, tireless neighborhood watchdog.
Mindless and carefree, she happily waves to him across the way from her squeaky front
porch rocker at the degenerate no-name back road motel next door. If he recalled
correctly good ol' girl had passed away middle of the winter at a modest eighty-eight if
she were a day. Michael has never told another living soul he can see ghosts. Most
notably his own personal guardian angel, in the ethereal form of his recently deceased
seventeen year old Godmother, Auntie Lucia. Never told nobody much of nothing for
that matter. Plainly speaking, it was the eight-hundred pound flying purple elephant
quietly hanging over their collective homes like a cartoon airbus. The strange fact that
the boy, in fact, did not speak. Poor thing barely uttered a peep, never had so far as
anyone could rightly recall. Ever. At least not since the so-called Treehouse Incident.
Which had solemnly never been spoken of amongst the presumably guilt-ridden young
parties in question ever since that fateful day a few years back.
I got it! You take it! Oh, shit the bed, HEADS UP BELOW! DUCK, YOU
SUCKERS!

Oh, shee-it the bed. What the hail we gonna do with you, Mikey . . . Eying his
unexpected visitor suspiciously, the man cannot suppress a devilish smirk, a hearty
chuckle despite himself, apparently at his young nephew's expense. Mikey looks down
in silent horror to see his skinny, tanned legs, his arms, obviously his face as well,
slathered in pink shit. An unfortunate consequence of his latest unauthorized foray into
Wildcat Woods with his fearless leader, he suddenly recalls. Poison ivy or sumac. Ever
since a tot, the poor sheltered Golden Boy has always been inconveniently
hypersensitive to all that messy-ass outdoor nature shit.
Cousin Tony leading you down the road to ruin again? his mildly sympathetic
Uncle Mick wryly comments through that same mischievous grin. No worries.
His eccentric mentor has unwittingly reminded him of far more relevant present
circumstances. More to the point, the main reason young Mikey has been constantly
hanging out at Mick and Titi's of late, purposely avoiding home at all costs. Not that his
parents would be likely to notice if he committed murder, with momma working such
long hours and daddy sleeping the same hours, recovering from his latest nervous
breakdown. But better safe than sorry.
Truth be told, back then he probably would have followed his undisputed childhood
hero, twelve-year old cousin Tony, to hell and back. Wildcat Woods, just down yonder
behind their houses, was not exactly hell, but they sure had raised some yesterday, after
the party. Once the fireworks were gone, the party was pretty much done. Enjoying
one last romp in the wilderness they terrorized small animalssquirrels, rabbits, wild
turkeyswith Tony's BB-rifle. Committed the cardinal sin of shooting at, perhaps
wounding the sacrosanct official state bird. (A dreadfully unfortunate accident to which
his remorseful cousin had sworn him to eternal secrecy.) Hacked to death with Uncle
Mick's Vietcong machete a vicious rattle snake. Or so said Tony. Probably just a
harmless garter snake. Worst of all, despite the indescribable childlike euphoria they
experienced in the process, he and Tony succeeded in destroying the longstanding
backwoods sanctuary.
There it sat for the past six years, secluded in the lofty heights of that majestic,
ancient, gnarly-limbed black oak, which stood like a lonely island at the center of a
beautiful open meadow, resplendently knee-high with a halo of golden wheat grass, a
virtual kaleidoscope of wild flowers glittering in the sun. The big kids, Gabby and
Lucinda, having found more secure locations to drink beer, smoke pot and make out
with boys (or in Gabby's case, girls), likely had not been back here in years. Tony had
just started his first summer job, working off the books as a dock rat down at Kentucky
Lake Marina. If it wasn't work, it was training for the young tennis phenom. Every day
his slave-driving coach, Uncle Mick, had him doing grueling practice drills and playing
endless sets down at the public courts in town. Only Mikey came back here anymore, to
hang out by himself, to secretly commune with the spirits. Borderline ramshackle even
before the imminent destruction, the sacred old tree house was now torn and ripped
apart board by board with a couple of rusty claw hammers, the worthless tools long left
behind probably ever since its historic, half-assed construction. Very loosely based on
the Swiss Family Robinson's elaborate fictional domicile, it was painstakingly put
together by big sister Gabby Lynn and cousin Tony the year their respective Daddies
moved their families down here to Nowheresville from the big city. It was the same
fateful day the dynamic duo accidentally dropped a ten-pound pail of carpenter's nails
directly upon the defenseless proboscis of toddler Mikey, so innocently playing on his
sky blue baby blankie directly below under the less than watchful eye of involuntary kid
sitter, ten-year-old cousin Lucinda.
Invisible to everyone but him, only his true blue guardian had saved him from a
harsher fate, deftly deflecting the heavy projectile, subtly softening the potentially fatal
blow. Not that anybody would ever believe him, the little shit. Even if he was of a mind
to speak of the infamous incident. Inconveniently or not, Auntie Lucia seemed to be
invisible to all but young Mikey, with the notable exception of their crazy neighbor,
Psychic Connie; apropos of nothing, really.
Mercifully, praise Jesus, Joseph and the Virgin Mary, Daddy's miracle child regained
full consciousness in a seemingly endless minute or two.
They said he bled for at least an hour though. A real unexpected horror show, it was.
Skin turned white as a vampire's until they force-fed him whole milk and Life cereal, his
pale little face finally regaining some semblance of human color. His toddler clothes
and blankie looking like remnants of a murder scene had to be burned (just for good
measure, Boss Gabby's brilliant idea) and buried in the trash along with one more dirty
little secret the clueless grown-ups never did find out about, by some inexplicable kismet
of misguided karma. The poor kid's stuff dragged off by stray dogs or raccoons, Gabby
would later speciously explain to the mildly suspicious but ultimately clueless parental
units, Catherine and Dickie. Little Mikey nary uttering a peep throughout the entire
harrowing ordeal, they said, and, strangely enough, barely has ever since. Needless to
say, Mikey's Daddy would have murdered the negligent miscreants where they stood for
harming one precious chestnut hair on the heralded head of his Golden Miracle Child.
So far, so good, their bloody little secret was still safe to this very day.

So then the other day Tony the Tiger gets the bright idea to set the wreckage ablaze
with some matches and the last of his lawn mower gasoline. Bidding a bittersweet
farewell to a significant portion of their fleeting childhood, they danced and whooped
and wrestled about the fire, filthy savages fresh off the warpath. By the time they high-
tailed it back home half the meadow was scorched and still burning. Only a freakishly
strong late afternoon storm to temporarily appease the drought-plagued Cumberland Gap
quelled the boys' silently shared fear that they may have caused the worst wildfire in
Marshal County history. But ultimately their measly act of destruction was of little
consequence. The merciless contractors were already moving in on Paradise Valley,
less than half a mile away on all sides, slowly but surely felling the towering evergreens
and pines, razing the woodlands, fixing to make way for another bland, colorless
subdivision, some cookie-cutter summer rental condominium complex for tourists and
weekend warriors.
Not unlike Weeping Willows, that sad ghost town old shyster Grandpa Hank had
convinced his boys to give up what little they had for, sell their newly built suburban
home, move their families down to paradise. That harebrained project literally cursed
from day one. Building over a sacred Native American burial ground, on land
neighboring to one side a deathly precarious swamp of toxic quick sand, aptly dubbed
No Man's Land by locals in the know, and, to the other, the old contaminated uranium
mine shut down by the government decades ago. And who else was holding their purse
but the most shameless, spendthrift grifter this side of the Mississippi, old Good Time
Hank, who just so happened to owe more unamused people money than there were
horses or trailer parks in the great Bluegrass state. Someone had taken revenge.
They could still see the burnt-out husk of their grandpa's sad little business trailer
sitting up on the ridge whenever they drove into town. Grandpa Hank's shady little real
estate office did have the niftiest old-time soda machine. That magical contraption
popped out the most delicious ice cold Coca-cola Mikey had ever tasted. Old and
destitute, supposedly dying of Stage Four lung cancer, he often slept there, on a rigid
little cot, when he was no longer welcome to set foot in Geraldine's house. The
familiarly cramped quarters not unlike his old cell in the big house, back in Joliet, he
joked, where the old con had served a brief stint for criminal conversion, larceny,
insurance fraud, mail fraud and bigamy. No one on the Ridge seemed to have room to
put old Good Time Hank up for a night.
And where the holy hell was the wayfaring rake now? Aside from bilking countless
other suckers, dirty old scoundrel had robbed blind poor Geraldine, his fourth or fifth
wife, who knew?, long drained her considerable accounts, left their favorite step-
Grandma high and dry as a prairie widow. Proud Kentucky matriarch forced to take a
piddling job at the KFC just to barely make ends meet. Very sadly for all, the old girl
would no longer be able to host those lavish home-cooked Sunday dinners, old school
Southern style, due to the tragic unforeseen circumstances. Nevertheless, for better or
worse the marriage of their Grandpa Harold to Geraldine had apparently made them
officially related to half these half wit Ridge Road hillbillies. The imminent divorce
seemed to have no effect on that situation.
At least it had been just the two of them, Tony and Mikey, spending time together,
one last time, which was far more fun than when his cousin's obnoxious buddies from
the neighborhood were around. Especially that shitty red-headed, freckle-faced Damian
devil boy from the gypsy trailer park down Ridge Road. That heartless bastard did
tease poor Mikey without mercy, conniving shyster swindling the little tyke out of his
most prized Hot Wheels. At those times he was little more than a pitiful forgotten tag-
along, barely able to keep up with the big boys as they rode their big boy bikes for miles
on end, even down the forbidden four-lane 421, sometimes clear into Jasper County;
fearlessly trespassed into dangerous territory, sneaking into old man Crabtree's precious
fruit orchards, stealing a shitload of sour apples they never intended on eating, being
chased to the ends of the earth by those relentless Doberman devil dogs. Those
shameless bastards frequently cajoled little Mikey into tasting the warm beer or Wild
Turkey one of the boys or other had kiped from his daddy's fridge or work cooler. That
nasty stuff sending his throat and stomach to burning beyond description. As they all
laughed at him like the scurrilous hyenas they were. Even Tony, his hero.

So, what the hell you doin' out here all by your lonesome, boy? Ice-cold PBR
firmly in hand, compelled to perform his routine greeting which got way old and tired
about a millennium ago, Uncle Mick playfully pulls his quiet young nephew's weathered
crimson Chisox cap completely down over his eyes. Give me some words of wisdom
there, son. Settling himself in a nice, warm spot in the sun the man cracks open his
cold beer, fires up a fresh Lucky.
By God if that mustachioed hombre was not a dead ringer for Lee Van Cleef.
Penultimate Bad element of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, 1967. Michael had
watched his favorite spaghetti western flick countless times with his uncle and cousin
Tony, or back at home with his Daddy on the Late Late Late Show. Contrary to his
slightly roguish demeanor, Uncle Mick didn't seem so bad, most of the time. And you
couldn't believe everything they said, his cranky cousins.
Hot enough for you, pal? Humider than the Green Witch's cunt on the hunt for poor
Dorothy, ain't it, Mikey Mike? His garrulous Godfather, a foolish romantic at heart,
did love his classic Hollywood cinema. C'mon, let's have us some deep conversation
now. I know you got it in you, boy . . . Maybe he did; though it never seemed to
come out when he needed it.
A man of few words and deep thoughts. I admire that, his subtly sardonic uncle
kindly replied.
A little welcome something to beat this unholy heat, the man thoughtfully hands his
wayward nephew an ice-cold drink fresh out the handy front porch cooler. One of those
irresistible mini-bottles, not these newfangled aluminum cans, genuine Old School.
Coca-cola: best thing since indoor plumbing. The dwindling remnants of Grandpa
Hank's private stock, which he used to hand out like candy from that wonderful little
machine sitting like the king of the outcasts in his hotter-than-hell claustrophobic office
trailer oddly set up on the Ridge just past Suicide Hill. An over-sized piece of discarded
tornado bait detritus. The several crates of indescribably tasty black sugar water the
only semblance of an inheritance left to his ingrate sons after the lifelong wayward
grifter once again took off for parts unknown sometime last summer. Good riddance to
bad rubbish, quietly assented most folks along the Ridge.
From out of nowhere the amateur magician produces a pack of dog-eared playing
cards, the two proceed to engage in a quietly heated, seemingly endless round of War.
Then Go Fish. A little gin rummy. An instructive introductory session of Black Jack
and Texas Hold 'Em Poker. The man treats his captive audience to his extensive
repertoire of bad Brando impressionsOn the Waterfront, The Godfather, the
controversial new Vietnam War flick currently playing at the Marshal County Drive-in.
He coulda been somebody, instead of a bum . . .
Out of the pure blue nowhere Mikey's discontented companion turns back towards
the trailer to holler at some unknown entity or other. Jesus H. Christ! When the hell
are my God-damned work pants gonna be ready, little woman?!
For the past several moments the poor man has been engaged in an acerbic battle of
wits, and highly inappropriate adult language with, not his wife, but instead his
disgruntled, recalcitrant only daughter, Lucinda. Mikey's eldest cousin once again
reduced to summer-long indentured domestic captive. The paranoid king of the
crooked-floored trailer certainly did keep his poor man's Rapunzel on a painfully short
leash, locked up tight as a prison bitch in her tidy little tin can tower. An early bloomer,
easy on the eyes, golden-haired and fair, with sea-green ojos bright and clear as a
sapphire Spanish sky, the handsome girl has been drawing to their chain-locked door her
fair share of suitors ever since he could recall. Witless pre-teen horn dogs, mostly.
Brother Tony's relentless country cohorts, they come sniffing around like hungry
campground bears to the fresh trash of careless god-damned Kentucky Lake tourists.
Sadly, the man has also long harbored a terribly irrational phobia, a horrible fear that
frequently keeps him up through endless nights, that his blossoming baby girl will
someday be abducted by some wayward drifter, gypsies, sex slave-trafficking Aryans,
that virgin-hungry Mormon cult he briefly got caught up in stationed in Utah years ago,
or aliens. A totally irrational over-reaction on his part. Just ask any puss-faced,
hormone-crazed young Lothario wannabe at Marshal County Junior High: that
precocious little wildcat Lucinda Lucifer Freeman can easily fend for herself.
Why the hell can't you ever leave me alone?! I already have a million other
freakin' chores to do around this godforsaken hellhole! And I'm tryin' to watch my
shows! a very impertinent Cousin Lucinda righteously fires back from inside.
The proverbial immutable object meets the irrepressible force, this was. It was also
quite awkward, at least for Mikey. Preparing to set out on another thankless week-long
haul for those crooked mother-trucking corporate bastards and several pair of clean tidy
whities short, along with his favorite blue jeans, the man is sadly at the heartless mercy
of the indelicate young Harpy, her unpredictable teen-aged moodiness, her infernal
seemingly endless afternoon soaps.
Though he does not seem to know it, Mikey suspects, the quietly troubled man is
haunted, plagued by a host of disgruntled lost spirits. Reaping nothing but an unholy
shit load of bad karma for so many years, maybe deep down he does. Like so many
children waiting in line to see Santa at the biggest downtown department store,
impatient, needy, hypersensitive, they vie simultaneously for his, young Michael's
purposely evasive attention. Very difficult to tune out. Meanwhile, impossible to have
a normal conversation with a human. A curse to him, not a blessing, despite what fat,
perpetually pregnant Psychic Connie, their occasional sitter, next-next door at the No
Name Motel tried to tell him.
Your Jesus-lovin' pants will be ready when they're god-damned ready, that's when!
And, by the way, memo to daddy dearest: I am not your god-damned woman! Big, little
or otherwise!
Secretly admiring his perpetually disrespectful little firecracker's irrepressible spunk,
Uncle Mick just smiles his big, goofy-looking bad hombre mustache grin. He
vigorously hocks off an unsavory loogy into the dusty gravel drive just shy of his fire
engine red VW Bug, an impressive display of both accuracy and distance, if Mikey did
say so himself.
If only they could read his mind, like Mikey could. His ass would be dragged off to
the Cuckoo's Nest right along with wacky Jack and that giant mute Geronimo dude.
Now you best show your old man a little respect, girl! It took my skinny white ass
almost ten years to break in them Jesus-lovin' pants properly. What you think, I can just
run down to the Hellmart and replace 'em in a God-damned heartbeat? Like I could
search for two weeks and even find a pair of mother-effin' Wranglers that weren't made
in China or Hong Kong or Bangladesh or a million other third world hellholes by a
bunch of banana-peddling monkey brains making six cents an hour. Thanks to all these
greedy corporate bloodsucking motherfuckers brainwashing the great unwashed
Kentucky fried American public with their God-damned Ronald McDonald zippity-doo-
da Dizzy World empty dreams and endless Budweiser-guzzling have-it-your-way
Whopper lies. And making us pay up the ass for the privilege to boot, so's an honest,
hard-working man can't find a decent job to provide for his ungrateful lot of a family to
save his worthless double-mortgaged shit-for-credit life . . .
Keep it up, girl, and you won't see a penny of your god-damned pittance of an
allowance 'til your perty ass turns thirteen, Princess, he fires back a handful of
laughable empty threats, instead. What you think about that, girl?!
Surreptitiously rifling through the old man's equally empty wallet inside the shitty
trailer, his comely Cousin Lucinda cackles wickedly from afar. I wasn't holding my
breath to begin with, Daddy, she shouts, laughingly. And FYI, Father of the Year:
my ass turned thirteen six months ago . . . Hey, Mikey, you wanna come watch some TV
with me . . . Edge of Night . . . Ooh, his favorite.
It was not hard to ascertain who wore the pants in this relationship, even if they were
skin-tight Daisy Dukes. Yeah, that's what I thought, little girl, Uncle Mickey lamely
retorts, issuing an impotent grunt, wisely living to fight another day. The matter quietly
settled somewhat to his satisfaction, for the time being. What you think about that,
Mikey Mike?

The most prominent entity haunting the man, a rather disheveled young woman,
seems local, thick Kentucky accent, kinda sweet. Total backwoods country. Dishwater
blonde. Physically well-developed beyond her years, if not mentally, practically a
teenager, she sports a nice rack. Not exactly innocent, but in this case an innocent
bystander. Men tended to notice her, for sure. Especially when she danced naked on a
pole for money; sold her body, for the right price, to the right asshole, when she had to.
Just trying to get by in this mean old merciless World. Poor kid tried a so-called
straight job, look what the hell it got her. Caught in a wrong place, wrong time type
scenario, it did. Poor thing appears wet as a dog caught in a storm, from big hair to
crimson toes, bloody as hell, suffered a gut shot, maybe stabbed. Still alive when they
dumped her in that godless swamp pit, back of the new subdivision down Prophet's
Holler way, she whines over and over again. Poor thing just wants to get back home,
which for her means a proper burial, whether she knows it or not. Not exactly the crime
of the Century. How could anybody do such a thing, she fruitlessly wonders aloud, time
and again. They didn't look like bad men neither, until the end . . .

Knowing it's a foolish proposition to wait for a reply from either party, Uncle Mick
once again impatiently rifles through his front porch cooler, gives a heavy, slightly
dramatic sigh solely for the benefit of his one-man captive audience.
Tell me, Mikey, who the hell do you have to grease to get some god-damned service
around this dump, he bellows, his mildly irritated voice set at a slightly more discreet
volume, fruitlessly imploring the very uncooperative heavens. Believe it or not, I used
to be a happy-go-lucky son of a bitch, just like you, he says through an ironic chuckle.
As the years go by time, the heartless tyrant, just seems to pick off your life's dreams
one by one. Like a dead-eye rooftop sniper who can't seem to miss.
Precious words to live by if he had ever heard them.
Mark my words: Enjoy those dreams while you still have 'em, Mikey Mike. And
don't you ever be afraid to make them come true, boy. You hear? His world-weary
uncle's timeless words of wisdom trail off in the bleary-eyed red dust heat like a
mortally wounded war hero toward some eternal cinematic Hollywood sunset. Before
it's too late . . . Too late for all of us . . . Before the unholy End of Days are upon us . . .
Mark my words . . . Oh, the endless drama we foolish humans did create for ourselves.
The never-ending insurmountable obstacles and needless travails. Being a poor clueless
kid wasn't so bad, after all, young Mikey Mike suddenly realized to himself.
The man was preaching to the choir in this regard. His mute young companion could
see the unenviable future of the human race, at least silently believed he could. At most,
intermittent phantasmagoriac glimpses of it. In occasional daydreams, nightmares,
what-have-you. As always out of the clear blue nowhere. Nothing but anxiety-
provoking emergency reports on the TV interrupting twenty-four, seven all their shows,
never to be seen again. The ubiquitous international power grid going black. The
inevitable pandemic shortages of your basic necessitiesdisposable diapers, Ho Ho
snack cakes, drinking water, semi-automatic weapons. Widespread panic. And he won't
even mention the Creepers. The inescapable herd of flesh-eating monsters, the blood-
thirsty creatures of the night, what-have-you.
Sadly enough, never a pretty sight, even as far as prophecies go, needless to say.

1 And I saw an angel coming down out of heaven,
having the key to the Abyss and holding in his hand a great chain.
2 He seized the dragon, that ancient serpent, who is the devil, or Satan,
and bound him for a thousand years.
3 He threw him into the Abyss, and locked and sealed it over him,
to keep him from deceiving the nations anymore
until the thousand years were ended. After that, he must be set free for a short time.
4 I saw thrones on which were seated those who had been given authority to judge.
And I saw the souls of those who had been beheaded
because of their testimony for Jesus and because of the word of God.
They had not worshiped the beast or his image and
had not received his mark on their foreheads or their hands.
They came to life and reigned with Christ a thousand years
5 (The rest of the dead did not come to life until the thousand years were ended.)

--Revelation 20 1:5

With gunslinger quickness it was a widely known fact young Mikey could recite
forwards and backwards any random psalm or Biblical passage one choose to throw his
way, Old Testament or New. The whip-smart erudite happened to be fresh off his
rigorous First Communion training regimen at the merciless hands of Brother Gordon,
his mama's old church friend and former volunteer deacon at St. Jude's Catholic Church
who, sadly, was presently sitting in the Marshal County jail, facing an indictment
charging thirty-six counts of minor child abuse and sexual misconduct. The fat-faced
fuck called him a prodigy, memory genius, a real wonderkind whiz kid, for what it was
worth. Not much, probly.

There is another strange woman who hangs around quite often. A bit more mercurial
than the younger one, elusive, mysterious; reticent bitch comes and goes as she pleases.
Foxy redhead who presents herself as some manner of starlet, actress wannabe circa
early to mid Sixties. This was her time. Big Red seems kinda clueless regarding any
current events past 1968. Wearing a skin tight blouse the same deep red color as Auntie
Tatiana's wild African roses, she appears to have nice tits just like the young one. May
not be real though. A real firecracker, this one, she resents the implication, along with
the offensive nickname. Foxy Roxy is very manipulative; her agenda a bit more
complicated. Revenge. She calls it justice. Likes to stir up drama, deception, causes
trouble for those who deserve it. Mikey sees California for some reason. Late night
bonfires on the beach. Pacific Coast Highway. Golden Gate. Sunset Strip. Go-go girl
strip clubs, a bit classier than the trailer trash Kentucky variety. Free-for-all orgies,
tons of sex and drugs and fresh new rock and roll. Echo Park. Lonesome sex motels.
More dirty-ass casting couches than a poor girl with big tits and bigger dreams of movie
or TV stardom could count. Whatever that meant.
The moody phantasm appears a dead ringer for the mysterious lady who forms Uncle
Mick's muscley forearm flexor tatt. A few things in common, Big Red and Dishwater
Girl seem to have struck up a tentative friendship. Both former go-go dancers, though
Big Red denies this to her dying day, which happened at least a decade ago. Both ghost
ladies appear connected to Mikey's father as well, Tricky Dick. Maybe the dead cannot
tell the terrible twosome apart.
A separate matter altogether, there appears to be an entire family of pissed-off
specters, or part of a family who shadow the man relentlessly. Dark-skinned, speaking a
foreign tongue, rapid fire, very animated, angry. Mikey sees North Africa for some
reason. Algeria, Libya, maybe. Nothing at all like Casablanca. A tiny Mediterranean
village. A crowded public marketplace. A plethora of chickens and goats and wild dogs
wandering through the dusty mud streets. A small band of drunken sailors literally
painting the town red, with blood. There was a car accident at night, a senseless hit and
run, practically forgotten by the next morning. Forgotten by the perpetrators. But these
people did not forget.
Fortunately, the wayward spirits did not often venture into the respective homes of
the Brothers Freeman. Auntie Tatiana's ultra-superstitious African-Sicilian hoodoo
effectively kept them duppies at bay. The man would be lost without her, at least until he
exorcised his demons.
And Lord knew the old fool would need much more than some pitiful yet quite
handsome plastic dashboard Jesus.
As a former Navy man, Uncle Mick had certainly seen his fair share of the world: the
unspeakable evils of it, the good, the bad and the ugly inherent in man, woman, all God's
creatures. He knew first hand the horrible things that men and women, both good and
bad, can inflict upon each other, knowingly or not. He had become intimately familiar
with the inherent wickedness that can befall the human soul if one does not stick to the
interstate of righteousness, the true tollway of the Christian warrior, the white-lined path
of the Lord.
Once again, the crazy old pretender proselytizing to the one-boy choir.

So I turned my mind to understand,
To investigate and search out wisdom and the scheme of things;
And to understand the stupidity of wickedness,
And the madness of folly.

--Ecclesiastes 7:25

Theythey being the so-called Marshal County Authoritiessuspected that petty
pedophile was the one behind the missing kids, at least a dozen throughout local
counties in the past two years, just gone, vanished without a trace. The arrest led public
officials to proudly announce they had captured the dreaded kiddie-snatching Creeper
who had so devilishly terrorized the innocent children, the hard-working, tax-paying
parents of our good God-loving community for so long. Meanwhile, with that sorry shit
bird safely behind bars, two more kids had quietly gone missing in Marshal County
alone. One of them being Mikey's little playground pal, tiny Adam Devlin, the slightly
hyper but kind-hearted albino farm boy from neighboring Black Oak Holler.

. . . And he will not give to one of them
any of the flesh of his children that he is eating.
It will be all he has left because of the suffering your enemy
will inflict on you during the siege of all your cities.

--Deuteronomy 28:55

Though he and his family rarely if ever attended church, so far as Mikey knew, Uncle
Mick reportedly did read his Bible daily, frequently while driving long lonesome
distances across multiple godforsaken states in his eighteen-wheeler. Quite proud of
himself for doing so, he was also secretly studying to become an official minister with
the Universal Life Church. He could actually marry people, christen new boats, pick up
a few easy bucks on the side.
Taking a brief cat nap in the sun, Mikey's precocious porch mate leans back
awkwardly on the porch, involuntarily extending his meaty forearms, revealing that
intriguing old Navy tattoo on his left. A mysterious woman, buxom pin-up with a rose
in her mouth, in one hand a smoking gun, in the other a bloody knife barely concealed
behind her back. Some misguided badge of honor or shame irreversibly left over from
the man's brazen, misspent youth.
Foxy Roxy's pale pretty face turns an angry beet red every time she lays eyes on that
horrid abomination. Quite frightfully, she flashes a big sharp butcher's knife, wishes she
could cut it right out. She would eviscerate his nuts, too, if she could, unholy hypocrite
that he was. Not so much for what Mickey did, but did not do. Truth be told, Tricky
Dick was the vengeful banshee's primary target, but his slightly less evil identical twin
would do, for now.

Polishing off his now piss warm pop, Mikey watches his companion casually pop a
handful of those big blue happy pills he keeps conveniently at hand in the breast pocket
of his rolled-up lumberjack's shirt. Driving that damned truck is murder on a middle-
aged man's body, especially his back, and the circulation in his ass. Plus there had been
the big family BBQ Sunday, generally celebrating the glorious return of summer,
specifically Auntie Tatiana earning her American high school diploma. One long
unforgettable year of riding the American school bus, side-by-side with her own
daughter, her nieces and nephew, attending the frightfully liberating institution of
Marshal County High. The man probably still suffering a monster headache from all
that beer-drinking, a rare day of glutinous over-eating. Foot-long dogs, burgers,
surprisingly yummy grilled artichokes, corn-on-the-cob, rainbow trout and catfish
freshly caught by Tony and Mikey down at their secret KY Lake spot, the Lagoon. No
doubt the whole damned family was likewise suffering the nasty effects of the collective
early summer Festivus hangover, the inevitable dehydration, constipation, what-have-
you.
The sweltering early June air was still heavy and noisome with the devilishly
lingering aroma of lighter fluid, burning charcoal ashes and fire-grilled meat, not unlike
the grisly day-after postmortem of so many charred and bloody battlefields fought on
this very spirit-inhabited land, he presumed. After dessert (Auntie Titi's incomparable
fried bananas slathered with honey and vanilla ice cream, or orange Push-Ups) Cousin
Tony and Mikey's big sister Gabby Lynn had fired off their delightful arsenal of highly
illegal bottle rockets, nigger chasers, mini-cherry bombs and Screamin' Demons. Then
shortly thereafter Tony and Mikey snuck off into the woods with an illicit armful of
Mick's fast-warming Coors silver bullets. Once the best food and the fireworks were
gone, the party was pretty much done.
These were the sublime, elusive times someday as a grown-uplonely, cynical,
world-wearyhe would look back fondly, a bit sadly, and long for terribly. Endlessly if
fruitlessly attempt to create with the inevitably dysfunctional version of his own future
family. The good old days. The best of times.
Golden summers and endless dreams ahead.
Still quietly sucking down his ice-cold Coca-cola, Mikey observes his uncle
curiously regarding him with a strange little sidelong glance.
So, what the hell you so afraid of there, boy? he chortles.
The silent boy suddenly stands up, presumptuously takes the man's amber-tinted
aviator shades and place them on himself. A whole new world. Oh, to see the world
through the eyes of another . . .

Mikey may have literally but was by no means figuratively watching the world
through rose-colored glasses. Even at his tender young age he knew the score. Believe
it or not, the boy could see the future. It was not pretty. An evil deed or two had
occurred and not so very long ago. Someone or somethinghe knew what they were if
not who they werehad placed a curse, a mighty potent and irreversible curse upon the
family. And from that day hence, the anathema would incur a great deal of misfortune,
countless insurmountable obstacles, myriad mundane frustrations, untold trials and
tribulations, great tragedies, and little happiness upon the Freeman clan for endless
generations to come. There was no avoiding, reversing or mitigating the devastating
consequences of the silent curse. It is what it is. So be it. In the inimitable words of
his Daddy dearest: You do the best you can. That's all a man can do. Evil curse or no.
And so it goes.


So, you got yourself a little girlfriend yet? the wily old sidewinder suddenly throws
the unsuspecting rook a wicked curve ball. Subtly changing the subject, strangely
issuing another gratuitous non sequitur out of left field, apropos of nothing really.
Funny man just trying to keep the conversation going. Always a Herculean task with
this silent little bastard, needless to say. Obviously his Uncle Mickey knew Mikey did,
handsome young lady killer that he was. Perfectly ripe, rotten or otherwise, apples did
fall from apple trees. And still waters ran immeasurably deep, the smart girls all knew.
No, sirree, Mikey Mike. There ain't a god-damned thing in this world that you need
to be afraid of, you hear? his Uncle Mick, still sitting right next to him on the sun-
baked concrete porch, firmly assures his young charge.
Looking down towards the road, he sends off an energetic, slightly anxious-looking,
neighborly wave to Deputy Little Mac Greenback passing by in his patrol car, the
thoughtful son heading off to pay his daily visit to their old step granny, Geraldine.
They were related to him, too, somehow. His uncle seemed to tense up momentarily at
the passing lawman. Then it was back to Cool Hand Mick again. What we have here is
. . . failure to communicate . . . What there was to be nervous about Mikey did not see.
The man was family, after all, somehow. Just like everyone on Blue Devil's Ridge, it
seemed. Mikey's uncle coolly fires up a fresh smoke, blankly stares off into the distant
nowhere, suddenly unreachable, strangely silent and lost in the untenable miasma of his
own troubled thoughts and fleeting memories of better times.
No, siree, nothin' at all to fear, he finally says, needlessly repeating himself,
picking up his temporarily lost-in-thought tuition where he left off. Uncle Mickey
rewards his highly receptive one-man student body with an endearing, slightly painful
knee slap. Except maybe yourself.
He flashes young Mikey an ambiguously reassuring Fu Manchu grin, rising to his
creaky knees, polishing off the last of his piss-warm beer. Time to find his pants, do like
a horse doo-doo and hit the road again.
So long as you are Saved, you got no worries, son, he exclaims, needlessly self-
righteous and matter of factly.
So the man was one of them, too. Bible-thumping holy rollers. You think you know
a fella. Who knew?
Nice chattin' with you, as always, Mikey Mike. Likewise, Kimosabe.
The man generously allowed the boy to keep the shades. Wear them in good health,
Little Captain.
Upon departing for work Uncle Mick waves a compulsory vigorous good-bye across
the distant way to his mostly incoherent little niece, Alyssa Lee. As usual, the clueless
nymphet utterly blissfully oblivious to everything outside of her own impenetrable heat-
stricken bubble gum world. She lazes on the cold comfort of their own cement front
porch, plays with her disturbing collection of dirty-faced Barbies in various phases of
inappropriate nakedness and/or dismemberment. One of whom she takes great mindless
delight in torturing with one of their Daddy's disposable Bic lighters. Over and over
again she chants, ad nauseum, like a broken little robot from a really really bad B-movie
flick only the chorus from the one spiritual she could recall from last summer's short-
lived vacation bible camp.
I saw Jesus, walkin' on the water, walkin' on the water, walkin' on the water . . .
Sadly, there is no escaping them. Self-righteous little Jesus freaks. Poor thing knows
not what she does. Bless her clueless hillbilly heart. Lord help her Alyssa was also
gifted with the preternatural ability to commune with the spirits. Or cursed as it were.
Little shit would most likely grow up to use her powers for some great earth-shattering
evil, Mikey had no doubt.


But finally getting back to his uncle's pensive inquiry. So what in the world was he
so bloody afraid of anyways, Mikey silently soul-searched. Myriad entities and
unenviable situations. Too many to list on such short notice. But he could try.
Poisonous plants. Snakes. Stray dogs. Strangers. Very great heights, at least the
thought of falling from them. Heavy objects randomly falling from the skies.
Extremely tight spaces, particularly the notion of being confined within them. Public
speaking, or performing. God. The Devil. Life. Death, though not particularly his
own. Anything to do with The Wizard of Oz: midgets, flying monkeys, tornadoes.
Aliens. And ghosts, at least the nasty ones. The uninvited spirits of the dead frequently
seeking him out for reasons unknown. The shadow people who came and went as they
pleased from his bedroom closet, hid beneath his bed, invaded his dreams. Trying to get
him to do bad things; usually succeeding with laughably pliable baby sister, Alyssa Lee.
Five people had died in that stinking squalid five-room fishing cabin a few years
before they moved in. A quadruple murder-suicide, no less. Crazy-eyed, long-haired
Jay hawk Injun Joe, at least this is what Mikey called him; somehow he just knew the
man was from Kansas. Jesse James wannabe, small time outlaw, drug dealer, gun
runner, robber, thief, whatever. One ungodly hot August day, surrounded by the
Marshal County Sheriff's Department trying to serve a warrant. The violent ex-con's
worst fear, returning to the maddening confinement of prison, would not let himself nor
his family be taken alive. Wild-eyed gunman taking out two lawmen before the
combined forces of the county sheriff and state police SWAT team opened up on the
place, promptly stormed in to trounce the outlaw's hold-up and everyone inside.
Deputy Mac, Geraldine's youngest son, that devilish handsome, dark-eyed son of a
gun, she always called him, was just a rookie lawman that year, and became badly
wounded in the bloody gun battle. Got his left ear shot off, his unkind baptism by fire.
He was the friendly-faced public safety officer who delivered the annual gun safety and
Stranger Danger pep talk at their school. He had often joined them at sweet Geraldine's
extravagant Sunday dinners, helping to entertaining his attentive extended family with
wildly exaggerated tales of catching bad guys. Little Mac still wasn't a bad-looking guy,
if you focused on the right side of his face. He never did speak of the incident on Ridge
Road though.
Creepy old woodsman Roland Down the River and Princess Josephine, crazy old
Feline Queen, their so-called landlords and the oddest couple there ever was, who lived
in a neighboring luxurious double-wide dubbed the Pink Palace, had conveniently failed
to reveal these tragic facts. A curious coupling, rumor had it they were retired circus
folk. He a former fire-breathing freak; she a ubiquitously tattooed lady contortionist
with multiple talents. The weird pair of local land barons also owned the No Name
Motel, just down yonder, which was no longer a motel, but a loosely affiliated row of
seedy, short-term rentals catering to low-rent tourists and down-n-outersdrifters, bitter
divorcees and pregnant welfare mamas with too many babies already. Old people
abandoned by their family or who had none. Cripples and head cases on disability or
just out of prison. It wasn't much but it was a half step above the dreadful gypsy trailer
park on the Ridge Road food chain. Josephine was apparently an ex-sister-in-law of
their sweet step granny Geraldine. Somehow, that made her family, too, Mikey figured.
Strangely enough, even if their crazy caretakers had informed them of the tragedy,
the place would have held an even more compelling draw to for his Daddy, who
happened to be obsessed with all things supernatural, from reincarnation to ghost stories,
from UFOs to Bigfoot, you name it. Besides, it was only temporary living quarters til
that big real estate money started rolling in, right?
Meanwhile, six years later and still poorer than red clay dirt . . .
Don't ask Mikey how he knew about such things as the tragedy; he just knew things,
somehow. Like how every little thing in the Universe had significant meaning; all
things and all peoplepast, present and futureintimately connected, somehow, some
way. He could predict with uncanny accuracy the pre-spoken words, the intentions, the
actions of the people around him, sometimes even complete strangers. And somehow
knew the Super Bowl and World Series champions, before the playing season even
commenced. His big sister made a small fortune every year placing bets according to
the little freak's improbable dead-on predictions during March Madness and the NBA
playoffs. It was as if the Boy Wonder had a private, direct line to the Illuminati, the top
secret omniscient Powers That Be who predetermine and control everything important in
the world, from the price of oil in the Middle East to the next P.O.T.U.S. to the winner
of the Kentucky Derby. Why had the short-sighted idiot never thought to bet on the
Derby?
As if he had already lived countless lives, done this and that and been here before,
Mikey knew deep, dark things about life and death, knew the abject cruelty of the
human heart, selfishness, greed, violence and war. And that all you need is Love.
But you can't always tell people things. Sometimes they had to learn this shit for
themselves.

Speaking of being afraid, and rightfully so. There it was, the young road warriors'
unmistakable anthem: wild man guitar God Jimi's All Along the Watchtower.
And here they came, a pair of godless riders fast approaching. Even in his depleted,
heat-exhausted state of dehydration and hunger, he couldn't just hear them, he could feel
them coming on strong as a Kentucky wildcat could growl. The very earth itself shook
like an incoming fleet of jungle-top napalm dusters, the imminent Apocalypse. Cruelly
tearing up the fresh defenseless blacktop, fearlessly taming the infamous twisted turns
and capricious blind curves of old Ridge Road at their typical suicidal, breakneck speed.
At least half a ton of pure unadulterated teen-aged angst and unrequited rage, and double
the trouble to boot, a hellbent proudly delinquent tag-team of juvenile terror that
routinely invaded, raided the nightmares of every God-fearing cheerleader and Jesus-
loving goody two shoes who rightly felt the terror of walking the dark, foreboding
delinquent-filled halls of Marshal County High, at least those infrequent days they chose
not to be truant. Bad Bad Gabby Lynn. Butt Ugly Bonnie Johnson. Between those two,
there was no room for the Good.
And there was only one V-8 engine that sounded like that, a terrible, sweet, metallic
purr, a rapturous wildcat stealthily pursuing, eagerly ripping into its helpless prey. A
red-eyed speed demon tearing straight out of the fiery depths of hell. Rumored to have
outrun every Police Interceptor in three states, it was simply, The Cherry Bomb. The 72
twin supercharged Chevy Nova, the incomparable street racer Gabby's partner in crime
had so fortuitously inherited on her Sweet Sixteen by defaultelder brother Lonnie,
killed, and Donnie, crippled, back in Namthe same year her daddy, the molester, got
hauled off to the state pen.
The earth-shattering twelve-speaker stereo system cranking out the incomparable
sounds of the mid-to-late Sixty's guitar God alone was worth the price of admission.
And the wind how it did wail . . .
Big Bonnie at the wheel, carelessly discarding her spent ciggie butt, blindly tears the
monster hotrod up the driveway, precariously close to rear-ending Daddy's dormant
Gremlin sitting in the flimsy carport of the tiny, piss-green fishing cabin. Shotgun-
riding Gabby reluctantly extinguishing her roach with a cherubic scowl, gingerly
preserving the precious bud for later.
Innocently playing Return of the Living Dead with some old finger paint for zombie
make-up, a bucket of fish guts and a crusty pick ax purloined from Roland's creepy
animal-skinning, fish-gutting shed, the kids were compelled to scatter like fire ants to
avoid being pulverized by the mighty street-racing beast. Go home, damn Yankees, read
her novelty front-end Confederate flag license plate.
What the hell, man, Gabby scolds impatiently, wrenching the dangerous tool from
Mikey's weak, little grip, deftly tossing it through the open window into the back of the
C-Bomb.
Go find something useful to do, you little troglodytes, she gruffly suggests, the
husky, red-headed tomboy in Bob Marley tie-dye unapologetically tripping over his
scattered collection of precious first editions of the Dark Is Rising series. Why don't
you take your skinny ass and go transcribe the Dead Sea Scrolls or some shit, Professor
Peabody.
Trick or treat, bitches, Alyssa viciously attempts to extract an edible toll with one
of the large, sharp-edged dam rocks she uses along with her six-year-old charm to extort
silver dollars and huge stacks of homemade cookies from their soft-hearted neighbors.
They were a simple, generous folk down here.
Little early for Halloween, ain't it?Gabby's fat, butch-haired friend cautiously
regards the feral, little monsters. Raised by wolves?
Close enough, Gabby humorlessly concedes.
Wildly disheveled and sweating like pigs, even more than normal considering today's
quite manageable heat, big sister and her corpulent sidekick appear uncharacteristically
perturbed today, not at all their usual calm-before-the-storm Zen-like. Today they were
the storm.
Contrary to his usual easy-going self, the suspiciously unnatural rhythmic tapping
and slapping seeming to emanate from the trunk of their car was putting Mikey more
than a little on edge, and he was cautious to keep a prudent distance from the source of
the mysterious racket. Aside from a stable of vicious fighting dogs, Bonnie owned
numerous exotic pets. Supposedly among them a behemoth boa constrictor named Bo,
how terribly original.
Come fetch, little doggie. That's a good girl, yes it is . . .
Chuckling moronically, butt-faced Bonnie mercifully tosses scrawny Alyssa Lee the
half-eaten, gnawed-off remains of her disgusting Zero bar as she playfully tussles the
grateful nymphet's incomprehensible mass of cotton candy frizz. Sure wish I had hair
like these two, man, she comments with mock envy, the big dummy sheepishly
admiring her freshly butched up buzz cut in the less than savory front window reflection.
Mikey prudently hops on his bike to avoid the same manner of dehumanizing
treatment as shameless Sister Bozo head.
You come on over here, Handsome Curly Locks! the idiotic brute-ess called out to
him, mocking him, taking in vain the secret pet name his daddy had for him. Obviously
somebody had been talking out of school.
Shut up, Motor Mouth, Gabby loudly demands silence with a harsh eye towards
her portly, oft obnoxious cohort. I really don't feel like dealing with my old man's
cranky ass today of all days!
Yes, sir. So sorry, sir, peevishly apologizes her cheeky sidekick, surreptitiously
flipping Peppermint Patty the bird. Excuse the g-d hell outta me . . .
Seeming to be in an awful hurry to get wherever they were going, or away from
whoever was after them, the turbulent twosome stormed their bell-bottomed way inside,
Gabby notably annoyed she had to dig out her key to force her way inside Daddy's seedy
private sanctuary.
As was standard practice in their daily summer routine, shortly after mama left for
work in the early morning with Auntie Tatiana, faster than you could say Captain
Kangaroo the old man had locked them out, sent his youngest on their merry, self-reliant
way with a thermos of watery Kool-Aid and a Pop-tart foil pack to share. Along with
his usual compulsory heart-warming caveat: Stay close to the house; don't play in the
street; don't talk to strangers. In order to affect a full mental health recovery apparently
his delicate system could not abide the slightest interruption, unless it was his first born
devil's messenger come to deliver smokes, nudie mags or other illicit contraband from
the Kwik Pik, until Mama came home to fix supper. Nobody in the household seemed to
know who was responsible for supervising the young ones on summer break. At least
not on those days they could not hang out by the pool at the Kentucky Lake Inn or some
other roadside motel while the dark-haired mavens scrubbed toilets and cleaned up after
nasty tourists. Daddy thought it was Gabby. She thought it was him. Their Mama
wrongly assumed that as two semi-reasonable adults with zero gainful prospects and
nothing better to do they could somehow manage to equitably work it out among
themselves.
Sadly this was precisely the type of chronic dysfunctional lack of family
communication that very likely provided transient kidnappers, neighborhood kiddie
rapers, and mobile ice cream peddlers the endless job security they so undeservedly
thrived upon. Their so-called family was a bad joke, and nobody was laughing.
Just moments later an unholy raucous from inside draws their collective undivided
attention towards the sleepy cabin house.
Gabby and her dimwitted companion re-appeared suddenly, both noticeably frazzled,
conspicuously red-faced. Though Big Bonnie was hooping and hollering wildly,
victoriously, as if the glorious South was miraculously rising again.
Let's us get the hell outta Dodge, amigo, she chortled, clumsily carting a heavy
armful of Gabby's LP records to the Cherry Bomb. Gabby hauled a formidable
knapsack across her back, with books falling out left and right. The Art of War by Lao
Tzu. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
In her chubby little hands she clutched the strange little plant she always kept
growing under the bathroom fluorescents, the pink plastic picture frame kept on her
bedside stand. The faded old snapshot of herself as a baby, held in the loving arms of a
handsomely cheek-boned strawberry-blonde starlet, the mother she never knew.
Surprisingly teary-eyed through those Coke bottle-thick bifocals, slightly quivering,
she gave Mikey an endearing forearm shiver as she hurried by.
Where you all goin'? wide-eyed Alyssa called out sadly from her wobbly bald-tired
Barbie Big Wheel, the pitiful sprite all but ignored weakly peppering the oblivious
runaways with a paltry stream of invisible water gun spray.
Left some stuff on your bed, kiddo, Gabby tersely informed him, obviously in too
great a hurry in her half-assed getaway to stop and chat a minute.
Now punch it, punch it, punch it, bitch! she orders her faithful sidekick, Miss
Brutus, already saddled up and raring to go, hocking out a very distasteful loogey, a little
too close for comfort. The two of them delinquent ingrates jumping back into the
getaway car like a couple of TV outlaws, tearing off in reverse, executing a hasty
rubber-burning pirouette that kicked up a very distasteful mouthful of red dirt and gravel
dust.
Bye, bye, big sissy, Alyssa Lee weakly calls out her endearing final farewell.
Flashing by in a barely discernible blur, big sister playfully flips her burdensome
half-siblings the bird. Highly appropriate, the C-Bomb's heart-pounding woofers pound
out a stirring degenerate rock anthem, The Who's epic Teenage Wasteland.
Halfway down the hill Big Bonnie unexpectedly hits the brakes, blindly peels back
up the drive in reverse. Visibly distraught in her Daisy Dukes and flimsy tank top,
Cousin Lucinda appeared, carelessly dropped her wicker basket of fresh laundry bound
for the clothesline, made a barefoot beeline straight to the impatient getaway car.
Damn you to hell if you thought you were gonna take off without saying good-bye,
shouted Lucy Lou, effusively scolding her fool-headed wayward cousin over the din of
the music, the ferocious roar of the Cherry Bomb's impatiently neutral engine. Gabby
quickly leaned her sizable form out the passenger side window and the cousins, each
bawling a river of tears, embraced long and hard.
Where the hell you gonna go? Lucinda demanded to know, harshly disapproving
despite her obvious state of sad disbelief.
Anywhere but here, Gabby Lynn blithely replied, big dummy unapologetically
brazen despite the highly ill-advised path she was bound and determined to pursue.
But what the hell am I supposed to do without you? she said, tearfully, a bit over
the top if you asked him.
Stop already, you goof! Suck it up, Gabby curtly answered, violently fly-swatting
Sophia Loren's unnecessary melodramatics. At the moment she was in no mood to
cotton to no school girl histrionics.
All good things must end, she said, idiotic armchair philosopher stoically
attempting to console her inconsolable longtime confidante, secret drinking buddy and
fellow soap opera freak.
And we shall meet again, my cuz. In this lifetime or another. Probly by Christmas .
. .
Oh, you are so full of shit, Gabs. But, you two be careful out there, you crazy
bitches.
So long, sorry motherfuckers! See you in the spring, little buddy. Have your March
Madness picks ready . . .
Spitting out the dusty backwash, their cousin sent the hot-headed delinquents off with
a vigorous double-armed wave, throwing up to the heavens a heartfelt genuflection just
for good measure.
The Lord does protect idiots and fools, don't he, Mikey? his despondent cousin
glumly remarked. Not so far as he had ever heard. In this instance though they hoped
He just might make an exception. Drive safe now, idiots. Y'all come back now, hear? . .
.










CHAPTER TWO: TRANSITIONS


Run, kiddies, run! their hysterical eldest cousin exclaimed bloody
murder out of the clear blue nowhere, just as they had finished hanging her unholy
mother load of laundry on the grassy knoll clothesline. Mikey did not see TV lady
meteorology in the poor kid's future.
After the unforgiven troublemakers were gone once and for all, the unholy maelstrom
of crimson driveway dust finally settling down, it was back to TCB in the old Kentucky
coal mines. As if on cue of their beloved Gabby Lynn's rude exodus, the sudden
tempest sprang out of the west, short-lived but potent, soaking them head to toe in a
matter of seconds. The beaming sun disappeared; the pale blue sky darkened to a bleak-
feeling coal-gray. A powerful, refreshing gale disturbed the arid cotton weeds, sending
millions upon millions of shimmering white blossoming buds floating through the heavy
air, momentarily bringing to mind a beautifully luminescent ocean of tiny wayward
jellyfish ascending skyward in perfect synchronicity. The Zen beauty of the moment
apparently lost on her, Lucinda urgently shepherded her forsaken charges towards the
rain-battered trailer next door. God's unholy hail almost deafening for a short scrum,
pounding merciless the cheap metal roof of their tenuous sanctuary like a giant rock 'n'
roll drum.
My god, this really sucks ass, my little flying monkeys! Cleverly bribing the little
shits with a virtual king's ransom of snacks, their depressed hostess easily duped her
clueless young minions into taking on the lion's share of her endless regimen of
choresdusting, vacuuming, mopping, washing dishes, folding and ironing laundry,
starting the sauce and pasta for Auntie Tatiana, a very particular, detail-oriented
gourmetas she cathartically drowned her considerable sorrows in the daily afternoon
soaps. And Cheet-ohs, Esquimo pies, her Daddy's left behind cancer sticks, just a pinch
of peach Schneppes and Captain Morgan dark rum to spice up her home-mixed Long
Island iced tea.
I can't believe y'all are movin', too, Lucinda lamented woefully, the moody
dishwater blonde siren needlessly repeating herself several times. As she dropped yet
another completely unexpected and highly confidential bombshell out of nowhere.
Moving? What? Who? Where? When? The young drama queen's squeaky contralto,
croaky and breaking, not unlike the defenseless back of a pond frog thrown several
hundred feet in the air over concrete, as Cousin Tony used to do back in the regrettable
animal cruelty phase of his reckless youth.
I'm all alone in the world now, don't you all understand?
Did they not understand? This was a very sad, emotional, traumatic experience for
her, she informed them in very great and melodramatic detail.
She had just lost her closest cousin, her life mentor, her best childhood pal. The two
of them had started off together in life from the very beginning, shared the early fun
times. Bouncing on Grandma and Great-Grandma's knees, being chased by spooks in
the basement, back at Lana's South Side bungalow, when both her sons had moved back
home in the midst of their respective personal emergencies. First her uncle Dickie, their
Daddy, after his failed marriage to some gorgeous but flighty go-go girl Playboy bunny
chick in California, then concocting some sinister conspiracy to make Gabby's real
mama disappear, the mystery woman nobody in this freakish family never, ever, never
talked about or even dared acknowledge. What was up with that?
Pandora, she whispered with highly theatrical hesitance, Sister Golden Hair
Surprise bravely taunting the Universal powers that be. Just like the evil but beautiful
first human female from Greek mythology, she of the tragically short and selective
memory needlessly explained. Who had helped whom translate Homer's Iliad and The
Odyssey for her award-winning sixth grade term paper?
Then their was her Daddy, their Uncle Mickey, freshly discharged from the Navy
overseas in Italy and trying hard to get back on his feet, regaining his land legs, as it
were. The prodigal son practically causing his unsuspecting family of small-minded Old
School Chicago Pollacks a collective aneurysm the day he brought his spanking new
African bride home to Bridgeport. His lovely, raven-haired Libyan barista of
infamous Sicilian origin, his dark, almond-eyed belladonna who just so happened to be
busting at the seams, six months pregnant with baby Lucinda, their future favorite
cousin, no less.
Disquietingly dizzy from the overwhelming combination of Lucinda's twisted family
history lesson and her potent Zombie cocktail, Mikey felt the slumberous waves of a
long and well-deserved Benadryl-induced afternoon nap coming on quite fast. He could
barely keep his eyes open through Ryan's Hope.
And then came the difficult, turbulent years they had endured together, as wee
suburban tots just starting school. Understandably disenchanted with her sheltered new
life in America, Tatiana was basically reduced to indentured servant forced to cater to
the selfish whims of her less-than-sympathetic new husband; his quirky, recently
divorced twin brother with whom they had to share Lana's cold, drafty, haunted
basement apartment; their capricious, neurotic mother, the alcoholic socialite recently
retired from her twenty-year tenure at the Drake Hotel. Worst of all at every turn their
Auntie T was forced to endure relentless abuse and humiliation at the whithered ancient
hands of the kids' monstrous Polish grandmother, Babcia (pronounced Boo-sha!), an
obnoxious and senile bigot, a ruthless silver cane-wielding cripple still suffering from
the effects of polio she contracted as a young girl back in the Old Country, who ran the
insane household with a merciless, penny-pinching iron fist. Though to her credit, the
old battle ax had taught her how to make an irresistible kolacky. The general consensus
of their slightly biased clan being that Polish pastries were far superior to Italian, even if
Babcia's repertoire of mostly brutal Polish fare could not hold a candle to the entire
spectrum of sublime Southern Italian delicacies Tatiana had introduced to their
previously starving palates.
Sadly watching her lifelong dreams of finishing high school, attending college,
opening up her own unique Sicilian-American cafe downtown fast fading to oblivion,
she left completely unannounced. Along with her little girl, Tatiana returned to Sicily,
to her family, stout supporters of the old Libyan regime, who had recently been expelled
from the country by the evil new dictator Khadaffi. Tragically, in the process her
beloved father, a once highly successful restaurateur, now rendered essentially
penniless, had suffered a fatal heart attack shortly after the family's bittersweet
homecoming.
Meanwhile, back in the states, Lucinda's daddy was working hard to win back the
good graces of his wayward bride. Uncle Mick had landed a decent job repairing jet
engines for a major airline at Chicago's diminutive but fast-growing Midway flight pad.
Despite his better judgment he reluctantly embarked upon an ambitious building project
with brother Dickie and a handful of his old marginally employed high school buddies.
Generously financed by Lana and Babcia's considerable nest egg, decades in the
penurious pain-staking saving, the Brothers Freeman constructed a House Beautiful
cover-worthy California-style ranch in the fledgling picturesque subdivision of Shady
Springs. The new three-story five-bedroom family homestead even boasted a lofty 360
walk-around watch tower balcony and a spacious swimming pool with outdoor jacuzzi
amongst its modest accommodations