by Lee Thomas
On the far end of the block, he turned left and was struck by the sight of the Suburban John’s car, now abandoned. The empty sedan rose liked a tomb from the curb where it would remain until the police impounded it, the owner’s use for the vehicle having now passed. Ian slowed. He approached his own car, digging into his pocket for the keys. He punched the button that unlocked the door and slid inside.
Out of the rain, his frayed thoughts continued to loosen and fall apart. What he’d witnessed in the warehouse was unconscionable. It was evil. He should burn the place to the ground—wait for the next party and ignite the factory, purge it of the seductive boys and the jury they served. That ungodly creature had to burn too; The Party had to end.
Ian slotted his key and started the ignition. He turned on the headlights and the windshield wipers. The glass before him briefly cleared before it was again spattered with heavy raindrops.
Two young men walked through the downpour, oblivious to the weather. Though unfamiliar to Ian, they might have been part of the butchering crowd. They were young enough.
Beautiful enough.
The boys peered in at Ian. Unimpressed with what they saw, both looked away and continued down the sidewalk.
These were the eager faces capable of shaping the days ahead, Ian realized. They were nothing more or less than young—the equivalent of being nothing more or less than gold. They mattered…
And…
You are irrelevant.
The bearded juror had understood his meaninglessness. He’d felt no more threatened divulging his knowledge to Ian than he would have in revealing it to a wall, a rock, or a pet. Ian could influence no one, change nothing.
He killed the ignition. The wipers stalled but the headlights remained on, cutting the blur of gray ahead into a static of silvery needles, visible for only a moment before the glass was again streaked, melting any semblance of clarity. He pressed into the seat, and a burst of chills erupted across his back.
Before him was an abhorrent road, smeared and all but impossible to navigate, a road that took him irrevocably forward to erode in miniscule increments from weather and misuse. He would pass through the countryside, but his ability to access the beautiful terrain would dwindle.
He could see it—all of the splendor—but his ability to touch it, to be part of it, would fade with each passing mile, until he was nothing but an impotent voyeur, a prisoner in the vehicle. And what waited at the road’s end?
He suddenly envied the butchered old men. Their pain had been terrible, surely, but at least it had been brief, and then they’d found new life—fresh youth; the wonder of it alone would be worth the anguish.
Ian wanted to go back, not tonight and not to destroy, but instead to participate.
Tonight the Party was long done, but he would return to the Block tomorrow night and the night after and every coming night. And on one occasion he would find himself in the company of beautiful young men, and they would escort him through the filthy streets to their party, where he would again meet the jury and their generous monster. The lovely boys would undress him and love him, and he would gratefully endure their attentions, fulfilling small needs until the rending of his flesh brought the bliss of rebirth.
Testify
Patrolman Joel McCauley, August 19:
Me and my partner, Dekins, were first on the scene. Dispatch got one of those “What’s that smell” calls at 9:04 pm, and we were directed to the Travis Apartments in North Central Austin. Even before we opened the door, we knew the news wasn’t good. The smell you know? The temperature had been up in the nineties for a couple of days, and the air conditioner wasn’t running, so the heat had baked that stench into a simmering whiff of hell.
When I was a kid I belonged to the Boy Scouts. This was in small town East Texas so we were tied into the community good and tight, and once a week a bunch of us made the rounds and did odd jobs for the elderly. One Saturday morning I visited Mrs. Eva Cross. Usually I mowed her lawn and took out her trash; sometimes I’d help her get something off a shelf. That Saturday morning, I found her hanging in her garage. She’d been there for a few days. So I got the scent in my nose real young, and that smell is like a primary color—no mistaking it.
Anyway, the TV was on. You could hear it through the door clear as day, and that stink of rot was creeping out from around the jamb. No one answered the bell—which didn’t surprise me or Dekins—and we entered the residence.
The door opened onto a small living room. It looked like a college kid’s dorm, right down to the empty pizza box on the floor. To the left was a real nice Sony flat panel jobbie. A foreign flick with subtitles played on the screen. I remember that because the voices seemed unreal—gutteral and harsh, like they spoke in one of those Eastern Block countries. It might have been Russian for all I know. It doesn’t matter.
To our right was a relatively new beige sofa—small but not quite a loveseat. We found the victim there. At first he looked like a pile of clothes waiting to be folded, but the truth of it came clear soon enough.
I’ve never seen anything like it. My daughter cuts these man-shaped dolls out of construction paper. All kids do, I guess. Well the victim looked like one of those dolls if the child had gotten mad at her creation and crumpled it in her fists. Seemed like every bone in the kid’s body had been snapped, legs and arms bent at unnatural angles, his torso compressed into a plump sack because his spine and rib cage had been turned to mush.
I didn’t know it was that guy from the news.
Louis Dervers—Facebook Post, May 9:
Well kids we’ve got a new one!!! It seems you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting another anti-gay, Christian man-cunt with a taste for cock. This time it’s Reverend Robert Wright, seen in the photo with bible in hand and “Angel” (a confirmed male prostitute) close on his heels. The pic was taken by a hotel employee who recognized Wright and said it wasn’t the first time the reverend had checked in with a bit of boy candy in tow. I’d like to be surprised, but honestly, the reverend’s oh-so-lush, Burt-Reynolds-circa-Smokey-and-the-Bandit mustache clued me in long ago.
Statement from Xavier Dumas, former concierge for the Hotel Paladin (Dallas), August 19:
I’d worked at the hotel for more than eight years and prided myself on excellence in customer service and absolute discretion. These things are important to note, so you understand that posting those pictures wasn’t some lark of provocation. Further, I understood from the moment I took those pictures that I stood every chance of losing my job, and I took them anyway, and I made them public. Some things are more important than a paycheck.
Robert Wright has spent his life using his bible as a weapon against the LGBT community. Since his early ministries when he equated homosexuality with bestiality, pedophilia, and incest, he has been an agent of hate. Twenty years ago he formed Family in Front, an organization built on disseminating anti-gay propaganda and establishing those disgusting reformation centers where unbalanced men and women pay thousands of dollars to be “cured” of their homosexuality. He has used his ministry to support conservative candidates across the nation to promote and strengthen the anti-gay agenda. In recent years conservative politicians have adopted him. They call him a spiritual advisor, but he’s nothing but a lobbyist for hate legislation. He claims to be compelled to his work, that he “hates” no one; he’s doing the will of god. The guards at Auschwitz said they were doing the will of the Führer. It wasn’t their fault either.
Just following orders.
On several previous occasions I had seen Robert Wright in the company of young men who seemed to be of a certain type. He made it something of a ritual, visiting the hotel for a day or two before flying down to Austin to wield his influence on the State Legislators. I knew what the hypocrite was doing, but without proof—something absolutely concrete—I refused to make accusations, even against a man who stood for everything I despised. This time I had my cell phone in hand when he entered with the young man, who cal
led himself “Angel.” I began taking pictures immediately and kept taking them until the two disappeared into the elevator.
With my suspicions all but confirmed, I waited for the young man to return to the lobby, which he did an hour and a half later. Upon emerging from the elevator I asked him over to the concierge desk. I suggested that I often received requests for men in his line of work from guests in the hotel. I used the common euphemism of “massage” and he informed me that he lived in Austin so clients in Dallas wouldn’t be convenient for him, but he could be found at a certain website under the name Angel.
After he left, I visited the website for confirmation.
In the end, I had no choice. I had to expose Wright and his hypocrisy. And yes, I lost my job the day after I posted the pictures on the web. Of course all of the attention immediately fell on “Angel,” which would have been fine if he’d shown the slightest integrity.
I was infuriated when the little prick went to the news and denied everything.
Jimmy “Angel” Royce, quoted in the Daily Register, May 10:
“Mr. Wright hired me as a therapeutic massage technician. That is the extent of my relationship with the man. To my knowledge, Mr. Wright is a devoted family man. Our meetings were in no way sexual in nature.”
Statement from the Reverend Robert Wright, May 11:
As the ridiculous allegations fly across the internet, I find myself under attack. As such, I will leave this argument to the jackals and return to my home in Nashville. There I intend to pray and reflect surrounded by the love of close friends and family. However, in light of today’s news story in the Daily Register, I will be retaining the services of a defamation attorney, who will be addressing this matter immediately. Cruel innuendo is one thing, but to pass it off as factual is both reprehensible and illegal.
To be clear, I am not gay. I have never been gay. I’ve devoted my life to pulling Christian souls back from that abyss and will continue to do so until my dying day.
Official Statement (Dated May 11) from Gerald Chambers, Executive Director, Family In Front:
Reports have been circulating regarding the Reverend Wright’s involvement with a male prostitute. Though the suppositions are genuinely disturbing to all of us here, Revered Wright has not been a guiding force for this organization in over six years. Yes, he was a founder of Family in Front but we have taken his early vision and expanded its reach and efficacy. Our successes speak for themselves. That noted, Family in Front, has neither knowledge of nor connection to the Reverend’s current practices, whether they be business related or private in nature.
Should these allegations prove true in any way, it is our sincerest hope that Revered Wright’s faith will lead him back to us. Thousands of homosexual men and women have entered our enlightenment facilities to find their way back to Jesus Christ and experience his love and forgiveness, free of the sin and self-loathing it instills. Our prayers go out to Reverend Wright. Our doors are always open to him. We can only sympathize with the pain this incident must be causing him.
Statement from Mort Hammer, Coroner, August 20:
I remember it well enough. You always remember the ones you can’t explain.
I mean, look, it’s obvious the kid died from blunt force trauma. The M.E. made it clear that the body hadn’t been moved or dumped, so Royce died where he sat. But what killed him? I’ve seen suicides in better shape after thirty-story dives onto concrete.
Let’s see…
All of the major bones in his body were shattered—not just broken—but shattered, yet his skull was untouched. I have never seen a bludgeoning victim that didn’t have head wounds. Never. But everything above the neck was intact and unmarred. Then there’s the issue of his face. His facial contortions were inconsistent with those of a victim who’d undergone extensive bludgeoning. In such cases we’d expect the victim to pass out from trauma or slip into a comatose state as the internal organs ceased proper function. Granted the lids might retreat to some degree during rigor, but Royce’s eyes were wide open. In fact, he looked startled as if death occurred instantaneously.
His organs were pulped and lacerated by bone shards. Most notably were the lungs, which had suffered hundreds of tears from rib fragments. They fell apart in strips when I tried to remove them from the cavity.
So he was beaten to death…except he wasn’t.
The condition of his dermis—his skin—was not in keeping with what we expect to find in such cases. We have to suppose that it took some time for Royce to die, particularly since there was no cranial damage involved. So, we would expect to see subtle differences in the bruising patterns of wounds inflicted ante- and postmortem. The first contusions would have necessarily begun swelling, and there would have been some initial coagulation in the subcutaneous tissues in and around the burst blood vessels.
I found no such thing.
To make things all the more what-the-fuck? the skin itself, the outer dermal layer showed no signs of distress, which is to say, the bruising and bleeding were all internal. The skin was only broken in seven places, and all of those wounds were the result of compound bone fractures: three ribs through the chest and back, both femurs, a fibula and an ulna. So it looks like the kid was beaten to shit from the inside out, which is impossible.
Officially, I wrote it up as blunt force trauma by weapon or weapons unknown. Unofficially, it looks like someone wrung the kid out like a sponge.
Statement from Esther Boutte, parishioner at Sacred Calling Church, May 10:
I don’t believe a word of it. The Revered Wright has been graced by our Lord, and we have bathed together in Christ’s glory. He is a good man, and the greatest spiritual leader our country has known since the Reverend Billy Graham first took the pulpit.
The good reverend’s devotion to Christ has guided him through advanced studies in the world’s religions. He didn’t just accept his calling; he committed himself to it, studied it and compared it to the ramblings of the Muslims, the Jews, the Orientals, and the Africans, so he understood how dark and flawed those faiths were when compared to the perfect light of Christianity. He even studied many occult practices to better understand the challenges of being a Christian soldier.
“Know thy enemy,” he used to say. He knew, and I know, too.
The purveyors of sin are devious and deceptive. But they showed their true colors this time. The homosexuals know good and well that nothing is so disgusting and unnatural to our Lord as their sickness. They know it! That’s why they have tried to stain the Reverend’s good name in this way. Every demon below is willing to call a holy man brother if it will mislead his flock and send them wandering into sin unprotected.
We’ve seen through their tricks this time. Yes sir, we have. Our congregation has already begun a collection to help the Reverend through this soul-sickening time.
Louis Dervers—Facebook Post, May 14:
Ooops he did it again! Second call boy comes forward to claim he’s had “The Wright Stuff.”
Follow the link to the hilarity!
Statement from Jenny Lowrey, sister of Jimmy Royce, August 10:
Why do you want to know about our childhood? It was what it was, and what it was was crappy.
Fulton wasn’t the most progressive city, even by Mississippi’s standards, and I think Jimmy and I both understood at a really young age that we didn’t belong there. I read a lot and that made me something of an alien to the other kids, who were more interested in rough housing and causing trouble—you know, pranks on neighbors and picking through the town dump for garbage they thought was precious. The girls were hardly different from the boys. They’d shoot their slingshots and b.b. guns, killing squirrels and birds and whatever they could get in their sights. I didn’t understand their glee in cruelty, and Jimmy was… he was just different. Mostly he stayed in his room and played an old, broken down guitar. He tried to make friends, but the other kids…
I did what I could to protect him once things at school got bad
, but we were in different grades, and I couldn’t be everywhere at once, you know?
He had one good friend. Her name was Myrna, and I loved her for taking care of Jimmy, but I didn’t like her very much. She wasn’t all that smart, and she tried too hard, like she was desperate to hold on to the two of us.
Still, we three played together right up until I started high school. We went to movies and played Monopoly and Go Fish. Our favorite game was called Buffy—because of that television program? It was really just a variation of Hide and Seek. One of us would be “Buffy” and would carry around this piece of foam we’d cut to look like a stake. The other two would be vampires.
We’d hide and if “Buffy” found one of us and could “stab” us with the foam stake, we were dead and had to wait until the other vampire was killed. Jimmy wanted to play that game all the time.
It let him be a kid. Most of the time he didn’t get to just be a kid.
We basically had to take care of ourselves, you know? Mama worked a couple of jobs—at the grocery and at the lumberyard—and in between shifts she drank beer and chain smoked, and on her days off, she stayed in bed. Daddy? Who can say? I remember him, like those really early memories where everyone is just a shadow moving through a blur? And I remember, or I tell myself I remember, that he smelled like sawdust. Jimmy was too young to remember anything about him, and maybe that’s better. There were no pictures of him, none that I could find anyway, and Mama never talked about him. The only men around the house were the guys Mama met at work—most of them married. They came and went before we really got to know them very well. Maybe that’s why I got married too young and why Jimmy…