Hellhole West Virginia: A.K.A., Almost Hell West Virginia
Author: Rich Bottles
Date: 2011-01-15 02:02:23+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; General; Horror; Places; United States
Description: From the heights of Mothman's perch high atop the Silver Bridge in Point Pleasant to the depths of Hellhole Cavern in Pendleton County, evil lurks within the shadows as the sun sets upon the haunted hills and hollows of West Virginia. Bizarro author Rich Bottles Jr. blows the coffin lid off horror genre clichés with this tour de force cast of Eco-friendly vampires, beach-yearning zombies and sex-starved she-devils.
Publisher: Burning Bulb Pub.

Hellhole West Virginia
a.k.a. – Almost Hell West Virginia

Hellhole West Virginia
By Rich Bottles Jr.

Published in association with:

Burning Bulb Publishing
P.O. Box 4721
Bridgeport, WV  26330-4721
www.BurningBulbPublishing.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE:  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Rich Bottles Jr. All rights reserved.
Cover designed by Gary Lee Vincent.

Paperback ISBN: 978-0-61553-579-1

First edition.

Library of Congress Control Number:  2011938029

Dedicated to:

Anyone who purchased Lumberjacked

Chapter 1

The Pussy Peddlers of Pendleton County

The next morning, Marcella realized that getting drunk, trying to drive and then leaving the scene of an accident was probably not the best way to celebrate the completion of training at the West Virginia State Police Academy.

In fact, Marcella knew she’d bring dishonor to her family if they ever found out that she was even at the academy, which is why she refused to invite any family members to today’s graduation ceremony.

But as far as the accident was concerned, trying to inspect the damage to the front bumper of her borrowed patrol car was made all the more painful by the splitting headache she was experiencing. The glare from the early morning sun didn’t help her hangover much either.

Kneeling down in front of the cruiser, she touched the dented metal of the bumper and carefully checked it for any paint residue that could tie her to a hit-and-run. As soon as she squinted to get a closer look, a paralyzing beam of reflected light from the chrome bumper hit her eyes and seemed to drill directly into her throbbing brain. The searing shock of pain made her wince and she instantly felt queasy, as she reached out to steady herself by placing both hands on the front of the car.

She had planned to leave the women’s barracks this morning and find something to eat in the mess hall that wouldn’t make her nauseous, but she stopped short as soon as she saw the damaged bumper. Although she didn’t remember the accident, she knew the bumper was not dented when she left for the nightclub last night.

Using the car for balance, she slowly rose to her feet and immediately tried contemplating how she would explain the damage to the vehicle. As she brushed off the dirt from the front of her uniform slacks, the cheap cell phone attached to her belt began semi-vibrating.

Marcella recognized the three-digit exchange on her blurry cell screen to be a number from inside the confines of the academy, but wasn’t sure whose extension it was. “Hello?” she cautiously answered. “This is Trooper Shale.”

“Yes, Trooper, this is Major Charles, I need to see you in my office ASAP.”

Marcella tried to acknowledge the request, but heard the click of disconnection before she could respond. “Dammit, dammit, dammit,” she mumbled under her breath as she slipped the phone back into its case.

Even though Marcella had never been inside the office of Major Raymond Charles, she knew his office was located in the large administration building, which was in the center of the twenty-plus acre academy campus in Institute, West Virginia. Thankfully, the building wasn’t far from her barracks, but she still felt the need to jog at a steady pace in order to not keep the Major waiting.

Unbeknownst to her as she approached the administration building, two men were watching her with great interest from the window of the Major’s office. Marcella was a beautiful twenty-one-year-old light-skinned African American woman, standing just over six feet tall from her petite feet to her short-cropped, perfectly-trimmed, black hair, which seemed to flow naturally from beneath her cap like a newly-tapped oil well.

Her well-proportioned body definitely accented the standard trooper uniform as well as any curvaceous cadet ever had, but of course the two older gentlemen only observed her in a strictly professional manner and neither had the slightest thought about stripping her naked and fucking the living hell out of her.

“I’m here to see Major Charles,” announced Marcella, slightly out of breath, to the receptionist as soon as she entered the front office area.

“Yes, he’s been waiting,” emphasized the receptionist, much to Marcella’s disappointment. “You may go right in.”

Marcella was surprised to see two men in uniform when she entered the Major’s office and neither was seated. After closing the door behind her, she recognized from the insignia that the guest was West Virginia State Police Superintendent Colonel Arnold Jackson.

She formally saluted both men and they returned the gesture.

Noticing that the young woman was breathing hard from the rhythmic way her shirt separated between the buttons covering her breasts, Major Charles observed, “Did you run here Trooper?”

“Maybe more of a brisk walk,” she answered.

“Well, at least you didn’t drive. Please take a seat.”

As she hesitantly took a seat in front of the Major’s desk, she asked herself, “What the fuck did he mean by that?” Both men also sat down after she was settled, including the Colonel in a well-cushioned seat in the back corner of the office.

Major Charles represented your average middle-aged, fat-ass, balding desk jockey, who had a hands-off approach to managing everything other than his lunch; while Colonel Jackson was a slender gray-haired stern-looking gentleman, who was nearing his mandatory retirement age.

“You know Colonel Jackson?” asked the Major, nodding toward the man in the corner. “He’s here today for the graduation ceremony.”

Looking at the Colonel, she smiled and answered, “We’ve never met, but I know who you are, Colonel.”

The Colonel nodded in response, but didn’t return the smile.

The Major then began fingering a stack of papers on his desk and observed, “I was reviewing the guest lists submitted by the cadets and noticed that you didn’t invite anyone to the ceremony.”

“Well,” began Marcella, feeling a bit uncomfortable, “most of my family don’t need to know that I’m pursuing a career in law enforcement and the others probably wouldn’t come even if I invited them.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the Major without showing any signs of remorse what-so-ever.

“But I consider my fellow cadets as family!” Marcella excitedly spoke up, suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to her.

The Major leaned back in his chair and made direct eye contact with the woman. “You mean the cadets you partied with last night?” he asked.

“Oh god, you know about that?” she responded, her voice now reduced to a whisper.

Of course he knew about it, because the Major’s whore of a wife was at the same bar where the cadets were getting smashed and causing a ruckus. In fact, his wife couldn’t wait to tell him about the crazy black bitch who was half-dressed and dancing on the bar.

“I probably know more than you can even remember,” he admitted, crossing his arms in the process to send Marcella a signal of his disappointment.

With a look of sincere concern on her face, Marcella could only reply, “Whatever I did, I’m truly sorry about it and I assure you it won’t happen again.”

The Major leaned forward in his seat, but continued to maintain eye contact. “Well, irregardless of all that, how would you feel about not attending the ceremony today?”

Now her composure was completely broken and tears began welling up in her eyes. “Like I said,” she said again. “I’m sorry for what I did. I was just trying to celebrate the completion of my training and I guess I let things get a little out of hand. But I worked hard for this and being a state trooper has always been my dream. Please let me graduate.”

The Major pushed a box of tissues across his desk toward Marcella and she obediently tugged a sheet out of the box to wipe her eyes.

“Actually, Colonel Jackson has a proposition for you to consider,” the Major announced.

Marcella looked in the Colonel’s direction and saw him stand up and begin to approach the desk. Well, he won’t be the first white guy I’ve blown, she thought.

When Colonel Jackson reached the desk, he leaned over to Marcella and held out his hand. “Ms. Shale, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” he greeted. “I am Colonel Arnold Jackson, superintendent of the West Virginia State Police.”

Marcella didn’t try to get up, but reached out to shake the Coronel’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” she added, trying to hold back a sob.

The Colonel leaned back to sit on the very edge of the Major’s desk, facing the cadet. He glanced down at his hands, which were now in his lap, and grimaced a little. Marcella was a little embarrassed when she saw him use his left hand to begin peeling a tear-dampened tissue off the palm of his right hand.

Once he had the tissue completely removed and had tossed it into a small trash can beside the desk, the Colonel said, “As Major Charles indicated, I have a proposition for you, but the details of which cannot leave this room. Is that understood?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to graduate, sir,” she agreed. “I can be completely discreet. You can rest assured of that.”

“Your status as a law enforcement officer for the State of West Virginia has never been in question,” he responded. “Major Charles here was just screwing around with you.”

The Major grinned at Marcella, agreeing with the Colonel’s concept of screwing around with the young cadet. The acknowledgement of being screwed, however, didn’t make Marcella feel as relieved as she thought it should.

“Have you ever thought about working undercover?” asked the Colonel.

Marcella thought, why won’t he just come right out and say it and quit with the bed references?

“I’ll go wherever and do whatever you need me to do, sir,” she concluded.

“That’s the Mountaineer spirit!” he commented. “But allow me to explain the details; because this assignment will have you working some long nights and doing things that you probably never considered doing before. And remember, you’ll be out of uniform for the duration of this assignment.”

“I fully understand what you’re asking me to do,” answered Marcella as she reached up to unfasten the top button of her shirt in order to send an additional message to the men. “I’ll work as long and as hard as I have to until all aspects of my assignment have been fully satisfied.”

“A satisfaction guarantee!” observed Major Charles with another grin.

“You’re a smart girl,” admitted the Colonel. “Major Charles’s staff has done a good job preparing you. I almost feel guilty having to ask you to stay in the seedy little motel where we need you located.”

“As long as it has a bed, right?” she resigned.

Slightly surprised by her comment, the Colonel responded, “Well, of course, it’ll have a bed. But I thought you’d be more concerned about what exactly you’ll be investigating, because the Major and I won’t be around to direct you once you’ve moved in.”

“You gentlemen won’t be visiting?” she asked, suddenly confused.

“Of course not,” he explained. “This really is an undercover assignment. Once you’re briefed and in place, you’ll be completely on your own. We don’t even want you attempting to communicate with us until you have a break in the investigation and have gathered sufficient evidence for us to take to a prosecutor.”

Marcella sheepishly reached back up to the top of her shirt to refasten the button.

“Scoot your chair closer to the desk,” directed the Colonel as he stood up and retrieved a manila envelope from the far corner of the desk.

The Colonel removed a five-by-seven photograph from the envelope and laid it in front of Marcella on the desk. It was a generic trooper graduation photo, showing the cadet in uniform standing between the flags of the United States and the State of West Virginia. Marcella immediately noticed how attractive the short Latina cadet was.

“This is Trooper Juanita Cruz,” he explained. “She was the previous trooper who was assigned to the motel investigation. Quite frankly, we don’t know what happened to her. She hasn’t touched the funds we placed in her bank account and our attempts to make emergency contact with her have failed.”

The Colonel then showed Marcella a photo of the Foyer Motel and Resort. “And this is the Foyer Motel along Route Thirty-three in Rivertown, West Virginia, which is near Seneca Rocks State Park in Pendleton County,” he began. “It has about a dozen rooms, but very few are occupied and those are rented long-term. We were attempting to investigate a possible prostitution ring operating out of the motel, which is why Cruz was sent down there. But it’s a very tight knit community and they’re highly suspicious of outsiders, so we all knew it would take awhile for Cruz to gain their trust.”

Marcella studied the photos intently, as if she expected them to self-destruct at any moment. She was especially impressed by one photograph showing Cruz dressed in leathers and posing next to a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

“Well, I’m always ready for a challenge and I’m pretty good at making friends, so I’m confident that I can find some information on the status of Trooper Cruz – and maybe even the prostitution ring,” Marcella announced.

“That’s what we like to hear,” responded the Colonel. “I knew that Major Charles would find us the ideal candidate to continue this investigation.”

The Major smirked and added, “Considering her performance at the club last night, I don’t think anyone will be too suspicious of her being associated with law enforcement.”

The comment drew a pouty-lipped expression from Marcella, but the Colonel continued his briefing without acknowledging the Major.

“To be honest, we don’t know whether Trooper Cruz’s cover had been jeopardized, so we aren’t taking any chances with you,” the Colonel explained. “No one outside this room will know that you are working undercover for the state police. Major Charles will be handling all the funding personally and you will only have his private cell phone number for a point of contact, which must only be used discreetly.”

“Will I be provided a phone?” asked Marcella with visions of Blackberries dancing in her head.

“Unfortunately, you’ll have to find a landline to use down there because cell coverage is limited,” answered the Major. “Most cells won’t get a signal until you approach Elkins.”

Marnonewcella nodded, hiding her disappointment.

“Actually, desperate transients seeking sanctuary usually don’t carry cutting edge technology,” added the Colonel. “Like I said, we’re not taking any chances with you. You’ll be arriving at the motel on foot, carrying a bag of clothing and enough cash to get by for a few weeks. You will also have an account at the North Fork Office of Pendleton County Bank in Rivertown, but you must be careful not to stir suspicion by making a lot of unnecessary withdrawals.”

“Won’t my fellow cadets be suspicious if I don’t attend today’s graduation ceremony?”

Major Charles then stood up from his desk, allowing him to deliver the bad news with more effect.

“I doubt anyone will be suspicious when word gets around that you left my office bawling because you were tossed from the Academy over your unacceptable behavior last night,” the Major explained to her, glancing down from a more authoritative position from behind the desk. “You’ll be leaving this office looking extremely distraught and you’ll head straight for your barracks to gather up your personal belongings without saying anything to anyone. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Marcella, already beginning to look slightly distraught.

Colonel Jackson noticed her dismay and pointed out, “But after this investigation, you’ll be assigned a formal position with the state police – unless, of course, you discover that you like working undercover.”

“I understand,” responded Marcella.

“Very good,” said the Colonel. “For tonight, we have a room reserved for you at Yokel’s Holidayland at Seneca Rocks. Drive down in your personal vehicle after you leave here today and we’ll provide you with a more detailed briefing once you’re there.”

“Is that all for now then?” asked Marcella as she stood up from her seat.

With all three individuals now standing around the desk, the Colonel glanced over at the Major. “Do you have anything else, Major?”

The Major first glanced over to Marcella and then faced the Colonel. “I don’t know,” answered the Major. “She doesn’t look quite distraught enough to me. Maybe she shouldn’t leave quite yet.”

Marcella’s demeanor portrayed confusion, worry, impatience and nervousness, but was unfortunately lacking in the distraught department.

The Colonel studied the woman intently, cupping his chin with the palm of his hand. “You know, I think you’re right, Major Charles,” he concluded.

Marcella shook her head slightly, signaling defeat. “What do you need me to do?” she offered.

“Well,” answered the Colonel. “I remember how distraught you looked earlier when you began unbuttoning your shirt.”

“Yes,” agreed the Major, “quite distraught indeed.”

With that, Marcella resumed her earlier effort by unbuttoning her shirt. As she unfastened the buttons one by one down the front of her uniform, she kept eye contact with both men and immediately realized their silence indicated that they wanted her to continue to disrobe.

She tugged the bottom of her shirt out of her slacks and slipped the shirt off her naked shoulders, letting the freshly pressed garment drop silently to the floor.

Both gentlemen marveled at the way her breasts seemed to expand within her bra as soon as they were released from the confines of the tight shirt. And then the men waited patiently for the breasts to be displayed in their full glory as Marcella reached behind her back to unfasten the brassiere.

As soon as the bra fell away from Marcella’s chocolatey chest, the twenty-one-year-old’s firm natural breasts lived up to the men’s highest expectations and proved that Marcella’s need for a bra was more for professional modesty than for a physical need to artificially “lift and separate.”

“My god, Raymond, you definitely chose the best candidate for this assignment,” congratulated the Colonel.

“Yes, I’m quite pleased by her performance thus far,” admitted the Major, who reached down to the front of his pants to make a quick crotch adjustment.

Marcella also reached down to her crotch area, but her gesture was designed to unbuckle her belt, unbutton her slacks and unzip her zipper. She then bent completely over to untie her boots, allowing her breasts to swing freely in front of her face, as she eventually pulled off her boots and socks and set them to the side.

Even with her pants completely loosened as she straightened back up, Marcella still had to wriggle the top of her slacks down past her hips. Knowing the men were not wanting to see a lengthy striptease, she made sure to snag her panties with her thumbs as she pulled her final garments over her hips and thighs. The small patch of finely-trimmed pubic hair seemed to point like an arrow toward her love target.

The men circled around the front of the desk as Marcella was pulling the final pant leg off her well-toned calve. The Major leaned his fat ass against the front of the desk as the Colonel approached Marcella.

Marcella had just kicked her slacks to the side when the Colonel clutched her right hand and began leading her over to the desk. Marcella knew her assignment as soon as she saw the Major unzipping the front of his trousers and fishing around for his standard-issue equipment.

The Colonel swung behind Marcella and pushed slightly on her back, directing the girl to lean over onto the Major’s crotch. Marcella used her hands to steady herself against the top of the Major’s thighs as she wrapped her lips around his erect pistol.

Standing behind the cadet and taking in a strong whiff of her aroma, the Colonel busied himself with unfastening his own trousers so that he could formally introduce his partner in crime to its new hideout.

Soon it was the Colonel in the driver’s seat, placing his hands at the nine and three o’clock positions on Marcella’s hips, and rear-ending her with such force that it drove the cadet deep onto the Major’s hot rod.

The Colonel quickly ran out of gas, however; as his stamina could no longer live up to his desire to outlast the competition. Thus, he was the first man to peter out of the impromptu demolition derby.

The Major then celebrated his victory by showering the winner’s circle with his own brand of champagne.

Marcella wasn’t overly impressed by either performance, but the event served its purpose because she looked quite distraught when she eventually left the Major’s office (especially since the Major pulled away the box of tissues as soon as she tried to reach for a sheet).

“That was rather anti-climatic,” Marcella said to herself as she walked past the secretary’s desk, successfully avoiding the shocked stare of the woman.

***

According to legend, the sole offspring of Seneca Indian Chief Bald Eagle and his common law wife White Rock was a beautiful maiden named Snowbird. All the Braves in the tribe, of course, wanted to spread her tiny wings and fly away with Snowbird, but the Indian Princess avoided their advances until her late teenage years. One day, Snowbird told her parents that she had devised an endurance test to see which Brave was most qualified to accept her hand in heathenistic marriage. Once a date was announced for the festivities, Seneca Braves came from far and wide to take part in the barbaric contest. Snowbird informed the Braves that she would soon climb to the top of Seneca Rock, which was a very treacherous and deadly climb, but one that she had accomplished many times. After she reached the top, she explained, the first Brave who was able to join her on the 2400-foot summit would be deemed suitable for quasi-marriage. “Ever since I was a little girl,” she concluded, “I have watched yonder rocks push their rugged summits into the heavens and now it is time to see which young Brave gets to push his rugged summit into my heavenly maidenhead.” Once the rules were understood, Snowbird left the group in order to begin her ascent. Her father patiently watched his daughter successfully climb the jagged crags and razorback ridges of the Tuscarora quartzite tower until he could see her standing triumphantly at the very tip of the sandstone summit (he wasn’t called Bald Eagle because of his hair loss). Anyway, the Chief then gave a signal for the Braves to begin their efforts to rendezvous with the lofty Princess. Obviously, every one of the Braves knew full well that they could climb any rock wall that a teenage girl could climb, but what they didn’t know was that Snowbird already had her eye on the Brave that she wanted to bang. Consequently, as one Brave after another reached the pinnacle, Snowbird would quickly identify the suitor and if it was not her chosen one she would quickly kick, push or stomp the unbalanced suitor until he fell backward off the ledge and tumbled to his death. Eventually, her man placed a weary hand over the top of the final ledge, but his foot slipped in the process and he was suddenly dangling from the stone tower by one hand. Snowbird quickly ran over to him and grabbed his arm, so that she could safely pull him over the ridge. The Senecas lost a lot of Braves that day, but the Princess and her new husband lived happily ever after - until the weakened tribe was massacred by the neighboring Tuscarora Hemp Smokers. During the massacre, the first family of the Senecas tried to flee to the top of the Seneca Rock Crag, but the Tuscarora tribesmen followed and forced them off the cliff in a display of poetic justice. The morbidly obese White Rock was the last Seneca to be rolled off the ledge and she caused an avalanche as her lifeless body bounced along the jagged sandstone ridges of the tower. Roadside memorial signs dedicated to White Rock’s earth-shaking demise can still be seen in West Virginia.

***

Marcella was reminded of the Indian legend as she trudged along Route 33 toward Rivertown, glancing hesitantly up at the encroaching hillsides every time she saw a yellow sign cautioning travelers to “Watch for Falling Rock.”

Looking like a giant Brownie scout with her brown hiking outfit, including tight shorts and bulky boots, and carrying an overstuffed backpack, Marcella cursed to herself as she walked along the highway. “Backpacking after a backstabbing,” she mumbled.

Marcella had not yet heard of the Snowbird legend when she tried to check into Yokel’s Holidayland the previous evening, so she didn’t understand when the clerk laughed as soon as she asked, “Do you have a reservation under the name of Snow Byrd?”

The reservation was obviously the Major’s idea of a joke and she didn’t question it when he gave her the check-in instructions over the phone while she was driving to Pendleton County.

Marcella also didn’t see the humor when she discovered that her room was located in an area called “Yokel’s Indian Village” and that her accommodations consisted of a sleeping bag inside of a large wooden teepee.

“I noticed there are regular hotel rooms above this store,” she commented to the clerk. “Aren’t any of those rooms available?”

“Sorry, Ms. Byrd, but your reservation was made specifically for the Indian Village,” answered the non-descript clerk, who handed her a non-descript package that contained detailed mission information and some cash.

I guess this represents my detailed briefing, she thought as she looked over the sealed package and began to leave the store/hotel counter.

“Oh, one last thing,” called the clerk before Marcella could get out the door. “When you drop off your teepeekee tomorrow, please leave your car keys and your cell phone at the desk too. Someone will be by to take care of your vehicle.”

It wasn’t until she was reviewing the Holidayland pamphlets inside her teepee later in the evening that she learned about the Snowbird legend.

At least they didn’t register me under the name of White Rock, she contemplated as she walked past yet another caution sign along the roadway the following morning.

Rivertown was only a few miles southeast of Seneca Rocks on Route 33, but the heavy backpack and the uncomfortable boots made the journey seem long, while the narrow berm along the road provided precious little distance between Marcella and the speeding traffic.

In fact, only one vehicle seemed to abide by the 50 miles-per-hour speed limit and it passed Marcella several times during her trek. Eventually the old rusted red pick-up truck pulled up beside Marcella and a grimy-looking old-timer rolled down the passenger-side window.

Expecting to be asked whether she wanted a ride, Marcella was surprised when the coot displayed a semi-toothy smile through his white crumb-infested beard and inquired, “Hey, girly, would you like some candy?”

He then held out a dirty palm full of wrangled lollypops, which looked like all the wrappers had been reattached with cellophane tape and the sticks had been bent and straightened countless times.

After viewing the offering, Marcella leaned down toward the open window to better observe the lonely old man. “And what would you like me to do with those suckers?” she asked with a stern, disapproving tone.

The man clenched his fist full of confections and withdrew his arm back from the window. He then squinted through his crazed eyes and responded, “Hey how old are youse anyways?”

“Old enough to recognize a perv when I see one,” Marcella answered. “And old enough to report you to the authorities unless you take your piece of shit truck down the road and never bother me again.”

“Sorry,” commented the decrepit creep, who took a moment to hock and spit out the driver-side window. “I thought you was working down the road.”

Before Marcella could step back, the pick-up pulled away, almost cutting off another vehicle that had suddenly come up upon it. She planned on making note of the truck’s license plate, but there was no plate visible on the back of the vehicle.

Thankfully, Marcella’s morning hike was nearing its end as she crested one final hill and walked down toward the entry of a hollow. The road leading into the hollow from her side of highway was called Hartman Hills Road and a rotted school bus shelter barely stood at the intersection.

Hartman Hills Road abruptly ended at Route 33 and did not continue on past the intersection. Once Marcella reached the intersection and looked across the highway, she wondered whether she had been too critical of her meager accommodations last night at the Yokel Indian Village.

As she hesitantly crossed Route 33, a feeling of dread overcame her and she became oblivious of everything around her. She would not have known if there was traffic pulling out from Hartman Hills Road behind her or if traffic was approaching from either side of her as she crossed Route 33. Her attention was only focused on what appeared to be a long-abandoned motel and restaurant facility directly in front of her.

Once she made it safely across the highway and was on the gravel driveway leading to the mysterious buildings, she realized that the place she thought was a diner was actually some kind of tattoo parlor. Large blinds covered the wall of windows surrounding the front of the diner and a hand-painted wooden sign above the glass entrance doors read: Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe.

Marcella prudently decided to avoid the dilapidated tattoo parlor on her right and instead approach the dilapidated motel building on her left. There was a broken neon sign on a tall pole, rising out of the overgrown grass in front of the motel, which would once have been clearly visible along Route 33. But now the name “Foyer Motel” was only partially legible atop the post, since a lot of the twisted neon bulb letters were damaged, except for the word “Motel” and the large “F.” The bottom half of the “o” next to the “F” would sometimes flicker off and on when the management remembered to switch the sign on.

Even though Marcella was hoping to see officer Cruz’s motorcycle, the parking lot leading up to the motel was completely empty except for a small child’s rusty red wagon. There were some lawn chairs in front of a couple of the rooms, indicating that there may be residents at the establishment, but there was no other evidence of inhabitation.

The old 1950’s style strip motel had a stained white stucco exterior with gaudy red doors and large dusty windows, which all had their dark red curtains drawn so that no one could see inside the rooms. Marcella counted twelve rooms, in addition to the office that was located at the far right of the building.

As she approached the office, she was relieved to see a plastic OPEN sign attached to a string against the inside of the glass door. It was the type of sign that could easily be flipped over to indicate closure, if the clerk remembered to flip it over.

A small sleigh bell was also attached to a string on the inside of the door, which jingled and jangled when Marcella pushed the door open and entered the office. The office appeared dark and dingy, while the air smelled of smoke and pine freshener – almost like the aftermath of a forest fire.

Marcella didn’t see anyone behind the counter and noticed that a door labeled STAFF ONLY was shut. An antique chrome countertop bell rested atop the counter and Marcella tapped the top of it lightly so as not to sound too impatient.

“Can I help you?” came an eerie voice from somewhere behind the counter.

Marcella glanced around, but still could not see anyone. While scanning the interior of the office, she was also bothered by the sight of a rusty upright ice maker that hummed at a level just a few decibels louder than the voice she supposedly heard. I hope to god this place isn’t haunted, she thought.

Marcella considered tapping the bell again, but then heard the same voice ask, “I said, ‘Can I help you?’”

This time, Marcella leaned slightly over the counter and caught a glimpse of a greasy brown head of hair rising from the depths of the darkened floor. She then realized that a little person was climbing up the side of a stool.

Once the miniature clerk reached the top of the stool and sat down, allowing her to see Marcella on the other side of the counter, she elaborated, “Welcome to the Foyer Motel; we’re open fo’ yer desires.”

Marcella realized that the little woman must have repeated those same words a thousand times, but it seemed like she struggled this time to get them out with her scratchy voice. She ended her greeting with a croupy cough. Marcella guessed the woman to be in her thirties or forties, but had trouble determining her age because of her stature (her rather well-built stature, by the way). She was wearing a red housekeeper type uniform.

“Okay,” responded Marcella. “I assume you have a room available.”

“Hell yes, we got rooms available,” coughed up the clerk. “How long you want it for? We got monthly, weekly, daily and hourly rates.”

“Let’s just start out with one week,” Marcella decided.

“The price is fifty dollars a week – cash,” responded the clerk as she snatched a cigarette from a pack on the countertop and fired it up. “Plus the motel gets twenty-five percent of all your earnings. Your clients pay up front here at the office and the motel’s cut is taken at the time of the transaction. You can keep your tips.”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marcella answered, feigning a shocked look on her face.

“The hell you don’t,” challenged the clerk, erupting into a short coughing fit. “You try to do transactions outside of this office and you’ll be out of business quicker than a West Virginia entrepreneur trying to pay all his taxes.”

Marcella quickly stuck her hand into the front pocket of her hiking shorts and pulled out a few bills. Separating a fifty from a twenty and a couple of tens, she handed the higher bill across the counter and re-deposited the rest back into her pocket.

The clerk turned on a small desk lamp on the counter and held the bill against the bare bulb, ensuring that the plastic anti-counterfeiting strip was intact inside the bill. She then drew a yellow marker across the face of the bill to ensure that the money was legit.

“Okay,” concluded the clerk, who quickly dropped the verified currency into a coffee can beneath the counter. “I’m going to put you in Room Three, next to Sadie and Poochie.”

Marcella watched as the clerk’s hand went under the counter with her fifty-dollar bill and then came back up with a room key attached to a red plastic tag.

“Oh, you allow pets here?” Marcella asked, reaching for the key.

“Who said anything about pets?” asked the clerk in between puffs and coughs.

“Sorry, I thought you said something about Sadie and her pooch.”

“Poochie ain’t a real dog and she don’t make no noise other than some whinin’ and bawlin’ ever wunst in awhile.”

Rather than sound too inquisitive about her new neighbors, Marcella tried to change the subject by asking if there was a register she had to sign.

“Ain’t no register,” explained the registrar. “What happens at the Foyer… stays with you at the Foyer until a doctor gets rid of it.”

“Okay,” agreed Marcella, reaching her free hand across the counter while clutching tightly onto her room key with the other. “In that case, my name is Marcy and it’s nice to meet you.”

The clerk accepted the woman’s handshake and smiled slightly through nicotine-stained teeth. “And my name is Gidget Dusseldorf, manager of the Foyer Motel and the Tattoo parlor across the parking lot.”

As Marcella began walking back toward the glass door, the humming of the large ice machine caught her attention and she turned around to the clerk to ask the meaning of an unnerving paper sign taped onto the metal lid of the machine.

“Why does the ice machine have a sign that says ‘BATES’?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” answered Gidget, just loud enough to prohibit another coughing attack. “You can still get ice from inside the lid, since all the fishing worms are in sealed containers.”

***

Marcella gave her room a full inspection once she was safely inside and had the door securely chained and bolted. Better than sleeping on the cement floor of a wooden teepee, she admitted as she looked at the queen-sized bed.

She noticed that the backboard of the bed had a strange coin-operated device attached to it that was about the size of a breadbox (i.e., slightly larger than a loaf of bread). The label on the box read “For Your Comfort and Relaxation This Bed is Equipped with Magic Fingers Relaxation Service. 25 Cents or One Token for 15 Minutes.” Thankfully, I brought my own vibrator, she thought.

Then she noticed a similar coin-op device attached to an old celluloid plastic clock radio that was glued to the nightstand beside the bed. The top of the radio had a small coin slot and the words “Dahlberg Radio - Deposit 1 to 5 Dimes or 1 Token.” I don’t like swing music anyway, she concluded.

Marcella immediately glanced over to the old television set that was bolted to the dresser opposite the bed. Sure enough, it also had a coin vending device attached to it. The device was called a Telemeter and offered “Pay as You See TV.” It’s probably a black and white television anyway, she reasoned.

Then a disturbing thought occurred to her and she raced to the bathroom, where she sighed a sigh of relief upon discovering that there was at least no pay toilet. Looking down into the stained bowl, she shook her head and mumbled, “Well, at least I can go to the bathroom for free…”

When she dropped her shorts and took a seat on the toilet, she shivered from the cold plastic touching her bare skin. “…even if it’s not a warm place to go to the bathroom.”

From her seat on the toilet, she noticed a strange calendar hanging beside the mirror above the sink. The top of the calendar featured a bull fighting scene, while the bottom had tear-off sheets representing each month of the current year.

The current calendar page on display was, appropriately, the month of May, and most of the individual days had a bright red X crossed through the numbered boxes. Marcella found it interesting that there was no X through yesterday’s box, which was May 30th, but that all the days prior to yesterday were crossed out.

Marcella realized that if she was in Officer Cruz’s room, then the trooper may have still been at the motel as late as the day before yesterday. After washing her hands at the sink, Marcella carefully ripped the month of May from the calendar and delicately folded it, in case it could be used for evidence. Tomorrow is the first of June anyway, she thought.

Not counting the bathroom door, which didn’t even have a lock, Marcella counted four doors inside the strange motel room. In addition to the front door, there was also connecting doors to rooms two and four on each side. There was also a back door with a large window beside it similar to the front entrance, which Marcella had to admit was unusual for a motel.

Marcella tugged open the curtain on the back window, but the only scenery was a cow pasture and the edge of the woods in the distance. After peeking out, she made sure the curtain completely covered the window again.

The room was drearily dark with all the curtains pulled, but Marcella desired privacy on her first day in her new surroundings. She tried brightening the room by switching on a hanging lamp beside the front window, but was disappointed to find that the bulbs inside the fixture were all red and did not brighten much of anything, including her mood.

She had more luck with a wall lamp above the headboard of the bed, which was strong enough to sufficiently light the room. As she sat on the bed next to her backpack, Marcella was thankful that the wall lamp did not have one of those damned energy-saving bulbs.

Marcella began rummaging through the large backpack, pulling out various clothes and accessories, and essentials and toiletries; and placing the items beside her on the bed until she finally burrowed down to find a manila envelope. The envelope, which had a couple strips of double-sided tape on one side, contained a new spiral notebook that she purchased at Yokel’s Store before she left the Indian Village.

Even though the notebook was unused, the pages were slightly yellowed as if the item had been on the shelf for a while. Marcella giggled at the cover image of a kitten dangling from a tree branch and the caption “Hang in There, Baby!”

Marcella wrote the date of May 31 at the top of the first page and then began describing her initial contact with motel management, including Gidget Dusseldorf‘s not-so-veiled references to prostitution. After she was finished writing, she slipped the notebook and the folded calendar page into the envelope and walked over to the dresser.

Marcella carefully removed the top drawer and placed it on the floor beside her. She then removed the protective paper from the top side of the double-sided tape strips that were attached to the envelope. Finally, she reached inside the empty space where the drawer had been and pushed the envelope up inside until it stuck securely to the inside top of the dresser.

With the envelope now taped inside the dresser, Marcella replaced the drawer, moving it in and out several times to make sure it wouldn’t catch on the hidden envelope.

Since her meager collection of clothing was now laid out on the bed, she then began filling the dresser drawers with items that one would expect to find in a typical motel dresser.

One item that Marcella did not expect to find inside a typical motel dresser was a large black book in the bottom drawer. Written in English on the faux leather cover of the book were the words: The Necronomicon – Hotel Edition.

“I don’t think the Gideons left this,” Marcella said out loud while carefully opening the cover.

Unfortunately, the text inside the dusty book was not in English, but appeared to be some kind of mad Arabic scrawling. Marcella wondered what Officer Cruz would have thought of the mysterious book.

Suddenly there came a knocking upon the door and Marcella reacted by quickly snapping the large book shut and dropping it back into the bottom drawer. A cloud of dust rose from the disturbed book and Marcella inadvertently revealed her presence to the visitor with a series of coughs as she approached the door.

When she reached the door and peeped out through the peep hole, she saw a skinny, tall Caucasian woman with short-cropped black hair on the other side. Marcella unbolted the door, but left the chain attached so that the door could only be opened a crack.

As soon as Marcella cracked open the door, the dust wrought havoc upon her nostrils and she ended up sneezing in the tall woman’s face.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” apologized Marcella, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth like the proverbial farmer closing the gate after the critters had escaped.

“Bless you,” responded the startled woman as she attempted to wipe the moisture from around her eyes with her right hand.

As a show of trust to the woman she had just assaulted, Marcella quickly closed the door, unhooked the chain and opened the door all the way.

The mysterious woman was dressed all in black, sporting a leather corset-type bustier and a leather skirt to match. The low cut bustier was meant to boost her modest bust line, but there wasn’t much bust to boost.

“Again I am so sorry,” Marcella said again, because she was so sorry. “This room, I mean, is just so dusty, I mean, can I get you a tissue or something?”

“It’s all right, honey,” responded the woman. “I know the housekeeping staff around here has a lot of…how should I say… shortcomings.”

Marcella couldn’t help giggling at the thought of Gidget trying to dust any surface over four feet high. “So motel management is also responsible for cleaning the rooms?” she asked rhetorically.

The woman didn’t answer (after all, it was a rhetorical question), but did smile and extend her hand inside the door to Marcella.

“I’m your neighbor, Sadie,” she introduced herself. “Me and my friend, Poochie, reside in rooms One and Two.”

“And my name is Marcy,” she answered. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Marcella noted to herself during the handshake that Sadie had sweaty palms, which could be indicative of someone who was nervous or trying to hide something. Then Marcella remembered that Sadie’s hand was covered with the spit she had just wiped from her face.

“Would you like to come next door and meet Poochie?” invited Sadie. “And maybe we can get to know each other a little.”

“Sure,” accepted Marcella. “Just let me grab my key before we leave.”

As Marcella followed Sadie, she realized that some of the woman’s height could be attributed to the stiletto heels that she wore. Sadie didn’t have much of a figure, being so thin and tall, but the high heels did motivate what little ass she had to offer.

“This is Poochie’s room,” commented Sadie as they walked past Room Number Two. “But she’s usually in my room, since we always have the connecting door open.”

Ain’t nobody connecting to my room, thought Marcella, as she continued to observe Sadie’s steady strut toward the far end of the motel. Was that a tattoo peeking out between Sadie’s top and skirt, or some kind of nasty scar tissue? It was hard for Marcella to tell, since the woman’s careful gait only revealed occasional glimpses of skin.

As Sadie reached for the door knob for Room One, she explained. “Poochie didn’t come with me to see you, because she’s not allowed to leave our rooms.”

Not allowed? Marcella questioned the curious phrase as she followed Sadie into the room.

“Oh my god,” blurted Marcella when she walked into the oddly decorated room.

Their entrance also frightened a naked blonde woman who was lying on the bed. The shapely young woman didn’t try to cover herself, however, but she did get a panicked look on her face as she jumped off the bed to take refuge under a small table against the wall, curling herself up in a fetal position. Marcella thought she caught a glimpse of a tramp stamp tattoo on the blonde’s lower back too.

“Don’t mind her,” announced Sadie as she grabbed a couple chairs from beside the dresser and carried them over in front of the table. “Please take a seat, Marcy.”

Marcella felt uncomfortable sitting down at a table where a girl was cowering underneath, but didn’t want to offend Sadie. Marcella decided to try to ignore the naked woman at her feet, but she started to hear whimpering and whining as soon as she sat down.

Sadie sat down in the other chair and immediately sensed Marcella’s discomfort.

“Settle down under there,” commanded Sadie, following up with a quick kick to get her point across. “While you’re down there, Poochie, why don’t you clean the dust from my shoes?”

The whimpering and whining soon stopped and Marcella tried her best not to listen for any licking sounds. She instead took a longer glance around the room.

One wall of the room was decorated with a wide variety of whips, straps, canes, paddles and other instruments that looked extremely threatening to Marcella. There was also an intimidating stockade type of structure standing upright in front of the room’s back window – the curtains of which were wide open of course. I guess once a person’s head and hands are locked in the stocks, he or she can stand there and enjoy the pasture view, Marcella surmised.

“This place is so,” Marcella began. “So, scary, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Why thank you,” gushed Sadie. “Did you notice the restraints on the bed? They are hand-crafted leather imported from Germany!”

“I see,” nodded Marcella. “They look very… secure. Yes, very secure indeed.”

Leaning over to look under the table, Sadie called out, “You’ve never got loose from them; have you, Poochie?”

Poochie’s silence indicated an affirmative answer.

Sadie leaned toward her guest and placed a hand on Marcella’s bare knee. “So tell me about yourself and how you ended up here at the Foyer,” smiled Sadie.

Marcella expected to be interrogated by the motel residents, but she never imagined that it would take place in a room full of torture devices.

“Well, like I said, my name is Marcy and I’m originally from up north, specifically Glen Elk, where I was working the streets off ‘n on,” Marcy explained. “But one of my regulars tried stiffin’ me and I returned the favor.  So I thought a change of venue was in order, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure hon’,” responded Sadie, apparently believing Marcella’s bullshit story. “But there’s some things you need to know about working out of the Foyer.”

“Well, I may take a couple nights off,” added Marcella. “It wasn’t easy hiking and hitching my way down here. I might like to catch a breather before I try jumping right in. Plus, those rednecks that were kind enough to pick me up made it clear that rides aren’t free for hitchhikers anymore.”

“I guess you had no gas or grass to offer,” joked Sadie.

“No, but some perv in a truck did offer me some candy as I was walking down thirty-three this morning.”

Sadie laughed. “Oh, you’ve already met Old Saint Prick! Which reminds me, what time is it?”

Marcella glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s almost three o’clock, why?”

“Let’s take our little tea party outside on the lawn chairs,” suggested Sadie, standing up. “I don’t believe the timing on this!”

“Okay, okay, wherever is fine,” agreed Marcella, who was relieved to be getting away from the crouching pussy hidden down-on the floor.

When Sadie stood up in front of her, Marcella took note of a bit of a pouch representing Sadie’s stomach area. If Sadie had a little more form to her figure, the small pouch wouldn’t have even been noticeable.

As the two clad ladies headed toward the door, Sadie offered Marcella a beer, which was gratefully accepted.

“Get out from under that fuckin’ table, Poochie, and fetch us up a couple beers!” commanded Sadie as she opened the door.

Outside the door were two ragged red lawn chairs and a small plastic wobbly table to match. Sadie and Marcella had just managed to take their seats when Poochie emerged from the room, naked of course, with two bottles of generic beer. Poochie averted her eyes from Marcella’s shocked stare.

Sadie took both bottles from Poochie and handed one to the astonished Marcella. “Thank you, Poochie, now bend over.”

Poochie turned around and bent over, grabbing onto the door knob for support. In a flash, Sadie jammed the neck of the bottle into Poochie’s ass and jerked up on it, thus popping off the bottle cap.

Marcella, who finally got to see Poochie’s ugly tramp stamp, quickly announced, “I can open my own!”

No longer needed, Poochie escaped back into the room and closed the door behind her. Sadie wiped the top of the bottle off with her hand, like kids do when they share a bottle of pop.

“That’s quite an interesting tattoo she has,” commented Marcella as she took her first swig of brew.

By interesting, Marcella of course meant it was the nastiest tattoo she’d ever seen in her whole entire life. The smeary red tat’ looked like some kind of bird flu infested creature with its wings spread wide – almost resembling one of those Rorschach psychology test images.

“I’ve got one just like it,” announced Sadie with pride.

Changing the subject, Marcella asked, “So what happens at three o’clock?”

“School’s out! Check out the bus stop!” answered Sadie, pointing across Route 33 to the corner of Hartman Hills Road where the old red bus shelter barely stood.

Marcella saw a little girl in a red school uniform, wondering back and forth in front of the shelter with a book bag clutched in her arms, as if she was waiting on a parent or legal guardian to pick her up. Marcella then saw a familiar red pick-up pull up in front of the shelter.

“Oh my god!” exclaimed Marcella, jumping up. “That’s the pervert’s truck!”

Sadie leaned over and grabbed Marcella’s arm. “Sit down girl. They ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Marcella didn’t try to shake loose from Sadie’s grip, but did remain standing since it seemed to allow her a better view of the incident. It looked like the girl actually jumped into the passenger side of the vehicle!

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” mumbled Marcella on the edge of panicking.

Marcella was then surprised to witness the truck swing around and pull into motel parking lot, eventually stopping near the room closest to the office at the other end of the building.

Sure enough, Old Saint Prick soon exited the truck, emerging from the driver’s side. It also appeared that the girl got out of the opposite side, but Marcella couldn’t see that side of the truck.

Marcella was able to see the space in front of the truck where the two met on the motel’s sidewalk. The old man swooped up the girl in his arms, like a soldier returning home to his family after a tour in the Middle East. Only Old Saint Prick was no soldier… and (looking closer) the girl was no student.

“Wait a second,” Marcella said with a dramatic pause as she sat back down in her lawn chair and looked over to Sadie. “Is that Gidget the Midget?”

Sadie laughed, “Of course that’s Gidget, but don’t let her hear you calling her a midget.”

Marcella turned her attention back to the far end of the motel and watched as the couple entered Room Twelve, which adjoined the motel office.

“But she is a midget,” argued Marcella without bothering to turn back around to face Sadie.

“Well, not technically,” explained Sadie. “The way I understand it, a midget is perfectly proportioned, but on a smaller scale than ordinary people. I believe Gidget has some body features that are the size of normal folk.”

Once the odd couple disappeared into Room Twelve, Marcella turned back around in her chair and grabbed her beer off the plastic table.

“I don’t know,” swigged Marcella. “There can’t be too much normal about Gidget. I haven’t tried to check her out too closely, but I thought she fulfilled a close, let’s say, one-to-three ratio for midgetdom.”

“That’s ‘cause you ain’t seen her clit,” Sadie blurted out. “Some say it’s even larger than an average woman’s!”

Caught by surprise by the news, Marcella spit out a mouth full of beer before it got involuntarily redirected through her nostrils.

“Now Marcy,” chastised Sadie, wiping some of Marcella’s foamy spray from her arms. “I believe that is the second time this afternoon that y’all spit on me!”

“I am so sorry,” apologized Marcy for the second time that afternoon. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you to say that particular body part.”

“Don’t worry about it hon’,” smiled Sadie. “But can you imagine what would happen to Poochie if she did that?”

“Maybe you can show me sometime,” added Marcella, trying to maintain a good first impression with Sadie amongst the sea of spit she’d been spewing.

“Sounds like a date,” responded Sadie.

“Plus, at least I now know how to formally refer to Gidget,” added Marcella.

“How’s that?”

“Dusseldorf the Dwarf!”

***

Pappy carried his granddaughter into the room and sat her down on the bed. In her excitement, the girl immediately began jumping up and down on the bed like it was a trampoline.

“Hey there, lassie, you best calm down now afore you go an’ git hurt,” cautioned the old man as he hobbled toward the dresser.

After rummaging around a bit in the dresser, Pappy came up with a set of pajamas, which featured unicorns and fairies and other mystical creatures.

“Here,” said Pappy to the still bouncing child. “You get into yer PJs and start yer homework while I git me a shower. I been workin’ hard all day and need to get cleaned up before our family time.”

Pappy grabbed a red robe from the dresser drawer before shutting it, and then headed toward the bathroom.

Inside the bathroom, Pappy sat down on the toilet and began to work on removing his work boots. The laces were a tangled, knotted mess and briers were covering every inch of the cloth. His crusty arthritic fingers fumbled and tore at the laces for what seemed like fifteen minutes. Even once the laces were loosened, he had trouble pulling off each boot without losing his balance and tumbling off the toilet seat.

“One, two, three, pull,” he chanted to himself before each big tug on the boot. Eventually, he was successful in removing both boots, but each time a boot popped off a foot, a cloud of debris would burst from the depths of the footwear and pollute the atmosphere of the bathroom. The dust and ash were the remnants of his socks, which had disintegrated over time inside the boots.

Pappy also had trouble stripping out of his clothes, since he had not changed in days and the clothing had become stiff and was sticking to his skin from being covered in filth.

Once he was successful in forcing his way out of his garments, he almost passed out from the stench as he tried piling the discarded items on the floor in the corner of the bathroom.

“Coulda swore them britches was white when I put them on,” he mumbled to himself while holding his nostrils shut.

Pappy then reached inside the shower stall and turned on the hot water full blast before stepping into the tub. Even though the water was scorching hot, the layer of grime on his skin protected him from getting burned.

Just above the rim of the tub was a soap dish containing a freshly-wrapped bar of soap, which Pappy snatched up and began rubbing on his chest without bothering to remove the paper.

The paper wrapping quickly ripped away once it made contact with his crusty chest hair, which looked like a rusty Brillo pad that should’ve been discarded long ago.

Pappy pressed the soap as hard as he could against his body, trying to force the reluctant suds beneath the barrier of bacteria. At one point, he thought he had dropped the soap and began looking around the bottom of the tub, but he later found it wedged in the fat roll underneath his protruding stomach.

His crotch area proved extremely challenging, since his tangled pubic hair kept catching in his unclipped fingernails. For a moment, he wondered if his recent inability to become aroused was because his matted pubic hair was acting as a makeshift chastity belt, holding his flaccid member hostage in a cocoon-type shell that would barely allow him to urinate.

About half the bar of soap was used on his ass alone as he struggled to reach the most polluted portion of his body. Like the Fall cleaning of gutters on  a home surrounded by trees, Pappy was pulling handfuls of dead leaves from his soiled trough (because a Mountain Man who spends a lot of time in the woods doesn’t always have access to toilet paper).

Finally, he had just enough soap left to attempt to scrub the hair on his head and face. He enjoyed the tingling feeling of the soap against his scalp and the ticklish feeling between his fingers as the insects escaped.

He was surprised that the water never got hot enough against his skin to cause any discomfort. By the time the grime was mostly washed off, the motel water heater had run low and only lukewarm water was being emitted from the shower head.

Satisfied that he was probably as clean as he could get after only one bar of soap, he gingerly stepped out of the shower stall before the clogged tub overflowed. He hoped that the drain would break free on its own, because the stagnant water in the tub was so black that he feared the EPA would find out about it and want to test it for mine discharge.

And when he noticed that mosquitoes had already begun to congregate around the tub for breeding purposes, he quickly closed a small opaque window that was cracked open above the toilet.

Sealing off the bathroom may not have been the brightest idea, considering the festering pile of clothing in the corner, but he decided to towel off as quickly as possible before he could be overcome by the toxic fumes. Had he just created a candidate for the government’s superfund hazardous waste site program in Rivertown?

Soon the fresh white towels were damp and dirty from the subterranean levels of filth that could not be power-washed from Pappy’s body – or that he could not reach successfully.

After tossing on the robe, Pappy pulled open a small drawer in the sink pedestal to find his pièce de ré·sis·tance, which he had left on a previous visit to the motel. With a newfound sense of confidence, he boldly sprayed his chest with a liberal blast of Axe deodorant bodyspray...

***

After Sadie and Marcella were finished drinking and making fun of other people’s physical disabilities, Sadie thought it would be a good time to introduce Marcella to the services offered at the Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe.

“Okay, but I ain’t gettin’ no tats,” announced Marcella as she stood up to follow Sadie’s lead. “Besides, tattoos don’t show up real well on Black folk.”

“Not a problem,” responded Sadie as she checked the door to her room to make sure it was locked.

During their walk along the motel’s sidewalk, Sadie gave a brief explanation of how business worked at the Foyer. She explained that the motel had very few permanent residents, such as herself and Poochie, although most of the rooms would fill up with “overnighters” toward the evening hours, especially on the weekends.

“It looked like a permanent resident once worked out of my room,” Marcella observed as they walked past Room Three.

But Sadie didn’t take the bait.

Sadie pointed to the curtains that covered the front windows of each room and expounded that customers know when a particular room is open for business because the curtains are pulled open and the red lamp above the table is turned on.

“How an ‘adult services worker’ decides to display herself inside the room is completely up to her,” Sadie pointed out. “And once a customer is in the room, the curtains are then closed back across the window.”

Sadie recommended that Marcella inform Gidget of exactly what services she planned on offering and to specify precisely what services she refused to perform for any price.

“You mean like anal?” queried Marcella.

Sadie glanced back at Marcella and answered, “Girl, I can tell you ain’t gonna be a top earner here in Pendleton County.”

When the two ladies had advanced to the other end of the motel, Marcella noticed a small handwritten sign in the window of Room Eleven, which she hadn’t seen before.

“In addition to selling fishing worms in the office, this motel also rents four-wheelers?” asked Marcella, motioning toward the sign which read “Quad Rides Available – Inquire in Office.”

“Sort of,” Sadie answered with a grimace. “But if you need to go anywhere around here, I do have an ATV parked in the back of my room and I can give you a lift.”

Marcella realized that four-wheelers – or all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) as Sadie called them – were a popular mode of transportation in Pendleton County, because just about every home she saw so far had two distinct objects in the yard: at least one four-wheeler and one of those humungous obsolete white satellite TV dishes. Of course, the long-abandoned satellite dishes were all stained, covered in weeds and partially collapsed, while the four-wheelers were all in pristine condition.

The next room was the one that Gidget had entered with Old Saint Prick, but Marcella immediately realized that the curtains had not been pulled shut as she expected. Sadie didn’t seem surprised, however.

In fact, a quick glance inside the room revealed Gidget in her PJs sitting next to the robed man as they concentrated on some kind of paperwork at the small table. Even though the table was right next to the front window, Marcella couldn’t figure out what they were working on.

Anticipating Marcella’s inquiry, as the two of them continued to walk past the room, Sadie volunteered: “They’re doing homework in there. Every week, Old Saint Prick picks up Gidget from the bus stop and they go to her room – where he takes his weekly shower and they pretend to do homework at the table. Once the school work is done, he gets dressed and leaves.”

Shaking her head, Marcella admitted, “This place is so fucking weird.”

“Honey, you ain’t seen nuthin’ yet,” predicted Sadie as the pair began walking across the parking lot toward the Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe.

The door leading into the store had the same sleigh bell mechanism as the motel office dangling from the inside handle. The bell clinged and clanged when the ladies made their entrance.

Moxie heard the bell and looked up from her place behind the counter near the door. “Let me guess,” Moxie announced for the benefit of the stranger with Sadie. “You thought Gidget was the shortest white person you’d ever seen?”

“No,” lied Marcella, glancing around the bizarre store, trying to take it all in, before offering her hand to Moxie. “My name is Marcy. It’s nice to make your acquaintance.”

Moxie just stared at Marcella’s hand until it was withdrawn rather sheepishly. The red-haired Moxie was a bit shorter than Gidget and her sense of fashion wasn’t much better than Gidget’s, since she appeared to be wearing some kind of ink-stained miniature painter’s smock.

“Foxy Moxie is one of our perms here at the Foyer,” explained Sadie, trying to ease any potential tensions. “She resides next to Gidget in Room Eleven.”

“Yes,” agreed Moxie. “Gidget and I take turns covering the bookstore and the motel office, although I’m the only tattoo artist on site.”

“I see,” commented Marcella as she casually leafed through some of the photo albums on the counter, eventually coming to the conclusion that Moxie should reconsider her use of the word ‘artist.’ “Do you also do piercings?”

“I am forbidden to do piercings,” snapped Moxie. “Only the…”

“Let me show you around,” interrupted Sadie, grabbing Marcella by the arm and leading her away from the counter. “Over here are the vending machines, in case you or your clients need anything.”

“There sure seems to be a lot of coin-operated machines around here,” observed Marcella, remembering the array of strange old devices in her room.

The five vending machines along the wall opposite the counter offered the standard snacks and drinks, but two also offered personal products such as condoms, lotions, gels, lubricants, pastes, amyl nitrites and various feminine hygiene products. And one device was a change machine that exchanged bills for tokens.

“They used to have coin-operated movies in the back,” added Sadie. “But Poochie couldn’t keep the booths clean. After all, the girl’s only got one tongue.”

As they walked around, Marcella’s eyes were exposed to a wide selection of magazines and DVDs separated into various fetish categories – some of which she’d never heard of before. There was also a wall full of weird sex toys – all of which she’d never played with before.

“I hope nobody buys one of these and comes knockin’ on my door,” admitted Marcella, pointing toward a dildo shaped like a foot. The packaging promoted bringing a ‘foot-long’ home to your partner, courtesy of Dr. Soul’s foot care fetish products.

Just then, the sleigh bells foretold of another visitor to the Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe. Marcella glanced up to see a pretty brunette girl in flip-flops, jean shorts and a bikini top stroll into the store.

The girl, who didn’t even look old enough to drive, swung around the counter and gave Moxie a kiss on the cheek. Picking Moxie up in her arms like a baby, the girl announced, “I’ve come for you to finish my tat.”

As the girl carried Moxie to the back of the Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe, where a makeshift tattoo parlor was set up behind a red curtain, Sadie asked, “Mind if we watch?”

“Sure you kin watch,” answered the girl as she passed Sadie and Marcella.

Behind the curtain, Marcella watched in amazement while the girl placed Moxie on a stool and then proceeded to put the end of a customized tattoo gun in Moxie’s mouth.

When the girl began unfastening her jean shorts, Sadie saw Marcella’s stunned reaction and asked, “What? You’ve never seen a tattoo artist who is quadriplegic?”

***

On the walk back to their rooms, Marcella couldn’t get the haunting buzzing sound out of her head, especially the accompanying sound that the tattoo machine made as it vibrated against Moxie’s clenched teeth.

As they neared the motel office, they passed Gidget pulling the rusted red wagon that Marcella had seen in the parking lot earlier. “I’m off to relieve Moxie at the bookstore for a while,” she explained to Sadie.

“Well, she’s still with one of her tattoo customers, but I think she’s almost finished,” Sadie responded.

After Gidget was out of hearing range with her squeaky toy wagon, Marcella whispered to Sadie as they passed Room Eleven, “What’s the deal with Moxie anyway?”

“Well, it’s really a sad story actually,” explained Sadie. “Moxie and her husband were in a horrific car accident a few years back and Moxie’s limbs were crushed when she was ejected from the vehicle and it rolled on top of her. She ended up having to get all her limbs amputated and she was in the hospital for a long time.

“When she was finally released, her husband was the one who picked her up at the hospital and they decided to spend the night here at the Foyer since it was getting late.

“The next morning, Moxie was awakened by the sunlight shining through the window. She tried asking her husband to close the curtains, but realized that he had snuck out during the night and left her alone. She also noticed that the door was left wide open.

“Not wanting to give up on her husband, she patiently waited on the bed for him to return all day, but he never did. Well, as nighttime arrived and customers started showing up at the motel, guys began noticing her on the bed as they wondered around the building. Soon they were lining up in order to grab some free sex from the helpless, limbless woman.”

Marcella, who had her hand covering her mouth during the whole story, gasped, “Oh my god, that’s awful!”

“You ain’t kiddin’,” agreed Sadie. “None of us other girls ended up making any money that evening.”

“No,” corrected Marcella. “I mean it was awful how all those men raped that innocent woman.”

“Yeah, that too,” responded Sadie. “Anyways, once Moxie realized she had been abandoned, she decided to stick around the motel and make some cash on the side like us other ladies. She later developed an interest in tats too, err, tattoos; however you want to say it.”

When Marcella had reached her room and began digging for her key in her pants pocket, Sadie invited her to come back over to Room One for a drinking game later in the evening.

“Consider it to be our little play date,” Sadie said. “Just come over before nine, since I don’t want to miss out on any potential Johns. Usually, there’s no customer action around here until after ten.”

Marcella hastily agreed to the rendezvous, because she was anxious to get back into her room and update her hidden notebook with the new evidence she obtained at the Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe. Although nobody’s gonna believe some of this shit, she thought.

After Marcella meticulously documented everything she learned that afternoon, she began to feel hungry and decided to visit the vending machines at the bookstore.

***

Dusk was beginning to fall over the unsleepy little hamlet of Rivertown when Marcella returned with her unhealthy treats. As she sat on the bed crunching away at her food, she looked over at the empty mini-fridge tucked inside the bottom of the open closet area near the bathroom. I’ll have to ask Sadie for a ride into town on the ATV so I can pick up some supplies, she decided while grimacing at her tasteless potato chips and bottled water.

She eventually got up and walked toward the bathroom to throw away her trash. After tossing the garbage, she took a quick look out of the curtains covering the back window, curious whether she could see Sadie’s four-wheeler.

Her eyes immediately squinted into a curious stare, trying to pierce the darkness of the shadowy pasture. There seemed to be movement near the edge of the woods and the mobile objects were definitely not four-legged farm animals; in fact, they appeared to be walking upright. But perhaps walking was not a good word. Regardless, it seemed as though the harder Marcella concentrated, the harder it was to discern the nature of the objects. Peeping Toms? Paying Johns? Private Dicks? Pupils Dilated.

Her eyes widened and her head jerked back as a pale face flashed in front of her, causing Marcella to lose her breath and stumble backward away from the window.

As the curtains fluttered back into position, a forceful knocking on the back door startled Marcella even further. Leaning against the wall, trying to catch her lost breath, Marcella gathered her thoughts and concluded that the intruding face on the other side of the window probably belonged to Sadie.

The back door of the room did not have a peep hole, which would’ve been useless in the dark anyway, so Marcella resigned herself to answering the door without being sure who or what awaited her on the other side.

“My god, Sadie,” exclaimed Marcella with relief upon opening the door and recognizing her new friend. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t wait for our little play date,” explained Sadie.

“Okay, but why not come to the front door?”

“Because there’s something I want you to see back here.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” admitted Marcella.

She walked back toward her bed to get her room key and then hesitantly joined Sadie outside, making sure the door was locked in the process.

“I kept seeing objects in the field before you knocked,” announced Marcella. “They might have been people and they might have been carrying some kind of long thingies.”

Sadie looked out toward the pasture, shielding her eyes with her right hand to block out the non-existent glare. “Sorry, hon’, but I don’t see anything out there. Maybe it was a cow or something.”

“It wasn’t no damn cow,” responded Marcella, slightly perturbed.

Ignoring Marcella’s comment, Sadie began walking toward Room One along the narrow sidewalk that lined the backside of the motel. “What I’ve got to show you is far more interesting than some cow.”

When Marcella suddenly realized she had a favor to ask, her mood brightened substantially and she forgot about the pasteurized mysteries.

“Speaking of beef,” mentioned Marcella as she followed Sadie. “Could you four-wheel me into town tomorrow so I can pick up some supplies?”

“No problem, hon’.”

As the two women approached Room One, Marcella noticed that the curtains in the back window were completely pulled open and all the lights were on inside.

Marcella and Poochie then recognized each other simultaneously as Marcella witnessed the naked blonde restrained within the upright stockade – her head in the stocks, forcing the girl to look out the back window. But Poochie appeared to be more shocked by Marcella’s presence, since she suddenly started struggling violently to pull her hands and head from the stocks. The wooden mechanism that trapped the girl’s head and hands inside the narrow holes were securely locked, however.

“Poochie!” yelled Sadie from outside the window. “Stop that struggling immediately!”

Sadie then quickly approached the back door in order to address the situation from inside. She also whispered to Marcella, “I don’t understand her. She’s been in that stockade hundreds of times.”

Poochie was still pulling and yanking at her arms, trying to wriggle her hands out of the tight holes, as Sadie stormed into room. Marcella followed Sadie inside, closing the door behind her but keeping an eye on Poochie’s gyrating body, fascinated by the girl’s large swinging breasts as they bounced against the upright wooden column of the stockade.

Poochie then tried kicking sideways at the approaching Sadie, but missed completely because Sadie was outside Poochie’s field of vision.

“Don’t you try to kick me, you little bitch!” warned Sadie as she smacked Poochie’s ass hard with an open hand.

Poochie remained silent, even after receiving the smack, but still fought the restraints that held her upright body in place. Sadie marched past the girl and grabbed a three-foot long metal rod from her wall of implements.

Marcella noticed that the rod had a leather cuff attached by a short chain on each end as Sadie carried it back over toward the stockade.

“Can you help me with this?” asked Sadie as she knelt down at Poochie’s feet. “This should keep her from kicking.”

Being careful not to be kicked, Sadie grabbed hold of Poochie’s right ankle and quickly snapped on one side of the cuff. But as soon as Marcella knelt down on the other side, she received a sharp backward kick to the upper chest that caused her to lose her balance and sent her sprawling onto the floor.

“Dammit, you’re going to pay for that, Poochie!” exclaimed Sadie, almost diving over to snatch Poochie’s left ankle. Sadie angrily twisted Poochie’s ankle until the girl stopped resisting and then pulled the other side of the rod close enough to snap on the left cuff.

Sadie stood up and walked over to Marcella, offering her a hand so that she too could get off the floor. “Are you okay?” asked Sadie as she pulled Marcella up by the hand.

“Yeah, she just caught me by surprise,” answered Marcella. “Thank god she didn’t get me in the face.”

“Well, you’ll get your revenge in a little bit,” added Sadie, who immediately headed back to the wall o’ implements, leaving Marcella to marvel at the partially immobilized Poochie. In fact, with her upper and lower body now restrained, the girl could only gyrate her hips in mute protest.

Poochie’s new spread-eagle stance made her stature appear lower as she leaned helplessly into the stockade and it put extra pressure on her neck and wrists inside the holes of the horizontal column. Marcella was also able to better study the ugly bird-like tattoo that adorned the small of Poochie’s back. Or is that some kind of sickly, rabid bat?

Sadie turned from the wall and carried back two large, tear-drop shaped, lead fishing sinkers, like the kind a sportsman might use for deep sea fishing. The sinkers swung from Sadie’s hands at the end of some heavy string.

Once Sadie knelt down behind Poochie, Marcella saw that the opposite end of each string had a metal binder clip attached. Sadie then proceeded to separate the lower part of Poochie’s butt checks and attach a binder clip to each side of Poochie’s labia, causing the girl to yelp as the lead weights swung freely between her legs.

Standing back up and admiring her work, Sadie wiped the palms of her hands together in a symbolic expression of a job well done and confidently announced, “There, that ought to keep her from moving around.”

The delicate pink skin being pinched by the black binder clips was no longer hiding up inside Poochie’s well-trimmed pubic mound, but was now proudly on display as it was stretched downward by the heavy gray sinkers.

“Ms. Marcy, I present to you Poochie’s Coochie,” added Sadie.

Marcella had to agree that the spreader rod and the genital accessories completely stopped Poochie from thrashing her body around in an attempt to escape the stockade. The girl now leaned steadily into the bondage device like a wax statue in Madame Tussaud’s Chamber of Horrors.

Sadie then took leave of her captive and headed toward the front of the room where a variety of inebriants were lined up on the dresser. “Now it’s time to get jacked,” she announced.

Sadie returned with a half bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and two shot glasses, which she placed on the mini-fridge by the bathroom.

The final preparation for their play date involved Sadie fitting Poochie with an ominous black leather hood.

“This has a foam lining around the ears, which will keep her in silence while we play,” explained Sadie as she tightened the straps around Poochie’s neck. “Plus, if we snap the blindfold across the eyes like this, she won’t be able to see our reflections in the window. We’ll keep the mouth slot unzipped for our game.”

Sadie then explained that they were going to play a drinking game called ‘Danke für das Schlagen.’ The game would involve both of them taking turns whipping Poochie. Whenever one of them was successful in making Poochie scream, the other player would have to down a shot.

“I guess we could try it for a while,” decided Marcella, who was desperate to build trust with Sadie even if she had to participate in activities that would be considered unbecoming of an officer. “But keep in mind that you’re a professional at this kind of stuff.”

“Yes,” agreed Sadie. “But I also know that you were the one that Poochie just kicked in the chest.”

Sadie then turned her back to Marcella and asked if she could help unlace the corset. “I usually don’t like to go topless in front of Poochie because of our roles, but since she’s blindfolded I’d like to take advantage of the freedom,” Sadie explained. “Besides, using the whip too much with the corset can cause chafing.”

The woman was soon able to pull the corset off over her head and Marcella got an eyeful of Sadie’s poor excuse for an avian tattoo. Both women then walked over to the whips on the wall.

“Shall we start with the cat, the cane or the crop?” asked Sadie.

Remembering the riding lessons from her youth, Marcella replied, “The riding crop.”

“Excellent choice!” Sadie excitedly responded, pulling down two identical-looking long black fiberglass riding crops from the wall. “As a former farm girl, I love a good crop!”

Sadie handed one of the crops to Marcella and immediately began swishing the other through the air, testing the instrument’s elasticity. “Listen to that leather tip cutting through the air,” Sadie added with a huge grin on her face. “It’s a shame Poochie can’t hear it!”

Marcella wrapped the leather strap around her fist before grasping the handle of her crop and then swung it through the air a couple of times to mimic Sadie’s actions.

Now that Sadie was facing her, Marcella was also able to confirm the modest size of her host’s breasts. The firm mounds were actually quite attractive and Marcella could already tell that Sadie was turned on by the way the nipples jutted out like telescopes atop domed observatories.

“After you,” invited Sadie with a quick bow and a wave of her free hand. “You’re welcome to stand on either side of Poochie, since I’m ambidextrous with the whip.”

Marcella chose to stand on the left side of Poochie, so that she could swing with her right hand. When Sadie arrived at the stockade, she immediately began sticking the business end of the crop up between Poochie’s legs and twisting it around inside the binder clips until the hanging weights began knocking into each other. A dull moan came from the front of the stockade.

“Just making sure she’s awake,” explained Sadie. “Why don’t you go first?”

Sadie then stopped her prodding and stepped aside in order to watch Marcella deliver the first strike. While using her eyes to watch, she used her tongue to clean off the sticky leather tongue of the crop.

Ignoring Sadie’s sensatory self-stimulation, Marcella concentrated on swinging her crop straight across the middle of Poochie’s ass cheeks. The whoosh and crack of the crop startled Marcella, but Poochie remained silent as she savored the burning sensation associated with the welt rising on her bare skin.

Studying the long red stripe crossing Poochie’s left cheek and the squarish mark left behind by the leather tongue on the right cheek, Sadie commented, “Nice work, but the tenderest flesh is just at the bottom of the ass where it meets the thighs.”

With that, Sadie leaned over slightly and swung her crop in an uppercut motion so that it would strike the exact area she had just described. The force of the blow drove Poochie’s shoulders further against the horizontal bar of the stock and made the weights hanging between her legs jump violently in the air.

“Mmm,” mmmurmmmured Poochie, keeping her mouth tightly shut in an effort not to cry out.

Marcella tried to repeat Sadie’s effort from the other side, but her crop fell a bit low and cut into Poochie’s upper thighs. Poochie easily withstood the thigh strike as the lead weights swung slightly after the crop’s impact.

“Thigh strikes are okay,” observed Sadie. “It keeps her guessing where the next one will land.”

But it looked like Sadie wasn’t interested in changing her target area, since she obviously had decided to keep working the sweet spot at the very bottom of Poochie’s bottom. Marcella was fascinated by the way Sadie’s firm breasts kept their positions throughout the twisting swinging striking motion.

Sadie’s second strike looked like an instant replay of her initial swing and it resulted in a similar response from Poochie, but this time the blonde followed her tight-mouthed murmur with some very audible sobbing. The cuts were obviously stinging like hell and Poochie was helpless to resist the punishment.

Marcella decided to go back to an easier target area and just aimed for the center of Poochie’s butt. Marcella put her full upper body weight into the strike, confident that it would hit somewhere on the girl’s burning buns. The rising welt criss crossed Marcella’s first strike and made Poochie clench her cheeks as the bright red X formed on her skin.

Before Poochie could relax her gaulded gluteus muscles, Sadie viciously struck again down low and it took every bit of effort for Poochie not to scream out. Her pathetic sobbing continued, however.

Marcella began to wind up for another full force strike, but hesitated when she observed the flesh of Poochie’s ass and thighs shaking uncontrollably, shivering in anticipation of further abuse. Her upper body also shook, but it was the result of the relentless crying that emanated from within Poochie’s leather hood.

Marcella suddenly felt sorry for the girl, but did not want to appear weak in front of Sadie or to attract suspicion. She reasoned, if I show compassion and demonstrate morals, who will believe I’m a sex worker?

Thus, Marcella’s next cut was no less severe than her previous slices, but still could not elicit the audible response from the girl that would prompt Sadie to take the first drink.

Subsequently, Marcella had to watch as Sadie wound up again for her turn at the tortured tush. Marcella was beginning to get turned on herself as she studied the beads of sweat forming on Sadie’s chest.

Marcella’s lustful concentration on Sadie’s sweat-covered torso seemed to put the dominatrix’s twisting action into slow motion as the thick salty beads streaked down across Sadie’s smooth-as-glass breasts and sprayed off her pointy nipples.

Marcella fantasized about licking the sweat from Sadie’s chest and her concentration was not broken until she heard Poochie’s sudden shriek.

“Bingo!” announced Sadie as her crop cut once again into the blackening purple bruises of Poochie’s posterior.

Acknowledging defeat, Marcella dutifully handed over her crop to Sadie and marched over to the mini-fridge to pour a shot. The whiskey burned inside her like her burning desire.

Meanwhile, Sadie walked to the weaponry wall, dried off the sweaty crops with a towel and hung them back up. She then pulled down two thick wooden paddles of identical size and shape.

Marcella thought the paddles looked like cutting boards, but were not as wide as the standard meat carving accessory. They sure as hell looked like they could tenderize, however.

Each paddle displayed strategically-drilled holes to prohibit wind resistance during the swats and to guarantee the most bang for the butt.

Having had a short break to recover from her torment, Poochie was caught off guard by Marcella’s first swat as its violent force drove the girl into the stockade and shook her lead ornaments like a Christmas Tree during a holiday earthquake. The captor’s striped ass compacted in on itself with the crisp crack of the wood against her wounded skin. “Ow!” she yelped in protest.

“Damn!” exclaimed Sadie. “You made her holler before I got a turn.”

“Be my guest,” invited Marcella, proudly pointing her paddle at the tagged target. “Maybe we’ll be drinking together on this round.”

As the circles formed by the holes of the paddle began to rise on Poochie’s assaulted ass, Sadie took her swing and drew out an ugly yowl from the victim.

Marcella and Sadie shared many drinks as the evening wore on, switching to the bamboo cane, the leather shaving strop, the cat o’ nine tails and other pain-inducing play things.

At one point when it looked as though Sadie was going to towel off her sweaty chest, a markedly uninhibited Marcella could no longer refrain herself and quickly grabbed Sadie’s wrist before the towel could make contact.

“Let me take care of that,” Marcella volunteered with a voluptuous grin, gripping Sadie’s other wrist with her left hand and leaning in toward Sadie’s chest with an open mouth.

Marcella’s tongue immediately targeted the damp, wet area between Sadie’s breasts and the lickee purred with appreciation.

Throwing her head back with abandon, Sadie suggested, “Oh god, let’s give Poochie a break and take our passion to the bed!”

Without removing her face from her work, Marcella instinctively pushed Sadie backward toward the bed. Sadie allowed herself to be led in reverse, walking backward until her calves made contact with the bed frame and she pulled Marcella on top of her as they both bounced upon the mattress.

Marcella then brought her salty, moist lips up to find Sadie’s waiting mouth and both women kissed each other while Poochie serenaded them with whimpering cries.

***

Between the liquor, the sweat, the saliva and the vaginal juices, Marcella woke up in the morning with a bad taste in her mouth. She also had a pounding headache. Or was that someone pounding at the door?

Through sleep-cemented eyes, Marcella felt around on the bed and determined that she was alone. And yes, that was someone pounding at the door.

“I’m coming,” she yelled as she sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes until they opened.

Marcella was almost blinded from the noonday sun, forcing its rays through the slightly-separated curtains, as she realized she was back in her own room, even though she didn’t remember how she got there.

Having blacked out shortly after she joined Sadie on the bed, Marcella mumbled, “That was rather anti-climatic.”

She then stood up to walk toward the door, stopping to look through the peep hole before opening the door to greet Sadie.

“Not dressed yet?” asked Sadie when Marcella opened the door.

Marcella looked down and noticed that she was naked. “Oh my god,” gasped Marcella as she backed away from the open door.

As Marcella ran to her dresser to gather some garments, Sadie followed her and closed the door. Sadie wasn’t exactly overdressed either, wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt.

“You still want to go into Rivertown today, don’t you?” asked Sadie, watching Marcella intently as she bent over to select some clothes from the dresser drawer.

“Yes, yes, of course,” answered Marcella as she stood up with clean socks and panties in her hands, noticing in the process that Sadie had been checking out her ass.

Marcella put her fresh underclothes on top of the dresser with a frustrated look on her face. Glancing again at Sadie, she asked, “Sadie, do you mind if I catch a quick shower? I feel like shit.”

“No problem,” smiled Sadie. “Take your time. You can meet me around back at the ATV when you’re ready… Unless, of course, you want me to join you in the shower...”

“That sounds nice,” admitted Marcella. “But the sooner I can get ready and get into town, the sooner I can get something to eat.”

After Sadie had left the room, Marcella quickly jumped in the shower and washed the sex residue off her body and out of her hair. She then threw on a sweat suit ensemble to match Sadie’s, grabbed her purse and room key, and raced out the back door. Marcella never even noticed that the door connecting her room to Poochie’s was unlocked.

Sadie was already seated on the Polaris four-wheeler when Marcella approached the ATV from behind. Hearing Marcella’s fast-paced approach, Sadie twisted around and waved for Marcella to jump aboard.

The seat was long enough for both women to comfortably ride. Noticing there wasn’t a helmet anywhere in sight; Marcella queried whether she needed protective headgear.

“Hell no!” answered Sadie. “The only people who wear helmets around here are those faggot rock climbers. So unless your name’s Poochie, you’re perfectly safe with me.”

“How is her ass today?” asked Marcella.

“Well, let’s just say she’s gotta lotta recouping to do today,” Sadie just said. “Her fun didn’t stop after you left, you know. She satisfied a lot of sadistic customers late into the night.”

“I’m glad my visit didn’t cut into your bottom line.”

“Nah,” concluded Sadie. “The only bottom that got cut into last night was Poochie’s. In fact, we did so well last night that I’m going to treat you to lunch at the Valley View Supper Club.”

“Wow, thank you,” responded Marcella. “But I feel bad, because you’re doing me a favor by taking me shopping.”

“Not a problem,” Sadie said, “because I have a doctor’s appointment at the clinic today anyway. I thought we could eat lunch, drop by the clinic and then grab some groceries. That way, if you need something refrigerated, we can get right back to the motel.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

***

The North Fork Clinic used to be located in the Hendrick Community Building until it moved its operations (no pun intended) to a semi-business park along Route 33. But one small medical office continued to be used occasionally inside the Community Building, even though very few people were aware of its existence.

The office definitely looked abandoned to Marcella when she followed Sadie inside the door, which was hanging partially off its hinges. Marcella was beginning to regret her lunchtime decision to accompany Sadie during her appointment.

The interior of the windowless office was all white, although the paint was peeling off the walls and cabinets. A cold metal examination table with ominous-looking stirrups was in the center of the room, while a large lamp and a small instrument stand flanked the table. A frail elderly bald man in an unwashed, stained, once white scrub suit sat on a small wooden stool at the foot the table.

Upon seeing Sadie approach, the man smiled and stood up, immediately extending an arm toward her as if to shake hands. But his hand was only extended long enough to accept a thick business-sized envelope from Sadie.

“Puh-lease strip down miss, so that we may begin the pro-zedure,” the man announced with a heavy German accent as he stuffed the envelope into an interior pocket of his jacket and sat back down on his stool.

Without hesitation, Sadie kicked off her sandals, pulled off her sweatpants and brought her sweatshirt up over her head. Marcella noted that Sadie had panties on, which came off last, but did not wear a bra. She credited that part of Sadie’s missing attire to the slender woman’s modest bust line.

As soon as Sadie was nude and her clothing was piled on the sticky linoleum floor, she hopped up on the examination table with the usual complaint of how cold the metal was.

“I hope you don’t mind, doctor, if my friend Marcy is here to provide support,” she said as she placed her ankles in the high stirrups over the doctor’s (sic) head.

“Tis of no concern of mine,” the unconcerned man responded, taking a quick glance at Sadie’s clean shaven pubic area. “So tell me, how far along are vee this time?”

“Far enough that you may need to use the forceps,” decided Sadie as she leaned all the way back on the table.

The reason for the small bulge of a tummy on Sadie was now really apparent to Marcella - and apparently now Marcella really wished she hadn’t agreed to accompany Sadie to her appointment.

The man grabbed a pair of surgical gloves off the instrument stand and snapped the tight material over his hands. He then used a small tube of lubricant to grease up two fingers on his right hand.

Without hesitation, he sank one lubed finger into Sadie’s vagina and another finger into her rectum. “Stay still,” he instructed as he maneuvered the gloved digits like he was trying to manipulate a stubborn hand puppet.

“Usually men pay me for this,” Sadie pointed out to the nonamusement of Marcella, who began leaning against the wall beside the office door in order to steady her weakening knees.

When the man withdrew his fingers, creating a greasy popping sound, he quickly discarded his soiled gloves on Sadie’s pile of clothing. He then grabbed a grave-looking vaginal speculum and lubed the shiny metal blades.

Using his right hand to open and close the blades, he raised the speculum high between her legs so that Sadie could see the tool from her reclining position.

“Wabbit speculum!” he exclaimed in an uncharacteristic high-pitched voice, snapping the blades together as if they were talking.

“Duckbill speculum!” responded Sadie.

“Wabbit speculum!”

“Duckbill speculum!”

Marcella stared at the two playmates in disbelief, her mouth hanging agape.

“Wabbit speculum!”

“Duckbill speculum!”

“Oh my god,” muttered Marcella under her gasping breath.

Sadie and the man heard Marcella’s surprised response and broke out into a hearty round of laughter.

“Now let us get down to zee business,” announced the man, still chuckling a bit, as he worked the speculum blades into Sadie’s wabbit hole.

“Crank the sucker open, doc,” encouraged Sadie.

Marcella just shook her head in amazement at the activity taking place in front of her.

“There,” reported the man, “I believe that iz wide enough for our porpoises,” reported the man.

“That’s nothing,” portested Sadie. “Crank it wider!”

As Sadie’s furless frontier opened up farther, she began to grunt under the pressure of the metal blades pressing against her vaginal walls.

“Zat iz as fur as zee blades vill go!” excitedly blurted out the man, forgetting to control his accent.

A few brief steps behind the man’s stool would’ve given Marcella the best interior view of the female reproductive system since the time she had passed through her mother’s birth canal, but Marcella’s quivering stomach recommended that she resist the temptation to move from her place against the wall.

“Take me all the way to DC, doc,” begged Sadie. “Take me to DC!”

“Vee’ve already got you dilated, zoe all you need iz cured,” answered the man as he leaned over to grab a shiny and sharp curette from the stand.

When he inserted the instrument into Sadie’s gaping gash, Marcella closed her eyes and winced as if she could anticipate her sister’s imminent pain.

Her closed eyes allowed her to avoid watching the sadistic scene play out, but Marcella still heard the curette begin scraping and the strumpet begin moaning.

“My god,” yelled Marcella, finally unclenching her eyelids. “Can’t you give her some kind of local anesthetic?!”

“Mind your own business!” protested Sadie as she arched her naked, sweaty body up off the metal table.

The back of the man’s white jacket was also drenched in sweat as he continued to work the curette over Sadie’s endowhatever linings, getting into a rhythm by following his patient’s horizontal gyrations.

As the scraping sounds became louder and harsher, like fingernails scratching a chalkboard, Marcella covered her ears with her hands, closed her eyes even tighter and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.

Soon the scraping stopped and the man tossed the gore-covered curette onto the instrument stand, resulting in a loud metallic clank that sent vibrating shivers through Marcella’s body.

Feeling the curette being removed, Sadie slowly rested her arched spine back onto the cold table and pleaded, “Oh god, my pussy’s burning up! Finish me off with the forceps, please!”

Following patient’s orders, the man forced the forceps deep inside Sadie’s wounded womb and began twisting the tool around.

No matter how tightly Marcella held her palms against her ears, she could still hear the unhappy haptic happenings happening.

“There!” proclaimed the man. “By George, I think I’ve got it! Listen Mizz Sadie, listen for the little bones to crack!”

“I’m coming, doc!” screamed Sadie. “Crush it now! Crush its skull now!”

Marcella couldn’t take it anymore and she reached up to grab the doorknob so that she could crawl out of the room. Once inside the hallway, Marcella rose to her feet and scrambled out of the building.

Being outside in the fresh air did not help calm the rumbling inside Marcella’s stomach, so she raced across the parking lot of the Puritan Community Park toward what looked to be an old wishing well.

Marcella leaned over the stone side of the well with such urgency that the edge of the wall jammed into her stomach, causing her to projectile vomit the entire contents of her free lunch into the dark depths of the well.

She maintained a desperate white-knuckled grasp on the top of the stone wall for what seemed an eternity, scared that another wave of sickness would come over her at any moment.

After about fifteen minutes of hanging her head inside the well opening, Marcella heard someone approaching her from behind. She assumed it was Sadie, but didn’t know how a woman could walk after experiencing what she witnessed inside the examination room.

“That’s the last time I buy you lunch,” quipped Sadie, placing a hand on the back of Marcella’s shoulder.

Marcella straightened up in front of the well, but didn’t turn around to face Sadie.

“Sadie that was so damn nasty,” Marcella concluded.

“Yeah, it was pretty intense, wasn’t it?”

“Can we just get out of here?”

“Just give me a few minutes,” answered Sadie. “I still have to go back to the office. The doctor is sorting out the pieces from the vacuum to make sure he didn’t leave anything behind.”

Marcella immediately thrust her head back inside the well as Sadie walked back toward the Community Building.

Even though she had chosen a career path of criminal justice, Marcella always considered herself as having a very socially liberal philosophy and she always tried to be tolerant of others. She also believed in the concept that there was no such thing as an original sin, but today she had some doubts.

The International Right to Live Commission (IRLC) is the world’s largest pro-life organization. You can keep up with the latest Right-to-Life news and events by logging on to the IRLC website at www.irlc.info.

Marcella was sitting on a park bench when she saw Sadie eventually emerge from the Community Building, casually walk to the four-wheeler and surreptitiously place a small bag into a pouch that was attached to the front of the handle bars. Marcella suspected that Sadie was getting illicit drugs from this so-called doctor and decided to keep a closer eye on her so-called friend.

After Sadie zipped the front of the pouch, she looked up to find Marcella. Sadie waved for Marcella to come to the four-wheeler as soon as she was spotted on the bench. “Come on, let’s go to the store like you wanted,” yelled Sadie from across the parking lot.

Marcella was glad that it was a brief ride to the Rivertown Mart Gas Station, because she was apprehensive about wrapping her arms too tightly around Sadie’s midsection.

“You didn’t hold on too tight,” observed Sadie when she parked the ATV in a clearly-marked handicap parking space in front of the convenience store.

Stepping off the back of the bike, Marcella answered, “I wasn’t sure if you were still sore from your appointment.”

“Nah, I’m used to it,” responded Sadie. “Let’s go get some groceries. I’m famished after that workout.”

As soon Marcella was inside the store and had grabbed a small plastic shopping basket, she sensed that everyone was looking at her. She knew, of course, that Sadie was probably looking at her, but she doubted that the other women in the store were bisexuals.

Maybe everyone is looking at me because I’m black, she reassured herself. Anyway, she picked up her pace and started grabbing various canned goods that she could easily prepare in the privacy of her motel room.

She also got the cold shoulder from the cashier when her selections were being rung up. Marcella paid with a couple twenty dollar bills and the cashier immediately held the notes up to a light to inspect the embedded security features. For good measure, an anti-counterfeiting pen was also used to mark the bills.

“Have a nice day,” the cashier didn’t say, but Marcella did as she grabbed two full plastic bags off the counter. Sadie checked out behind her with a small box of spicy beef jerky mix.

As she and Sadie walked out the door, Marcella asked why everyone in the store seemed so gosh darn unfriendly.

“Because you don’t belong,” explained Sadie. “Around here, you’re considered an outsider if you don’t belong to the 4-H Club.”

“The 4-H Club?” remarked Marcella as she straddled the back of the four-wheeler with a bag in each hand. “I belonged to the 4-H Club when I was a kid. I raised rabbits and everything.”

“Not that kind of 4-H Club,” Sadie expounded. “In Rivertown, if your last name is not Hartman, Harner, Hinkley or Hendrick, then you don’t belong.”

“But I bet there’s plenty of Hartmans, Harners, Hinkleys and Hendricks knockin’ at our motel room doors when their stuck-up wives don’t put out.”

“You got that right!” admitted Sadie.

***

Of course, there weren’t to be any Hartmans, Harners, Hinkleys, Hendricks or any other Johns knocking on Marcella’s motel room door (she certainly didn’t want any Johns named Hinkley knocking on her door, she mused).

Marcella reminded herself over and over again that she was not a prostitute, although she played one on duty. But keeping her curtains pulled and her interior lights off each evening was causing suspicions amongst the other girls.

“The ex-governor called and wants to know if you’re gonna be ‘Open for Business’ this weekend,” chided Gidget on Thursday when Marcella dropped by the motel office to pick up some more tokens for the television set.

“I hope to be,” Marcella lied through her teeth. “Unfortunately, my period started not long after I arrived here and I’m sort of conscientious about taking on clients when I’m on the rag.”

“You should’ve mentioned that to me,” responded Gidget from behind (and below) the front counter. “Some guys’ll pay extra for that around here.”

“Ewww,” concluded Marcella.

“Anyway, don’t be surprised if the owner of the Foyer drops by to see you,” coughed the clerk.

“Well, I’ll tell him the same thing,” Marcella spoke out, trying to hold back her rising anger. “I’m paid up on my rent and nobody is going to pressure me to do business before I’m ready. The nerve!”

Marcella stomped out of the office with a handful of tokens and headed back to the secluded sanctuary of her room. She promised herself to walk the extra distance to the Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe from now on to buy tokens, especially since Gidget may no longer give her the employee discount if she continued to keep her curtains closed.

Before she dropped her first token into the coin-op device attached to the television, Marcella took a closer look at the tokens. One side had an image of a topless girl and the words “HEADS YOU WIN,” but the other side featured an eagle’s head and name of a website called “WWW.SEXCO.US.” The eagle side of the token also had the words “THE SEX COMPANY,” which Marcella assumed was associated with the adult book store.

Since she had no Internet access at the motel, Marcella reminded herself to make a note of the strange website in her hidden notebook, which she hadn’t had out since she passed out at Sadie’s place. Marcella knew she was procrastinating by watching so much television, instead of updating her notebook, but she just couldn’t bring herself to write about the disturbing events she witnessed at the Hendrick Community Building.

Marcella amused herself by wondering how many perverts had handled the token she was now inspecting so closely in her decidedly unperverted hand. During the previous evenings, she had not even bothered to look at the dull brass tokens that she systematically dropped into the television’s vending device.

Sexy Steve McGarrett had just loosened up his fat necktie to rush out of Iolani Palace when Marcella heard someone knocking at the door of her darkened room.

“Oh, Lord!” she proclaimed as she jumped out of bed to turn down the sound of McGarrett shouting orders to Dan-O and the rest of Five-O.

The knocking continued as she crept to the front door of her muted room. They should know I’m closed for business, thought Marcella as she cautiously approached the peep hole.

It was already dark outside and the small bulb outside her front door was burned out, so Marcella could only see a tall dark figure through the peep hole - a tall dark figure who continued to impatiently knock.

Making sure the security chain was securely in place, Marcella cracked open the door and quickly announced, “I’m closed.”

She also tried to close the door quickly, but soon noticed that the man had placed his boot inside the threshold. “I’m not here for sex,” the dark man said with a deep nasally voice that frightened Marcella.

“Please let me close the door,” begged Marcella. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

“I’m the owner of the Foyer and I just dropped by for a courtesy visit,” snorted the man.

“No thank you,” responded Marcella with a wavering, cracking voice. “Like I told Gidget, I can’t work this week for personal reasons.”

“That’s not why I came by,” explained the man. “I like to check on my girls periodically, especially the new ones. Please allow me to come in.”

Marcella didn’t think she had a choice, since the man’s foot was already inside the door. Besides, it would be important to her investigation to meet the owner of the establishment where Trooper Cruz was last seen.

“Let me unhook the chain and you can come in,” she offered, “although I’m not used to letting strange men into my motel room.”

As soon as he withdrew his boot and Marcella closed the door, he whispered to himself, “Of course you’re not.”

Once the door was shut, Marcella debated escaping out the back door, but she was just as afraid of what she may encounter in the mysterious pasture. Every evening since she arrived, she tried to distinguish what the moving figures were at the edge of the woods, but they always stayed too far back for her to make a positive identification.

As she reluctantly re-opened the door, she prayed that the dark man whom she was now inviting in was not one of the objects she had been trying to observe.

“Please come in,” she said, stepping back from the open door until the man had completely entered. She then closed the door while the man took a seat at the table.

“I’ll turn on a few lights,” offered Marcella as she walked away from the door. “The TV doesn’t provide much light and I think my token is about to run out.”

“That won’t be necessary,” quickly answered the man, purposely raising his voice to get Marcella’s attention and to get her to stop in her tracks. He patted the seat of the other chair next to the table.

“You want to talk to me in the dark?” queried Marcella as she hesitantly approached the table.

“I know that sounds strange, but I was disfigured in a mining accident and am still self-conscious about my appearance,” explained the man.

Marcella tried to focus on the man’s face, but as soon as she squinted her eyes, the television automatically switched off.

“I hate pay-per-view,” nervously joked Marcella as she took a seat beside the man.

Sitting right next to her guest, Marcella determined that he was wearing a long black overcoat and a hood. His hands, which appeared to be extremely large even for such a tall man, were the only pieces of flesh that Marcella could discern.

“You’re a very pretty young lady,” the man complimented.

“Thank you,” answered Marcella, unsure of how the man could see her dark complexion. “I guess you can see in the dark.”

“You exude beauty,” he admitted, “and I can sense it even in the darkness.”

“Like I said,” Marcella repeated, “thank you again. You’re very kind to say that.”

Marcella’s response was followed by a long period of silence. She wasn’t sure what else to say and, quite frankly, was hoping the man would now leave. She could hear him steadily breathing, almost like a death rattle, where each inhale would create a weird clicking noise every time the air crossed over his tongue. I could set my watch by his breathing, she thought…

Finally, he said, “The previous girl in this room was also very attractive.”

The man’s sudden comment caught Marcella off guard and her heart began racing. She worried that she was visibly shaking.

“Oh?” she said as nonchalantly as she could. “I believe Sadie mentioned something to me about such a woman, but I paid her no mind at the time.”

“Is that right?” he said with a throaty chuckle. “So you’re not curious about what happened to this woman?”

“Not really,” countered Marcella, who was starting to worry that her cover had been blown. “Maybe Sadie is curious, but I never met this chick and don’t know anything about her.”

There was another long uncomfortable silence and Marcella felt the man’s eyes staring at her. She thought it might be a good idea to ask if their meeting could be concluded…

“I know what happened to her if you’re interested,” he said.

“Not really,” quickly repeated Marcella. “But if she’s coming back to work, she can find a different room.”

“Juanita won’t be coming back,” he admitted.

The man had the information that Marcella came to Rivertown to discover and he was directly offering this knowledge, but here she sat too frightened to find out the fate of a colleague.

She looked down at the table where her sweaty hands rested – one on top of the other to prohibit any shaking -  and slowly annunciated, “If - you - want – to - share - with - me - your - knowledge - about – this - Juanita - woman, then I will listen.”

“You won’t even have to listen,” he explained, placing his large, cold hands over hers and squeezing them. “I’ll show you what happened.”

Marcella closed her eyes out of fear and shivered at the icy touch of his hands, which seemed to chill the blood coursing through the veins of her arms as it circulated back toward her heart. Her heart definitely wasn’t racing now.

Her breathing also slowed significantly and when she did open her eyes, she could faintly see her own breath crystallize in front of her face.

“You need to keep your eyes closed,” instructed the man, “if you want to see what happened to Juanita.”

Those were the final words that Marcella remembered hearing the man say as she involuntarily leaned down to rest her head on her outstretched arms. Marcella didn’t feel the man release his grip from her hands and she didn’t hear him leave the room. She was passed out cold.

***

The discomfort of sleeping in a chair with her torso resting on a small table eventually caused Marcella to stir inside her dark room. Experiencing a sharp pain in her spine, like she’d been hand-scrubbing floors all day, she sat up quickly and raised her arms above her head. With her hands clasped, she then began stretching and twisting her back, trying to work out the kinks before attempting to stand up.

She felt disoriented, even though she knew she hadn’t been drinking that evening. Perhaps it’s the darkness, she told herself once she slowly rose to her feet beside the chair. She then moved both hands to the small of her back and bent over backward as far as she could without toppling over. Finally, she heard a few joints pop and felt much better.

Suspecting that her aches and pains might be an affirmation of her expected monthly visitor, Marcella was suddenly reminded of the promise made by her unexpected evening visitor. That was rather anti-climatic, she thought.

Without stopping to turn on any lights, Marcella found her way to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. Even though she couldn’t see much, she still had a suspicion that something was out of place. Something about the calendar on the bathroom wall especially seemed to be wrong; she contemplated as she grabbed some toilet paper and a sanitary napkin.

After flushing the toilet and pulling up her sweatpants, the first thing that Marcella did was flip the light switch for the bathroom. It took awhile for her eyes to adjust to the bright light, but it took even longer for Marcella to believe what her eyes were seeing.

“What the fuck?” she said out loud as she stared at the calendar.

The page representing May was attached to the front of the calendar, including all the red X’s that were used to cross off the days.

“I know damn well I took that page off and put it in my notebook,” she mumbled in confusion.

Then something even more disturbing caught the corner of her eye, reflecting ominously from the mirror. Marcella didn’t turn to face the bathroom mirror right away. She was too afraid.

“Calm down, Marcy,” she told herself. “You’re alone in this room and nothing’s going to hurt you.”

With her lips trembling and her shoulders shaking, she cautiously turned her head to look into the mirror. Looking back at her was the shocked face of Juanita Cruz.

“Oh my god!” gasped Marcella as she fell down to her knees. Was she hallucinating? Was the ghostly presence of Trooper Cruz haunting her room? Would the face still be there if she looked again?

Marcella did not want to find out, so she sprinted off the shiny bathroom floor from a crouching position. She had thought about checking her notebook as she approached the dresser, but fear convinced her to just exit the room as quickly as possible.

Marcella decided to leave through the front door, wanting to avoid the possibility of meeting up with any mysterious creatures lurking in the pasture behind the motel. In her haste, she didn’t even bother to grab her room key.

Once she was outside the front door, she leaned her back against the hard wood and tried to catch her breath. The parking lot was desolate.

Marcella determined that it must be very late in the evening. There were no Johns parked in the lot in front of any of the rooms. The only vehicle she could see was a solitary motorcycle parked directly in front of her room.

It was a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle, but not just any black Harley-Davidson motorcycle. It was a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle that Marcella recognized from the picture of Juanita Cruz.

Walking lightly in her stocking feet, Marcella approached the motorcycle and saw that the key was still in the ignition. A black helmet hung from the handlebars.

She looked around to see if the dark man was nearby, perhaps watching for her reaction to finding the bike. She then glanced back at her room and noticed a pair of black leather boots sitting on the sidewalk beside the door.

Marcella knew she did not want to go back into the room, which would’ve been difficult anyway without a key. Consequently, she decided to ride the bike back to the Police Academy and tell the Major everything she had discovered first thing in the morning.

Marcella managed to blindly slip on the boots and helmet, and then turn over the ignition on the bike, while keeping her eyes peeled for the dark man. But once she had her hand on the clutch handle, it seemed like only seconds before she was on Route 33 and navigating the curves of the highway like she’d driven Harleys all her life.

Even though the road seemed abandoned of all other late night travelers, Marcella drove the machine fast and hard, trying to shake an eerie feeling that she was being followed. The small mirrors on the handlebars were hard to watch, especially since she also had to pay attention to the dark and winding roadway in front of her.

Marcella hoped that a fellow trooper or a local cop might catch her speeding and she could convince him to give her an escort, but all she saw ahead of her was open highway.

In fact, she didn’t see a police cruiser until she was about a mile away from the Police Academy. She briefly saw the cruiser approach from a side street and fully expected it to stop at the intersection, but was shocked when the car pulled out and completely cut her off.

Marcella did not have the distance needed to slow down and avoid a collision, so she tried beating the cruiser through the intersection. The driver of the cruiser apparently didn’t see the motorcycle and ended up T-boning it, which sent Marcella and her bike sprawling across the pavement and over an embankment. The cruiser never even slowed down.

The dark man had kept his promise.

Chapter 2

At The Point of Unpleasantness

The year was 1967, but military police officer Desmond Young was not patrolling the grounds of the old Marietta Manufacturing Company shipyard in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. And the abandoned shipyard was definitely not a secret United States Naval base responsible for logistical support of the U.S. military effort in Vietnam.

“Officer Young, do you read?” crackled the walkie-talkie of the officer, who was standing on the roof of the main building in the shipyard and monitoring the mid-November nautical activity on the Ohio River via a pair of binoculars.

“Yeah, I read,” copied Desmond, thinking about the pornography that he just read the night before in the barracks.

“OPS needs you to report to his office ASAP, can you give an EST?” asked the RTO.

“Roger that,” confirmed Desmond, managing to hold his binoculars in his left hand and operate the radio with his right. “Less than ten; I’m on site.”

Desmond Young was a state-side stationed sailor in his early twenties from Farmington, West Virginia, whose familiarity with the Mountain State made him a perfect candidate for protecting the secret military base from suspicious activity. The fact that he’d spent his entire pre-military life within the confines of Marion County also made his security clearance with the newly-established Naval Investigative Service a breeze.

Desmond ambidextrously put his binoculars back in the case and snapped the walkie-talkie back onto his utility belt, then hurried to the service elevator, which he had conveniently locked into place in the upper portion of the shaft that towered above the flat roof of the building.

Once he was inside the car and sheltered from the brisk Fall winds, Desmond turned the key to manually unlock the aging elevator and then pressed in the protruding black button for the first floor.

“I’m here to see Operations Officer Reynolds,” announced Desmond to the receptionist as soon as he entered the front office area.

“Yes, he’s been waiting,” emphasized the receptionist, much to Desmond’s disappointment. “You may go right in.”

Desmond was surprised to see two men in service khaki dress uniforms when he entered the OPS’s office and neither was seated. After closing the door behind him, he recognized from the insignia that the guest was Commanding Officer Hunter Williams.

He removed his cap to reveal the neatly trimmed black hair of a clean-shaven all-American Caucasian male and formally saluted both men, who then returned the gesture.

Noticing the calm composure and perfect uniform that the young officer displayed, Officer Reynolds observed, “Did you take a coffee break on the way here, Young?”

“No sir, I came here immediately upon receiving your order,” he answered.

As Desmond hesitantly approached the front of the OPS’s desk, he asked himself, “What the fuck is his problem?” The OPS and CO then sat down, the CO choosing a well-cushioned seat in the back corner of the office, while Desmond remained standing at attention.

“At ease,” allowed Reynolds.

OPS Reynolds represented your average middle-aged, hard-ass, muscle-bound, by-the-book suck-up, who had a hands-on approach to managing everything even remotely associated to his operation; while CO Williams was a slender gray-haired kind-looking gentleman, who was nearing his mandatory retirement age.

“You know Commanding Officer Williams?” asked the OPS, nodding toward the man in the corner. “He’s here today concerning your application for Master-at-Arms.”

Looking at the CO, he smiled and answered, “We’ve never met, but I know who you are, sir.”

The CO nodded in response, and returned the smile.

The OPS then began fingering a stack of papers on his desk and observed, “I was reviewing your application and noticed that you didn’t use me as a reference.”

“Well,” began Desmond, feeling a bit uncomfortable, “that must have been an oversight on my part. Obviously, it would have been to my advantage to name you as a reference.”

The OPS leaned back in his chair and made direct eye contact with Desmond. “Maybe you were too busy with your porn magazines to remember,” he suggested.

With a look of sincere concern on his face, Desmond could only reply, “Whatever may have caused my forgetfulness, I’m truly sorry if you took offense. Please accept my apology for excluding you as a reference.”

The OPS leaned forward in his seat, but continued to maintain eye contact. “Well, regardless of all that, your weak list of references obviously did not disqualify you from consideration.”

“I worked hard to qualify for this,” admitted Desmond. “Being a Master-at-Arms has always been my dream.”

“Actually, CO Williams has some good news for you,” the OPS announced.

Desmond looked in the CO’s direction and saw him stand up and begin to approach the desk...

When CO Williams reached the desk, he held out his hand to Desmond. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” he greeted. “I am Commanding Officer Hunter Williams and I’m thrilled to be the first to congratulate you on your new rank of Master-at-Arms.”

Desmond reached out to shake the CO’s hand. “Thank you, sir, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you,” he responded with a wide smile that he hoped Reynolds could clearly see.

The CO leaned back to sit on the very edge of the OPS’s desk, facing the new MA. He glanced down at his hands, which were now in his lap, and grinned a little.

“Of course, with the new rank comes additional responsibility,” Williams explained. “You’ll not only be responsible for this shipyard, but also for a portion of the old TNT area across the road. Plus, you’ll still be under the command of OPS Reynolds here.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes, sir,” Desmond agreed. “You can rest assured of that. Plus, I can work with anyone.”

“Your commitment to the security of this base has never been in question,” Williams answered. “OPS Reynolds here was just screwing around with you.”

The OPS grinned at Desmond…

“Now, from this moment on, everything you hear and see is Top Secret and cannot be relayed to anyone outside of this office,” Williams cautioned. “Is that understood?”

“I fully understand the national security ramifications of sharing Top Secret information,” answered Desmond. “I’ll work as long and as hard as I have to in order to ensure that all aspects of my assignment are fully satisfied.”

“A satisfaction guarantee!” observed OPS Reynolds with another grin.

“You’re a smart sailor,” admitted Williams. “OPS Reynolds has done a good job preparing you.”

The CO removed a sixteen-by-thirty-six folded map from an envelope and laid it in front of Desmond on the desk. It was a generic U.S. Army Corps of Engineers map, showing the layout of the so-called TNT area that was located on the opposite side of Route 62.

“This is the former West Virginia Ordnance Works,” explained Williams. “During World War Two, over seven hundred thousand tons of TNT was manufactured every day on this eight thousand acre compound.

“After the explosives were manufactured, the munitions were kept safe and dry in this one square klick grid area, containing about a hundred cement bunkers. These dome-shaped bunkers were built above ground and were originally covered with a foot of dirt, which now make them appear to be natural mound formations. The igloo-like structures are laid out in rows, which are separated by man-made swamps, so they can only be accessed directly from the north or the south.

“Each cement igloo is protected by a triple-locked two–inch thick steel door, which faces out into the swamps. A service path runs along each row between the swamp and the igloos. The paths are overgrown, but our Jeeps should be able to navigate them.”

“Sounds like we’re going to be putting these storage units to use again,” commented Desmond.

“Precisely,” answered Williams, who began folding the map back up and placing it inside the envelope. “And now begins the extremely sensitive part of the briefing.”

Desmond tried not to look too excited; especially since OPS Reynolds was watching him closely.

“Back when the WVOW was manufacturing all this TNT, the Department of Defense noticed that some of the factory workers were getting extremely ill and it was attributed to the fumes from a chemical called toluene.”

“In fact, toluene makes up part of the word trinitrotoluene,” Desmond volunteered.

OPS Reynolds then stood up from his desk, allowing him to deliver his line with more effect.

Reynolds admonished, “Everybody knows what TNT stands for, Young.”

“Be that as it may,” continued Williams, “Navy chemists have been working for years to isolate and perfect a weapon using toluene as a gas, which the DoD now wants to implement in Vietnam.

“The manufacture of this gas compound has already begun at our facility, under the code name Inbred Cold; and it has been tested on animals and some unfortunate POWs. Inhalation of the gas has been found to attack the protein stored in the brain and effectively turns the brain to mush.

“Your job, MA Young, will be to transport the compound in vaporization-resistant ten-gallon-sized metal containers, like the cans used to transport gasoline. You’ll be taking the containers off base for safe storage in the igloos and then retrieving them whenever the DoD needs a shipment.”

“Well, I’m always ready for a challenge, so I’m confident that I can perform this assignment without any problem,” declared Desmond.

“That’s what we like to hear,” responded Williams. “I knew OPS Reynolds would have the ideal candidate for Master-at-Arms to oversee this mission.”

“Is that all for now then?” asked Desmond as he began straightening his eased posture.

With all three individuals now standing around the desk, the CO glanced over at the OPS. “Do you have anything else, OPS Reynolds?”

The OPS first glanced over to Desmond and then faced the CO. “I don’t know,” answered Reynolds. “He doesn’t look quite like an MA to me. Maybe he shouldn’t leave quite yet.”

Desmond’s demeanor portrayed confusion, worry, impatience and nervousness, but was apparently lacking in the MA department.

The CO studied the sailor intently, cupping his chin with the palm of his hand. “You know, I think you’re right, OPS Reynolds,” he concluded.

Desmond shook his head slightly, signaling defeat. “What do you need me to do?” he offered.

“Well,” answered Williams. “I remember how cocksure of yourself you looked earlier when you came into the office.”

“Yes,” agreed Reynolds, “quite cocksure indeed.”

With that, Desmond began unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his pants. As he loosened his pants, he kept eye contact with both men and immediately realized their silence indicated that they wanted him to continue to disrobe.

He tugged the bottom of his shirt out of his slacks and slipped the shirt off his naked shoulders, letting the freshly pressed garment drop silently to the floor.

“My god, Reynolds, you definitely chose the best candidate for this assignment,” congratulated the CO.

“Yes, I’m quite pleased by his performance thus far,” admitted the OPS, who reached down to the front of his pants to make a quick crotch adjustment.

Desmond also reached down to his crotch area, but his gesture was designed to pull down the top of his slacks over his hips. Knowing the men were not wanting to see a lengthy striptease, he made sure to snag his boxers with his thumbs as he pulled the garments over his hips and thighs. He also untied his boots and slipped them off, along with his socks.

The CO and OPS circled around the front of the desk as Desmond was pulling the final pant leg off his well-toned calve. The OPS leaned against the front of the desk as the CO approached Desmond.

The CO swung behind Desmond and pushed down on his back, directing the sailor to lean over toward the OPS’s crotch.

Standing behind the sailor and taking in a strong whiff of his musk, the CO rolled up his shirt sleeve and announced, “You’ve got to get past the fist before you can become a Master-at-Arms!”

***

On his way back to his on-site apartment building, which had once provided temporary housing for shipyard workers, Desmond looked forward to telling his longtime companion about the promotion.

As he turned the corner of some undefined structure, he expected to hear Gray Barker’s usual enthusiastic greeting, but he was only confronted with a disturbing silence and the unsettling sight of an open kennel. Desmond ran to the fenced area adjoining his apartment building, calling out for Gray as he made his approach.

Desmond desperately inspected the open door of the kennel, which he always kept locked, but there was no visible damage or evidence of tampering. The padlock was also missing. Desmond screamed out Gray’s name, hoping his voice would carry across the chilly base.

He then grabbed his walkie-talkie and reported to dispatch that his K-9 was Missing in Action. He told the dispatcher to report the incident to the Operations Officer immediately.

“I’m going to be searching the perimeter, starting on the shore,” he concluded, already heading briskly toward the bank of the Ohio. “Ten-Nine, I mean, K-Four, I mean, Ten-Four!”

Gray Barker served as Desmond’s patrol partner since he picked up the German Shepherd a year ago from a breeder near Clarksburg, West Virginia. He had planned on taking the dog with him in the morning to inspect the cement igloos at the TNT site.

As he carefully navigated the rocky shore of the Ohio, calling out Gray’s name as he stepped over the stones and limbs at the water’s edge, he received a radio response from OPS Reynolds.

“What’s this about your dog, Young?”

“He’s MIA, sir,” Desmond answered back.

“You realize that dog is government property, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I’m well aware of that. But someone cut off the lock on the kennel and took him. He was there this morning, so it must have happened when I was in the main building. Over.”

“It was probably the damn hippies. You need to write up a report on your loss of government property.”

“What would they want with my K-9?” asked Desmond, but he received no answer and no further communication from the OPS.

“Damn it, where are you Gray?” Desmond said out loud.

If it was the damn hippies, as OPS Reynolds suggested, Desmond hoped they just released the dog from the kennel and that Gray would have stayed on the grounds of the base. But Desmond searched the compound until dusk and found no trace of the missing dog.

When Desmond retired for the evening inside his small apartment, he shook his head at the irony of having received such good news about his promotion and then experiencing the shock of his dog being gone.

As he reclined on his rack and closed his eyes, he remembered the excitement both he and Gray experienced when the two first met near Clarksburg...

The Dog Run Lake Kennel and Euthanization Center was a breeder only in the sense that the dogs dropped off at the facility by the Harrison County Animal Control Officer often indiscriminately fucked one another. And the Center was a dog training service only in the sense that the owner took German as a correspondence course during high school.

The Center was selected by Desmond to provide a Navy K-9 only because he had once indiscriminately fucked the daughter of the owner. Desmond had always considered the liaison as just a little coming-of-age sexual experimentation in the age of free love.

Vic Charles was the owner and operator of the kennel. He had provided the necessary veterinary medications to induce his daughter’s abortion and he had also provided a non-rabid German Shepherd to fulfill the Navy’s K-9 contractual obligation. Of course, it took Vic weeks of intensive searching throughout the hills and hollows of North Central West Virginia’s farmlands in order to locate and steal an ideal K-9.

When Desmond pulled up to the kennel in his Jeep, Vic was waiting impatiently with a leash in one hand and a list of German commands in the other. A black and brown dog, sporting a gray-furred belly, sensed Desmond’s excitement when its new owner approached in a bright white sailor uniform, and began straining at its lead.

“Fuss, Fuss!” commanded Vic, who made a mockery of the concept of a strict German dog trainer with his fat frame and filthy overalls. Consequently, the dog continued pulling until Desmond was finally close enough to kneel down and pet his new canine partner.

Desmond reached up with his free hand and took hold of the leash and the list of commands, but never spoke a word to Vic.

“Now take yer dog and git!” said Vic as he turned around and began walking away. “My daughter ain’t been the same since she met you.”

Desmond maintained eye contact with the dog, but peripherally watched Vic as the man trudged away. He then glanced down at the paper in his hand as the dog began licking his face.

After finding the appropriate command, Desmond stood up and read off: “Achtung! Fass! Nimm!”

Upon hearing the words, the dog immediately spun around and began running toward its former trainer. Vic also heard the commands and he stopped walking, specifically so that he could change direction and assess what was going on.

“Hoc!” was the last thing Vic heard.

As soon as Vic was facing the parking lot, he was met by the dog leaping into the air. The force of the impact knocked Vic to the ground and the dog quickly began tearing at the man’s throat.

“Aye, oww, oww!” screamed Vic, as he tried rolling over to protect himself from the dog’s viciously sharp teeth.

Casually walking over to the frantic scene while keeping his eyes on his list of commands, Desmond commented, “Aye, oww, oww? I don’t see those commands on this sheet... What are you trying to say?”

“Get ‘im off me!” yelled Vic via injured vocal cords, still trying in vain to knock the ravenous dog away from his veins. “Get ‘im off me!”

“Let’s see,” Desmond slowly annunciated, concentrating on the paper. “What command do we need in this situation?”

“Please, make him stop,” begged Vic, whose blood proved far more fluent than his ability to remember German phrases.

“Okay, how about ‘Gut!’” Desmond spoke out, rather half-heartedly. “No, no, that means ‘good.’ Well, let’s try ‘Gradaus.’ Is that how you pronounce that? Grad-aus. Oh, never mind, I think that means ‘go forward.’ Damn, these German words are confusing as hell.”

Soon Vic stopped flailing around and became quiet, but the dog continued growling and gnawing away at the man’s face, causing blood to spew out in all directions.

“Oh, shit, here it is!” announced Desmond. “Aus! Lass!”

Eager to please the new paper-carrier, the dog quickly withdrew from its vanquished conquest.

Kneeling back down on one knee, Desmond added, “Hier, komm.” He smiled as the dog pranced over to him – just like he would smile every time he would remember their initial meeting.

The next morning, Desmond was supposed to start his inspections of the storage igloos at the TNT site with Gray Barker as his point man, but he spent most of the day on recon for the lost dog.

At dusk, he decided it might be a good idea to inspect a few of the igloos in order to pad his daily report so he drove over to the area alone in the Jeep that he once shared with his trusty canine companion.

As he turned onto White Church Road off Route 62, Desmond kept glancing over to the empty passenger seat as if his dog would somehow suddenly appear. Switching on his headlights, he then veered off to access the first dirt path that he came upon.

Driving the narrow path, Desmond had to be careful not to get the Jeep’s tires too close to the swamp area on his left, but still had to watch for breaks in the foliage to his right which would indicate the presence of an igloo. Less than a quarter mile down the pathway he located one of the cement igloos.

He used his flashlight to review the map of the TNT area and determine where he was in relation to the first line of igloos. He then refolded the map and stuffed it into his back pocket as he exited the Jeep with his flashlight in his left hand.

Desmond had to knock away some overgrown vines and bushes with a wooden baton in order to reach the entrance area of the igloo. The large igloo was covered in grass and looked like a perfectly symmetrical dome-shaped hillside, approximately twenty feet high, but with odd cement walls jutting out the front on both sides of a set of ominous eight-by ten-foot green-painted steel double doors.

Desmond slipped the baton back into the loop of his belt while he flashed the flashlight beam at the door and inspected three ancient locks attached to the front. One lock was attached to a thick bar that ran across the center seam where the two sides of the doorway met, while the other two locks were attached to separate bars near the bottom of each side.

Using a pencil, Desmond marked a small “L” on the map next to the igloo where he was standing. He realized that he’d probably be the one who had to cut off the massive locks in order to make use of the igloo. “Like a fucking Seabee,” he mumbled to himself.

The next two igloos that he inspected also had their original locks still attached to the doors, but when he drove up to the fourth igloo in the row he heard an eerie moaning sound as soon as he cut off the ignition on the Jeep.

Darkness had now covered the swamp and Desmond was accustomed to only hearing the bubbling of the swamp gasses when he turned off the engine. But this sound was coming from the other side of the Jeep and definitely wasn’t the sound of bubbling swamp gas.

Concentrating intently on the mysterious sound, Desmond realized it was nothing he had ever heard before while hunting or hiking in the mountains of West Virginia. In other words, this was no hooting owl or howling brute.

Desmond approached the latest igloo with extreme caution, lightly pushing away the overgrowth in front of him, as it became more and more apparent that the reverberating moans were femanating from inside the igloo.

As he approached the entrance to the igloo, he noticed that one side of the steel door was ajar. An orange light flickered from within and he could smell smoke as it drifted toward him from an exhaust aperture at the top of the structure. He quickly clicked off his flashlight, so that his presence wouldn’t be made known to whoever or whatever was in the igloo.

When he was close enough to peer inside the partially open door, he could see a couple of naked bodies illuminated by a small campfire and he could finally verify the source of the moaning. The moans were almost ear-piercingly loud as they thunderously echoed off the domed interior of the igloo.

Desmond knew he would be able to approach the couple without being observed, especially if he walked lightly across the cement floor and allowed the incessant moans to cover his footsteps. Also, considering the gyrating and thrusting taking place on the blanket beside the crackling fire, Desmond concluded that the couple was too focused on each other to notice the encroachment of a third party.

At first Desmond thought the couple consisted of two females and he was sort of aroused by the erotic performance taking place in front of him, but then he became slightly sickened upon the realization that the individual on top was just a skinny long-haired hippy of the male gender. Could these be the same damn hippies who may have stolen his K-9?

Desmond’s assumption that the couple would not be aware of his stealthy approach was correct; in fact, they didn’t figure out that Desmond was inside the igloo until the male felt the dull stinging thuds of a wooden baton across his back.

Desmond directed the baton blows to the male’s lower back, causing the hippy to arch his upper torso into the air with one final deep thrust of his filthy cock into the girl’s disease-ridden pussy. The hippy howled in pain from the sap attack, while the girl yelled, “Oh, yeah, give it to me harder!”

With the back of the hippy’s head now raised in the air, Desmond was given another clear target and quickly brought the club around with a roundhouse right that immediately began dyeing the man’s blond hair a dark shade of red.

When the male hippy unconsciously rolled off the top of the girl, the chick finally saw Desmond’s ominous figure standing above her with a gore- and hair-covered quarterstaff. She could see the reflection of the fire’s flames in the attacker’s wide eyes and she screamed in terror.

The scream temporary deafened Desmond and he dropped the baton in order to cover his ears and protect them from the ringing, the ringing, the ringing, the ringing, the ringing shriek as it sliced into his ear drums from all sides.

Upon seeing Desmond grimace in pain and cover his ears, the girl took the opportunity to jump up, tear the blanket from under her boyfriend, wrap the blanket around her body and flee from the enclosure.

Desmond allowed the woman to escape without an obligatory beating, figuring that she wouldn’t get into too much trouble in the frigid night without the clothes that she’d left behind. Thus, Desmond continued to take out his frustration on the blacked-out hippy boy.

Being alone with the abandoned hippy, Desmond had no problem whipping out his nightstick and going back to work on the hippy – jamming his nightstick’s full length into the hippy’s defenseless asshole. Although the hippy wasn’t conscious, he let out a grunt so low and troubling that the echo chamber didn’t even pick it up.

“You trespass against the U.S. Government and the U.S. Government’s gonna trespass against you,” explained Desmond as he suddenly withdrew his staff, causing a release on noxious gas that temporarily spiked the flames of the campfire.

With the fire burning brightly, Desmond then gathered the discarded clothes of the damn hippies and added fuel to the fire by tossing the dirty garments into the flames.

When Desmond exited the igloo, he glanced around for traces of the girl but couldn’t locate anyone in his flashlight beam. As he climbed back into the Jeep, his only regret was that Gray Barker wasn’t with him to help out with the squatters.

Desmond found yet another open door at the next igloo, but this time the facility was silent and no light came from inside. He still felt a duty to thoroughly check out the storage unit, just in case the trespassers had left behind some evidence that could be used in a Court of Desmond.

Desmond was less concerned with his approach technique for this latest igloo, allowing his boot stomps to echo carelessly off the interior as he directed his flashlight to the graffiti covering the walls.

Suddenly, he heard a mad fluttering from above and pointed the flashlight straight up to the top of the dome where the small ventilation outlet was located. Shadows of what had to be bats circled above him like a black tornado and then grazed the top of his head as they swirled lower and flew out the open door.

The encounter startled Desmond as he raised his hands above his head to try to swat away the vermin, but he ended up dropping his flashlight in the process. The cement floor of the igloo proved no match for the military issue flashlight and the lens was smashed upon impact, thus putting Desmond in complete darkness at the center of the floor.

Desmond then heard the gut-wrenching crash of the steel door being closed.

***

After initially feeling his way to the interior side of the steel door and finding it impossible to open, Desmond spent the next three hours sitting patiently in the pitch black silence of the cold chamber. Now I know why these things are called igloos, he thought.

Desmond also tried using his walkie-talkie, even though he knew it would be useless inside the dense cement dome.

He eventually concluded that, even though no one would probably miss him at the base, someone would certainly come looking for the Jeep after awhile. And if they wanted the Jeep, they would have to look for him inside the igloo, since he had the only set of keys.

For the first time since Gray Barker came up missing, Desmond was actually relieved that the dog was not at his side. He was getting hungry after all.

Finally, Desmond heard a noise. The creaking of the rusty hinges on the heavy locking bars indicated that somebody was messing with the door.

Desmond immediately stood up, stumbling a bit in the darkness with his weary leg muscles, but still managing to grab hold of his baton. He made it to the wall beside the entry before one side of the steel door was partially opened. A flashlight beam entered from the opening and swept across the floor and back wall, directly in front of Desmond as he hid from view.

“Is there someone in here?” echoed a low voice from outside the igloo.

Desmond remained silent, pinning himself against the wall with his baton clenched in his hand.

“You are standing just inside the doorway, are you not?” inquired the voice, which now took on a distinct European accent (whatever that means).

The inquiry still produced no response from Desmond.

“I mean you no harm,” the voice continued. “I can also see your breath with my light.”

Desmond didn’t move from his position, but answered, “You’re trespassing on Government property.”

“Indeed,” the voice answered, “and lucky for you that I am.”

Desmond let down his guard and walked out into the man’s flashlight beam, but was still ready to attack with the baton if needed.

As an act of courtesy or trust, the man held his flashlight up to his face so that Desmond could see who he was conversing with.

The light illuminated an old, pale, craggy, foreign face with high cheekbones and large glassy eyes. The man was tall in stature and was cloaked in a long dark overcoat.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Paul Garuda.”

The scene reminded Desmond of how his Boy Scout leader used to hold a flashlight to his face while telling ghost stories to his fellow Webelos.

The man extended his free hand to Desmond as the sailor approached. In reciprocation, Desmond attached the baton back onto his belt, so that he could shake the cold, clammy hand of his rescuer.

“While I was walking the pathway this evening, I noticed some how-would-you-say damn hippies loitering in the vicinity of your vehicle. My approach startled them, however.”

“Did one appear to have trouble walking?” asked Desmond when he brushed past Paul Garuda to make a clean exit of the igloo, breathing a deep sigh of relief as he welcomed the frigid night air into his nostrils.

“How do you mean?” asked Paul, who was now following Desmond back to the Jeep.

Desmond began fishing his keys out of his front pants pocket as he pushed his way blindly through the thicket, unwilling to wait on Paul’s flashlight to light the way.

Paul caught up to Desmond as the sailor jumped into the driver’s side of the Jeep. Desmond saw the man slowly approaching, but did not want to get into an extended conversation with the stranger. Don’t make me have to arrest you after you did me a favor, Desmond thought.

“I appreciate what you did,” yelled Desmond to Paul as he turned over the ignition. “But you’re still trespassing on Government property.”

“I am aware of that,” answered Paul as he continued walking toward the passenger side of the Jeep. “That is exactly what I wanted to speak with you about.”

Desmond shut off the engine so that he could hear what Paul wanted to say. Desmond figured that he owed the guy a few minutes of his time. He was just a bit startled, however, when Paul reached into his overcoat with his left hand.

“Wait!” commanded Desmond. “What the fuck are you reaching for?”

Realizing his error, Paul quickly withdrew his hand from his coat. “Forgive me, sir, I realize we have not yet developed a relationship of trust. I was simply reaching for a notebook inside my coat. May I proceed?”

“I guess,” answered Desmond, “but slowly.”

Paul made sure the flashlight in his right hand kept the front of his cloak illuminated while he retrieved the aforementioned notebook.

“As you can see,” explained Paul, leaning over the passenger seat of the Jeep with the notebook in one hand and the flashlight in the other. “I am a conservationist and I have been studying the population of the endangered Virginia Big-Eared Bat.”

Desmond glanced at the pages of the small notebook as Paul flipped through them, but only saw scribbling and miscellaneous numbers. Desmond was more bothered by the sound that the pages made as Paul flipped them, since it reminded him of the fluttering of the wings that he heard when the bats swarmed above him inside the igloo.

“I heard that a colony of Virginia Big Ears began nesting in this area once the storage units were abandoned.  I was not surprised by this news, considering the mosquito population that must infest this swamp during the summer months.”

“But this ain’t the summer months,” pointed out Desmond.

“Precisely!” agreed Paul with a grin. “But this is the hibernation season and the perfect time to attempt a population assessment – or census as you might say.”

“And I suppose the middle of the night is the best time to perform this census – as I might say,” guessed Desmond.

“You are correct, sir,” Paul admitted. “I am simply checking the open units during the evening hours with a flashlight in order not to disturb the mammals. Because if they’re disturbed too often, they will lose the body fat that they rely upon during hibernation.”

“Whatever,” Desmond hastily replied, attempting to cut the biology lesson short. “You still should have attempted to obtain permission before you began your little survey.”

“Would it have been granted?” Paul rhetorically asked.

“Hell no!” responded Desmond. “This is a restricted fucking site. Besides, I have my doubts whether you’re even an American citizen.”

Paul smiled a reciprocating smile, which he hoped Desmond saw and would help cut through the tension.

“Be that as it may, please remember that my presence here would have gone unnoticed had I continued my walk past your vehicle this evening.”

Desmond rolled his eyes and reached for the ignition key.

“But perhaps I can be of further service to you,” Paul quickly added before Desmond could turn the key.

“And how do you figure to do that?” asked Desmond.

“I am almost finished with the survey,” Paul explained. “In fact, I expect to have all the data that I require by the end of next week. If you could be persuaded to look the other way until my project is complete, I will make sure that any trespassers or squatters that I locate are permanently removed from the premises.”

Desmond looked directly into the man’s glassy eyes as he contemplated the offer.

“If I agree to this arrangement,” Desmond began. “If I allow you to complete your census, then no one must know that I granted you permission to be on this property, especially if you publish any reports about this site.”

“No one shall ever know.”

“Plus, we need to exchange contact information so that we can communicate discreetly, if need be. I would appreciate at least verbal reports of any trespassers that you so-call permanently remove.”

“That is not a problem,” Paul said as he wrote his contact information on a sheet of notebook paper and then ripped off an extra page for Desmond to write on.

After adding a phone number to the blank piece of paper, Desmond handed the paper and pencil back to Paul. He then started the Jeep again.

Speaking over the hum of the motor, Paul leaned close to Desmond and added, “For my initial verbal report, I must inform you that those damn hippies I witnessed earlier are now at the bottom of the swamp.”

***

Just before midnight on November 15th, two local couples were cruising Route 62 north of Point Pleasant, trying to find a place to party.  Eighteen-year-old Roger Strawberry eventually parked his pristine 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air in front of an abandoned factory on the TNT grounds and looked over at his prissy teen wife.  “I guess there’s no where around here to get naked,” he surmised, “unless we find an open igloo.”

Linda shivered at the thought.

Roger then glanced in his rear view mirror and discovered that his surmising was wrong, squinting his eyes to better see the naked flesh of his friends Steve and Mary Mullet as they rolled around on the darkened back seat.

“Hey, don’t get anything nasty on my leather seats.”

“Fuck you,” responded Steve.

“No, fuck me,” responded Mary, specifically to Steve before her mouth became otherwise occupied.

Linda was unresponsive.

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” concluded Linda to Roger, crossing her arms in the front seat and looking straight ahead into the narrow darkness beyond the scope of the headlights. “I told you I was on my period.”

Listening to the slurpy sucking sounds coming from the back seat provided Roger with the perfect response: “Your mouth ain’t on any damn period,” he retorted, also looking straight ahead, but seeing red.

Soon Linda was seeing red too – or too red, as in two red eyes swooping straight toward the hood of the Bel Air. Landing like a ‘chuteless paratrooper directly between the beams of the headlights was a large dark figure at least six and a half feet tall with blazing red eyes, which seemed to cut into the faces of Roger and Linda like lasers, partially blinding them both.

“Oh my god,” gasped Linda from the front seat.

“Oh my god,” gasped Mary from the back seat, but her blasphemy was for a completely different reason.

Roger lowered his head and closed his eyes, trying to escape the red burning sensation, and jammed the gear shift into reverse. Twisting around in his seat, he re-opened his eyes so that he could try to see through the back window and direct the car away from the intruder.

As the car began speeding backward, Linda kept her eyes on the figure in front of her, getting more and more of her sight back as the distance increased between them. Eventually she could see the figure in the headlights apparently extending its arms outward, but these were not human arms. Linda realized this monstrous being had wings, which connected to the sides of its body like a bat or a butterfly. The being then shot straight up in the air like a rocket.

“Get us out of here, Roger!” screamed Linda. “I think it’s coming!”

“I think I’m coming!” screamed Mary from the back seat.

Roger had the gas pedal floored as he masterfully steered the car in reverse along the dirt road, kicking up rocks and dust all around the car. He kept up the maddening pace until the Bel Air’s tires hit the solid pavement of Route 62, praying the whole time that no oncoming traffic would get in the way. The tires squealed against the cement road and then squalled all the more when Roger switched gears to drive forward into town. Roger climbed through the gears until the Bel Air was hitting speeds well over one hundred miles per hour.

A panicked Linda continued to look up and out of the front windshield and then through the passenger window, trying to see if the creature was indeed following them. In desperation, she rolled down her window and leaned out into the frigid night air so that she could see above the car. There was definitely a shadowy figure that hung like an ominous cloud a few feet above the cloth top of the convertible.

“Hey, close the fucking window, we’re naked back here,” complained Mary as she sat back up in her seat beside Steve. “And slow down! Damn, what’s wrong with you two?”

“There’s some kind of fucking bird thing following us!” yelled Roger.

“It’s still above us, Roger,” cried Linda as she lowered herself back inside the car. “Please drive faster!”

Steve was just about to call them both crazy when he heard a dull thump from behind on the trunk and the whole car dipped down toward the road surface. Turning around to look out the back, Steve announced, “I think the thing just crapped on your car.”

“Eww,” exclaimed Mary.

But then the back of the car rose up just as swiftly as it had dipped down and Roger realized that the back wheels were no longer on the ground. “Oh, shit, it’s lifting the fucking car!”

“Make it go away, Roger, make it go away!” shrieked Linda, covering her face in her hands.

“I’m trying dammit; I’m trying,” answered Roger, who suddenly caught sight of what appeared to be a tractor trailer coming toward them in the opposite direction about a quarter of a mile away.

With what little traction he still controlled with the Bel Air, Roger turned the steering wheel sharply to his left and put the car into the same lane as the oncoming truck.

“Are you fucking crazy?!” yelled Steve from the back. “You’re gonna kill us for sure!”

“Shut the hell up, Steve!” Roger demanded as his voice was soon drowned out by the piercing sound of the truck’s air horn.

Suddenly, the back end of the Bel Air was back on the ground, as if it had been dropped, and Roger had just enough time to crank the steering wheel back to the right before the bumpers of the two vehicles met. But soon the Bel Air was fish-tailing out of control and careening toward the berm, leaving Roger no choice but to stomp on the brake pedal. The car spun into a yard just outside the city line and came to a rest. The home owners were kind enough to notify the authorities.

***

Desmond was back in the OPS’s office early on the morning of November 16th.  Initially, when he opened the door and walked into the office, OPS Reynolds appeared to be alone, but as soon as Desmond turned slightly to close the door, he caught a glimpse of two other men standing against the wall on opposite sides of the door. After he made sure the door was securely closed, Desmond took a closer look at the men. These men were dressed in taupe.

“Come have a seat, MA Young,” invited the OPS after Desmond made the obligatory salute. “This is an informal meeting.”

As Desmond approached the chair in front of the OPS’s desk, he sensed the men in taupe following closely behind him. Once he was seated, Desmond no longer sensed any further movement from the well-dressed men in back. But he could hear them breathe.

“The gentlemen joining us this morning are from some government agency, which shall go unnamed for our purposes,” explained OPS Reynolds. “They came to me today to inquire about an incident that supposedly occurred at the TNT area.”

I hope those damn hippies didn’t turn up/float up, Desmond thought without giving away any kind of questionable facial expression.

“Apparently late last night a group of teenagers received quite a scare up near the old factory,” Reynolds continued. “Literally, scared the pants right off one of them, I heard. Anyway, they say they witnessed some kind of giant winged creature or something.”

Desmond responded, “Well, we’re a naval facility – not Air Force.”

“Very funny, asshole,” Reynolds shot back. “These gentlemen would like to know if you have any information on the incident or if you’ve seen any evidence of large birds during your inspections of the property.”

Desmond didn’t appreciate the name-calling, especially in front of non-Navy personnel, but he was still willing to help with the inquiry. “I have seen at least one large crane on the site, apparently trying to find food in the swamp. Maybe that’s what these kids saw.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Reynolds, glancing above and beyond Desmond in order to look at the MIT. “I’m afraid that’s all we have gentlemen. If MA Young here discovers anything else, I’ll make sure you learn about it as soon as possible.”

Without saying a word, Desmond heard the men leave from behind him and then close the door. Once the two Navy officers were alone, Reynolds said, “Actually those two weren’t the only ones to contact me this morning. Sheriff Cornstarch called me as soon as I got in the office to give me a heads up on the situation.”

“Cornstarch? What kind of a name is that?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” snapped Reynolds. “It sounded like Cornstarch to me. I didn’t ask him to lay out his whole fucking family tree.”

“Alright,” regretfully responded Desmond.

“Anyway, according to this Sheriff Cornfed, or whatever the fuck his name is, these kids were looking for a secluded place to park to make out. According to their story, this damn bird-like thing jumped down onto their car and they got spooked out. Then they apparently drove like maniacs back toward town, but lost control on the highway and ended up in someone’s front yard.

“It sounded to me like they had been drinking, but Cornhole says he knows these kids personally and he accepts their word on what happened.”

“Whatever may have happened, it doesn’t sound like it would have any impact on our operation,” Desmond concluded.

“The hell it don’t,” corrected Reynolds. “It’s having one hell of a big impact, even as we speak. Corndog is planning to take some of his deputy dogs out there today and hunt for this fucking bird.”

“Just tell them it’s a restricted area and warn the Sheriff that his little buddies from last night could be facing Federal trespassing charges,” suggested Desmond.

“Allow me to remind you, Young, that we’re trying to maintain decent public relations with local law enforcement,” explained Reynolds. “Since we haven’t started storing anything out there yet, I don’t necessarily believe they can cause any immediate harm. But what I am worried about is that publicity from their search is going to bring out a lot of civilian curiosity-seekers – not to mention these paranoid wackos that think the Earth is being invaded by Martians or something.”

“Okay, so I’ll increase my patrols out there and I’ll chase off the people who want to use TNT as lover’s lane,” Desmond volunteered. “Plus, I’ll keep an eye out for any local bird watchers or Martian spotters.”

“Good idea,” agreed Reynolds. “Maybe we can stop any future incidents out there from happening before they even begin.”

“I’ll nip them in the bud, sir.”

“I bet you will, Young, I bet you will.”

Immediately upon leaving the OPS’s office, Desmond was in his Jeep and headed south on Route 62 toward Point Pleasant. After a few minutes, he was pulling into the parking lot of Tiny’s Drive-In Restaurant, which had an outside payphone.

Desk Clerk: Lowe Hotel – Point Pleasant invites you to come visit the Lowe and stay awhile. How may I help you today?

Desmond: Room Number Nine...

Desk Clerk: Number Nine?

Desmond: Number Nine...

(pause)

Paul: …Number Nine.

Desmond: Paul is that you?

Paul: …Number Nine.

Desmond: Paul Garuda, is that you?

Paul: Officer Young?

Desmond: Yes, can’t you hear me? Have we got a bad connection?

Paul: …Number Nine.

Desmond: Stop with the Number Nine crap!

Paul: Officer Young?

Desmond: For the second time – yes, this is Officer Young. Can you not hear me?

Paul: Oh, yes, yes, I can hear you now. Forgive me, I was half asleep.

Desmond: It’s nine-hundred hours.

Paul: Number Nine?

Desmond: No, I mean it’s after nine a.m. and you’re still sleeping?

Paul: I am afraid so. I had a late night.

Desmond: Yeah, I heard all about it. That’s why I’m calling you.

Paul: What did you hear about?

Desmond: Those kids from last night that you scared the shit out of.

Paul: Oh, them.

Desmond: Yes, them. They’re causing a big ruckus, saying some kind of monster attacked them while they were making out at TNT.

Paul: All I did was jump in front of their parked car to give them a fright. Although, had they not been in the vehicle, I probably would have how-would-you-say wringed out their scrawny necks.

Desmond: It might have been better if you had wrung their necks, because the Sheriff is rounding up a posse to hunt down this so-called monster.

Paul: What do you mean by a posy?

Desmond: I mean they’re organizing a search party to track you down.

Paul: That is not good.

Desmond: Hell no it ain’t good. I can’t have a bunch of people snooping around TNT. I would strongly suggest you lay low for a couple of days and hopefully this will all blow over.

Later that evening, Paul Garuda laid low in the shrubbery outside the home of Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Ralph. The Ralphs were hosting the Wanetts and the Bentleys for a card party. Paul was especially interested in Mr. and Mrs. Bentley’s teenage daughter, who was spending an inordinate amount of time in the cottage’s bathroom.

Paul had hoped on spending an inordinate amount of time that evening stalking the neighboring TNT grounds, but the area was saturated with locals carrying a variety of weaponry and flashlights as they searched for the so-called winged creature.

Eventually, Paul saw the Wanetts exit from the house and walk onto the porch. The Bentleys soon joined them, but not before Mr. Bentley yelled through the open front door, “Hurry up on the toilet, Tina, it’s a school night you know!”

Mrs. Bentley, who had left the house ahead of her husband, quickly chastised her spouse, “Be nice, Ray, and don’t embarrass her. I think it’s that time of the month for Tina.”

“They’re starting younger and younger all the time,” commented Mrs. Wanett to no one in particular.

All four adults lit up cigarettes as they waited patiently for the girl. As soon as the teen emerged from the house, Paul raised up from the bushes to get a better look at the hot young teenager who he’d just been spying on through a slim separation in the bathroom curtains.

Paul had hoped to remain in the shadows, especially since he had yet to refasten his overcoat, but some disturbed birds were nesting nearby in the foliage and quickly caused a stir as they fluttered up into the cold night air.

Looking toward the disturbance, Tina yelled, “Daddy what is that?!”

“Oh, my god, it’s that monster from TNT!” screamed Mrs. Wanett to everyone.

The four adults and the teen all scrambled back into the house. Paul had thought about retreating from the scene, but desire caused him to approach the porch instead.

Inside the cottage, Mr. Bentley was frantically dialing a telephone located on a coffee table in the living room. The other adults huddled around him as they waited for the police to answer the call.

Tina wandered over to the picture window overlooking the porch and tried to look out into the darkness. The lights in the living room made it impossible to see anything outside, however, except for two piercing red eyes that cut through the black night like flaming pokers.

Tina stared helplessly into the red beacons and suddenly felt flushed as a burning sensation enveloped her entire body. Hypnotized by the eyes, the girl no longer listened as her father attempted to describe the intruder to the police and she didn’t listen to the frenzied admonishments of her mother coming from behind her.

“My god, Tina, put your clothes back on!” screamed Mrs. Bentley when she caught sight of her naked daughter standing amongst her discarded garments in front of the picture window.

Mr. Bentley’s jaw dropped as quickly as the phone receiver when he looked over at his daughter. Mr. Wanett and Mr. Ralph just smiled to themselves and adjusted their trousers as the young girl began grinding her hips in an erotic dance. They couldn’t tell for sure from behind, but everyone was pretty sure Tina was also squeezing her budding breasts as she danced.

The intense stare from the intruder’s eyes descended down Tina’s exposed body, enflaming the breasts that the girl so provocatively cupped, as she slowly moved her body in a twisting tawdry motion. Her auburn-haired head jerked backward as soon as she felt the wave of heat envelop her tits.

She then felt his burning stare travel farther down her gyrating body, until it passed her navel and her pubic area, and then suddenly ignited the short white tampon string hanging between her thighs.

The flame beneath her belly shocked Tina back into consciousness and she immediately began patting out the fiery fuse between her legs before it engulfed her inner sanctum and singed her delicate peachy mound.

Mrs. Bentley ran over to her daughter and grabbed the girl’s long coat from the floor. While she was covering the naked girl with the coat, they all heard something outside splash abruptly against the window.

All six adults lit up cigarettes as they waited patiently for the police.

***

This time the men in taupe visited Desmond personally at his apartment in the compound. The loud knocking woke Desmond from a sound sleep.

Desmond opened the door in his Navy issued boxer shorts and T-shirt. After the over-dressed men filed past him into the apartment, Desmond took a quick look in the hallway to see if the OPS was nearby.

As soon as Desmond closed the door, the one pointy-nosed man began speaking immediately without any formal or informal introduction.

“There was another incident near TNT last night,” the stern-looking man mechanically announced with no apparent emotion displayed in his blank face. His pointy-chinned partner mirrored the demeanor.

Desmond waited for more information, but was met with complete silence and finally realized that a response was expected from him.

“Oh-kay,” Desmond responded expectedly. “And what was the nature of this latest incident at TNT?”

The talking man glanced over at his partner and then looked back at Desmond. “We were hoping you could tell us, Officer Young.”

“Is that right?”

Another taupe man-to-man glance occurred before the talking tauper answered, “OPS Reynolds said you were responsible for that area.”

Responsible indeed…

“OPS Reynolds says a lot of things,” Desmond replied. “But I can’t be everywhere at once now can I?”

“As the Master of Arms,” began the man.

“As the Master of Arms,” interrupted Desmond, “I shall perform a full investigation of the so-called incident and make a full report to my immediate superior. If you, or your mute friend there, are interested in the report, you will have to see OPS Reynolds.”

“And when do you expect said report to be complete?” asked the man without interruption.

“How the fuck should I know?” exclaimed Desmond. “I haven’t even started the investigation yet.”

Not taken aback my Desmond’s sudden anger, the man responded, “Then perhaps it would be best if we took our leave now in order to allow you to begin your investigation.”

“Yes, perhaps that would be best,” Desmond agreed.

When the men left, Desmond noticed that the silent one carried a classified Military Standard called The Necronomicon – MIL-666 Edition.

Desmond then decided to take in a movie.

He decided that the seven p.m. showing of the movie “Wait Until Dark,” at the State Theater on Main Street in Point Pleasant would be the most inconspicuous place for a face-to-face meeting with Paul Garuda, especially since his warning about keeping a low profile was completely ignored during their telephone conversation.

Let’s all go to the lobby. Let’s all go to the lobby. Let’s all go to the lobby. And get something to smoke...

“Can I get a pack of Camels?” asked Desmond at the refreshment counter with a jingle subliminally playing in his head.

“Yes, sir,” answered the girl behind the counter, who sported a clean white uniform and a disposable paper hat to match. “But I must warn you that theater management has requested that no one light up during the final eight minutes of the film.”

“Now, how the hell am I supposed to know when the last eight minutes of the film is?”

The amber-haired counter girl countered with a frown, which slightly lifted the paper hat above her furled brow, and mechanically reached for a note card beside the Jujubes. She then rolled her brown eyes before reading off the card:

“During the last eight minutes of this picture, the theater will be darkened to the legal limit to heighten the terror of the breath-taking climax, which takes place in nearly total darkness on the screen. If there are sections where smoking is permitted, those patrons are respectfully requested not to jar the effect by lighting up during this sequence. And, of course, no one will be seated at this time.”

Desmond waited until the girl put the note card down before asking, “There’s a legal limit to how dark a theater can be?”

“Do you want the cigarettes or not?” impatiently asked the girl.

“Yes, and I promise not to ruin your breath-taking climax,” he quipped.

Again with the eye-rolling before handing over the pack and concluding, “That’ll be fifty cents, please.”

The main feature was just beginning when Desmond took a seat in the back row of the theater, which is where he planned to meet Paul Garuda.

With a lit cigarette in his mouth and the pack tucked away in his shirt pocket, Desmond popped the plastic lid off his cup of ice water, which he finagled for free from the candy counter chick. Using the precision of a Navy Seal sharp-shooter (Team Two), he then deliberately dumped the water on the three empty seats in front of him.

While waiting for his contact to arrive, a couple of patrons tried sitting in front of him but quickly moved when their pants became soaking wet. Desmond tried to focus on the movie, but was anxious for Garuda to show up.

This Alan Arkin guy would be better suited as a comedic actor than a villain, Desmond thought as he puffed away on his Camel.

Eventually Paul Garuda made his grand entrance, carrying his own cup of ice water, and quickly found Desmond in the empty back row.

“That girl in the lobby took on quite an attitude when I requested a cup of water,” whispered Paul as he sat down. “She must be pre-menstrual.”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Desmond.

“Shhh,” cautioned Richard Crenna.

“What is it?” asked Audrey Hepburn.

“That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?” Audrey persisted.

“There’s a police car pulling up outside,” explained Richard. “They’re just standing there. Susie, I think they’re watching the house.”

“Speaking of law enforcement,” added Desmond. “There was a report of a peeping tom out near TNT last night. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Can you see their faces?” Audrey begged.

“There is no need for worry, the how-would-you-say peeping tom cannot be identified,” Paul answered. “The incident you speak of took place under the cover of night. No one was injured or at risk of injury.”

“It’s pretty dark,” replied Richard.

“Regardless, I still specifically asked you not to go near the TNT area until things cooled down out there,” Desmond complained and received silence in return, as if Paul was paying more attention to the movie than the conversation.

“Damn it, you act as if you’re in kindergarten. This is the big bad world full of mean people where nasty things happen,” Richard warned.

“Now you tell me,” whined Audrey.

“Look Susie,” Richard continued. “You listen to me and you listen good. I’m through playing around.”

“Should it not be ‘listen well’?” Paul mumbled.

“What?”

“I am aware of your concerns,” responded Paul. “But I would like to complete my survey on the Virginia Big Ears before you begin disturbing the storage units.”

“Okay, listen up,” started Desmond.

“I am listening well.”

“Okay, I don’t mind if you finish your bat counting or whatever, but you need to use a little more discretion when you’re out there,” conceded Desmond. “No more peeping into car windows or living room windows or any other windows.”

“I believe that I can abide by those terms,” agreed Paul.

“What are you going to do with that gasoline?!”

“You can guess,” answered Alan Arkin.

Just before the theater lights dimmed to the “legal limit,” Paul stood up and began exiting out through the back row.

“I guess I had my fingers crossed.”

Driving back to base on the long lonely strip of highway known as West Virginia Route 62, Desmond couldn’t help glancing at the dimly lit porches and front yards fronting the many cottages and mobile homes. He doubted that he would catch a glimpse of Paul Garuda outside any of the windows, but he still felt obligated to look.

Just outside the confines of the base, Desmond slammed on the brakes of the Jeep and slid the vehicle onto the berm of the road. Suddenly aware of his own deep breathing, Desmond tried adjusting the rear view mirror to try to see what he had just passed. But with no other traffic around and no street lights illuminating the highway, he could see nothing in the mirror.

Reluctantly, Desmond grabbed a flashlight and jumped down from the Jeep. The closer he got to the mysterious object, the more he wanted to turn around and forget about it, but he knew in his heart that he couldn’t turn away.

As he approached the object, Desmond’s boots felt like they had lead soles and his knees felt like they were about to give-out and send him to the ground. Eventually, Desmond did fall hard to his knees on the jagged icy gravel, but the sharp pain of the stones did not bring tears to his eyes. He wept only once his hands and arms made contact with the cold matted fur of his best friend.

“Gray!” screamed Desmond as he pulled the lifeless body up to his heaving chest. “Gray, Gray, Gray, goddammit, Gray!”

Desmond had no idea how long he caressed and rocked the dead dog in his arms, crying in utter despair at his loss. Cars and trucks occasionally passed the two along the road, but no one stopped or even slowed down to offer help or condolences.

Desmond knew he had to give Gray Barker a proper burial and he dutifully marched back to Jeep, carrying the dog like it was a sleeping child. As soon as he carefully laid the dog in the back end of the Jeep, Desmond howled even louder as the memories rushed back of the many times Gray accompanied him on drives. He had to talk to someone, but who was there to talk to now that Gray was gone?

“Number Nine.”

“Paul, is that you?” Desmond asked from the phone in the parking lot of Tiny’s Drive-In.

“Number Nine.”

“Please, I need to talk to you,” Desmond pleaded with his voice cracking from torment. “I need to talk to somebody.”

“This is Paul,” he answered. “Is that you Desmond?”

“Yes.”

“Is there something wrong?” Paul asked. “I have decided to stay in tonight if that is why you are checking on me.”

“My dog, Paul, I found my dog and he’s dead. I think someone hit him on the road. Oh god, my Gray is dead!”

“Calm down, my friend. I am sincerely sorry for your loss. Please tell me how I can help you.”

“God, I don’t know. I don’t think anyone can help me. I just wanted to talk to someone. Oh god, I don’t believe he’s dead. Why is this happening?”

“Please listen to me, Desmond; you must try to be calm. Gray would never want you to be in such turmoil, would he?”

“I…suppose…not.”

“Of course, he would not. Gray would only want you to take comfort in the knowledge that you provided a very happy and fulfilling life to him while he was on this earth.”

“I suppose.”

“Desmond, since you are not so clear of mind at the moment, allow me to offer some advice before you put your friend to rest.”

“Okay.”

“Instead of assuming that Gray was struck by a vehicle, perhaps you could take him to a veterinarian for an autopsy.”

“But I found him along the road, just outside of the base.”

“I realize that, but perhaps you owe it to your friend to be certain that no foul play was involved. If you bury him right away, you will lose the opportunity to know.”

“Maybe you’re right. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to allow a vet to see him.”

“If you do, I hope that you will share the results with me. Also, I would be glad to help inter your pet if you need my assistance.”

“Thank you Paul, I appreciate that.”

“You are most welcome, Desmond. Good night.”

Paul hung up the phone receiver on the bed stand and lit up a cigarette. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he looked over to the girl from the theater concession stand, who was tied spread-eagle across the top of the mattress. A red handkerchief was wrapped around her mouth as a gag, which held a large sanitary napkin inside. The only other material on her naked body was her clean white paper hat.

“Excuse the interruption, my dear, but that was a friend in need on the phone,” Paul apologized. “Now, I believe we were discussing the prospect of lighting a cigarette during a climax.”

Tears welled up in the girl’s terror-stricken eyes as the brutally-naked Paul turned his attention back to her. Like the bindings that tightly secured her feet and hands to the metal bed rails, Paul’s devious grin also provided her little comfort.

“I could have, of course, lit this fag just by staring at it, but I did not want to how-would-you-say freak you out.”

But Paul could tell just by the way she struggled against the ropes that bound her to the bed that she was “freaked out” anyway. And she would become more freaked out as soon as he moved the bangs of her brown hair away from her neck and began pressing the cigarette into the tender flesh just below her left ear.

The girl screamed as loud as she could as the searing pain and aroma of burnt flesh shocked her nervous system, but the gag ensured that the residents on either side of Room Nine remained undisturbed.

Before climbing on top of the girl’s writhing body, Paul pushed the cigarette one more time into her neck – close to where the first wound still sizzled and smoked.

With the weight of his massive hair-covered body now crushing against his victim, Paul hungrily kissed, licked and sucked at the reddened piercings. The muffled screaming that was forcibly blocked from escaping the girl’s gagged mouth caused her tortured throat to quiver and convulse violently against Paul’s engorged lips and resulted in the most rigid erection that either of them had ever experienced.

Crunching the girl’s paper hat, Paul clutched her skull with both hands, with the cigarette still burning between his fingers, and used the strength of his arm muscles as leverage to ram his conquering cock into her captive cunt. Savoring the girl’s singey taste and smell while he nuzzled his jagged face against her soft neck, Paul missed the girl’s moment of utter defeat as her pupils rolled up inside her eye sockets. He sensed a sudden grunt rise deep within the girl’s throat, but then reverberate back, as if rejected at the cotton-walled gauntlet inside her mouth.

Paul preferred the missionary position for his unholy assault, partly because of its Christian connotations, but especially because it allowed his sensitive chest to feel the heightened heart beats of his hopeless victim.

He continued pounding away at his pound of flesh until her pounding heart began fluttering in exhaustion and her still body matched the stillness inside her bosom. Only then did he look up to see her ashen face and only then did he realize that the forgotten cigarette between his fingers had caught her hat on fire.

The flames soon spread to the pillow case beneath the girl’s engulfed head and then the bed sheets caught fire.

“Oh, hell!” complained Paul as he jumped off the bed and grabbed the bucket of half-melted ice from the dresser. “Looks like another trip to the ice machine for me.”

Paul then doused the flames of his desire, leaving the torso smoldering and filling his nostrils with the sweet smell of death. He couldn’t help but masturbate over his handiwork and bring the story of the girl’s life to a final climax.

***

In the week that followed, as Desmond awaited the autopsy results from the veterinarian, the production and storage of Inbred Cold began in full force. But no matter how busy he was in reactivating and securing the cement igloos for the purpose of storing the toxic containers, Desmond always remembered to call the vet’s office before it closed for the day.

Eventually, while standing in the lot at Tiny’s Drive-In, Desmond received the news that he dreaded to hear: Gray’s body showed no signs of trauma or broken bones, but the dog’s failed organs contained traces of toluene.

Desmond clenched the receiver on the payphone with such white-knuckled force that he could hear the plastic cracking under his grip. He was tempted to smash the receiver into the side of the payphone, but he stopped himself because he realized he had another call to make.

Without replacing the still-creaking receiver to its cradle, Desmond impatiently tapped the metal hook until he received a dial tone and then deposited a sweaty dime. With his free hand, he spun the numbered dial as quickly as his right index finger would allow him.

Upon making the connection to Room Nine, Desmond barely got the words out about the bastards who poisoned his dog when Paul invited him to his room at the Lowe.

Desmond hadn’t spoken to Paul since their phone conversation following the movie rendezvous and neither man had been back to the theater, even though Paul was very interested in seeing this week’s feature of “In Cold Blood.”

The men in taupe, as Desmond referred to them, did inform him about another creature sighting in the early morning hours of November 25th by a 24-year-old man named Tom Tury, but Desmond didn’t feel the incident was even worth asking Paul about.

Tury reported to the Sheriff that he had witnessed a large bird-like monster in a field just north of the TNT area on Route 62, but law enforcement blew off the report since the young man was commonly known in the area as “Topsy Turvy” from his excessive alcohol consumption.

Dressed in civilian clothing, Desmond inconspicuously entered the old red brick and Berea stone Lowe Hotel on the corner of Fourth and Main streets in downtown Point Pleasant. He then climbed the once-grand staircase to the second floor rooms, where he was easily able to locate Number Nine. He lightly tapped on the solid wood door.

Paul opened the door wrapped in his bath robe and quickly invited Desmond into the room. Desmond immediately noticed that the wall above where the bed’s headboard rested was covered in black soot.

“What the fuck happened to the wall?” he asked.

Glancing at the blackened wall as he sat on the edge of the bed, “Oh, that. I believe the lodgers who occupied this room prior to myself were damn hippies. They were probably smoking their dope in here.”

Desmond sat down in a rickety chair that directly faced Paul. Once they were at eye level to each other, Paul didn’t need to read Desmond’s mind because he could see the seriousness in the sailor’s face as he leaned forward in the chair.

“I just want to get back at the bastards who killed my dog,” explained Desmond matter-of-factly-through-clenched-teeth.

“Even if it means possibly betraying your country?” Paul asked calmly.

Desmond was temporarily taken aback by the concept of betrayal. He straightened up in the chair, but did not lose eye contact with Paul.

“You mean become a traitor?”

“Traitor is such a harsh word,” smoothly answered Paul. “How about pseudo-loyalist or, even better, neo-quisling? Yes, neo-quisling sounds quite intriguing.”

“Can you just get to the point of what you want me to do?”

“Certainly my friend,” Paul smiled. “We have determined that your pet was likely sacrificed to test this new chemical weapon called Inbred Cold. With the proper publicity, I could ensure that the U.S. Department of Defense would not only stop manufacturing this weapon but that no other living being would have to suffer from its effects. But I would need your assistance in acquiring a sample of it.”

“You realize that I’m solely responsible for the security of Inbred Cold, so if any of it gets into the wrong hands I would be held personally responsible?”

“Come on, Desmond, things get misplaced all the time, especially in government. You know that.”

“Yeah, a pencil or a notebook maybe,” Desmond responded, “but not a highly classified secret fucking weapon.”

“No one,” countered Paul. “No one, except for you of course, seemed to care when your dog got misplaced. Maybe you should begin not caring when their precious things turn up missing.”

Desmond closed his eyes to contemplate the severity of the covert action he was being asked to undertake. While he had his eyes shut, Desmond felt the cold palm of Paul cover his clasped hands.

Memories of Gray Barker suddenly ran through Desmond’s mind, trampling any and all doubts about the correct course that he should take to honor the life of his canine friend.

“Okay,” Desmond finally said, opening his eyes to meet Paul’s almost hypnotic gaze. “I’ll do as you suggest, but it won’t be right away. I have to determine the best time to transfer the product to you, plus I have to develop some plan to deal with the consequences.”

“Develop your contingencies and logistics, Desmond,” agreed Paul. “When the time is right, I’ll be here waiting for your call. All I ask is that you try to make this happen before the end of this year.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Excellent,” exclaimed Paul, gripping Desmond’s hands one last time before removing his own hand. “You know that I will not let you down – or Gray for that matter.”

“In that case, you have my sincerest gratitude, sir,” concluded Desmond. “There haven’t been too many people in my life who haven’t managed to let me down.”

Paul then stood up from the bed, standing directly in front of his seated guest. “Now, I shall let you demonstrate your gratitude.”

Desmond instinctively knew what to do as he untied the cloth belt on Paul’s robe and drew the garment open from both sides. Desmond immediately realized that Paul’s genitals had the distinct smell of moth balls.

***

Dusk on December 15, 1967, was the time agreed upon for Desmond to rendezvous with Paul Garuda in front of the TNT storage igloo where they’d first met. Desmond was nervously leaning up against the rear of his Jeep, which was laden with the day’s production of Inbred Cold. He experienced a bit of difficultly trying to keep a match lit long enough to start his cigarette burning.

As the last traces of daylight faded, the parked Jeep seemed to come alive as a burgeoning green glow began to slowly envelop the vehicle, which could be attributed to the luminous paint that coated the ten-gallon metal chemical containers. The paint was a security measure designed to assist in the nighttime recovery of any lost containers.

Desmond was paranoid that he had been followed, although he was unable to confirm his suspicions. He’d been catching glimpses of the men in taupe for days as he went about his nightly business, but he never saw them encroach upon the TNT property.

A howling wind was kicking up along the service path, causing the tumultuous air to whistle and whip through the tortured tree tops. Darkening clouds made the evening appear to be later than it actually was. A winter storm was coming.

Desmond had thought he was acclimated to the frigid winter temperatures along the Ohio River, but the stinging breeze seemed to slice straight through his camouflage uniform that evening. He had been feeling “under the weather” lately and his lack of appetite made him feel weak.

Desmond watched as some long-fallen leaves littering the swamp waters began swirling amongst the gas bubbles. Desmond just wanted this whole sort-of affair to be over with.

Desmond squinted in order to focus his attention on a disturbance that appeared to be taking place along the service path behind the Jeep. He could make out waves of dead leaves being thrust into the swamp waters as if a small tornado was coming up the path directly toward him. Then he saw the headlights of another vehicle shine through the low-hanging vines and overgrown foliage that surrounded the path, and made it almost appear like a natural tunnel.

Just as Desmond was ready to chastise Paul for bringing a vehicle to their meeting, he realized that the vehicle in question was another Navy Jeep. He also realized that the driver was the assistant to the OPS, which meant that the front-seat passenger was…

“Young, you son of a bitch!” yelled OPS Reynolds rising from his seat to make himself visible over the top of the open vehicle, holding onto the windshield for support as the Jeep slid to a halt.

As Desmond approached the other Jeep, he shielded his eyes from the glare of the headlights and noticed there were two back seat passengers – and they were wearing taupe suits. “What the fuck,” he muttered to himself, suddenly curious what Reynolds and his crew were up to.

Just as the thought of Garuda being somewhere in the vicinity, hopefully hiding in the shadows, entered his mind, Desmond heard a loud howling, like the muffled crack of mutated lightning, coming from directly overhead.

The attention of everyone in the Jeep was also directed toward the sky, where a large object hovered and circled with the same swirling velocity as the storm-torn winds, and effectively blocked out any remnant of light that the bleak clouds allowed to escape through.

Like a moth to a flame, the creature swooped down and snatched a glowing canister from the back of Desmond’s Jeep and then darted back up toward the tree tops. The split-second surprise attack on the Jeep knocked Desmond to the ground, either by direct contact from the creature’s wings or by the displaced air current from the beating of the massive wingspan.

The men in the other Jeep watched in awe as the black creature’s form became indistinguishable in the night sky, allowing only the glowing canister to be seen as it quickly diminished in size in relation to the climbing altitude. The angle of the ascent seemed to be taking the canister in the direction of the river.

“Young, you son of a bitch!” reiterated Reynolds to Desmond, as the fallen serviceman slowly rose to his feet. “Secure the rest of those canisters in that fucking igloo and get your ass back to base! I’m gonna try to find that fucking bird and wring its goddam neck!”

Before Desmond could respond, the Jeep with the OPS pulled away in reverse, quickly attaining the same breakneck speed that it had reached on its initial approach. Desmond was suddenly alone again on the desolate service path, but now had even more on his troubled mind.

Within minutes, the OPS was back on base with the Jeep speeding toward the dock where the Navy River Patrol’s Command Control Boat was moored. The CCB was equipped with a 40mm Automatic Grenade Launcher and the OPS wasted no time in jumping aboard the turret and directing his assistant to the helm. If the men in taupe were waiting for permission to come aboard, it wasn’t offered and the boat pulled away in a southerly direction, leaving the men stranded on the dock.

Before removing the final canister from the back of his Jeep, Desmond knew what he was going to do and it did not involve returning to the base. He dutifully locked the steel doors of the igloo and hurried back to the vehicle.

If the men in taupe had made the connection between him and Paul Garuda, he was in deep shit. He knew that he could not risk going back to base and possibly facing a treason charge.

Consequently, when Desmond drove onto Route 62, he directed the Jeep northbound, looking back only to ensure that the dog blanket he had spread out in the back was still secure as his speed increased.

OPS Reynolds desperately scanned the dark sky and the darker banks of the Ohio River with the assistance of a large spot light as the CCB headed toward the town of Point Pleasant.

Soon the lights of numerous vehicles were visible on the Silver Bridge, which took traffic from Sixth Street over to Kanauga in the State of Ohio. But traffic wasn’t moving that evening because of a faulty traffic light on the Ohio side.

OPS Reynolds mused that the red, yellow and white lights emanating from the stalled trucks and cars made the bridge appear to be festively decorated for the upcoming Christmas Holiday. There was even a green light at the very top of the steel-framed suspension bridge, shining like a star at the pinnacle of a Christmas Tree.

Or was that actually a light flickering on the top horizontal arch of the bridge? The OPS grabbed the binoculars that were hanging around his neck and focused them on the top of the bridge. He quickly ascertained that the green object was not an actual light and that the object was moving slightly, as if being held by something hidden in the nocturnal shadows.

“Cut the engine!” yelled Reynolds as he recognized the object as being the missing luminous canister.

The OPS knew he couldn’t risk the deadly chemical weapon getting into the wrong hands, so he felt that he had no choice but to try to pick off the possessor of the container from the top of the bridge. Sure it was dark and the boat was still in motion as it drifted closer to the bridge, but he was confident in his ability to use the grenade launcher.

Upon impact, Paul Garuda disintegrated instantaneously in a flash of light as the missile scored a direct hit and lit up the entire bridge as if one last moment of daylight had been granted to the stranded commuters.

“Hooyah!” screamed Reynolds from the turret, congratulating himself on the shot as he watched the green canister fall unencumbered into the river beneath the bridge.

The green glow of the canister disappeared momentarily in the murky waters of the Ohio River, but there was just enough buoyancy in the container for it to pop back up to the surface and begin floating downstream.

“Drift toward the can, so I can recon!” he yelled back to the helm.

But as the boat approached the span of the bridge, an awful metallic screeching noise pierced the night air, rising in volume over the sounds of car horns and idling truck engines.

It sounded like the bridge was moaning under the stress of the evening’s events.

When Reynolds took his eyes off the bobbing canister for a few seconds to look up at the dimly-lit underside of the bridge, while the boat passed slowly underneath, he heard the unmistakable sound of an eye-bar joint snapping off and the sickening sound of a cable whipping loose. Then he heard the screams.

Meanwhile, Desmond was trying to relieve the stress of that evening’s events by singing along with the radio as he drove up Route 62. He felt better and better as he put more and more distance between himself and Point Pleasant.

He crooned, “And me, I spend a lot of time pickin' flowers up on Choctaw Ridge… And drop them into the muddy water off the Tallahatchie Bridge.”

Then the final notes of “Ode to Billie Joe” were abruptly cut off and an announcement was broadcast that there was important news breaking out of Mason County.

“We interrupt this program for a special bulletin. A bridge laden with rush hour traffic has just collapsed at Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Further details as soon as they are available.”

Chapter 3

Zenra and the Art of Hummer Maintenance

“Before I open this Public Scoping Meeting on Massive Energy’s formal request for an Incidental Take Permit, I would like to know why there are two young ladies sitting naked in the front row,” announced U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service West Virginia Field Supervisor Lawrence Hill, rolling his eyes for emphasis as he looked over the top of a control panel connected to a tabletop bingo machine.

Actually, no one else in the sparsely attended meeting room seemed to notice the two attractive oriental twins who were slouching in wooden folding chairs with their arms uncrossed and their hands resting on their laps, which allowed a clear view of their unusually large breasts (per Asian standards) by the panel in the front of the room. Of course, the weak attendance was a result of the public meeting being held in the remote area of Rupert, WV, specifically in the Rupert Community Center & Bingo Parlor.

Both girls looked at each other and then glanced behind themselves at the few others in attendance, just to make sure that they were the ones being referenced by the speaker. When no one answered Hill’s inquiry, one of the girls stood up and said, “We, I mean me and my sister, or my sister and I, we’re from PAWS, which is like the People for Animal Welfare Society, and we’re here like to bring attention to the threat against like the bats from the windmill thingies you all are trying to build. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we think bats are like creepy and all too, but we also don’t think they should be like all chopped up and stuff ‘cause of the windmills.”

The second twin then stood and expounded, reading from a note card, “Yes, and we appear here this evening naked, just like our animal friends, who often have little protection from the twenty-first century industrialized society that is constantly encroaching upon their habitats.”

A Massive Energy executive sitting beside Hill snapped a quick picture with his cell phone camera.

“Thank you for the explanation ladies,” Hill responded. “But please be seated. We have not started the public comment portion of the meeting yet.”

“Ow,” squealed one twin as she sat down.

“As I was saying, this is a Public Scoping Meeting to collect information…”

“Sorry, there was like a splinter.”

“…to collect information on a request from the Massive Energy Corporation…”

“Sissy, is my ass bleeding?”

“…Massive Energy Corporation’s request for an Incidental Take Permit.”

Hill paused for a moment, expecting another interruption, before continuing. “Section nine of the Endangered Species Act prohibits the taking of fish and wildlife that are listed as endangered or threatened. The taking of fish or wildlife, under the Endangered Species Act, is defined as harassing, harming, pursuing, hunting, shooting, wounding, killing, trapping, capturing or collecting said animal species. However, under section ten, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service has the authority to issue Incidental Take Permits in cases where the taking of endangered species are incidental – and not the purpose of – carrying out an otherwise lawful activity.

“We are meeting here today, because Massive Energy LLC is requesting an Incidental Take Permit in regard to the endangered Indiana Bat species Myotis sodalist. This Public Scoping Meeting is the first step in gathering information for an Environmental Impact Statement on Massive Energy’s proposed wind energy project in Pendleton County. That said, I would now like to turn the meeting over to Massive Energy representative Ridley Beach.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” answered Beach, rising from his seat beside the field supervisor and showing those in attendance that he was the most overdressed individual in the room with his well-tailored business suit – although a thong and pasties could have been interpreted as “overdressed” to some people in the audience.

Trying not to stare at the pair of nude cuties in the front row, who were now looking at him with suspicion and sizing him up as a meat-eater, Beach introduced himself and then began introducing his company’s proposal.

Using the index finger of his right hand to count off the digits of his left hand in dramatic fashion, Beach paced himself as he spoke, “The harassing, harming, pursuing, hunting, shooting, wounding, killing, trapping, capturing or collecting of any endangered species is something nobody wants to see, including Massive Energy. But how about coal-generated global warming or unstable nuclear power? Those are also things that Massive Energy does not want to see any more of in West Virginia. That is why we are promoting a green energy program in the Mountain State.

“Here’s an interesting fact: Did you know, if the Japanese had built water turbines along its coast, instead of nuclear plants, the tsunami waves of 2011 would have produced clean energy for the people of Japan, instead of causing the worst nuclear disaster for that county since the U.S. dropped the bomb on them in World War Two? That’s right, turbine-produced power would have meant ‘lights on’ for the Japanese – instead of ‘lights out’.”

Now the twins were watching him with furrowed brows and clenched teeth, but remained quiet since the public comment period of the meeting had yet to begin.

Looking around at the blank faces of the half-dozen or so clothed audience members, but seeing no reaction from them, Beach continued his presentation.

“Massive Energy is developing a wind power project in Pendleton County. The project will be located on two hundred acres of land in German Valley near Rivertown. Phase One of the project will consist of thirty-three wind turbines and associated collection lines, access roads, transmission lines, a substation, an operations and maintenance facility, temporary staging areas, and a concrete batch area. Each of the wind turbines will have a maximum hundred-meter rotor diameter and a rotor sweep area of about eight-thousand meters. The hub height of the turbines is one hundred meters, making the total height of the turbine about one hundred fifty meters – or approximately five hundred feet tall at the rotor apex.

“Installation of each individual turbine, including access roads, equipment lay-down yards, and other supporting infrastructure, will temporarily impact an area of approximately four acres, while the final footprint of each turbine will be about one-third acre.”

Wrapping up his pitch, Beach concluded, “I could give you all more technical details, but it’s getting late and I don’t want to put anyone to sleep.”

Not receiving any response at his attempt to lighten the somber mood of the room, he added, “All the technical details will, of course, be submitted for the EIS and for inclusion in the Federal Register. Thank you for your time.”

After retaking his seat, Beach nudged field supervisor Hill awake.

“Thank you, Mr. Beach for that detailed report,” groggily announced Hill. “Our next speaker will be Henrietta Hartman from the Business Solutions Environmental Consulting firm, which Massive Energy hired to complete its Habitat Conservation Plan. Ms. Hartman?”

A middle-aged librarian-looking woman wearing a conservative business dress stood up to the right of Beach and thanked Hill for his introduction.

“As Larry said, I am Henrietta Hartman with BS Environmental Consulting and I’d like to tell you a little bit about the HCP that I developed for Massive Energy. I’m happy to report that the HCP is not very complex, because our independent studies have shown that the turbine proposal would have very little impact on the environment and virtually no impact on our furry flying friends, the Indiana bats.

“The HCP is designed to avoid, minimize and mitigate the impacts of any take that may occur, specifically through long-term monitoring, adaptive management and habitat protection programs. The HCP contains provisions to monitor and report on the impacts from the project on birds and bats, as well as the effects of operational changes on wildlife mortality within the wind farm.

“In conclusion, I’d like to point out that no Indiana Bat has ever been confirmed dead at any wind power project in the United States. This is most likely because Indiana bats do not typically fly at the height of the turbine blades. Indiana bats are in the category of edge foragers, meaning they tend to forage for food directly below or at the tree canopy level. The blades of the wind turbines planned for this project are well above the existing tree canopy.”

Field Supervisor Hill managed to stay alert during the presentation of Henrietta Hartman (or ‘Etta, as he affectionately called her). With reluctance, he followed the evening’s agenda by announcing that the meeting would now be opened for public comments, but restricting such comments to individuals who requested prior permission to speak.

“I’m hoping that I pronounce this right, but the panel will now entertain public comments, starting with Nanci and Vicki Tomerosanay from the organization People for Animal Welfare Society.”

Nanci, the twin with the splinter in her ass, stood back up to conclude her undressed address. “My sister and I did speak earlier,” she admitted, “but I would like close with a quote from famed conservationist Calvin Hobbes, who said, and I quote, ‘Dusk! With a creepy, tingling sensation, you hear the fluttering of leathery wings! Bats! With glowing red eyes and glistening fangs, these unspeakable giant bugs drop from the skies.’ Thank you.”

After Nanci sat back down, gingerly, Hall responded, “Thank you, Miss Tomerosanay, we’ll be sure to enter that into the public record. Now, if Mr. Chester Hendrick is present, you’re next on the list to speak.”

An older man in overalls and a dirty John Deere cap stood up near the back of the room and loudly proclaimed, “Bats aren’t bugs!”

“No, sir, they’re not,” answered Hill. “Is that all you have to say?”

“Hell, no!” the old man spat. “Henrietta Hartman, you ought-a be ashamed of yerself fer defendin’ these carpetbaggers. I live not far from you in Rivertown and you know that we’d all be eaten alive by skeeters if it weren’t for the bats. Those Indian or Indianapolis Bats may not fly up high, but I bet them other bats in German Valley do!”

“Now calm down, Chester,” responded Hartman without rising from her seat. “There’s no need for a conniption fit. It’s true that bats do help control the mosquito population, but the fact of the matter is that the mosquito population downtown only seems high because there is more standing water in town. The mosquitoes foraged by bats in German Valley have no correlation to the mosquito population in town. Maybe if some Rivertown residents would clean up their yards, you’d see an improvement in the mosquito infestation.”

“Bull shit!” added Chester as he headed for the door. “I bet you wouldn’t be talkin’ like that if this meetin’ was held  in Pendleton County, like it should-a been!”

Hill glanced over to Hartman to give her one of his patented eye rolls and announced, “I’m sure Ms. Hartman and Massive Energy all agree that we don’t need any more hematophics in West Virginia.”

Hill’s statement was lost on Chester, as the old man was almost knocked to the floor by a tall man who entered the meeting room at the same moment that Chester opened the door. The man, who appeared to be young, perhaps in his early twenties, was dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt as he marched confidently into the room.

As the man approached the front of the room, the twins ignored his sudden presence and he, strangely enough, ignored the naked women. He reached into his back pants pocket to produce a folded sheet of notebook paper. His stubby fingers fumbled with the paper as he tried to unfold it.

Hill looked down at the agenda sheet in front of him and asked, “I assume you are Albert the-bat-whisperer Zwickel?”

Speaking as if he was trying to catch his breath from hurrying to the meeting, the man with the handsome face, long black pony-tail, and small round eyeglasses introduced himself, “I am indeed Albert Zwickel, also known as the Bat Whisperer, primarily for my research concerning the Myotis sodalist and Corynorhinus townsendii virginianus species.”

One twin giggled quietly when she heard him say something about a virgin anus. Her sister elbowed her, perhaps jealous of her sibling’s orifice-specific virtue.

Checking some scribbling on his notebook paper, he continued with a deep gravelly voice, “Although I missed the first part of your meeting, I have thoroughly reviewed Massive Energy’s proposal and B.S. Environmental’s Habitat Conservation Plan. First allow me to point out that Congress passed the Endangered Species Act in 1973 to protect, preserve and rehabilitate endangered species. Congress considered the conservation of endangered species to be one of the nation’s highest priorities and intended to halt and reverse the trend toward extinction – whatever the cost. I speak here today in the spirit of this important law.”

The panel members smiled and listened like proud parents being forced to endure their children’s school choral recital.

“As you are all fully aware, Hellhole Cave is located in German Valley and is without a doubt the largest known Indiana bat hibernacula in West Virginia,” Zwickel continued. “The fact that the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service approved a limestone mining operation there a few years ago was irresponsible, but to now consider allowing a wind farm to be built in the same area is completely unconscionable.

“It is also an undeniable fact that wind turbines kill and injure bats in large quantities. The argument that the Indiana bat is somehow immune to this slaughter because no dead Indiana bats have been recovered near turbines is foolish, especially the supposition that Indiana bats do not fly high enough to be in danger of the blades. Indiana bats will be drawn to the blades the same as any other bats. If no Indiana bat carcasses have been found around turbines, it’s because they are a rare and endangered species. Plus, the number of bats killed by turbines will never be known, because of scavenging by other animals.”

Zwickel then refolded his paper, walked up to the panel and tossed it onto the bingo machine. “Please enter this into the record,” he instructed as he turned to walk back, but stopped to clear his throat, which then erupted into a fit of coughing.

With his back to the panel, Zwickel heard Henrietta Hartman comment that “Summer colds are the worst.”

He turned around to respond with god knows what, but was cut short when Hill asked, “Is that all, Mr. Zwickel?”

“Actually, no, that’s not all I have to say,” announced Zwickel, as his ashen face turned red like someone taking a long draw off a stagnant cigarette. “Corporate America and the government entities it controls must be exposed for the filth that it is! Humans such as yourselves are the most destructive, disgusting, pollutive creatures in existence and you’re wrecking what’s left of the planet with your greed and breed culture!”

The panel wasn’t smiling anymore…

“It is the responsibility of everyone to preserve the planet they live on by not breeding any more children who will continue their greedy practices!” yelled Zwickel. “Every child born in the U.S. will use thirty to a hundred times more resources than a child born into a Third World country. Saving the planet means saving what’s left of the non-human wildlife by decreasing the human population. That means stopping the human race from breeding any more disgusting human babies – like your pregnant daughter Henrietta Hartman or your pregnant wife Ridley Beach!”

“My god, Mr. Hill, do we have to sit here and listen to this?” interrupted Beach.

“And how does he know my daughter is pregnant?” asked Hartman, looking to Hill for support.

Hill rose from his seat and demanded, “You’re out of line, Mr. Zwickel. I am calling this meeting to a close.”

“I assure you,” continued Zwickel, lowering his voice slightly, but pointing his right index finger toward the panel. “If Massive Energy is awarded an Incidental Take Permit, I will issue my own ITP on your worthless families.”

Hartman burst out sobbing, but Beach jumped to his feet. “Are you threatening us, you punk?!”

Hill watched as Zwickel ignored Beach’s response and then turned around to leave the room. Hill waited until he was sure Zwickel was definitely leaving before he said, “I’ll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Zwickel.”

The twins got up to follow Zwickel out of the room, but Beach was too upset to even take a cell phone picture of their asses.

The man heretofore known as Albert Zwickel was already waiting in the black Hummer Sports Utility Vehicle when the ladies exited the Rupert Community Center & Bingo Parlor. He watched them impatiently as they gingerly crossed the poorly-lit gravel parking lot with their bare feet. “Come on, move yer ketsu keisters before the State Police get here!” he commanded, gunning the diesel V-8 engine for effect.

The girls soon climbed aboard the Hummer and began sorting through each other’s clothing in the backseat with the assistance of the dome light. The vehicle peeled away, tossing rocks onto the panel’s luxury cars, before anyone else left the building.

“Damn that was fun,” commented Yaoi as she pulled on a halter top. “Don’t you agree, B.W., or should I say Mr. Zwickel?”

“At least Zwickel is easier to pronounce than Tomerosanay,” added Yuri, slipping into her shorts. “Although I did like the whole PAWS thingy.”

“Whatever,” answered B.W., “the names served their purpose.”

B.W. flicked on the headlights as he turned onto Route 60. He then used the rearview mirror to verify that his backseat passengers were finished dressing before he turned off the dome light.

“So do you think anyone figured out we were like together and all?” asked Yuri.

“Well we did just about all leave at the same time,” answered Yaoi.

“They probably just thought you were following me because you both wanted to fuck me,” observed B.W.

“But we do! We do want to fuck you!” they sang out almost in unison, and then began laughing. After getting no response from B.W., the girls began chanting:

“Fukaku hamekonde chodai!

“Fuck me; Fuck me harder!

“Uuume mecyakucya ni shite!

“Fuck me; Fuck me harder!”

Realizing that the women were not going to let up, B.W. raised his voice over theirs and reminded them, “Of course you know our relationship is not about what you want, it’s about obedience.”

In the mirror, B.W. watched them glance sheepishly at each other before they stopped their chant. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, so let’s keep things calm and peaceful,” he concluded.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, as they listened intently to B.W.’s rhythmic breathing pattern, Yaoi asked, “Why did they have the meeting so far away from Rivertown anyway?”

“For the same reason they held it at eight o’clock in the evening on a weeknight,” he answered. “They were hoping no one would show up, just like when they snuck through the permits for the limestone mine.”

“Good thing we don’t have classes or have a regular job,” observed Yuri.

“I think B.W. would have found the time to attend the meeting regardless of where or when the meeting was scheduled, right B.W.?” Yaoi inquired, trying to draw him into a deeper conversation.

“My sole intention was simply to give them fair warning of the repercussions that would likely occur if they ignored our recommendation,” he explained. “Now no one can claim that they weren’t warned.”

Wanting to end the conversation there and allow them to contemplate their potential roles in his plan, he turned on the stereo, which already had The Beatles White Album loaded into the CD player, coincidentally on the Revolution 9 track.

***

Just outside Rivertown, the Rainbow Family (as the multi-cultural group liked to call itself), gathered at the Spawn Farm along Hartman Hills Road and laid low, waiting to hear news on the status of the wind energy project.

During this time, B.W. was rarely seen at the farm, which was not unusual, but some evenings he would drop by to pick up packages and check in with the farm manager. Sometimes he would briefly meet with the enamored twins and other times he would not.

On one particular evening, the farm manager knocked on the bedroom door of the twins, who shared a room in the old farmhouse, and informed them to come down to B.W.’s private den at midnight.

Yaoi and Yuri were quite excited about the invitation, since they had never been inside the den, which was always kept locked. As midnight approached, the girls were waiting patiently outside the den, listening for the grandfather clock in the hallway to strike twelve.

At the first chime of the old clock, the girls tapped on the door. “Come in, ladies,” was then barely discernable over the remaining chimes.

Yuri and Yaoi were surprised to see two men in the den as they entered the bright-lit room. After closing the door behind them, the girls recognized the men as B.W. sitting at the desk and farm manager Vatio “Mex” Hijo leaning against the far wall with his bulging tattoo-covered muscular arms crossed.

“Please take a seat,” requested B.W., motioning with his hand at the two chairs in front of the desk.

After sitting down, the girls tried to take in all the objects that surrounded them in the den, especially the ancient-looking books displayed on the shelves along one wall, the paintings and drawings of bats hanging on the opposite wall and an excellent example of virile Latino manhood standing against the back wall. The way that Mex leaned with his bare shoulders touching the wall, wearing a white sleeveless t-shirt and blue jeans, reminded the girls of countless prison movies were the inmates lifted weights in the exercise yard.

And B.W. certainly wasn’t your average middle-aged, fat-ass, balding desk jockey. He had always been an object of desire for the girls since they first met at a Rainbow Family Gathering at Droop Mountain Battlefield State Park in the Monongahela National Forest. Mex and the girls were so impressed with B.W.’s charisma, self-confidence and personal fortitude that summer at Droop Mountain that they decided to form their own Rainbow Family splinter group at B.W.’s Spawn Farm.

B.W. then began fingering a stack of newspapers on his desk and observed, “I was reading the papers today and saw some disturbing news.”

He leaned back in his chair and made direct eye contact with the women. “Massive Energy’s request for a kill permit was approved yesterday,” he announced.

“Oh god, what are we going to do?” Yaoi responded, her voice reduced to a whisper.

Of course he knew what they were going to do about it, because he predicted all along that the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service was in the back pocket of big business in West Virginia.

“I’ve been planning our response for a long time,” he admitted, crossing his arms in the process to send the girls a signal of his determination.

With a look of sincere concern on her face, Yuri could only reply, “Whatever we can do to help, just ask.”

B.W. leaned forward in his seat, but continued to maintain eye contact. “Well, I’m glad you both feel that way.”

He then pulled a box of tissues across the desk toward himself and tugged a sheet out of the box to blow his nose.

The girl’s watched him toss the used tissue into a small waste basket beside the desk. Wow, I’d love to blow him, both women thought simultaneously.

“Actually, I have a proposition for all of you to consider,” B.W. announced.

The girls looked in Mex’s direction and saw him begin to approach the desk. Wow, I’d love to blow him too, both women thought simultaneously.

“As I indicated, I have a proposition for you, but the details of which can never be shared with anyone outside of this room. Is that understood?”

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” Yuri agreed. “We can be completely discreet. You can rest assured of that.”

“So you believe in the concept of euthanization for the greater good?” B.W. asked.

The women thought, why won’t he just come right out and say it and quit with the references about sleeping together?

“We’ll go wherever and do whatever you need us to do, sir,” Yaoi concluded.

“That’s the Rainbow Family spirit!” he commented. “But allow me to explain the details; because this assignment will have you butchering a bunch of people.”

“We fully understand what you’re asking us to do…” Yuri answered. “Wait a second. What did you say? Something about butchering people?”

“You’re smart girls,” admitted B.W. “You both remember my promise at the community center. I gave fair warning to those folks that if they went forward with their acquisition of a permit to kill the Indiana bats, then I would bring a similar fate down upon them - ipso facto, so to speak.”

Slightly surprised by his comment, Yaoi responded, “Well, I guess we thought your pledge was like a figure of speech type thing.”

“Of course not,” he explained. “You figured wrong. This really is an assignment to prove to the world that we’re serious about protecting the Indiana bat. Once you’re briefed, Mex and you two will travel down to Fayette County and carry out the mission.”

The two women looked at each other with wide, worried eyes and nervously swallowed the saliva that had gathered in their mouths with audible gulps reminiscent of a bukkake gokkun.

“Scoot your chairs closer to the desk,” directed B.W. as he stood up and reached an arm behind his back to pull out another one of his familiar folded notebook pages from his jeans.

Mex leaned over slightly to observe the hand-written paper that B.W. was clumsily unfolding for the group.

B.W. then smoothed out the folds of the sheet on the desk in front of the twins. The paper had a crude drawing of a map on it, along with a scrawled address of 10050 Bridgeview Hills Road.

“This is the location of Massive Energy executive Ridley Beach’s home in the New River Gorge Estates development,” B.W. explained. “He lives here with his wife and some friends who leech off them.”

“Pituco!” exclaimed Mex, as he spitucoed on the desk, expressing his distaste for the wealthy businessman. B.W. nudged the tissue box toward Mex so that the man could clean up his mess.

B.W. then explained that the home had a large foyer with glass windows surrounding the front door, which would allow the group to see who would be approaching if they attempted entry by knocking.

“Well, we’re always ready for a challenge, but I’m not so confident on exactly what you expect from us if we do manage entry,” Yuri said, glancing up to meet B.W.’s eyes.

“That’s what we like to hear,” responded the B.W. “Mex will help guide you on your assigned duties inside the house.”

Mex smirked and added, drawing his index finger across his throat for emphasis, “Chaira chuzo … frio muerto.”

The illustrated comment drew a pouty-lipped expression from the twins, but B.W. continued his briefing without acknowledging Mex.

B.W. noticed their dismay and pointed out, “But after this assignment, you’ll both be permanent members of this family – which, I believe, is something you desire.”

“We understand,” responded Yuri, nodding to her sister.

“Very good,” said B.W.

“Is that all for now then?” asked Yaoi.

B.W. first glanced over to Mex and then faced the twins. “Perhaps a preliminary display of your obedience is in order before you venture out with Mex.”

The twins’ demeanor portrayed confusion, worry, impatience and nervousness, but was unfortunately lacking in the obedience department.

Mex studied the women intently, cupping his chin with the palm of his hand. “Chancay luquear,” he concluded.

Yuri shook her head slightly, signaling defeat. “What do you need us to do?” she offered.

“Well,” answered B.W. “I remember how impressive you both performed at the community center. I thought you might give a similar performance tonight for Mex and Me.”

With that, Yuri and Yaoi stood up and tugged the bottoms of their shirts out of their shorts, eventually slipping the shirts off their naked shoulders and letting the wrinkled garments drop silently to the floor.

Both men marveled at the way their breasts seemed to expand within their bras as soon as they were released from the confines of the tight shirts. And then the men waited patiently for the breasts to be displayed in their full glory as the girls reached behind their backs to unfasten the brassieres.

As soon as the bras fell away from their citronly chests, the twenty-somethings’ firm natural breasts lived up to the men’s highest expectations.

“Yes, I’m quite pleased by your performance thus far,” admitted B.W., who reached down to a drawer in the desk to produce a bottle of Chancay Liquoreux. He handed it to Mex for a swig.

The girls also reached down to grab their sweet orchards, but their gesture was designed to yank down their well-worn cut-off jean shorts.

Expecting the men would not want to see a lengthy striptease, if the meeting were to go in that direction, which it did, the girls made sure they came downstairs to the den without unnecessary necessities such as underwear or socks.

Their small patches of finely-trimmed pubic hair seemed to point like flickering neon arrows toward their pink salons.

The men circled around the front of the desk as girls embraced each other and began a passionate kiss that further weakened their trembling knees and caused them to crumple sensually down upon the thick carpet of the den.

Once the girls were sprawled out on the floor, B.W. patiently stepped over the writhing pair in order to reach a small compact disc player located on the bookshelf. He set the stereo to loop the track for the Beatles’ “Why Don’t We Do it in the Road,” and then rejoined Mex beside the desk to continue sharing the spirits and watching the spirited performance.

With their tongues wriggling frantically inside each other’s mouths, like orifice-evading eels on a Japanese game show, and their fingers searching out the depths of their momobobos, the siblings had not been so entangled since they were jockeying for position inside of their mother’s crowded womb.

As the aroma of their arousal filled their nostrils, the girls began murmuring ‘aieki…aieki’ into each other’s ears, while their compressed breasts began burning like singed silk caught inside a sizzling steam press table at a Chinese laundry. Breathing in more of their enraptured essence, they immediately started searching out the object of their mutual desire, switching positions like a ship’s spinning compass inside a swirling whirlpool, until their faces were buried deep between their partner’s parted legs.

The bilingual bisexual bitches would call it ‘shikusu-nine,’ but the two spectators just called it one hell of a show. Is that Yuri or Yaoi on top? Is that Yaoi or Yuri grinding her face deeper into her sister’s crotch? Did it really matter?

“Watch this,” instructed B.W. to Mex, who obviously did not need any additional encouragement to watch.

B.W. knelt down in front of the feasting couple just as they rolled over once more, putting either Yuri or Yaoi on top. He reached out with both hands and placed his left palm on the back of the top girl’s head and his right palm on the bottom girl’s upper forehead.

“This is as close as you two will probably get to having sex with me,” he whispered.

As soon as he completed the circuit of flesh created by his hands, the twins’ bodies began to shake uncontrollably and garbled moans rose from their busy mouths. They could only cling tighter to each other’s hips and hang on for the raucous ride. The simultaneous orgasm ended in screams like those heard from the riders of uninspected carnival rides. Even the lamp light near the desk seemed to flicker within the over-charged energetic atmosphere of the room.

As B.W. stood up, the girls loosened their grip and fell aside of each other, their backs against the carpet and their chests heaving violently as they tried to fill their oxygen depleted lungs. The pupils of their eyes were eerily rolled back up inside their retracted eyelids, like they were hopelessly possessed, while their shiny secretion-soaked lips quivered and glistened in the harsh light.

“You girls are dismissed now,” B.W. quietly announced as he circled around the back of the desk to retake his seat.

The girls, who were facing in opposite directions, managed to finally blink their bleary eyes and roll over away from each other. While B.W. began concentrating on a book that he grabbed out of the desk, Mex continued to stare down at the comical duo as he leaned against the desk with the almost-empty wine bottle dangling in his hand.

The twins slowly got up on their sweaty hands and knees and began crawling around on the floor gathering their garments. With her clothing clutched in one hand, Yuri or Yaoi reached up to the corner of the desk for support as she carefully rose to her trembling feet. She then stumbled over to her sister, who was desperately looking up from the floor, and offered her a hand.

Once they were both standing, they wrapped their free hands around each other’s waist, and obediently exited the room with their wrinkled clothes held tightly to their naked bodies. Both sounded like they were whimpering as they quietly closed the door behind themselves.

B.W. then glanced up from the large book that was spread out in front of him, which was titled The Necronomicon – Farmer’s Almanac Edition, and proudly commented, “That’s how you disorient an Oriental.”

Mex couldn’t help but laugh as he took a final swig from the bottle and then dropped it into the tissue-cushioned waste basket.

Outside the door of the den, the unstable twins immediately leaned up against the wall in the hallway, coincidentally as the grandfather clock stuck once. They looked with concern toward the ominous staircase ahead of them, wondering if they’d be able to navigate it and reach the sanctuary of their bedroom.

“I don’t feel very good,” admitted one.

“Me neither, I can’t seem to get my balance.”

The girls ended up climbing the stairs on all fours, their hands still gripping their clothing. The stairs were bare wood, which proved unforgiving under their bare knees, and they sobbed in agony as they barely ascended each step.

Eventually the twins completed their arduous journey to the bedroom, where they shut the door and tumbled down upon their respective twin beds. Their clothes now discarded on the floor, the girls tried to close their eyes and calm the thoughts racing through their troubled minds in order to get some semblance of rest.

After a few minutes, one girl rolled around restlessly on the mattress and complained, “I can’t get comfortable.”

“Something doesn’t seem right,” agreed her sister.

“Are you scared about the assignment?”

“I think we’d better do whatever B.W. says.”

***

The evening of the assignment did not start off so well for Mex and the girls. Mex was driving the Hummer on Route 19 through Summersville when the local police pulled them over. The twins in the back were relieved that they didn’t have to “do the talking” when the city cop strolled up to the open driver’s side window.

“Do you know why I pulled you over this evening, sir?” pseudolitely asked officer W. Himply, looking over the passengers carefully.

“Roca tomberia,” answered Mex, as fresco as a pepino, looking straight ahead with his hands firmly stationed on the steering wheel.

The officer ignored the foreign language, as he would a response from any out-of-towner, and explained that he had clocked the Hummer traveling 52 miles per hour in a 50-mile-per-hour zone. He then went into a script-like spiel about how the speeding violation would not be reported to the driver’s insurance company if the driver paid $150 for the city’s online driving class.

When Mex didn’t respond, the officer mechanically asked for Mex’s license and registration. Mex grabbed a plastic card holder, which was strapped under the sun visor, and held it outside the window; but conveniently dropped it before the officer could take it. The officer’s quick reflexes made an attempt to grab the falling object, but it ended up hitting the pavement.

As soon as Mex saw the officer’s arm swoop over to catch the card holder, he reached out and clutched the man’s wrist with his left hand. Mex’s grip was so strong that he didn’t lose hold of the officer’s arm even when the Hummer pulled back out onto the roadway.

The girls in the back seat heard the officer yelp as he was suddenly dragged off his feet and into the evening traffic. They then heard a passing truck blow its horn, followed by the truck driver yelling something about killing the bastard.

About a mile down the road, just before the “speed zone” ended, Mex let go of the officer’s wrist and allowed the man’s torn and tattered body to roll comically across the pavement. A number of cars following the Hummer accidentally drove over the officer’s lifeless body, but all were careful not to exceed the posted speed limit.

Dearest friend and neighbor,

My bff Maxine will be hosting an impromptu baby shower this Saturday night at 8:00 p.m. at my luxurious home (overlooking the beautiful New River Gorge!) on 10050 Bridgeview Hills Road and I would be honored by your presence (no gift required!). You have been exceptionally supportive (and at times patient!) throughout this whole pregnancy experience (ordeal?!) and this little party is more about me showing my appreciation to you rather than it being all about moi (and the bébé!). Thus, there will be plenty of drink, food and festivity (but no drink for me☹!). Plus, since the “baby daddy” is out of town, if you’d like to spend the night and keep me company (and keep the local roads safe!), there’s plenty of room at the inn. Drop me a line if you can come over!

Luv, Sherry.

When the troupe reached their target destination later in the evening, Mex pulled the Hummer off the road a few hundred feet beyond the Beach estate and the trio walked up the dark roadway to the home’s decorative metal gate, which served no real security purpose whatsoever, but was quite fashionable nonetheless. The gate swung open with ease and the three visitors sauntered up the driveway toward the house.

There were a few cars parked in the driveway, including a Dodge Ram that a young man was just getting into through the driver’s side door. Before the young man started the ignition, he saw Mex and the two girls approaching in their gardener-like overalls. He instinctively rolled down the driver’s side window, thus allowing Mex to thrust a silencer-equipped pistola inside the cab and blow his brains out.

The muffled gunshot startled the twins and one whispered, “I feel sorry for the parent.”

“Shut up, cojudo!” hissed Mex. “Remember the Master is watching.”

The twins began furtively looking all around as they crept obediently behind Mex, who was approaching the front door of the house. The house was quiet and dark, apparently undisturbed by the violence that had just erupted inside the pickup truck.

Mex instructed the women to remain at the front door until he found a way inside the house. He would then open the door for them once he secured entry. Within minutes, the nervous girls were squirming like they had to use the bathroom.

Eventually, the front door creaked open and the twins saw Mex standing in the threshold with some nylon rope in his hand. He told the girls to take the rope into the living room and tie up the man sleeping on the sofa.

As soon as girls began wrapping the man’s wrists with the rope, the man woke up and protested, “What do you want, money? I’ll give you money!”

Within a minute, the living room was awash in light as other residents of the house began pouring into the room. Dave Diamond, a family friend of the Beaches, who was dressed in a white Gi and who was experienced in West Virginian Judo-ji, was the first to respond to the ruckus in the room - and he immediately took the Ju-Di defensive stance after flicking the light switch. Mex immediately shot him dead.

Maxine House, who was the girlfriend of the man on the couch, ran toward her boyfriend, ignoring Mex as he pulled a dagger from his belt and hurled it at and into the young woman. The twins, who were cowering on the floor beside the sofa, sensed the knife passing just above their heads before it embedded in Maxine’s abdomen.

Maxine’s face became flushed with panic as she clutched at the knife protruding from her negligee, but she couldn’t get a strong enough grip on the bloody handle to remove it. She staggered around the couch, spraying blood on the furnishings, and then headed for the front door as soon as she saw that it was open. Meanwhile, her frightened boyfriend, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, furiously fought with the rope that was haphazardly twisted around his wrists, until he suddenly broke free, stumbled over the twins and ran after his wounded girlfriend. Mex tried to intercept him by smashing him in the face with the pistola, but he maintained enough consciousness to follow Maxine out of the house.

“Find the trampa!” commanded Mex to the twins, as he turned to pursue the escaping couple.

Mex ran to the front door and had a clear shot at the boyfriend, blasting him in the back and sending him face first into the front lawn. Mex then saw Maxine collapse onto the grass, letting out a horrendous scream that would have surely alerted the neighbors if there had been other homes nearby.

Walking up to the writhing wretch, Mex knelt down and helped her remove the buried dagger from her gore-gushing guts. And then he began stabbing her repeatedly.

When the blood-drenched attacker walked back into the home, still clutching the dripping dagger, he saw the twins struggling with a naked pregnant woman on the saturated Saxony. The “living” room was starting to look like a slaughter house. Mex grinned.

When the young woman looked up and saw the terrifying image of Mex approaching, she immediately stopped struggling and began sobbing. “Please let me have my baby!” she cried.

The woman didn’t quiet down until Mex wrapped one end of the nylon cord around her neck and threw the other end over a rafter in the open beam ceiling. Mex, who had placed his blade back into its sheath, used both hands to pull on the rope and hoist the woman up until just her toes touched the carpeting. He tied off the rope on a heavy wood cabinet. The nude woman desperately tugged at the tight cord around her neck, gasping for breath as she performed an obscene dance of death.

Mex then tossed his dagger to the floor beside the wide-eyed twins and ordered, “Get the Master the proof he desires or you can share the diquera’s fate.”

Chapter 4

The Winter of Our Discombobulation

Later that year, well after the incredible events in Rivertown unfolded, which are still unbeknownst to the reader of this book, author Rich Bottles Jr. was one of the featured speakers at the annual West Virginia Book Festival in Charleston.

Scores of folding chairs were lined up in rows behind a wooden podium in the West Hall #2 of the Charleston Civic Center, located just beyond the Festival Marketplace in the Grand Hall North… Scores of mostly empty folding chairs, observed Rich, as he looked out over a dozen or so attendees from his position behind the podium.

“What the fuck,” he mumbled to himself before he realized that the podium microphone was live…Soon he was looking out over a half dozen or so attendees from his position behind the podium.

For the purpose of this story, Rich represented the ideal image that any avid reader would envision a virile, globe-trotting, worldly, adventurous, intellectual novelist to be. Apparently, the images found on websites of a gnarly-bearded, overweight, middle-aged hack was just a sly ruse by the author to maintain a certain level of public anonymity.

Rich started his presentation with the usual bullshit about his journalism background and his so-called love of the state of West Virginia, where most of his fiction was set. This admission usually helped fend off the usual criticisms that he used too many stereotypical devices in his writing and that he was somehow poking fun at the residents of the Mountain State.

He finished his talk with a promotion of his upcoming novel, which would fictionally cover the horrific events that took place in Rivertown and Fayetteville earlier in the year. He tried to be careful to make it sound like he had not thrown the thing together to take advantage of the ongoing buzz over the murders.

When he opened up the presentation to take questions from the audience, Rich wasn’t surprised when a freelancer he knew from Graffiti magazine asked why he fictionalized these news events, especially with his background in print journalism.

“Because I often just don’t have all the facts and I don’t want to get sued,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Take the events that occurred in Cass, for example. In my book Lumberjacked, which is available for $10 at my table, I couldn’t just come right out and write that Lester Weigel was guilty of all those murders, even though there appears to be a consensus among law enforcement that he was responsible. The bottom line is, Mr. Weigel died from injuries sustained in an automobile accident before he could be arrested or could even be questioned about the killings. And if someone hasn’t been found guilty in a court of law, I’ll be damned if I’m going to write that he’s guilty. Thus, it’s safer – not to mention more entertaining – to blame supernatural lumberjacks for the mayhem.”

“Having not yet read your latest book,” added the journalist, “do you believe those environmentalists are responsible for the so-called Rocky Raccoon murders in the New River Gorge? It’s been reported that the killers used the victims’ blood to cover the walls with environmental slogans such as ‘Death to Energy Hogs’.”

“Actually, I’ve found no evidence that that particular environmentalist group was responsible, even though my novel may – and I stress may – lead the reader to that conclusion, especially considering the ruckus the group made at that public hearing in Rupert,” Rich answered, being careful not to spoil the story for anyone. “To be honest, though, I think those young people were literally crucified solely for their beliefs.”

Festival organizer Ella March, who didn’t seem bothered by the low turnout for the discussion, then asked if the author’s research had produced any new information on the events surrounding the Silver Bridge disaster in Point Pleasant.

“Again, I don’t want to give anything away that is central to the novel, but the deeper I delved into the Point Pleasant mystery, the more the Navy kept popping up in my research,” he answered. “In fact, I have a confidential source who claims that Top Secret material was stolen from the Naval Base and at least some of it ended up in a coal mine in Marion County. Supposedly, an AWOL sailor had his brother temporarily hide the substance in the mine where he worked, but that story may never be confirmed since there was a catastrophic explosion in the mine before the material could be removed.”

A young man held up his hand next and asked, “Do you prefer writing in the third-person, and can you think of a scenario where you might want to write a novel using a first-person narrative?”

“Interesting question,” Rich admitted. “But I believe writing fiction in the first-person is disingenuous. I think it makes the work look like the author wrote it to satisfy his or her own self, rather than writing something to satisfy the reader. In other words, I like to keep my fantasies private.”

Rich managed to get a couple of chuckles out of the sparse audience, but made sure he made eye contact with the hot-looking brunette in the front row when he made the comment about private fantasies. The woman blushed on cue.

“Are you certain that you don’t have any questions?” Rich asked the young lady as he struggled to remove his wedding band from behind the podium.

The woman quickly turned in her seat to see if there might be someone sitting behind her that the author was speaking to, but then realized he was directing his comment to her. “No, sir,” she answered, as she turned back around, managing to avoid eye contact with the man addressing (or mentally undressing) her.

“Is there any other questions at all?” Rich asked the attendees. “All right then, I may spend a few minutes seeing what I can find in the used book sale next door, but after that I plan on being back at my table in the Marketplace for the rest of the day. I’ll also be at my table tomorrow, so please drop by and see me. Thank you.”

After a tax-deductible dinner at the Tidewater Grill across the street from the Civic Center, Rich returned to his room at the Marriott Town Center. He’d had a reasonably successful day hocking his wares at the festival and looked forward to a final day of sales before returning home to none of your damn business.

Before turning in for the night, he threw on a comfortable robe and opened up his lap top computer on the desk to put some finishing touches to the fourth chapter of his current novel, which he had been jotting down notes for throughout the day. He already had the fifth and final chapter completed, but was still contemplating the strange events that must take place in the fourth chapter. Just keep it short, he reminded himself.

He smiled as he typed, “Just keep it short, he reminded himself,” knowing that purists would expect a character’s thoughts to be within quotation marks. He then decided to relax a bit by trying out the hotel’s Wi-Fi capabilities. His favorite website was www.sexco.us.

Rich was pleased to see that someone had uploaded a new Catholic schoolgirl video from Czechoslovakia. The video opened with a girl (whose age is on file with the production company) standing outside “The Headmaster” room, wearing a dark skirt of conservative length and a clean white blouse. She had a look of distress on her face as she knocked humbly on the heavy old door.

She was surprised to see two men in business suits when she entered the Headmaster’s office and neither was seated. After closing the door behind her, she recognized from the stethoscope that the guest was the school’s doctor.

She formally curtsied for both men and they returned the gesture with quick nods.

Noticing that the young woman was breathing hard from the rhythmic way her shirt separated between the buttons covering her breasts, the Headmaster observed (in subtitles), “Did you make run here to this location?”

“No, sir,” she answered, carefully looking down so as not to make eye contact.

The Headmaster represented your average middle-aged, fat-ass, balding desk jockey, who had a hands-off approach to managing everything other than disciplining young girls; while the Doctor was a slender gray-haired stern-looking gentleman, who would be nearing his mandatory retirement age if he lived in a civilized country.

“You know Doctor?” asked the Headmaster, nodding toward the man in the corner. “He is here to observe punishing.”

She nodded toward the Doctor.

The Doctor nodded in response.

The Headmaster then began fingering a collection of bamboo canes on his desk and observed, “I was reviewing behavior list submitted by teachers and notice you have many demerits.”

“Yes, sir,” whispered the girl.

“I am sorry for to hear that,” said the Headmaster without showing any signs of remorse what-so-ever.

With a look of sincere concern on her face, the girl could only reply, “I am filled with remorse for my actions and assure you it will not happen again.”

The Headmaster stood up and selected a cane from the desktop. “Well, regarding less of all that, you will now lean over desk and to be punished.”

Now her composure was completely broken and tears began welling up in her eyes. “I said,” she said again. “I am sorry for what I did. Please let me leave.”

The Headmaster pushed a box of tissues across his desk toward the girl and she obediently tugged a sheet out of the box to wipe her eyes.

“I will go wherever and do whatever you need me to do, sir,” she succumbed.

“That is freshman spirit!” he commented.

With all three individuals now standing around the desk, the Headmaster glanced over at the Doctor. “Do you have say anything, Doctor?”

The Doctor first glanced over to the girl and then faced the Headmaster. “I do not know,” answered the Doctor. “She still is not in position for a proper examination.”

The girl’s demeanor portrayed confusion, worry, impatience and nervousness, but was unfortunately lacking in the bent-over-the-desk department.

The Headmaster studied the girl intently, cupping his chin with the palm of his hand. “You know, I think you are right, Doctor,” he concluded, tapping the cane on the top of the desk.

With that, the girl hesitantly moved to the front of the chocolatey brown desk, leaned forward over the discarded canes and reached her trembling arms across the desktop, grasping the far edge with her white-knuckled fingers.

The Headmaster reached over to pull her long brown hair away from the sides of her face, allowing the cameras to have a clear shot of her distraught expression, while the Doctor tugged the bottom of her skirt up over her buttocks and spread it out neatly across her lower back. The Doctor then knelt down, stuck his thumbs inside the girl’s panties on opposite sides of her hips and violently pulled the dainty garment down around her ankles.

Both gentlemen marveled at the way her buttocks seemed to shiver in anticipation as soon as they were released from the confines of the tight panties. The girl gasped at the suddenness of her exposure.

“Upon inspection, Headmaster, I have determined this student to be an acceptable candidate for the punishment you have proposed,” congratulated the Doctor.

“Yes, I am quite pleased by her posterior,” admitted the Headmaster, who reached down to the front of his pants to make a quick crotch adjustment.

The men paced around the front of the desk as the girl was kicking off her underwear, which she assumed would be the expected protocol. The Headmaster swished the cane violently through the air, testing its flexibility.

The Doctor swung in beside the girl and pushed down slightly on her back, directing the girl to lean further over onto the Headmaster’s desk. The girl used her hands to steady herself against the top of the desk as her breasts rubbed against the loose canes.

Standing behind the student and taking in a strong whiff of her aroma, the Headmaster delivered the first of the cuts directly across the girl’s bare behind, resulting in a shocked shriek from the opposite end as a vicious welt began to rise on her smooth silky skin. Her first reaction was to try to reach her hand back to protect herself, but the Doctor quickly responded (as doctors are wont to do). The Doctor circled the desk so that he could hold onto the girl’s wrists, thus prohibiting further interruption of the Headmaster’s progress.

The Headmaster soon got into a steady rhythm with his strokes, as did Rich as he squinted to watch the small laptop screen. Rich then noticed that the rhythm of the strokes matched the steady taps that he heard coming from the hotel room door.

Surprised by the knocks on the door, Rich quickly snapped the laptop closed and jumped up from his seat at the desk. Desperately, he tried to tie his robe shut with the cloth belt, but his excited member kept poking out through the loose edges.

“I’m coming,” he yelled, no pun intended. He then tried moving the belt lower and actually tying it against his erect penis, trapping the beast against his flat stomach.

Rich hobbled over to the door and looked out the peep hole. It was the hot brunette from the lecture!

He fumbled to release the deadbolt and the security chain from the door, finally cracking it open to greet the woman. “My name is Amy,” announced the woman with a smile.

“Of course you are,” Rich responded. “Do you mind that I have a robe on, or would you rather wait until I get dressed?”

“Oh, don’t go out of your way on my account,” she answered. “I just had a couple of quick questions concerning your talk today and I was too self-conscious to ask in front of all those people.”

Rich happily swung the door open and motioned (with his hand) for her to enter. She only wore a pair of blue jeans and a red sweater, but he judged her attire as smokin’ hot when she accepted his invitation and strutted past him.

“Take a seat at the desk,” Rich said as he closed the door. “Would you like something from the mini bar?”

“Isn’t that mini bar stuff expensive?” she asked while sitting down on the chair that he had just been masturbating on.

“I’m a famous author, remember?” he joked.

“Then I’ll have a beer.”

“That-a girl.”

As Rich knelt down to raid the mini bar, Amy began flipping through a large black book she found on the desk beside the laptop. Rich retrieved two bottles of name-brand beer, tossing the caps into a small trash can once he unscrewed them. “I only have plastic cups,” he warned his guest.

“That’s okay, I prefer bottles.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he smiled while walking toward the desk.

Amy looked up from the book and smirked as Rich approached with a bottle in each hand. “You might wanna check your robe,” she advised.

Rich glanced down to find that the cloth belt must have become loose when he was stooping down to access the mini bar. “Dammit!” he exclaimed, turning his back to Amy and sitting the bottles down on the television stand. “Sorry about the wardrobe malfunction. Believe me, it wasn’t intentional.”

“I didn’t suspect that it was,” laughed Amy.

Rich retied the robe’s belt, grabbed the beer and made his final approach. As he placed the bottles on the desk beside Amy and took a seat beside her, the woman asked about the strange book.

“Oh that?” responded Rich. “That was actually a pretty good find I made today at the used book sale. It’s an ex-library edition of an ancient tome called ‘The Necronomicon,’ or The Book of the Dead. Some say the book is fictitious, but it depends on the context in which it is read. Look inside the front page and you’ll see it was once a part of the Hunnert Public Library.”

Amy tried reading some of the bizarre-looking foreign text out loud, but was obviously having trouble pronouncing the words.

“You better be careful,” Rich cautioned. “That may be some kind of spell.”

“Whoops!” chirped Amy, slapping the book closed and pushing it away with a flair for the dramatic.

After taking a swig of cold beer, Rich inquired, “So, you said you had some questions about my books.”

“Yeah, mainly about the real life Melissa Weigel from your book Lumberjacked,” explained Amy. “She and I actually did form a friendship on the train excursion from Cass to Bald Knob that day. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch, but after the tragedy, I was never able to contact her. Her number was disconnected or something and I guess she never tried calling me.”

“You never tried visiting her when she was in the hospital?”

“I tried at the very beginning, but since I wasn’t family, the staff wouldn’t allow me in to visit,” Amy recalled. “I did send flowers up to her room though.”

“So I guess she didn’t have any visitors at all then, because I don’t believe she had any family outside of her father Lester,” Rich observed.

“Anyway, do you still maintain contact with her or have any contact information?” she asked. “I mean, I assume you interviewed her for your book.”

“Yeah, I have spoken with her, but briefly,” Rich admitted. “Keep in mind that the press hounded her relentlessly after the incident at Cass. She had to quit college and go into hiding with her baby because of all the publicity. I think she only spoke to me because she realized that my book was going to be a fictional account of what happened.”

“So, is she still in hiding?”

“Sort of, I mean, she still won’t talk to the press, but she may talk to you, considering you may be the only surviving friend that she had prior to the tragedy.”

“Wow, I never thought of it that way,” Amy realized. “Now I’d really like to get in touch with her if it’s possible.”

“Actually, she doesn’t live too far away from here,” Rich explained. “At least she was living nearby when I last spoke with her. Can you push my laptop over here?”

“Of course!”

Rich opened the laptop lid, waited patiently while the damn thing booted up, and then began looking through folders for his notes. “Ah ha!” he finally announced.

“Did you find her address?” Amy asked excitedly.

“No, but I found that funny cat video where it’s swinging around on the ceiling fan,” he answered. “I’ve been looking for that clip forever.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Actually, I am,” he chuckled. “I have Ms. Melissa Weigel living at five-zero-zero-seven Sunset Drive, Huntington, which is right outside the grounds of Camden Park. Let me get the notepad by the phone and I’ll write it down for you.”

As he stood up, Amy’s face brightened into a wide grin. “Oh, thank you! You don’t know how happy this makes me!”

“No problem,” responded Rich as he retrieved the complementary hotel note pad and pen from the bed stand.

After writing the address down on the pad, he brought the sheet back over and handed it to Amy, who quickly folded it and leaned forward in her chair so that she could slip the paper into the back pocket of her jeans. She then guzzled downed the last three-quarters of her beer.

“Now let me return the favor,” she offered, bringing both hands up toward the front of Rich’s robe as he stood silently beside her. She quickly untied the cloth belt, wrapped her left hand around his bare ass and cupped his balls with the right hand. She then engulfed his half-erect penis with her mouth. The remnants of the beer’s alcohol and carbonation from within her mouth tingled and stung his sensitive skin.

It didn’t take long for his cock to become fully erect and cause Amy to back off to catch her breath. “My god, it’s true what they say about writers,” she commented before going back to work, licking and flicking the entire length of his massive member with her hot tongue.

“Why don’t we continue this on the bed?” Rich suggested.

Amy stood up, but didn’t allow her right hand to let go of her project, wrapping her long fingers around the shaft and leading Rich to the bed like a firefighter racing toward a hydrant. Once beside the bed, she finally let go of him and used both hands to playfully push on his bare chest and allow him to fall safely onto the bed with his robe spread out beneath him.

From the bed, Rich focused his complete attention on Amy like only a writer can focus. She reached down to the bottom of her sweater and pulled it up over her head, revealing a lacey pink brassiere that was partially covered by her silky brown locks. Amy purposely grinned at Rich as she tossed her sweater aside and reached behind her back to unfasten the bra. Conscious that her slightly disheveled hair was impairing his view, she pulled back her hair from her front shoulders immediately upon discarding the bra.

Her breasts were like the air-brushed perfection you’d see in a quality men’s magazine and Rich was so mesmerized by their beauty that he didn’t even realize she had unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans. Her breasts swayed seductively as she kicked off her jeans and sandals, leaving only her white panties as the final fabric lining her skin before she reached the bed sheets.

Rich knew she was already fully aroused by the way the center of the panties clung to her dampened crotch as she pulled them down. Rich quickly moved over on the queen-sized bed and Amy was anxious to fill the void.

Although Rich was certain that he hadn’t lost any of his initial vigor, Amy was intent on making sure he was primed for peak performance. She crouched beside him on the bed and studiously resumed her oral dissertation.

Only when she was certain that the blood racing through his engorged cock was at its boiling point did she swing on top of him and straddle his chest, immediately leaning forward to kiss his waiting mouth as her tits rubbed against his bristled chest and her cunt hovered temptingly just above his hips. His senses piqued, he could even taste his own precome on her lips.

Rich wrapped his arms around her overheated waist as she cradled the back of his head with her hands. He plunged his tongue deep inside her burning mouth, sliding over her slippery tongue with ease, as she simultaneously plunged her pussy onto his impatient penis. Her wet pussy pumped his cock like a piston as his hips quickly picked up on the rambunctious rhythm and they began to move as one.

Overwhelmed by the girth and the length of the cock invading her inner sanctuary, Amy involuntarily broke away from their impassioned kiss and rested her warm forehead on Rich’s chin. He heard her begin murmuring, purring, almost sobbing, in response to the relentless thrusts deep inside her pussy.

When Rich realized that her initial assertiveness had given away to total submission, as her vanquished body now lay almost motionless atop his, he forcefully swung out from under Amy and moved quickly behind her. With her forehead now resting on her own outstretched arms, she felt him grab her by the hips and set her up firmly on her knees. Although her eyes were shut tightly, squeezing out streams of tortured tears, and she had her face buried in her arms, she sensed that he was also on his knees and would soon be reconnecting from behind.

The moment she felt his grip tighten on her hips she knew what would follow. He heard her whisper ‘oh god’ as he suddenly buried his cock into her snatch from behind. She was helpless now in this position and knew she had no choice but to allow him to take control of her body and use it as he pleased. Would he even ask her or warn her before he made the inevitable move to violate her asshole? She knew he wouldn’t and didn’t expect him to, since she considered herself completely at his disposal.

And when her sopping-wet, well-assaulted, pussy no longer presented his prick the friction that he desired, he quickly made the move to the smaller orifice. There was no point in protesting or resisting, she was well beyond that point, but her initial throaty grunt upon insertion soon turned into a steady song of sobs and squalls that emanated from Amy like an inconsolable infant.

He played her thus, like a tightly-strung instrument, his cock acting like a bow strumming relentlessly against her bowels and producing an erotic tune that made her entire body quiver. Soon the quivering passed through to his body and he felt his cock become even more rigid as the pressure inside his ball sack built to an incredible crescendo. Wave after wave after wave after wave of hot, thick, semen then shot deep within her rectum, coating and relieving the tortured inner flesh of her ass.

Rich collapsed in exhaustion over top of Amy, forcing her flat against the mattress, and soon they were lying together in one sweaty, sultry, pile of extinguished flesh. Both seemed physically incapable of movement and both soon drifted off to a deep sleep.

***

Rich wasn’t sure how long the knocking had persisted, because he was half asleep during most of it. When he was finally completely awake, he noticed that Amy was no longer beside him and her clothes were gone from the floor. And still the knocking persisted.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, just give me a second,” he yelled toward the hotel room door. Did Amy get them both some breakfast, but couldn’t get back in? Not quite.

As soon as he cracked open the door, a gruff voice with a harsh accent greeted him: “Housekeeping, señor. You are last on the floor.”

“What?” Rich responded, still a little drowsy. “Okay, okay, just give me about fifteen minutes. I have to shower and get my things together.”

“Gracias, Señor Botellas.”

As he shut the door, Rich cussed himself for not making use of the Do Not Disturb sign. Then he looked down at his watch and saw just how late it was. “Damn! I do have to get moving.”

Rich quickly gave up on the concept of breakfast as he showered and dressed in the hope that he wouldn’t be too late to the book festival. He had slept so soundly that he didn’t hear Amy showering or leaving the room. She got what she wanted, he thought, referring to the address he’d given her.

Truthfully, Rich did not look forward to another long day at the festival, but his vendor contract required him to be present at the table throughout the final day. Trying to be nice and courteous to people for hours on end was not something that came easy to him, especially when a vast majority of the visitors to his table ended up not buying a book anyway. Writers communicate best through their writing, he reminded himself.

When he finally left his room, he was glad to see that there were no imposing linen carts or impatient housekeepers waiting in the hallway. He was also glad that the civic center was located next to the hotel.

The West Virginia Book Festival doors had just opened when Rich arrived in the Grand Hall North, although most of the public headed directly over to the Grand Hall South to scavenge through the remaining used books that were still for sale. The Grand Hall North was designated as the Festival Marketplace and Rich noticed that most of his fellow vendors were already “open for business.” He smirked at the thought as he hurriedly walked past the other vendors, remembering a time when that god-awful phrase was actually the state motto for West Virginia.

When he finally caught sight of his covered table near the partition of the West Hall, he saw a man in a white uniform sweeping around the booth. Damn, another housekeeper to contend with?

The man kept glancing around nervously as he moved the broom haphazardly around the floor in front of Rich’s table. When the man saw Rich approaching, he suddenly darted from the area and headed up the aisle on the opposite side.

Rich quickly uncovered his table in order to do a quick inventory of everything. He’d only left his books and promotional material on the table overnight, but he was a little worried about the axe. Rich used a single-bladed axe for a display, having the blade firmly imbedded in a blood-soaked copy of his Lumberjacked book, but festival organizer Ella March wasn’t too thrilled with having the tool around the children that were in attendance. He had assured her that the axe would be kept near the back of the table and well away from curious hands.

“Glad you could make it today, Mr. Bottles,” greeted a vaguely familiar voice from behind. Speak of the devil…

Rich turned around to see a gray-haired Ella with her right arm outstretched toward him. He shook her hand briefly and admitted that he had slept in. Ella was dressed in her best librarian-style business suit and, of course, appeared to have been up for hours in preparation for the day’s events.

“Not a problem, I’m glad you could make it, although I noticed your candy dish there is a little close to the axe.”

“Oh that, yeah, I planned to move it to the other side,” he lied. “By the way, there was a cleaning guy, kind of dressed like a housekeeper from the hotel, sweeping around my table when I got here. He looked a little shady.”

“That’s strange,” she answered. “Usually the floors are cleaned in the evening after the festival has closed. I’ll look into it if you want.”

“No, no, that’s all right, there was no harm done.”

“Well, have a good day, Mr. Bottles.”

“Thank you, you too, Ms. March,” he concluded, smiling at the thought of one day thanking a different “Ms. March” from the pages of Playboy.

Rich eventually took his seat behind the table inside his booth area. The location of his booth at the far end of the Grand Hall North allowed him to see all the way up the aisle that he had just walked through. There were now more people milling around the Marketplace.

Just as he was about to open his Event Guide to see who the scheduled speakers were for the day, he heard a slight disturbance from the opposite end of the hall where the entrance was located. He looked up to see what appeared to be a large group of men, pushing their way down the narrow aisle. The group was being led by a man in white.

As Rich continued to watch the elderly and toddlers being knocked into various tables and display cases along the route, he realized that the leader of the group was the man who he had just seen sweeping around his table. This time the man had nothing in his clenched fists as he marched forward, but the half dozen men behind him carried some kind of large broom sticks. Taking a closer look, Rich was shocked to see that the implements in the men’s hands were not brooms but large pickaxes.

He immediately thought to himself, “Oh yeah, Ella allows those guys in here with pickaxes, but I can’t have my old rusty axe.” The sharp chiseled spikes of the pickaxes looked a lot more dangerous than his display axe…

Rich should have been surprised when the man in the white uniform decided to stop directly in front of his table, but he was used to attracting the lunatic fringe at these festivals and conventions. He simply rolled his eyes, silently indicating, “Here we go again.”

Just before the man spoke, Rich realized that this person must have been the housekeeper who knocked on his hotel room door earlier in the morning. Being half-asleep, he had assumed the housekeeper was just a very ugly woman with a course voice.

Rich also realized that the large men filing in behind the shorter housekeeper were dressed as coal miners, right down to their lantern-equipped helmets. The miners’ faces were indistinguishable blobs of blackened-flesh, which seemed to barely cling to their skulls, as if they’d been injured in some type of explosion. Their helmet lights were all on, making it even harder to see their dark facial features under the harsh glare.

The man in white continued to stare silently at Rich, still with clenched fists at his side.

“Uh, can I help you?” asked Rich.

The man turned his head slightly to address the coal miners behind him:

“Keel ‘im!”

The man turned his head back around to face Rich and displayed an ominous grin of evil satisfaction. Surprised by the man’s apparent command to the pickaxe-wielding miners, Rich jumped to his feet in order to better assess the situation.

A small crowd of spectators had gathered at the back of the hall to witness what they thought was some kind of bizarre performance art, many of them pointing their cell phone cameras at the coal miners. Both Rich and the housekeeper expected the miners to invade Rich’s booth space, but the miners must have misinterpreted their leader’s command as “Kill them.”

Suddenly the miners were hacking into the startled spectators, causing panicked screaming and shrieking to erupt, and resulting in many of the cell phones dropping to the floor whether they were covered by warranty or not. Accompanied by the strained groans of the motivated miners, blood splashed and splayed across the North Hall as heads were crushed and pierced by the pointed pickaxes. People were running in all directions, stomping and tripping over one another, whether they were strangers or family-members, trying to escape the mangled mayhem of the Marketplace.

When the man in the uniform realized that the miners were not going to attack his intended target, he continued to glare at Rich while he moved his white-knuckled hands to the front of his white-buttoned shirt. Having no time to mess around with buttons, he grabbed each side of his shirt in the center of his chest and ripped the garment apart, pulling it completely off his back in the process.

Rich accepted the challenge and ripped his own shirt open, even though his designer garment was far more expensive. If there hadn’t been a difference in skin tone, both men might have believed they were looking at their own sculptured pectorals and abdominals in a locker room mirror.

The partially-uniformed man then pulled a switchblade knife from his front pants pocket, flipped it open and swished the gleaming blade in front of him before leaping like a lynx onto Rich’s table. Rich grabbed his axe handle from the table just before it collapsed under the weight of the attacker.

Ella, who witnessed the initial coal miner onslaught, could not stand to see her festival erode into a blood bath and she raced to a breaker box in the back of the empty West Hall, shutting down all the power in the West, North and South halls. Now she didn’t have to see anything.

Unfortunately, it was the coal miners who now had the advantage as they used their helmet lights to illuminate their perverted paths of pickaxelated destruction. Shocked faces, like deer caught in car headlights, flickered across the darkened hall just prior to being pummeled and cracked open - and then covered in darkness again as the erratic light beams moved on to other victims.

The hall lights had gone out the moment that the table crashed to the floor in front of Rich. He knew the man with the switchblade would soon recover and come at him in the darkness, so Rich swung his rusted axe with abandon in front of him. Rich wildly swung the axe high and low until he finally made contact with someone or something that had moved into his arch.

Whatever Rich had struck, it wasn’t moving after the impact, until he felt the axe handle slowly get forced downward under the weight of the object. Soon the scattered thin light beams from the miners’ helmets converged on the object that Rich had just felled. Rich could now see the distraught and distorted look on the housekeeper’s face as the man grasped the axe blade that was firmly imbedded in his throat. The dead man lay silently in a pool of his own blood while the groaning of the miners grew more intense.

Realizing that something significant had just taken place in the Hall, Ella switched the power back on and the horrific scene in front of her was then awash in bright, unforgiving, florescent light. The miners now appeared confused and directionless, stumbling over piles of untoward bodies and unsold books, their moans changing tone and sounding like “Beesh…beesh…beesh.”

As Ella cautiously walked to the North Hall area where Rich stood over the housekeeper’s body, the miners slowly made their way back up the aisle where they came from. Once they navigated past the gory mess from the slaughter they had created, no one stood in their way as they headed toward the unmanned exit. There seemed no reason to pursue them, since the authorities had already been contacted and were supposedly on their way to the civic center.

“Were those actually…zombies?” Ella asked, already knowing the answer.

“Seems that way,” Rich concluded, staring straight ahead.

“My god, where do you think they’re going?”

“Since their leader is dead, I suppose instinct is leading them somewhere that they desire.”

“You don’t mean… don’t tell me you mean…”

“Yeah… Myrtle.”

Chapter 5

At The Mountains of Mayhem

Although it seemed only hours since she had left the motel on the motorcycle, Marcella woke up unsure what day it was, where she was, or even who she was. Assessing her new surroundings, she determined that she was lying on her back against a cold rock slab and there was an intense ray of sunshine splashing straight down upon her. The conflicting sensations of cold on her back and heat on her front gave her the immediate realization that she was naked. Again.

Marcella continued to stare up into the bright ray of light, watching the illuminated dust particles dance in the air above her, reminiscent of the funnels of daylight she’d often seen in basements and attics where only one small window existed. But the cool stone, especially against her lower back, gave her more comfort than the full frontal sunshine. She then glanced down at her warm skin and was pleased to discover that it was the same soft brown tone she’d always known, and not the shocking reddish tint of Juanita’s face that last greeted her in the mirror at the motel.

“Welcome to Hellhole,” announced a familiar voice from the shadows.

Marcella lifted her left hand above her brow to block out the blinding light and squinted in an effort to locate the greeter. She knew it was the man who had visited her at the motel. A large open hand then breached the beam in front of her.

“Let me help you get to the dark side,” he offered.

Feeling weak from whatever trauma her body had been put through, Marcella reluctantly accepted assistance and allowed herself to be pulled up to her feet beside the large stone. She then remembered what happened the last time their hands had met and she quickly broke his grip as soon as she was steady on her feet. The coolness she’d felt on her lower back was now changing to an itchiness, which caused her to start scratching.

“Be careful, Marcella, you don’t want to ruin your new tattoo.”

Marcella stomped into the darkness to confront her tormentor, immediately seeing the same tall dark-cloaked figure who had sent her on this maddening journey. “Don’t you dare tell me that you put one of those damn bird tattoos on my back!” she hissed.

“Chill out sister, you’re under my control now, whether you like it or not,” he answered. “Besides, it’s not a bird, it’s a bat.”

“You mother fucker!” screamed Marcella, who immediately tried to take a swing at him with her fist.

But the man was too fast, surprising Marcella by propelling his body straight up into the air like a rocket. Marcella could only watch from the shadows as he ascended near the top of the cave ceiling, near the opening where the daylight penetrated.

The sunbeam provided just enough light in the cavernous entryway of the infamous vertical pit cave that Marcella could see all the way to the ceiling 154-feet above her.  And what she witnessed made her sick to her stomach.

Dangling silently from ropes bolted to the rock ceiling were two nude female figures, who appeared to be mirror images of each other. The women were attached to the ends of the ropes by their breasts, which were tightly bound by the ropes to the point that the breasts looked like purple balloons floating above the rest of their limp bodies. Their heads hung backward, indicating unconsciousness, and their hair cascaded freely off their scalps as their bodies slowly twisted in circles at the ends of the ropes.

Marcella then saw the levitating man grab hold of the knotted rope between the breasts of one of the women and sink his teeth directly into one of the blood-engorged orbs. Blood sprayed out around the man’s mouth, providing more nourishment than his thirsty mouth could devour, while the unconscious woman let out a monstrous moan that echoed throughout the chamber and rang hauntingly in Marcella’s ears.

When blood dropped down onto Marcella’s face, she collapsed onto the cave floor and covered her eyes from the fiendish feast taking place directly above her. “No, no, no,” she repeated over and over and over to herself, curled up in a fetal position.

Soon Marcella heard another moan. Was it from the same victim or was it from the other dangling damsel in distress? The hideous inhuman moaning continued for longer than Marcella thought she could endure, worried all the time that she was being driven insane by the arcane acts that she was being forced to witness. Then she heard booted feet land behind her head.

“Get up, Marcella, we have to talk.”

“No, no, no,” she begged.

She then felt a hand grab the hair against her neck and begin to pull up. “I said, get up, Marcella,” he repeated with a sneer.

Marcella managed to get to her feet before her hair was pulled out at the roots. A look of daunting dismay covered her tear-drenched face, but it had no affect on her unsympathetic aggressor. “Follow me,” he commanded.

She obediently followed the dark man to a wall that featured a narrow passageway through the stone. The man leaned down and picked up an electric lantern from the floor. After turning on the device, he ducked slightly in order to enter the passage without hitting his head. Marcella did not have to duck. She thought about fleeing when she saw the man enter the passage, but she realized she had nowhere to run. She couldn’t leave the pit without some type of rappelling line.

As the two walked along the corridor, the man acted as though he was giving some kind of bizarro clothing-optional tour of the cave, raising his voice to inform Marcella that Hellhole was considered the eleventh longest cave system in the United States and provided a home to almost half of the world’s Indiana bats. The brief walk allowed Marcella to regain her composure.

Marcella followed the man a few hundred feet through the passageway until they came to a small room-sized grotto. Turning around and lifting the lantern up, the man motioned with his free hand for Marcella to go into the crevice ahead of him. “After you,” he said with his usual gravelly voice.

Marcella didn’t protest and proceeded into the darkened enclosure. He followed close behind with the lantern, mumbling something along the lines of “Damn thing does look like a sick bird...”

“What?” asked Marcella turning around. “Did you say something?”

“Forget it,” he answered. “Take a seat over there on that stone that looks like a bench.”

The seat was cold and wet, unlike the slab that was under the sunlight in the large entryway, but she felt more comfortable here without any bodies hanging above her. B.W. sat the lantern on the floor between him and Marcella, and then formally introduced himself.

“I am known as the Bat Whisperer, although my acquaintances simply call me, B.W.,” he said while standing in front of Marcella. “By the way, you are now considered an acquaintance.”

Marcella could have answered that her friends call her Marcy, but she wasn’t stupid enough to say anything in response. For instance, she didn’t say, “Oh, nice to meet you, B.W., all my other friends who hang women by their tits and suck out their blood just call me, Marcy.”

Not getting any response from his guest, B.W. continued, “My birth name was Desmond, but I gave that up when I stopped aging in 1967. Desmond also hated bats, while I am their foremost protector. The bats in this cave are in grave danger and some are already dying, probably due to stress from the limestone mining that continues to devastate German Valley. Now they want to build goddam wind turbines. But you’re going to help me with that.”

Marcella, who had earlier witnessed B.W. partake of some high-hanging fruit, had no trouble believing that the man in front of her had not aged since 1967, but she did have trouble believing that he expected her to help him.

“How, or should I ask why, am I going to help you and your bats?” she spoke up.

“Because of what I can offer you in return,” he answered. “Look at your youthful body, Marcella, it is something to be admired and celebrated. Wouldn’t you like to maintain that perfect physique from this point forward? I can give you that.”

“Is that what you gave those other two women hanging from the ceiling out there?”

“It’s true,” he admitted, clearing his throat with a rough cough. “Yaoi and Yuri are in the process of becoming eternal, but they are undisciplined and immature, so I decided to suspend them for a while. But I have special plans for you. I admire your fortitude and courage. I see you as being my partner throughout time.”

“You mean your partner in crime,” she added.

B.W. removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his long overcoat, wiped his watery eyes and then his runny nose. “There is no crime greater than a crime against nature; my Creator and mentor taught me that.”

“So you want to make me a vampire?” she cut to the chase.

B.W. screamed back, “I’m not a common fucking vampire, Marcella!”

Marcella was taken aback by the sudden outburst, pulling her knees even closer together on the stone bench, as she watched B.W.’s face turn red and erupt into a coughing fit. It wasn’t until that point that she noticed B.W.’s face wasn’t disfigured at all, as he had suggested in the motel room, but was an average youthful male face, albeit angry at that particular moment. She also heard a flurry of winged activity outside in the corridor as B.W. tried to regain control of his breathing.

“Damn,” he finally managed. “Now look what you did. You disturbed the bats.”

What I did?

“We must be careful not to disturb them during their hibernation season, because they expel too much of their stored energy. That’s why explorers aren’t allowed in here during the Fall and Winter months.”

We must be careful?

Marcella watched with concern as B.W. slowly calmed down. He soon reached for his handkerchief to blow his nose. Then he paced the floor thoughtfully as the lantern continued illuminate his performance.

Eventually, he stopped walking and looked again in Marcella’s direction. At that moment, she was focusing on the goose bumps forming on her arms and thighs, a symptom of the constant 47-degree temperature inside the cave. Her bare ass was so cold that she was also having trouble sitting still.

“Marcella,” called B.W. “Pay attention, girl.”

Marcella rubbed her legs vigorously and then glanced up at B.W.

“Marcella, do you know what Purgatory is?”

“Purgatory?”

“Yes, Purgatory, do you know what it is?”

“Isn’t that the place where Saint Patrick or someone keeps track of lost souls?”

“Sort of, but it has nothing to do with Saint Patrick or any other Catholic manifestation.”

“Oh.”

“Listen closely, I’m no common vampire, I am a Purgator,” announced B.W. “I hold dominion over any souls that I touch and can control them in any dimension where they reside. When my Creator gave me the Gift, he also presented me with an ancient book called The Necronomicon. He warned me to be careful of the contents, but encouraged me to study it nonetheless. I did study the text, slowly interpreting it as best I could, but I never thought I’d have the nerve to try any of the black magic described.”

As B.W. spoke, Marcella began to shiver, but she knew it wasn’t from the cold. She knew in her heart that this bastard standing in front of her was telling the truth and it scared the heebie jeebie bejesus out of her.

“When I stopped serving this country, I had a secret chemical weapon in my possession. It was the same weapon that my Creator wanted to get his hands on, but the government caught up with him. I didn’t know what to do with my container, so I drove up to my hometown and I asked my brother to hide the container deep inside a coal mine where he worked. I told him I’d come back for it someday, but I never did. I just ran away and hid amongst some damn hippies who camped in the state parks. It was easy to feed off the dregs of society who nobody cared about.

“Anyway, on November twentieth, nineteen-sixty-eight, there was an explosion in the Consol Number Nine mine in Farmington. Seventy-eight miners, including my brother, got trapped and eventually perished inside the mine. At least that’s what everyone believed. Weeks later, my brother tracked me down and led some of his fallen comrades straight to our camp. These walking-dead miners carried pickaxes and wreaked havoc upon our camp, but I managed to escape. After that incident, I used spells that I found in The Necronomicon to control the miners. They now work for me and they reside in the neighboring School House Cave. I later taught my ranch hand, Mex, to control them, and I can teach you the secret also.”

“If zombie coal miners are what I’ve been seeing roaming the perimeter of the Foyer motel, then I want nothing to do with them,” interrupted Marcella.

B.W. walked forward past the lantern and leaned down to confront Marcella.

“How I see it, you haven’t got many choices.”

Marcella cowered under the imposing back-lit silhouette of B.W.

He continued, glaring down at her, “Soon I’m going to send out Mex to the home of bat-killer Henrietta Hartman and I want you to accompany him. Everyone in the house must die and the fetus inside Henrietta’s daughter must be ripped out.”

Tears began welling in Marcella’s eyes as she whispered, “You must be crazy. I can’t do that.”

“You perform this one task for me and I’ll give you the Gift of preservation, plus place the souls of others at your command,” offered B.W. “But if you turn your back on this opportunity, I’ll return you to the Foyer where you’ll work as a whore with the other rejects.”

Marcella covered her ears with her hands, trying to block out the ultimatum being presented to her. “They’ll come looking for me, you know. I’m a state police officer and they’ll send someone to investigate my disappearance.”

“Bullshit,” answered B.W., raising his voice to ensure he could be clearly heard. “They selected you for this assignment because you had no close family ties. Even your fellow cadets think you ran away after being tossed from the academy.”

He then began poking her with his index finger just above her chest, causing her breasts to bounce slightly under the force. “Sorry, but no one except a couple of ranking officers knows you’re here and they’d rather forget you than face the scrutiny of having sent a cadet on such a dangerous mission.”

Marcella twisted her torso away from his hurtful hand, simultaneously bringing her legs up on the bench and curling herself into a ball. With her face hidden inside her folded arms and legs, she managed to scream out, “Fuck you!”

***

Mary Lou Daffer fancied herself as West Virginia’s only vampire hunter.

A former high school and college track star, specializing in the shot put and the discus throw, Mary Lou maintained her tremendous upper body strength into her 40’s, which helped her tremendously in the family business. The family business was Daffer’s Coffin Company in Clarksburg, WV, and business was good.

Mary Lou mainly worked in the office, but wasn’t shy about sprinting into the factory to help load and unload products and supplies when things got busy, especially during the Fall hunting season and the Summer four-wheeling season. Mary Lou looked stunning for a 43-year-old Caucasian casket-maker, sporting short-cropped brown hair and a wide toothy smile. The carvers and carpenters always looked forward to seeing her strain and sweat alongside them on the factory floor.

Her legendary grandfather, Bernie Daffer, who founded the casket company, was considered West Virginia’s first vampire hunter. In the early 1970’s, Bernie was bitten by a rattle snake during a serpent ritual at the Church of the Lord Jesus in Hepzibah. He didn’t die from the bite, but became fevered and consequently encountered God in a vision. Bernie later gave witness that God promised to heal him of the snake bite if he would erect two thousand “crosses of three” throughout the Mountain State, specifically to give warning to any Evil-doer that West (By God) Virginia was a Christian state. Although God did not specifically mention vampires, Bernie knew that vampires were terrified of crosses, thus he made the obvious connection.

Bernie Daffer then spent millions of dollars over the next twenty years constructing and erecting crosses on hillsides facing the interstates and main roadways throughout his home state. The 400-pound, 12-foot-high, Douglas fir crosses were manufactured in sets of three with the center one painted gold, representing the royalty of God, and the flanking pair painted powder blue, representing the earth. These were God’s specs, Bernie contended.

Mary Lou’s granddad died shortly after the two-thousandth set was erected in 1993, and Mary Lou promised to carry on his legacy of protecting the state from vampires and other miscreants. She did this by scouring the local newspapers of West Virginia for strange events and paying attention to any unusual orders coming into the company office. The sales staff had strict instructions to notify her of any orders where caskets were to be shipped to personal residences as opposed to a funeral home.

“Hey, Mary Lou,” yelled a salesman over his cubicle one fateful day. “You’re gonna love this one! I just took an order for a pair of matching pink boxes for some dude down in Pendleton County.”

***

The sudden entrance of Sadie and Mary Lou Daffer jolted Marcella from a sound sleep. Marcella awoke to find that she was naked (again!), this time on the bed in Sadie’s motel room. Marcella also noticed that her skin was as white as the bed sheet and her bush was as blonde as…

“Oh my god,” gasped Mary Lou when she walked into the room.

Mary Lou noticed that their entrance frightened a naked blonde woman who was lying on the bed. The shapely young woman didn’t try to cover herself, however, but she did get a panicked look on her face as she jumped off the bed to take refuge under a small table against the wall, curling herself up in a fetal position. Mary Lou thought she caught a glimpse of a tramp stamp tattoo on the blonde’s lower back too.

“Don’t mind her,” announced Sadie as she grabbed a couple chairs from beside the dresser and carried them over in front of the table. “Please take a seat, Mary Lou.”

Mary Lou felt uncomfortable sitting down at a table where a girl was cowering underneath, but didn’t want to offend Sadie. Mary Lou decided to try to ignore the naked woman at her feet, but she started to hear whimpering and whining as soon as she sat down.

Sadie sat down in the other chair and immediately sensed Mary Lou’s discomfort.

“Settle down under there,” commanded Sadie, following up with a quick kick to get her point across. “While you’re down there, Poochie, why don’t you clean the dust from my shoes?”

The whimpering and whining soon stopped and Mary Lou tried her best not to listen for any licking sounds. She instead took a longer glance around the room.

“This place is so,” Mary Lou began. “So, hot, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Why thank you,” gushed Sadie. “Did you notice the restraints on the bed? They are hand-crafted leather imported from Germany!”

“I see,” nodded Mary Lou. “They look very… sexy. Yes, very sexy indeed.”

Leaning over to look under the table, Sadie called out, “You’ve never got loose from them; have you, Poochie?”

Marcella’s silence indicated an affirmative answer.

Sadie leaned toward her guest and placed a hand on Mary Lou’s knee. “So tell me about yourself and how you ended up here at the Foyer,” smiled Sadie.

Mary Lou expected to be interrogated by the motel residents, but she never imagined that it would take place in a room full of sex toys.

“Well, like I said, my name is Mary Lou and I’m from up north, specifically Clarksburg, where I work at the Daffer Coffin Company,” Mary Lou explained. “I thought I’d take some time off for some R and R, if you know what I mean.”

“Sure hon’,” responded Sadie, apparently believing Mary Lou’s bullshit story. “But there’s some things you need to know about staying at the Foyer. In fact, let’s take our little tea party outside on the lawn chairs where we can talk in private.”

“Wherever is fine,” agreed Mary Lou.

As the two sweatshirt- and sweatpants-clad ladies headed toward the door, Sadie offered Mary Lou a beer, which Mary Lou graciously declined. Thank god! Marcella thought from beneath the table, instinctively reaching behind to cover her tight white ass.

When Marcella was confident that she was alone in the room, she slithered out from under the table and slowly rose to her feet, her white feet. Trembling like a plastic-surgery patient as the bandages are removed, Marcella slowly walked to the bathroom, scared to discover what she expected to find there.

She flicked on the harsh lights of the bathroom and stood reluctantly in front of the mirror above the sink. She should have been surprised by her appearance, but nothing seemed to surprise her anymore.

Hello Poochie, she thought.

Marcella would have greeted herself out loud, but found that she couldn’t talk beyond some animalistic grunts, groans and sighs. Growing up, she had daydreamed about being a blonde Caucasian hottie… but now tears flowed down her pale face and she began sobbing.

As if the change in appearance wasn’t bad enough, her blurred vision caught a glimpse of a small calendar on the bathroom wall with the month of September prominently displayed. Where had the summer gone?

As she wearily walked from the bathroom, she glanced up at the wall of S&M tools and thought to herself: If I’m Poochie now, then who was Poochie when I arrived at the motel?

Marcella refused to ponder the Poochie predicament as soon as the potentialities became apparent. She considered running, naked as a newborn, through the backdoor of the room but then remembered the zombie hoard that patrolled the wooded area behind the motel. Marcella was a defeated spirit and resigned herself to simply collapse onto the bed and cry herself back to oblivion.

“Wake up, bitch,” growled a familiar voice just before Marcella was slapped in the face. “You can’t fucking sleep all day.”

Marcella had hoped that her earlier experience had been some kind of a demented nightmare, but Sadie’s slap brought back the reality of her dilemma.

“My new gal pal, Mary Lou, is coming over soon and we have to be ready to play,” Sadie announced, pulling on Marcella’s arm until she sat up on the edge of the bed. “And you know what that means.”

As Sadie began pulling the blonde to her feet and leading her across the floor, Marcella immediately knew where they were headed. Marcella tried to plead, “No,” but couldn’t get the word out. Sadie dragged her across the room by her arm, like a stubborn Jew being led to the ovens.

Frustrated at their progress, Sadie suddenly turned around to face Marcella. She let go of Marcella’s reddening wrist, but then quickly clamped the fingers of both of her hands onto Marcella’s nipples. With each bud held tightly between a thumb and index finger, Sadie twisted Marcella’s nipples with such force that it brought the enslaved woman to her knees with a loud yelp.

“Get up, slave,” commanded Sadie, leaning over so that she didn’t lose her grip on the nips. When Marcella made no effort to rise, Sadie twisted the glands even farther and tugged them toward her. “I told you to get up!”

Afraid that her nipples would be pulled off, Marcella struggled to get back onto her feet, crying out in pain, but still unable to formulate any actual words of protest. Marcella tried grabbing Sadie’s wrists to relieve some of the pressure, but Sadie just responded by squeezing harder.

Glaring into Marcella’s eyes, Sadie demanded, “Do you want to keep these nipples? Do you?!”

Marcella feverishly nodded her head in the affirmative.

“Then are you going to obediently march straight over there and place your head and hands in the stocks?”

A momentary hesitation by Marcella resulted in another double-stab of pain inside her brutalized breasts. A new flurry of affirmation followed, until Marcella finally felt Sadie’s hands loosen their merciless grip.

“Then get over there, now!” Sadie ordered, pointing in the direction of the upright stockade.

As Marcella marched, she rubbed her aching nipples with the palms of her hands as long as she could, but soon had to place her wrists and head into the open stocks and let her breasts hang free. It wasn’t long before she felt the upper part of the hinged stock close down over the back of her head.

Sadie then locked the two wooden halves together, making it impossible for Marcella to escape. Marcella watched helplessly as Sadie opened the curtains of the back window, allowing her to peer out into the darkness.

When Mary Lou approached the rear of Room One, she noticed that the curtains in the back window were completely pulled open and all the lights were on inside.

Mary Lou and Poochie then recognized each other simultaneously as Mary Lou witnessed the naked blonde restrained within the upright stockade – her head in the stocks, forcing the girl to look out the back window. But Poochie appeared to be more shocked by Mary Lou’s presence, since she suddenly started struggling violently to pull her hands and head from the stocks. The wooden mechanism that trapped the girl’s head and hands inside the narrow holes were securely locked, however.

“Poochie!” yelled Sadie from inside the room. “Stop that struggling immediately!”

Sadie then quickly opened the back door for Mary Lou. As Sadie motioned for Mary Lou to enter, she apologized, “I don’t understand her. She’s been in that stockade hundreds of times.”

Marcella was still pulling and yanking at her arms, trying to wriggle her hands out of the tight holes, as Mary Lou stomped into room. Checking out Mary Lou’s skin-tight red body suit, like the ones cyclists wear, Marcella realized that she had rarely seen such large arm muscles on a woman before. The prospect of being vulnerable to an experienced dominatrix like Sadie and her new muscle-bound friend did not sit well with Marcella.

She tried kicking sideways at Sadie, but missed completely because Sadie was outside her field of vision.

“Don’t you try to kick me, you little bitch!” warned Sadie as she smacked Marcella’s ass hard with an open hand. Sadie then marched past the girl and grabbed a three-foot long metal rod from her wall of implements.

“Can you help me with this?” asked Sadie as she knelt down at Marcella’s feet. “This should keep her from kicking.”

Being careful not to be kicked, Sadie grabbed hold of Marcella’s right ankle and quickly snapped on one side of the cuff. Marcella was too scared to try to kick Mary Lou.

Marcella’s new spread-eagle stance made her stature appear lower as she leaned helplessly into the stockade, putting extra pressure on her neck and wrists inside the holes of the horizontal column.

Sadie soon retrieved two large, tear-drop shaped, lead fishing sinkers from the wall, dangling from her hands at the end of some heavy string. Sadie then proceeded to separate the lower part of Marcella’s butt checks and attach a binder clip to each side of her  labia majora, causing the girl to yelp as the lead weights swung freely between her legs.

Standing back up and admiring her work, Sadie wiped the palms of her hands together in a symbolic expression of a job well done and confidently announced, “There, that ought to keep her from moving around.”

The delicate pink skin being pinched by the black binder clips was no longer hiding up inside Marcella’s well-trimmed pubic mound, but was now proudly on display as it was stretched downward by the heavy gray sinkers.

“Ms. Mary Lou, I present to you Poochie’s Coochie,” added Sadie.

Sadie then took leave of her captive and headed toward the front of the room where a variety of inebriants were lined up on the dresser. “Now it’s time to get jacked,” she announced.

Sadie returned with a full bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and two shot glasses, which she placed on the mini-fridge by the bathroom.

The final preparation for their play date involved Sadie fitting Marcella with an ominous black leather hood.

“This has a foam lining around the ears, which will keep her in silence while we play,” explained Sadie as she tightened the straps around Marcella’s neck. “Plus, if we snap the blindfold across the eyes like this, she won’t be able to see our reflections in the window. We’ll keep the mouth slot unzipped for our game.”

Sadie then explained that they were going to play a drinking game called ‘Danke für das Schlagen.’ The game would involve both of them taking turns whipping Poochie. Whenever one of them was successful in making Poochie scream, the other player would have to drink a shot.

“I can’t wait!” declared Mary Lou.

Sadie turned her back to Mary Lou and asked if she could help unlace her corset. “I usually don’t like to go topless in front of Poochie because of our roles, but since she’s blindfolded I’d like to take advantage of the freedom,” Sadie explained.

The woman was soon able to pull the corset off over her head and Mary Lou got an eyeful of Sadie’s poor excuse for a tattoo. Both women then walked over to the whips on the wall.

“Shall we start with the cat, the cane or the crop?” asked Sadie.

Remembering her sorority days at Fairmont State College, Mary Lou replied, “How about the paddle?”

“Excellent choice!” Sadie excitedly responded, pulling down two identical-looking wood paddles from the wall.

Sadie handed one of the holed paddles to Mary Lou and immediately began smacking the other on her left palm, testing the sting. “Listen to that crisp crack,” Sadie added with a huge grin on her face. “It’s a shame Poochie can’t hear it!”

Mary Lou grasped the handle of her paddle and swung it through the air a couple of times to practice her swing.

“After you,” invited Sadie with a quick bow and a wave of her free hand. “You’re welcome to stand on either side of Poochie, since I’m ambidextrous with the paddle.”

Mary Lou chose to stand on the left side of Marcella, so that she could swing with her right hand. When Sadie arrived at the stockade, she immediately began sticking the business end of the paddle up between Marcella’s legs and twisting it around inside the binder clips until the hanging weights began knocking into each other. A dull moan came from the front of the stockade.

“Just making sure she’s awake,” explained Sadie. “Please go first.”

Mary Lou concentrated on swinging her paddle straight across the middle of Marcella’s ass cheeks. The blurred swing looked like it had been filmed in fast motion and reminded Sadie of a homerun effort by major leaguer Barry Bonds at the height of his alleged steroid abuse. The whoosh and crack of the paddle startled Sadie.

Upon impact with Marcella’s ass, both tormenters were stunned see blood squirt out through the holes of the paddle like water from a power-wash nozzle. Marcella thought she’d been hit by a truck as her body crashed against the stockade, causing a portion of the wood to creak, then she felt her blood tickling down the back of her thighs. Marcella’s piercing scream made both women want to drop their paddles and start rubbing their clits.

“Fuck the alcohol, let’s just keep beating her ass,” suggested Sadie, whose face and upper chest was already flushed.

With that, Sadie leaned over slightly and swung her paddle square into Marcella’s damaged derriere. The force of the blow drove Marcella’s shoulders once again into the horizontal bar of the stock and made the weights hanging between her legs jump violently in the air.

“Ei-eye!” yelled Marcella, even though the blow wasn’t nearly as hard as the one from Mary Lou.

Mary Lou’s second strike looked like an instant replay of her initial swing and it resulted in a similar response from Marcella, but this time the weights between Marcella’s legs popped off upon impact and the strained wood of the upright stockade snapped in two, causing Marcella to tumble unconscious onto the floor.

Both Sadie and Mary Lou stood over the fallen Marcella with their mouths agape in amazement. Sadie finally turned to Mary Lou and observed, “That was fucking awesome!”

“Hell, she wouldn’t have made it through the hazing at Phi Theta Alpha,” added Mary Lou.

“I don’t know if I could have withstood two strokes like that,” admitted Sadie.

Mary Lou then looked down at the blood-stained paddle in her hands and said, “Well, unless you want to try, I’d suggest you follow me over to the bed and eat out my soaking snatch.”

“Lead the way,” agreed Sadie as she dropped her paddle to the floor.

***

Marcella came to, still sprawled on the blood-dampened carpet, listening to the telephone ringing incessantly in the room. She was relieved to find that her head, hands and ankles had been released from the restraints, although her sore ass still throbbed with pain, almost keeping time with telephone ringing incessantly in the room. The room was almost pitch black, since the curtains had been drawn shut, and all was silent, except for the telephone ringing incessantly in the room.

She slowly rose to her feet and stumbled toward the phone on the bed stand, which was ringing incessantly until she picked up the receiver. Still unable to speak, she just waited until the calling party responded.

“It’s about time you answered the phone,” responded a raspy voice, followed by a cough. “This is Gidget at the front desk. Sadie and Mary Lou wanted me to tell you that they went out for the evening and that you were not to leave the room under any circumstances...”

There was a pause, as though Gidget was waiting for a response, but then she remembered that there wouldn’t be one from Poochie.

“Because you’re being watched… Anyway, Sadie also wanted me to remind you that you’d better keep the curtains shut tonight, unless you want customers knocking at the door.”

Marcella was then greeted by the sudden click of the connection hanging up on the other end. Goodbye to you too, Marcella thought.

Now that she was awake and alone in the room, the first thing on Marcella’s mind was to get into the shower to try to wash away some of the decadence and degeneration that seemed to decay and degrade her body. My body for now anyway, she added.

The hot water felt good on her aching body, especially on her swollen breasts, vagina and buttocks. She grabbed a wash cloth and bar of soap from a small tray inside the shower, lathering up the cloth so she could scrub the dried blood from her skin.

She began cleansing herself with soft swirling circles around and under each breast, barely touching her skin, especially around her sensitive and bruised nipples. But then she remembered how Sadie had man-handled her breasts, squeezing and twisting her nipples with careless abandon, and how the dominatrix stared into her eyes with hate and evil intent.

The more Marcella recalled of the incident, the harder and faster she began scrubbing her breasts, grinding the terrycloth deep into her tits. It was as though the body wasn’t hers and she was punishing it as a result. She also gave her pussy and ass the same harsh treatment, even though the scrubbing opened up some of the cuts on her backside. The fury of her actions caused her tremendous pain and suffering, while tears streamed down her face, but she didn’t let up on the abuse until exhaustion caused her to sink to the floor of the bathtub.

The hot water continued to spray over her, picking up light streaks of blood that went swirling into the drain at her feet, as she sobbed uncontrollably. Soon the hot water turned warm, then cool, and finally cold, but she still let it relentlessly fall upon her like a penned animal caught in a storm. Maybe if she stayed there long enough, she would simply drown and would finally be free from this nightmare.

Can freedom come any other way? Marcella wondered. She certainly wasn’t free to leave the motel room, or did they mean she was being watched so that she did not leave the motel? Maybe she could leave this particular room without being noticed, like through the connecting door to the adjacent room? Such questions intrigued Marcella and she finally gained enough resolve to stand up and turn off the shower.

After she dried herself and turned off the bathroom light, she realized how dark the room was. Thus, she turned the light back on in the bathroom and headed over toward the dimly lit wall of torture devices. She was worried about attracting too much attention by turning on more lights in the room.

Marcella closely inspected the implements on the wall until she came across something labeled as a violet wand. The handle of the instrument was about twelve inches long and there was a golf-ball-sized glass bulb at the end. Marcella took down the wand and pushed the switch on the handle to the ON position with her thumb. The glass bulb lit up with bright blue streaks of electricity bouncing around inside, which produced enough light to serve Marcella as a small flashlight.

Curious about the device, she touched the top of the bulb with her left index finger and watched as all the individual streaks of blue suddenly converged into one strand of light directly at her finger. The instant that the electricity connected to her finger, the device put off a startling zap sound and Marcella felt a jolt of pain enter her digit. She quickly removed her finger and bit her lip, shaking her left hand in an attempt to quell the throbbing of her finger. She wasn’t going to do that again.

Marcella carried the illuminated wand to the connecting door of the room and twisted the door knob to see if it would open. She was actually surprised when the door opened into the adjacent room, even though she remembered Sadie telling her that the room was actually reserved as Poochie’s room. There wasn’t much in Room Two, except the usual furnishings of a motel room. Marcella didn’t see any personal possessions inside, but then realized that Poochie probably didn’t own any clothing.

But it wasn’t Room Two that Marcella was interested in exploring. She crossed through the room directly toward the opposite connecting door – the door that led to her old room. Marcella had always tried to make sure the connecting door was locked, so she definitely wasn’t expecting this connection to open. But open it did and Marcella scampered inside with her wand blazing the way.

Marcella knew immediately that Mary Lou was now occupying Room Three, because she noticed the woman’s red jumpsuit on the floor beside the bed. Mary Lou obviously had not had the time or inclination to unpack her baggage, because two open suitcases were on the bed.

Consequently, Marcella easily pulled open the empty drawer at the top of the dresser with one hand. She then bent down farther to fish around for the envelope she had taped to the underside of the dresser top. She was excited to find that it was still there, but not overly surprised considering the level of housing-keeping performed at the Foyer. She ripped the envelope out of the dresser and then got on her knees to open it and retrieve her notebook and pen.

Opening the notebook to the place where she’d last written, Marcella quickly wrote in large scrawling letters: BEWARE THE DARKMAN WHO LIVES IN HELLHOLE – POOCHIE.

She then stood up, closed the drawer and walked over to the bed. Knowing that Mary Lou would need to access her suitcase again, Marcella put the empty envelope and the notebook, which was still open to the page with her message, into one of the suitcases and zippered the case shut. Marcella then returned to Sadie’s room and returned the wand to the wall.

Sadie and Mary Lou returned to the Foyer at dawn, although Sadie needed help walking. The two women stumbled into Sadie’s room, laughing and giggling, as Marcella sat naked on the floor near the bathroom door eating a bag of potato chips. Munching on a handful of chips, Marcella just glared at the drunken duo, watching carefully as Mary Lou led Sadie to the bed and dumped her there.

“Stay with me,” slurred Sadie, grasping at the thin air in front of her on the bed.

“I can’t sweetie,” answered Mary Lou. “I’ve got to get cleaned up and run an errand today. You need to try to get some rest.”

As if on cue, Sadie immediately dropped her hands and began snoring. Marcella just continued snacking and observing.

Mary Lou then glanced over at Marcella and arched an eyebrow at the sight of the bizarre blonde with crumbs cascading from her big breasts. “Poochie, you need to keep an eye on Sadie. She’s had a little too much to drink.”

Marcella just continued staring until Mary Lou got tired of waiting for some kind of physical or verbal response. “Girl, you give me the creeps,” concluded Mary Lou as she turned to walk out the front door.

When Mary Lou left the room, Marcella entertained the thought of killing Sadie in her sleep, but then realized that she’d never get away with it. Besides, she was now afraid of doing anything like that alone. The best Marcella could hope for was that Mary Lou would find her note and maybe help her.

Later that morning, Mary Lou drove her hearse-resembling Ford Flex Woody up a dirt road off Hartman Hills Road, trying to find the Meadow Lane shipping address that was given to the company for the delivery of the matching pink coffins. She soon drove up to a large white farm house with a red barn behind it. Everything on the property appeared dilapidated and abandoned. A feeling of dread washed over Mary Lou as she parked the car.

Mary Lou would have welcomed barking dogs or clucking chickens nipping at her feet as she hesitantly walked up to the front porch. She tried peering through the dark heavy curtains inside of a window beside the front door, but could not see anything through the tawdry tapestry. I wore a business suit for this? Mary Lou thought.

She then knocked on the crackled paint of the wooden front door. Nothing stirred inside, so she knocked louder, switching from her knuckles to pound with the side of her fist. She could hear her thudding echo throughout the house, but only silence followed. “Okay,” she said out loud, “No one appears to be home. It’s a good thing the delivery guys didn’t show up today.”

As she left the porch and headed toward her car, she decided to make a detour and walk around the back of the house where the old barn stood. She thought that the contents of the barn might give her an indication of the type of people who lived in the house – if anyone lived there. The concept of whether vampires should be considered living or dead crossed her mind as she crept toward the open barn.

“Damn, look at that,” she mumbled as she looked into the barn and saw the imposing figure of a black Hummer parked inside. The size of the vehicle almost consumed the entire interior of the barn. It was backed into the barn like the large structure was its garage.

She walked slightly inside the barn and onto the cement floor in order to get a closer look at the immense SUV. She then gasped, looking downward at her left ankle as a hand reached out from under the vehicle to take hold of her. Mary Lou pulled back with all her strength to try to break loose from the creeper’s grip, but only managed to pull out a man on a rolling platform from underneath the truck.

“Let go of me!” she screamed when she saw him looking up at her with a scowl on his face.

Mex quickly let go of the woman’s ankle and jumped to his feet, holding a large wrench in one of his oily hands. “What do you want?” he demanded as Mary Lou backed farther away, leaving the confines of the barn and having trouble with her heels on the grass.

“I’m sorry,” Mary Lou stammered, trying to assess the potential danger of the stocky Mexican mechanic with his oil-stained overalls and confrontational stance. “I’m Mary Lou Daffer with the Daffer Coffin Company. I was looking for the property owner, Mr. B.W. Harner.”

“Well, he ain’t here,” answered Mex. “What do you need from him?”

“Oh, I was just in the area on other business and I thought I’d drop in to make sure we had all the details of his order in order or, I mean, correct,” she answered, trying to resurrect her patented smile. “You know, like personalized service and all…”

Mex squinted his eyes at the flustered woman, trying to figure her out. “It’s nothing personal, ma’am, but Mr. Harner prefers to do business over the phone or the Internet. He don’t like surprise visits.”

“Oh,” responded Mary Lou, feeling her face reddening, “then please accept my apology for the intrusion. I’ll certainly be on my way now. But please tell Mr. Harner to call our office if he has any concerns.”

“I will be sure to tell him of your visit,” he concluded.

“Thank you,” she added, already turning to retreat to the safety of her car. It was difficult to power walk in heels, especially in grass, but Mary Lou managed. She could sense the man’s eyes watching her, but she didn’t dare turn around. She also thought she heard him yell something like “trampa,” which she didn’t need anyone to translate for her.

Mary Lou jumped back in her Flex and backed down the short driveway as quickly as she could. When she reached Hartman Hills Road, she opted to drive in the opposite direction of the motel, allowing her some time to clear her head.

As she drove, she tried to take comfort in the serene farmlands and quiet wooded areas surrounding the roadway. After a few miles, she noticed an odd sight out in a deserted pasture to her right. She pulled the car off to the side of the road to better observe the oddity.

The field was surrounded by wooden fencing and electric wire, which indicated that livestock should be grazing inside, but no animals could be seen. In the dead center of the barren field was a squared-off wooded area surrounded by a ten-foot high chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire. There was a small yellow sign attached to the fencing, but she couldn’t read it from the road.

Her instinct told her that this was something she should investigate more closely. Since there was no other traffic on the road at that time of the morning, she didn’t need to convince herself any further and was soon straddling a gate leading into the pasture. She cussed herself for not bringing along more sensible shoes.

Mary Lou managed to get over the fence without damaging her slacks or heels, but had trouble negotiating the steep decline of the field which led to the wooded area, which she estimated to be about a hundred square feet in size. Now that she was away from the road, she also noticed a rocky landscape to her right, which she assumed was a limestone mine that she knew operated in the area.

When she reached the chain-link fence, she was able to read the small yellow sign with black lettering. It had an old rusted bullet hole piercing it near an image of a buffalo and the words “U.S. Department of Interior.” The complete text on the sign warned: “Please Notice – DO NOT ENTER THIS CAVE BETWEEN SEPTEMBER 1 AND MAY 15.  The Indiana Bat, an Endangered Species, utilizes this cave for hibernation during the winter months and is sensitive to disturbance. Hibernating bats depend upon stored body fat for survival. If disturbed, they often deplete this stored energy required for winter survival.  The number of Indiana Bats has declined drastically during the past several years and disturbance during hibernation has been a contributing factor. All bats in the United States are insect eaters, beneficial to man and deserve protection. This fence is to provide seclusion for Indiana Bats during a critical period of the year and is the property of the United States Government. Disturbance of the bats during the above described period of closure, constitutes a violation of the Federal Endangered Species Act, and is punishable by fines of up to $20,000 and/or imprisonment for up to one year.”

She chuckled as she walked around the left side of the squared area and noticed a large hole dug under the fence where potential explorers could easily slip through. “Not today,” she said to herself, looking down at her attire.

Through the fence, she could see a small foot path leading through the heavy brush and trees, but could not see the cave entrance. The damp climate and mist-like atmosphere inside the fence seemed colder and darker than the more comfortable environment outside the fence, making Mary Lou shiver under the morning sun as she carefully walked along the perimeter.

When she reached the back of the fenced area, which couldn’t be seen from the road, she saw a door in the fence, but it was locked securely. There were also additional signs on the blind side, including an obscure brown plastic memorial plaque that read “CRAIG SEE - FEB. 9, 1953 - SEPT. 17, 2000 - IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU!”

Then a white-washed wooden sign with mitre-cut black letters simply stated: “MAKE PEACE WITH GOD.”

And finally, Mary Lou read a white metal sign with black letters: “WARNING YOU ARE NOW ON PRIVATE PROPERTY. ENTERING THIS CAVE IS PROHIBITED! TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. ONLY THOSE WITH WRITTEN PERMISSION MAY ENTER THESE PREMISES. MGR GV LIMESTONE INC.”

“This must be Hellhole, West Virginia,” Mary Lou concluded.

***

Marcella watched and waited and worried all morning and much of the afternoon, wondering what Mary Lou’s reaction would be to the notebook she had sealed inside the suitcase. Sadie continued to sleep off her night of binge drinking.

A sudden knock on the front door startled Marcella as she sat at the table near the window. Marcella jumped up to answer the door, while Sadie stirred in bed and mumbled something about a pounding headache.

As soon as Marcella unlatched the chain on the door, the well-dressed Mary Lou stormed past the undressed Marcella and headed toward the bed. Dammit, she has the fucking notebook with her, observed Marcella.

Marcella thought about darting through the open door, but she was naked and didn’t believe she would get very far. She reluctantly closed the door and watched as Mary Lou tried to shake Sadie awake with her free hand. “Wake up, Sadie, there’s something I think you should see,” urged Mary Lou.

“What, what, what?” stuttered Sadie, eventually sitting up in the middle of the bed and rubbing her eyes. “My god, I’ve got a horrible fucking headache!”

Mary Lou tossed the open notebook into Sadie’s lap, exhibiting Poochie’s final message to the drowsy dom. “Poochie! What the fuck is this?!” yelled Sadie, looking in Marcella’s direction beside the door.

As soon as Mary Lou had both hands free and saw that Sadie was distracted, she leaned over the bed and snagged Sadie in a neck-lock that she learned while watching Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling reruns. Soon Sadie’s face took on a maroon glow as she gasped for breath under Mary Lou’s unforgiving hold. Sadie desperately grabbed at the arm that was pinned against her throat, but soon passed out from lack of oxygen.

When the struggling subsided Mary Lou left her unconscious conquest descend back onto the mattress. Marcella ran over to the bed to make sure Sadie wasn’t dead.

“Don’t worry, she’s alive” responded Mary Lou, predicting the premise of Poochie’s panic. “Here, help me get her in these restraints before she comes to.”

Mary Lou grabbed the pair of leather cuffs that were chained to opposite ends of the bed near the headboard and pulled them down toward Sadie’s head. She then gathered Sadie’s limp arms and stretched them up to the cuffs, locking the cuffs shut as quickly as possible while listening to Sadie’s semi-conscious snoring and snorting. Simultaneously, Marcella fastened the cuffs that were chained at the foot of the bed to Sadie’s separated feet.

Still dressed in the sweatpants and sweatshirt from her night of partying, Sadie became lucid of her spread-eagle state the moment the final cuff was locked onto her ankle. “What are you doing?” Sadie asked the two women looking over her.

“We’re just checking the practicality of those hand-tooled leather restraints that you’re so proud of,” answered Mary Lou while Marcella ran over to the wall of bondage devices.

“Okay, well, clown time is over,” responded Sadie struggling against the restraints, but to no avail. “You can let me up now. Did I mention that I had one hell of a headache?”

Marcella came back with a black rubber gag that was shaped like a stubby fat penis and showed it to Sadie.

“Don’t even think about it, Poochie,” warned Sadie. “Besides, I really need to use the bathroom and I’m not joking.”

Mary Lou then leaned in to pinch Sadie’s nose closed, which caused the bound bimbo to open her mouth to catch a breath. When Sadie’s mouth gaped opened, Marcella popped the business end of the gag between Sadie’s lips and then wrapped the elastic strap around the back of the woman’s head. At that moment, Sadie’s eyes expressed more anger and hatred than her voice could ever communicate.

“All right, let’s get out of here,” suggested Mary Lou to Marcella.

But Marcella raised her index finger toward Mary Lou, requesting a delay in their itinerary. She then ran back to the wall to retrieve the violet wand.

Mary Lou could only watch in amazement as Marcella returned with the flashing bulb device and sat on the edge of the bed near Sadie. Sadie glared at Marcella as the young woman reached over with her left hand to hold Sadie’s left eyelid wide open. Sadie’s pupil jumped and shimmered in terror inside its socket as it watched the illuminated bulb come closer and closer and ZAP. Sadie shrieked in agony until the gag caused her to begin choking.

“My god, Poochie, where did you learn that?” Mary Lou asked rhetorically.

Marcella then reached over to the other eyelid and held it open with her left hand. This time, Marcella gave Sadie’s eye a series of long zaps that caused Mary Lou’s stomach to start turning. Mary Lou thought she even saw smoke rise from the assaulted eyeball. Sadie screamed blindly.

Mary Lou concluded, “I guess you learned from the best.”

When Sadie’s screams turned to tearless sobs, Marcella tossed the torture wand across the room, where it smashed to pieces against the back door. She then grabbed her notebook from the bed and joined Mary Lou beside the connecting door to Room Two.

The two women crossed through the connecting doors until they reached Mary Lou’s room. Mary Lou then dug through her suitcases until she found some underwear, sweatpants and a pull-over top that she thought would fit Marcella.

“Hurry and get dressed,” Mary Lou instructed. “We gotta get out of here before anyone finds Sadie.”

While Marcella dressed, loving every inch of the protective fabric as it discreetly slid over her bare skin, Mary Lou approached the telephone on the bed stand, hoping that room-to-room calls were at least free.

“I saw Gidget working in the office when I arrived,” commented Mary Lou, “and then when I passed Room Twelve, I looked through the window and saw that old man she adores napping by himself.”

Marcella just wrapped her arms around her own chest, pressing the clean shirt against her skin, and smiled as Mary Lou spoke.

“We need to cause a diversion in order to sneak out of here,” Mary Lou explained as she dialed the phone in order to connect to Room Twelve.

“Who in the hell is this?” demanded a groggy voice after a few rings.

“This is the motel owner’s wife,” Mary Lou said. “Gidget asked me to call you for assistance.”

“Assistance with what?”

“Well, first of all, we’re worried that a previous John may have hid cameras in Room Twelve. We need you to take them out.”

“Take ‘em out how?”

“We think one of the cameras is behind the mirror in the bathroom, so we need you to go in there, remove the toilet seat and then smash the mirror with it.”

“Are you shittin’ me?”

“No, we really need your help. This is serious. Don’t worry about the damage, we just need to destroy those cameras.”

“Well…”

“Come on now, Gidget is counting on you.”

“All right then, I’ll do like you say.”

(Sounds of the phone receiver being dropped on the bed stand were followed by the sound of breaking glass a couple of minutes later).

“Okay, I done it. I broke the mirror, but I didn’t see no camera behind it.”

“Then it must be inside the television. Can you smash it now with the toilet seat?”

“The TV? Smash the TV with the toilet seat?”

“Yes, right away, please smash the screen on the TV.”

“Okay, you asked for it.”

(The popping sound of a broken television screen soon filled the speaker of the phone receiver).

“There ain’t no damn camera in there either, dammit!”

“But that’s good. That’s good that we determined there were no cameras. But now you have to help Gidget in Room Eleven.”

“Help Gidget in Eleven? What’s wrong with Gidget?”

“She’s been kidnapped by some pervert and is being held next door to you.”

“Kidnapped? Well, I’m a-gonna go get her!”

“Wait, wait, wait! Don’t leave the room by the front or back door, because the pervert may see you from outside. Gidget’s alone in the room right now, so you’ve got to try to get through the connecting door.”

“Okay, okay!”

(Pause).

“The damn connector door is locked up. Now what am I gonna do?!”

“Kick it down, break it down, bust through the wall, I don’t care, but you’ve got to get in there before that pervert returns!”

“I’m comin’, Gidget!”

(The noise in the receiver was now deafening).

Mary Lou and Marcella then grabbed the two suitcases and dashed out the front door of Room Three. As they climbed in the Ford Flex, they saw Gidget and some of the other residents yelling and screaming outside Room Twelve, trying to get the destructive old prick’s attention inside.

It was unknown to the escapees if anyone saw Marcella/Poochie get into Mary Lou’s car, but they didn’t look back as they drove out onto Route 33 East toward Seneca Rocks.

***

After a full day of excitement, Mex carefully rappelled to the cave floor through the entrance of Hellhole in order to make his report. The cave was quiet, while the dusk greatly diminished the light shining down through the cathedral-like room.

Mex flicked on his flashlight and confidently made his way through the seemingly endless maze of crevices and passages to B.W.’s bedchamber. Two effeminate zombie sentries guarded the narrow entryway to the chamber, but quickly stepped aside and lowered their pickaxes when Mex waved his arm at them. Of all the zombies B.W. could have chosen to protect his lair, Mex found it queer that these two were picked.

Mex found B.W. propped up with pillows on a slender cot and flanked on each side by Yaoi and Yuri. The twins were wearing heavy fur coats, while B.W. appeared to be shivering under some blankets. Mex found the scene to be strange, since the temperature in the cave was normal.

From her position on her knees, Yaoi looked up solemnly at Mex and said, “Master is sick.”

“I’ll be fine,” announced B.W. as he raised a piece of jerky to his mouth and tore off a hunk with his teeth. “And to what do we owe this honor?”

“Excuse me?” asked Mex, turning off his flashlight in the lantern-lit room.

“Why are you here, Mex?” translated B.W., chewing the jerky meat like a cow chewing its cud.

“There’s been things going on today that I thought you should know about.”

“Pray tell?” responded B.W. “Come on in and take a seat on one of the cots.”

Yuri and Yaoi had cots on opposite sides of B.W. Mex chose the one that looked the least cluttered with blankets. The twins continued to sit on the ground beside B.W.

B.W. reached over toward Mex with a zip-locked plastic bag of dried meat. “Do you want some jerky?” he offered.

Mex shook his head. “You know I don’t eat that shit, boss.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed B.W. “I remember. I was just trying to be a hospitable host.”

B.W. then shook the bag at the girls and asked them, “Do either of you want some jerky? It’s made from the freshest available fetuses.”

“Hell, yeah,” answered Yaoi, snatching the bag from B.W.’s fingers.

“Me, too!” demanded Yuri.

As the girls argued over the plastic bag, B.W. admitted, “I’m considering giving it up myself. It just doesn’t seem to have the same rejuvenating effect as it once did for me. No, I need fresh blood, human living blood. I feel like I’m getting weaker by the day and I can’t seem to kick this congestion in my head and lungs. God, maybe it is the dampness in this fucking cave, after all.”

“That’s what we told you,” chimed in Yuri, chewing a mouth-full of jerky with the brownish juice dribbling down her chin.

“And that’s why we need our pink caskets, so we can rest in the basement of the farmhouse, like real vampires,” added Yaoi.

B.W. glared at the twins and said, “I told you that you don’t need fucking caskets in order to stay in the basement of the farmhouse during the day. Just because Bram Stoker kept Dracula in a box doesn’t mean you need to be in one.”

“But it’s cool,” pouted Yaoi.

“Why don’t you girls step outside the chamber and let Mex and I talk for a while?” he strongly suggested.

Once the twins had skulked away, Mex said, “About those caskets… some bitch from the coffin company came by the house today.”

B.W. swung his legs off the edge of the cot so that he could sit eye-level to Mex. “What the fuck for?”

“She said she wanted to go over some of the details of the order, but I chased her away,” Mex explained. “I think she was snooping around.”

“I agree,” commented B.W., grabbing a handkerchief so that he could blow his nose. “It sounds pretty damned suspicious.”

“There’s more boss,” Mex admitted. “It gets worse.”

“Oh, fuck, man, what the hell else is going on?”

“Later in the day, the casket lady tied up Sadie and helped Poochie escape from the motel.”

“Holy shit!” exclaimed B.W., coughing up phlegm in the process and spitting onto the floor. “Don’t you think you could’ve led off with that little piece of news?”

“I was just keeping it chronological,” explained Mex, who had one hell of a time saying the word ‘chronological.’

“Do we know where Poochie and this casket woman went?”

“No, sir. I tried asking Sadie, but she said they hurt her eyes and she didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“Sadie is ultimately responsible for Poochie,” B.W. concluded. “I could probably find Poochie myself, but I need to get my strength back.”

“How can I help, boss?”

“I want you to bring Sadie to me at the farmhouse,” he ordered. “I’ll drain that fucking bitch until she’s kosher!”

***

Mary Lou arrived in the town of Seneca Rocks just after the rock-climbing suppliers had closed up shop for the evening.

“We’ll just have to buy our supplies tomorrow,” she explained to Marcella as she pulled onto a dirt path running adjacent to Yokel’s Holidayland. “We shouldn’t rush into anything tonight anyway, until we have a solid plan of action. We can hide out here at Yokel’s until we buy our gear.”

There was a parking lot beside Yokel’s Holidayland, but Mary Lou was worried that someone would see her Ford Flex from the road. She’d noticed that the dirt path beside Yokel’s led to an abandoned factory and she planned on parking behind it. She also had a large tarp, specifically designed for her vehicle, which she often used to cover the car when it couldn’t be stored inside a garage.

The two ladies then hauled their luggage through a thickly-weeded section of land in order to reach the motel. They marched into the general store and Mary Lou asked the clerk if there were any rooms available.

“Do you want a room above the store or do you want to stay in the Indian Village?” asked the clerk.

“We want to stay above the store in a regular motel room, of course,” Mary Lou answered. “We don’t want to stay in some primitive teepee thingy.”

When Marcella heard Mary Lou’s answer, she dropped the bag she was carrying and hugged Mary Lou around the shoulders, depositing a big, sloppy kiss on the woman’s cheek.

Mary Lou acted surprised by the sudden show of affection. “Jeez, Poochie, what’s that all about?”

The clerk was also taken aback by the display and stated, “I suppose a room with one bed is acceptable?”

When the women eventually reached their room, Marcella was enthralled to be in a modern motel room (modern by Seneca Rocks standards) and one that did not have any connecting doors. She plopped down on the bed and rolled around, happy to not see any handcuffs or restraints attached to the corners.

Mary Lou walked over to the window and cracked the curtains open a bit. The second-floor location provided a perfect view of the parking lot and street below. It looked like they would be safe here, at least for the night.

After a home-cooked country meal in the motel’s restaurant, the women strolled through the deserted streets hand-in-hand to see if anything was open, but soon determined there wasn’t anything to do after nightfall in a small town like Seneca Rocks, except to go to bed and fornicate.

As they lay in bed, after a relaxing shower, Mary Lou said, “I’m assuming you’ve never went caving before. Well, I think you’ll catch on pretty easy. In fact, I bet you’re a natural. Yeah, I’m certain you are. Anyway, you first have to find your way through some heavy brush in the dark. Yeah, and then you’ve got to be careful at the cave entrance, because the dampness makes it real slippery. Once you’re in, you’ll be dropping down deep inside, bouncing off the walls as you descend. Yeah, that’s it. That’s all there is to it. Damn girl, you eat pussy like a black chick!”

***

Later in the evening, Mex delivered a blind-folded and hand-cuffed Sadie to the basement of the old farmhouse. The blindfold may not have been needed, but Mex wasn’t taking any chances.

While the twins prepared the involuntary donor in the basement, B.W. spoke with Mex outside the basement door. B.W. had spent the last few hours surfing on the Internet and speaking on the phone with some of his contacts.

“Listen Mex, the state police are looking hot and heavy for that so-called Latino Hummer driver, who dragged the cop around in Summersville,” B.W. warned. “You know that you’re a valuable part of our family, even if you’re not a vamp, but I think for the safety of all of us it might be a good idea for you to leave the state until things cool down a bit. After all, quite a few people in Rivertown have seen you driving the Hummer.”

“Whatever you want, boss, you know that.”

“I’ve put a substantial amount of cash in the glove box of the Hummer, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty hiding out for a while,” B.W. explained. “You may have to ditch the Hummer too and find some other mode of transportation.”

“No problem,” agreed Mex. “I’ll just wait for you to email me when the coast is clear.”

“Don’t worry about that,” B.W. assured him. “I’ll need you back here eventually. For instance, I’ve also heard some hack writer from up north has been investigating the Beach murders and plans to write some kind of book about the massacre. We’ll have to make an example of him.”

Mex grinned and shook B.W.’s hand, noticing in the process how weak the boss’s grip was. “Keep in touch,” Mex added, “and I hope Sadie helps you get back on your feet, so that you can find Poochie and that cabrilla-lompas.”

After Mex left the house, B.W. turned and opened the basement door. He held onto the railing with both hands to ensure that he wouldn’t get hurt if he lost his balance. A lone bulb hung over a paper-covered massage table in the center of the basement. The twins stood patiently beside the table, both of them adorned in full nursing uniforms, including the cute little white hats.

When B.W. reached the bottom of the steps, Nurse Yuri approached him with a folded white gown. “If you would please disrobe, Mr. B.W., and put on this hospital gown, we can begin the procedure.”

“Whatever,” responded B.W., reluctantly accepting the gown and placing it on a chair beside him. He then began unbuttoning his shirt, while trying to ignore the twins watching him undress and giggling like horned-out Hentai schoolgirls.

“Please lie down here on your stome-mache,” requested Nurse Yaoi, motioning toward the table, once B.W. was in his gown. “We will make sure your procedure has a happy ending.”

As he climbed onto the paper-covered platform, B.W. was careful to avoid getting tangled in the nasogastric tube that was dangling loosely beside the table. Once he was lying flat on the table, he turned his neck to look at the dangling tube and visually followed its length straight up to the point where it was inserted into Sadie’s jugular vein.

Sadie was hanging nude by her ankles from the basement ceiling, apparently unconscious. The upper portion of the tube was crudely taped onto her neck with gray duct tape. A slight trickle of blood flowed from under the tape, down Sadie’s face, through her hair and dripped onto the floor. Most of the visible blood was trapped inside the translucent tube, stopping midway down where a clamp was attached.

“Now for the transfusion,” announced Nurse Yuri. “Are you ready, Mr. B.W.?”

“Just get on with it,” he grumbled.

Nurse Yaoi brushed the hair away from B.W.’s ear and planted a kiss on his exposed neck, while Nurse Yuri took the loose end of the nasogastric tube and planted it deeply into his rectum.

B.W. grunted quietly, ready to endure the cramping and humiliation associated with the bloody enema. He knew that this method would get the nutrients into his body more efficiently than if he simply drank Sadie’s blood. He then heard Nurse Yuri snap open the clamp and he felt the warm stream begin to enter his ass.

***

The next day, Mary Lou parked her Ford Flex Woody inconspicuously on a dirt road named Teets Drive near the intersection of Route 33 and Hartman Hills Road. The Foyer Motel looked deserted at dusk when they drove past, probably due to Old Saint Prick being banned from the property. Plus, Mary Lou figured the other Johns were likely still having dinner at home with their families.

She had decided the best strategy was to approach Hellhole using the four-wheeler she had seen outside Sadie’s room – not so much to get to Hellhole, but to provide a quick escape through the woods if they ran into trouble inside the cave. She didn’t dare risk tipping off the squatters of Hellhole by parking her Flex anywhere near the site.

Mary Lou and Marcella stepped out of the Flex simultaneously, sporting matching pink form-fitting PVC oversuits, wide leather utility belts, pink backpacks and knee-high hiking boots. Damn! We look hot as hell, both thought concurrently as they admired one another’s physique.

The backpacks contained the gloves, harnesses, rope, ascenders and descenders that they would need to abseil through the mouth of the cave. Their utility belts were laden with flashlights, machetes, mallets and sharp wooden stakes.

They scrambled across Route 33 like neurotic ninjas and headed straight for the office of the Foyer. Mary Lou led the way and smoothly opened the office door with her left hand, and then quickly reached inside to mute the sound of the semi-disturbed sleigh bells. They were prepared to find Gidget inside, but were relieved to find the office dwarf-free. Marcella quickly rifled through the mess of keys behind the counter until she found the set with the complimentary Polaris keychain.

A mad dash along the backside of the motel might have attracted the attention of the zombie sentries huddled just beyond the pasture, but the two women were so quick and efficient in commandeering the ATV that there was no time for an undead intervention. Mary Lou was the designated driver and Marcella jumped on behind her.

Seeing that the coast was still clear along the rear of the motel, where the front-end of the ATV was pointed, Mary Lou decided to take the path of least resistance and avoid the front parking lot of the Foyer. Their journey was unencumbered until they cut around the corner of the motel along the office wall, kicking up gravel between the motel building and the Foyer Tattoo Parloure & Adult Book Shoppe.

At that precise moment, Gidget was attempting to wheel Moxie across the parking lot in her red wagon. Both wheeled objects collided, sending the quadriplegic passenger and driving dwarf of the wagon airborne through a cloud of dust. Both pint-sized antagonists ended up unconscious and broken on the ground in front of the stalled ATV.

“Quick, get your harness out of your backpack!” instructed Mary Lou as she bounced off the driver’s seat. “I’ve got an idea.”

Once Marcella had her harness in hand, Mary Lou pointed toward Moxie. “You take Moxie, since she looks lighter, and I’ll handle Gidget. Just watch what I do, but hurry because I fear that we don’t have much time!”

Mary Lou stripped her subject naked, wrapped the leather harness around Gidget’s back and tightened the straps as best she could. Marcella did the same across Moxie’s nude torso.

“We may need some protection out in those woods,” explained Mary Lou as she slipped a forearm through the straps on Gidget’s back.

Mary Lou then stood, pulling Gidget up in the process, and posed in front of Marcella with a cool makeshift human shield attached to her arm. Marcella did the same, although she struggled a bit under Moxie’s weight, since she didn’t possess the same developed arm muscles as Mary Lou.

Both women re-boarded the ATV with their new body armor. Mary Lou restarted the four-wheeler and switched on the headlight. She was thankful that the Polaris had an automatic transmission, thus allowing her to keep her harnessed hand free to defend herself.

The ATV sped across Route 33 and bounded into the woods along Hartman Hills Road. The initial ride was free and clear of obstructions, although the rough turf made the trip bumpy, especially as darkness began to envelop the surroundings. Marcella almost lost her balance a few times as Mary Lou dodged various trees and shrubs along the way.

Mary Lou’s short hair didn’t intrude into Marcella’s space, but Marcella enjoyed the brisk breeze that the speed of the ATV generated as it filtered through her blonde hair and streamed it back behind her. Watching the flickering light of the headlights as it bounced off the trees made the whole scene surreal for Marcella. She also felt free, truly free, for the first time since she left the Police Academy.

The passing vertical trees, each momentarily illuminated by the headlights, appeared uniform in spacing and size, as if they had been meticulously planted by some anally-retentive Johnny Assholeseed or something, until a horizontal length of wood popped out of the shadows and lurched toward Marcella.

Marcella instinctively raised her shield as best she could and then realized that the piece of wood was attached to a rusty pickaxe, which was being swung at her head by a zombie miner. The pickaxe struck into Moxie’s left breast and ripped part of it away, spraying blood and gore over Mary Lou’s back and down the front of Marcella’s bodysuit. Marcella managed to hold onto her Moxie as she watched the zombie lose its balance and tumble onto the forest floor.

Mary Lou didn’t have time to respond to the attack on Marcella as she instantaneously saw a zombie approach on the opposite side. Mary Lou triumphantly raised her shield and swung it toward the approaching undead, catching a point of the pickaxe squarely in Gidget’s mouth and tearing out the dwarf’s lower jaw like a bluegill being caught on thirty-pound test line. The dwarf’s tongue began flapping aimlessly in the breeze.

Although Marcella’s shield was a bit lighter now, she still found the need to balance Moxie’s crotch on her thigh as the ATV approached its destination. But yet another miner jumped out at her from the darkness, swinging its pickaxe with undead intent. Marcella had to use her free hand to force her shield up from its resting place on her leg.

The shield ended up being twisted in the panicked move and the pickaxe got embedded deep into Moxie’s box, causing the shield to be suddenly tugged from Marcella’s arm. As the four-wheeler sped away, Moxie’s vivisectioned body dropped helplessly at the feet of the forlorn zombie.

Without a mode of personal defense, Marcella switched to offense and pulled the machete from her utility belt. She then used her free hand to grab hold of the top Mary Lou’s head. Maintaining her balance as best she could on the moving vehicle, Marcella climbed up onto her seat and started swishing the machete through the air.

The closer they got to Hellhole, the more zombies they encountered on their frantic ride. Marcella thrashed to her left and right, chopping off pickaxe-laden arms at the shoulders, while Mary Lou continued to use her shield to knock away any mindless miners who came too close to the front of the ATV.

Mary Lou finally pulled up to the fence enclosing the entrance to Hellhole, only to see one last zombie approaching from the section where the ground had been dug away to allow surreptitious access to the cave. Marcella jumped off the seat of the vehicle as soon as it was stopped. Mary Lou carefully disembarked while keeping an eye on the zombie.

She then quickly removed the harness from the limp body of Gidget, and grabbed onto the dwarf’s stubby legs. Then in a move reminiscent of her track and field days, Mary Lou began swinging Gidget’s body in a circle like she was preparing for a hammer throw.

As the zombie crept slowly into range, Mary Lou released the dwarf and the wee-person went spiraling through the air, eventually catching the zombie square in the chest and knocking the pickaxe from its cold dead hands. Marcella ran up to the stunned zombie, stomped on the fallen body of Gidget for leverage, and decapitated the miner’s head clean off at the neck with one smooth machete stroke.

Meeting up with Marcella and her machete near the chain link fence, Mary Lou pointed to the burrowed place under the fence with her flashlight. “Come on and slide under here,” she said. “We’ve still got to figure out a way to share the one harness we still have left.”

Both women rushed under the gap at the bottom of the fence and bounded through the thick thicket and wielding weeds that protected the cave’s entrance. Upon reaching the mouth of Hellhole, Mary Lou emptied the contents of the backpacks onto the ground and began snatching at the rope, descenders, gloves and other items she thought she would need to get them to the cavern floor.

“I’m going to harness you and let you go down first, and then I’ll try to slide down after you,” Mary Lou suggested as she began assembling the parts of the kit together. Marcella didn’t argue, mainly because she couldn’t.

Just don’t leave me down there, Marcella thought.

After tying the rope securely to the trunk of a nearby tree, Mary Lou attached the harnessed Marcella to the rope and instructed her on the use of the descender mechanism to control the speed of the abseil.

It took Marcella a while to descend the first ten feet and Mary Lou began to get nervous, her flashlight beam shakily illuminating her friend below. While on her knees at the edge of the cave entrance, Mary Lou tugged on the bottom of her gloves, making sure they were tight, before twisting her body around to check the pathway. The moment she turned around, Mary Lou was confronted with the towering specter of a zombie with its pickaxe raised and ready to strike. The shock caused Mary Lou to shriek, lose her balance and tumble into cavern.

Marcella heard the scream and glanced up, seeing the falling body hurling toward her. Marcella desperately tried to reach out to grab an arm, a leg or anything, but came up empty as she watched the horrid scene unfold. From far below her, she then heard a gut-wrenchingly dull spelunk.

Hanging stationery from her harness, Marcella’s arms and head drooped in despair. She then felt the rope above her move violently and she became frightened that she would be the next to fall...

“I’m fine, I’m right above you!” called down Mary Lou, clinging onto the rope just over the edge of the precipice.

Within minutes, both women were safely on the cave floor. After releasing herself from the harness, Marcella walked over to the rock slab where she’d encountered B.W. The zombie was now laid out on the cold stone, its arms and legs bent in unnatural positions. The fallen fiend was motionless and Marcella made sure it remained that way with a quick machete slice to the neck.

“Okay, let’s do some exploring!” implored Mary Lou after watching Marcella kick the detached zombie head like a soccer ball.

But the exploring seemed to drag on for hours, trudging down one passage after another and perhaps traveling down some more than once, as the crevices and rocks all began to look the same. Marcella even located the room where B.W. tried to convince her to be his partner in crime, but it was empty now.

At one point they stumbled upon – and almost into – a wide chasm in the cave floor. Thankfully, there was a narrow ledge along the cave wall that they were able to inch their way along until they were safely past the dark ominous hole. Mary Lou knew that she probably could have leapt over the chasm, but opted to conserve her energy and did not want to risk having her friend attempt a similar maneuver.

Just when Marcella was about to indicate to Mary Lou that she needed to rest, they walked around a corner and came face-to-face with a pair of female zombies wearing nothing but luminescent green string bikinis on their well-toned bodies. The flashlight beacons of Mary Lou and Marcella eerily danced on the feminine bodies of the armed sentry.

The zombie pair, of course, held the obligatory pickaxes, but the weapons did not seem as natural for them to bear as the miners. The skin on these two warriors also wasn’t rotted like the skin on the miners, in fact they both looked fresh and appeared quite attractive, specifically to Mary Lou.

But the sudden sight of the two female zombies filled Marcella with terror, because she recognized them immediately – immediately as the former living bodies of Juanita Cruz and Marcella Shale.

Oh god no! Tell me this isn’t happening! Marcella thought in a panic, her white face turning as pale as a sheet and her mouth agape in a silent scream. She stood paralyzed in fear until the zombies suddenly took a defensive stance with their pickaxes positioned in front of their chests for battle.

“You take the black one and I’ll handle the Latina!” yelled Mary Lou drawing the machete from her utility belt. But when she glanced over to her friend, Marcella was seen running in the opposite direction and the black zombie was in hot pursuit.

“Dammit!” cussed Mary Lou, who now had her own approaching zombie to deal with.

Attempting to hold her flashlight in her left hand and the machete in her right, Mary Lou began circling the Latina zombie like a crouching cat, ready to pounce at the first sign of aggression from her foe. The zombie just stared back at her with a blank look and circled in the same direction.

When Mary Lou had positioned herself between the zombie and the narrow vertical crevice that it was protecting, she spun around quickly like she was going to hurl a discus, bending down low and then rising suddenly to embed her machete in the zombie’s stomach. The zombie moaned horribly, but still managed to raise its pickaxe in the air.

Mary Lou left the knife protruding from the girl’s gut as she ducked out of the way of the swinging pickaxe. The missed axe swing allowed Mary Lou just enough time to grab the wooden mallet from her belt and deliver a dead blow to the back of the floundering zombie’s head. The impact sounded like a wayward turtle being crushed by a car tire.

Meanwhile Marcella ran like a madwoman back through the passageway where she and Mary Lou had just traveled, her flashlight beam bouncing off the walls and ground in front of her. All her life, she’d never believed she represented an imposing or threatening figure to anyone, but the familiar body chasing her now sure as hell scared the shit out of her.

Listening to the bare footsteps slapping the damp floor behind her, Marcella came up upon the crevice. Knowing she didn’t have time to negotiate the narrow ledge around the hole, she decided to let her fate play out. She snapped her flashlight off, forcing her final destination into darkness, and took a lunging leap of faith.

The toe on her right boot just snagged the opposite side of the crevice, while the inertia of her body carried her the rest of the way over the hole. As soon as she stopped rolling, she glanced up to see the glowing bikini line of the pursuing zombie fall helplessly out of the picture.

Back at the other zombie encounter scene, Mary Lou considered entering the formerly-guarded passageway on her own, but soon realized that her friend probably needed immediate assistance.

Hurrying in the direction where she last saw her friend running, Mary Lou was relieved when she saw the glare of a flashlight coming her way. Her friend eventually skulked right past her, displaying a tear-streaked face and a trembling jaw.

After Marcella had passed Mary Lou (without a word, of course), the older woman called out, “You did destroy its head, didn’t you? You know you have to destroy the head.”

With no nod or head-shaking visible from behind, Mary Lou simply followed her friend back to the once protected passageway, confident that the blonde had taken care of business in the same fashion that she had handled the other zombies.

Marcella was upset and visibly shaken, but she was also focused on the task ahead of her. She wanted Vengeance with a capital “V.”

The two women marched into the narrow passageway, ducking slightly to avoid the low ceiling, and continued their steady gait until they saw the warm glow of a lantern up ahead. Both switched off their flashlights and boldly entered the lit room.

Yuri and Yaoi were huddled in their furs around the cot where a stationary B.W. lay in repose. The twins were on their knees, bawling and sobbing over B.W.’s blanket-covered body and refused to look away from their maker even when Mary Lou and Marcella approached.

“Are these the vamps?” asked Mary Lou as she clutched one of the wooden stakes in her belt. Mary Lou nodded affirmatively and also grabbed a stake and a mallet.

Yuri also heard Mary Lou’s question and cried, “He’s dead! He’s already dead you fools!”

“He warned us today that he had contracted White-Nose Syndrome from the bats and was likely to die,” exclaimed Yaoi. “It’s some kind of fungus that has killed millions of bats. He’s been suffering for months and didn’t even know what was wrong!”

“And now we probably have it too, since he was feeding off us,” added Yuri in dismay.

“So you’re too late,” concluded Yaoi. “You’re too fucking late!”

Mary Lou looked down upon the pathetic scene and threatened, “But we’re not too late for you.”

Yaoi looked at the stakes in the women’s hands and announced, “Yes, you are - toss us those stakes. Our Master is gone and we have failed to protect him. We have no reason to exist.”

Both Mary Lou and Marcella shrugged their shoulders and tossed the wooden stakes in the direction of the twins. True to their word, the twins each grabbed a stake and committed harakiri by holding the blunt ends of the stakes on the ground and violently forcing their chests down upon the points. The twins shrieked in suicidal seppuku.

That was rather anti-climatic, Marcella thought.

The Interior Department is currently attempting to track the westerly spread of the mysterious disease called White-Nose Syndrome, which has already killed millions of bats in the Eastern and Southern United States. The disease has spread to sixteen states, including West Virginia.

White-Nose Syndrome was first identified in northern New York State in 2006 and has since been prevalently found along the Eastern coastline from Canada to North Carolina. Caves as far west as Colorado and Wyoming have been closed to the public in order to preemptively combat the spread of the disease.

The Interior Department has spent tens of millions of dollars since 2007, supporting research projects and developing methods to control or cure the disease.

Although it took hours for Mary Lou and Marcella to drag the three vampire bodies through the cave, over the crevice and up through the mouth of Hellhole, Mary Lou felt she owed it to the memory of her father to carry out the proper disposal of the blood-suckers by exposing them to the Grace of God’s sunlight.

Once the bodies were outside the fenced confines of the cave entrance, Mary Lou and Marcella retrieved the Ford Flex and then proceeded to load the vanquished vamps into the back of the vehicle. With an hour of moon light still hanging over Pendleton County, the fearless vampire hunters took a short drive down Route 33 until they found one of the monuments erected by Mary Lou’s father.

Mary Lou drove up an overgrown path toward a set of crosses overlooking the highway and parked directly underneath the wooden poles. The vampire bodies were then stacked up on the top of the car.

The height of the car allowed Mary Lou and Marcella to maneuver the bodies in just the right position to nail them to the three crosses, using the stakes and mallets from their utility belts. When they were done hammering and hanging the hell-bound hellgrammites, the women pulled the car away from the scene just as the first hints of dawn became apparent.

They parked along Route 33 to admire their work from the desolate highway. As they leaned against the side of the Ford, the women watched in awe as the first rays of sunlight cut through a layer of fog surrounding the crosses and slowly began to roast the three crucified sanguivores – B.W. on the center gold cross and the twins flanking him on the blue crosses.

A flash fire then engulfed B.W., sending a swirling flume of smoke spiraling toward the heavens. Mary Lou didn’t notice it, but the pseudo-spiritual sight caused Marcella to drop to her knees on the pavement and begin praying. When the smoke eventually cleared, only clothed skeletons remained pinned to the crosses.

Mary Lou almost tripped over Marcella when she tried turning to her friend to say, “Good riddance to them.”

But Mary Lou couldn’t see the person she’d come to know as Poochie. Instead, Mary Lou looked down and saw a brown-skinned woman, wearing the same pink oversuit that she wore, and still clutching her hands together in prayer.

When Marcella opened her eyes and saw the color of her clenched hands, she raised her arms in the air and thanked God for her transformation.

“Thank you, Lord!” she screamed with a voice that echoed through the hills.

She was no longer a dumb blonde.

Epilogue

Newspaper clipping from The Sun Times, dated Monday, May 28:

Crime Spree Investigated

MYRTLE BEACH, SC – Police have responded to a number of unusual violent crimes on the Grand Strand this Memorial Day weekend. Myrtle Beach Police Department Captain David Snipes said that one violent crime incident was reported in the early-morning on Saturday and five more reports came overnight on Sunday.

At three a.m. on Saturday, police were notified that a man was beaten to death on 11th Avenue South near Oak Street. The suspects were described as tall, burly men, around 5-feet 10-inches tall and about 200 pounds. Both wore overhauls and were covered in dirt and mud.

At one-thirty a.m. on Sunday, authorities responded to North Kings Highway in Myrtle Beach where a woman reported that she and three friends were attacked by men carrying pickaxes near the Bargain Barn. All the women were able to flee from their attackers…

About the author

After an unillustrious print journalism career in southwestern Pennsylvania, Rich Bottles Jr. moved to West Virginia at the age of 32 to pursue a career in technical writing. He spends his free time visiting and hiking at the many state parks in the Mountain State, which is also where he develops the concepts for his novels. He plans on producing a trilogy of WV-themed "humorrorotica" and is currently working on a story set in the vicinity of the West Virginia State Penitentiary. His first bizarro novel was the infamous Lumberjacked. Rich's only regret in life is that his out-of-state secondary school education prohibited him from earning West Virginia's prestigious Golden Horseshoe Award.

Table of Contents

- Dedicated to:
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2At
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4The
- Chapter 5A
- E
- About the authorA