Ben was fourteen years old when he was sent to the reformatory for his cruelty to animals in hopes that it would straighten him out. Fat chance! The place proved to be a smorgasbord for someone of his talents. The jump from animals to humans was an easy one for him. He became adept at making others suffer. Young boys could endure an enormous amount of pain for a sadistic son-of-a-bitch like him. A little threatening was all it took to keep their mouths closed. The punishment for squealers was reputed to be death by their upper classmen. This latter being boys of Ben's age group.
Broken fingers, razor fragments beneath the fingernails, and testicles squeezed to the point that the injured boy either passed out or screamed into his pillow, were just a few of the many perversions that Ben dealt out. His guile was outstanding, he could be plucking the eyeball from a boys socket, and yet convince someone that what he was doing was absolutely vital to prolonging the victim's life. One shudders to think how far he would have gone, or how many would have paid the price of a fate worse than death, had it not been for Joey.
Joey was a boy who didn't have any business being at a place like the reformatory. It was simply that the State had nowhere else to put him for the time being. He was past the age preferable for adoption, all the foster homes were temporarily filled, and it was a real shame too because Joey was such a good boy. He was asked to help the younger boys, to guide them in a limited way. Needless to say, he and Ben clashed shortly after his arrival.
Ben convinced some of his cronies to help him give Joey a blanket party one night while he lay sleeping. He was beaten with broomsticks; mop handles, and bars of soap wrapped inside socks. An excessive blow to the head with a splintered broomstick, wielded by none other than Ben himself, killed the boy when one of the sharp fragments of wood penetrated his brain. Joey's only crime had been the unfortunate loss of both parents, and relatives too impoverished to take him in.
This last bit of madness on Ben's part convinced the younger boys to break the cardinal rule, and all of them en-masse, told the stories of Ben's atrocities. He would spend the next four years of his life in the Fort Supply Mental Hospital for the criminally insane.
Ben could masquerade as a sweet, normal young man, charisma oozing from every pore, and all the while be inflicting a tremendous amount of pain on another. Pain was the only thing that got him off. Sexual stimulation of the normal type did absolutely nothing for him. Masturbation was useless unless someone else was hurting. Just let him be torturing another, and he was off like a rocket.
The psychiatrist who treated Ben wasn't a bad man. His major shortcoming was his vanity. He knew he was out of his league when it came to Ben's unique case, but his professional pride wouldn't let him admit it to himself, or others. He was aware that Ben was psychotic, but the depth of the psychosis eluded him. Ben was already a master of deception and manipulation. If the psychiatrist would have sought help, he probably could have saved the world a lot of grief, but due to an erroneous diagnosis Ben was set free to roam the streets of an unsuspecting society on his eighteenth birthday.
He didn't waste any time trying to locate his family, choosing instead to strike out on his own. According to him, he found the Lord and received his calling shortly before his nineteenth year. His knowledge of the Bible, along with his mature visage and demeanor, coupled with his captivating authoritative voice lent credence to his claim of being an ordained minister. If not for the lack of credentials, he most likely would have become one of the wealthiest and most famous in the religious sector. As it turned out his notoriety made the good people of Beaver Point more than happy to erect him a church building. Why he, a man of his caliber in his chosen vocation, would choose to settle in a community where his talents were to be so limited, was beyond anyone's comprehension, but they were not foolish enough to look a gift horse in the mouth
The reason Ben chose to stay in Beaver Point was one of the oldest known to man, and certainly not a mystery to him. As a matter of fact it was one of the most common causes of man's irrational behavior ... he had met the woman of his dreams. The fact that she was married to, and loved another, was of little consequence to him. Just one more obstacle, a mere hurdle to be cleared, as had all the others before.
He met her at a revival he was conducting in Byers, Texas. For him, it was as close as it was going to get to love at first sight. She wasn't a beautiful woman, but was easy on the eyes. As a matter of fact, many of his Groupies would have put her to shame, but what drew him to her like a moth to a flame was her ability to endure pain. After the revival was over, a very few of the most zealous were invited into his expansive special built motor home, for the laying of hands on the serpents. She unknowingly opted for the only one of the snakes that hadn't been defanged (the defanging was done to prevent lawsuits in case one of the handlers wasn't a true believer) of the bunch. It was a five-foot Western Diamondback Rattlesnake, native to the region. It had been given to Ben that very day, having only been captured hours before by a snake hunting fan of his.
The reptile had immediately bitten her on the arm. She had remained calm and composed when most people would have been hysterical. In only a matter of a few minutes the venom performed its dirty work, and the infected area swelled to twice its normal size. When asked, she had remarked that it felt like someone was trying to extinguish a cigar on her flesh. Ben convinced her to put her life into his and the Lord's hands. She had quelled to the idea at first, but with the urgent prompting of her husband and the True Believers of the Rolling Church of Higher Power, she consented.
She suffered through the next seventy-two hours without so much as a wet cloth on her burning forehead. When the pain would become so unbearable that she was on the verge of crying out, he would kneel beside her and pray. She somehow endured the delirium and bouts of unconsciousness with a stolid countenance. She was quite literally on the threshold of death on more than one occasion during the ordeal. She would have greeted the Grim Reaper with open arms (although she was ashamed to admit it, even to herself) if it would stem the endless flow of pain wracking her body to its very core.
He was so captivated with this wondrous creature that he made up his mind to possess her regardless of the cost. When he found out she was from Beaver Point, a small town some twelve miles to the East of Byers, he contacted the city council there and formulated plans for a church to be built in the rural area outside of town.
He would talk daily with the woman's husband, but refused to let him in to visit claiming it would upset her too much. He learned from the man that her name was Chelsea Casteel and they lived on a farm on the outskirts of town. Ted and Chelsea worked the farm together and had been blissfully married for two years. It was they whom would ultimately donate the three acres on the Southeast corner of their property for the Church of Higher Power to be built. Ted believed it was the least he could do for the man who had healed his wife using faith in God as the only medicine.
He would never learn how much or to what extent she had suffered at Ben's hands, for the memory of pain is soon forgotten. She had also been delirious most of the time. It took her two weeks to heal to Ben's satisfaction. She returned to the farm with her husband, but remained under the ever-watchful eye of Ben Roachman.
Ben nurtured the friendship of Ted through no genuine fondness for the man, but only as a means to be near Chelsea. It took six grueling backbreaking months of hard work to finish the church building, and another two months to complete the rectory. Ben and Ted were always the first to arrive and the last of the volunteers to leave in the evenings. They pushed themselves and the others to the limit of human endurance. During this building period Ben lived on the good will of the Casteel's who could scarcely afford it. His extravagant motor home was parked next to their modest wood frame house and powered by their electricity, all of which Ted refused reimbursement for. It never seemed to occur to him that had it not been for Ben, Chelsea would never have been in danger in the first place. Ted was oblivious to this fact as he had been
raised to believe in the self-healing of the body through divine intervention. It was also lost on him that his favorite uncle had died because he had refused a blood transfusion and had instead sought the services of a noted faith healer. This belief was the foundation, which caused Ted to think that there wasn't anything he could do to repay Ben for saving his wife.
The next two years saw the church grow in prominence as well as in size. On Sunday mornings a film crew from KWFT, a television station out of Wichita Falls, would arrive to telecast the services on Channel 4.
Approximately nine months after she was bitten, give or take a few weeks; Chelsea gave birth to a baby boy. Ben had once again worked his evil magic on the unsuspecting Casteel's, and had convinced them to have a natural childbirth (against the better wishes of her obstetrician who believed she might have to have a caesarian section). Ted couldn't stand to see his beloved wife in such pain, so he begged the good Reverend to take his place by her side during the delivery.
And so it had been Ben who held her hand in the makeshift delivery room of their bedroom. None other than he, knew of the ecstasy he garnered from her obvious pain. Watching her caused him to blissfully ejaculate into his boxer shorts. Seeing her lying there with lips swollen and bleeding from constantly biting them, along with her body writhing through contortions of agony from giving birth for the first time was almost more than he could endure. While the midwife's attention was diverted to another part of Chelsea's anatomy, Ben wiped the sweat from her brow with the palm of his hand. His fingers lingered lovingly at the base of her throat. He (caressed) massaged her neck, achingly wanting to throttle her to within an inch of her life. Longing to make her dance the thin line between life and death, stopping himself almost too late as he heard her gasping for air.
After hours of punishing, brutal labor, Chelsea gave birth to a seven pound, three ounce, Faden Casteel. The date was June fourth, 1954, and it had been a day of pure rapture for one, Ben Roachman. The midwife placed the newborn infant into his arms, and it was an erotic thrill with which he held the baby, all the while wanting nothing more than to swing the boy by his heels and bash his head against the unyielding concrete of the floor.
Ben was livid with rage. There wasn't any doubt as to the baby's father; he was the spitting image of Ted. Ben's calculations had convinced him that she had conceived the one time that he had taken her during the delirium of the snakebite, but obviously it had been either shortly before or after her recovery. He had hoped to drive a wedge between the married couple with the baby having been confirmation of her infidelity, but it was not to be. He was further mortified by their audacity to miss his next Sunday sermon following the birth. Much to his horror the baby seemed to have drawn them even closer together.
Ben bided his time for the next seven years, diligently and without fail, working on a plan to strengthen the bond between Ted and himself. At every opportunity that presented itself he would try to drive them apart. Praising Ted's anger at any sleight, imagined or factual, on Chelsea's part, while belittling any indiscretion on Ted's part in the everyday dealings of life.
Ben's church continued to flourish, but he knew that as his popularity grew, so did the chances of someone from his sordid past recognizing him. He did not fear the threat of blackmail (there was only one way to deal with blackmailers and he would do so without a qualm) it was the thought of someone throwing a monkey wrench into the gears of his plans concerning Chelsea that drove him crazy. He canceled the contract with KWFT, and began to scale down his operation, citing fatigue as the cause for such actions.
It was the weekend of Faden's seventh birthday when Ben suggested they camp out at the Highway 70 Bridge, which spanned the Red River. They parked on the Texas side, Ben's self-propelled motor home dwarfing all the other recreational vehicles. (The motor home was Ben's idea of roughing-it, having had to sleep as a child, whenever and wherever the Roving Roachman Revival happened to be at a given time.)
Due to the fact that heavy rains had been reported to the north they decided to set the west pole of the trotline three feet up on the shore. Usually both poles were anchored out in the river with only the very tops sticking above the waterline. Normally the three feet of shore would have the lines in too shallow water, but this would allow them to run the lines after the anticipated rise of the water throughout the night. The east pole was set one hundred or so feet in the stream, which made it about the middle of the north to south running river. They had moderate success on the midnight running of the lines, taking a twelve-pound flathead, nine-pound channel cat, and a twenty-pound humpback blue catfish. They awoke the next morning eagerly anticipating the first catch of the day. They were as dismayed as the other trotliners when they discovered the river hadn't merely rose the expected three feet, but instead had risen better than five feet. All the trotliners agreed that none but the foolhardy would attempt to wade such water. No fish was worth the risk of drowning. Knowing the Red River the way the fishermen did, the only thing left to do was to break camp and return home, which Ted began to do.
Tears of sadness sprang unbidden from Faden's eyes as he realized that there would be no more fish taken on his birthday. Ben saw the boy, and immediately seized the opportunity that was presented. Without any real intent on his part, he said, “I think I might just be able to pull it off, with the Lord's guidance that is."
Ceasing what he was doing at the time, Ted turned toward Ben and inquired, “Pull off what?"
"Why, the running of the line, of course!” he responded while in the process of removing his (PAYING TOLLS IS LIKE THROWING MONEY OUT THE WINDOW) T-shirt. “If I only take the net and make no attempt to re-bait, I believe I might be able to bring in what fish we have hooked."
"Are you cra.... zy?” asked Ted, forgetting for the moment to whom he was speaking, so familiar had he become to being in the company of this local celebrity.
"Crazy?” inquired Ben, cocking a disapproving eyebrow in Ted's direction, not wanting to believe that he could possibly doubt the sincerity of a Man of the Cloth. “Crazy, perhaps, but I would prefer to think that my belief in God the Almighty will protect me.
Have you forgotten, my good friend, when your precious Chelsea had her momentary lapse in faith, which allowed the serpent to inject its venom into her veins? It was God's will which delivered her from the jaws of death that held her captive during those two weeks of recovery, and continues unwaveringly to watch over her."
"I'mmmmmmmm, sorry!” stammered Ted. He was ashamed and mortified to discover that he was even capable of insulting this prestigious person before him. The thought crossed his mind that he would rather have his testicles severed from his scrotum and have them placed inside of his own mouth to carry around for all eternity, than to cause even one iota of embarrassment to befall this pious man of such Greatness. This man who had chosen to call someone as undeserving as himself, a friend. “What I meant to say was that it would be better for me to go. I am more experienced, and know the ways of the river better than you.” He hastened to add, “As well as anyone can, that is."
The way that these people referred to the river never ceased to amaze Ben. The unholy reverence which inflected their voice when they spoke of it (almost as if it were a living, breathing thing, which could rise up and smite down the unbelieving at any time of its choosing) had become a bone-of-contention in many of his sermons. Ben believed it to be a bunch of hogwash.
"I've been in it once before when it was this wild, but of course I had Johnny with me that time.” Ted immediately bit his tongue after saying this last. Johnny had been his best friend for as long as he could remember, but there hadn't been any love lost between him and Ben. They had detested each other from the get-go. Johnny claimed that Ben was a fake and extremely dangerous to-boot. He warned Ted to watch out for the man, that a person in Ben's position wielded too much power over their parishioners. There had always been a difference of opinion as to the subject of religion between Ted and Johnny, but never before h
ad it played a role in their friendship.
Johnny wasn't only Ted's best friend; he was also Chelsea's brother. The rift in their relationship had come about when Ted had refused to take Chelsea to the hospital after the rattlesnake had bitten her. Johnny was an old hand at catching the snakes for the annual Beaver Point Rattlesnake Round-up, and believed that the best place for his sister was the Jefferson County Hospital where the antitoxin serum was available and could be administered. It soon became apparent that Johnny wouldn't relent on the subject of one, Benjamin Roachman. He was rankled by the blind, ignorant, bliss with which the ardent fanatics followed the self-proclaimed preacher. (Going so far in fact as to slap the piss out of the man on the courthouse steps in plain sight of a crowd of over one hundred.)
The slap, while not that painful, was hard for Ben to take, to instead, turn the other cheek had been somewhat of a clever move on his part. It hadn't been from any thought of doing the right thing that had staid his hand. It had been fear and common sense. The reckless abandon and devil-may-care attitude with which Johnny had struck, convinced him that should he retaliate at that particular time, he would be setting himself up for the all time ass-kicking of his miserable life. Prudence, therefore, won out over valor for maybe the first time that he could remember.
Chelsea, after seeing what the controversy was doing to Ted, asked Johnny to stay away for a while. He had complied with her wishes, and all communications with him ceased until the birth of Faden. Once a month, until he was old enough to read them for himself, Chelsea would read the letters that her brother sent to his nephew. Every birthday and Christmas, without fail, Faden would receive a gift that he might or might not need, but one which he wanted very much. The presents would be of an extravagant nature, which the Casteel's couldn't possibly afford to buy the boy. He unerringly always purchased just what Faden wished for. She suspected that Ted and Johnny were somehow secretly corresponding behind her back, or the uncle and his nephew were linked telepathically. Johnny therefore lived for him vicariously through his gifts and written word. The letters had stopped about a year previous, and no one knew of Johnny's present whereabouts.
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