Moments later, a door opened and Crawford Beasley strode into the room. The quasi-militant froze, stunned, as he surveyed the scene of carnage before quickly zeroing in on the static corpse of the Rottweiler. Obviously moved, he bent over, affectionately stroking the dog’s lifeless corpse, and spoke, his voice soft and tender, “Chester… Chester, who did this to you?” Moved but aware of the warmth still radiating from the dog’s body, the madman’s moment of grief was brief. Acutely aware that the killer might still be in the building, he immediately focused his attention on the two screens monitoring the compound’s surveillance system. Up to this point, Beasley had remained unaware of Ted Hendricks’ device for deceiving his security setup, but as he watched the series of cameras scan the various rooms of the building, the absence of an updated image of the control room, the area he currently shared with the dead Rottweiler, became obvious. Freezing the picture on the compound’s nerve center, instead of a scene cluttered with the aftermath of chaos, he saw a clean and pristine space, exactly as it was when the techie created the frame grab three days earlier. Bringing the system’s control panel up on the screen, Beasley immediately triggered a reset, restoring the system to its initial settings. Satisfied for the moment, he watched as the series of images resumed, scanning one empty room after another until it finally reached his mother’s bedroom, where, in all their naked glory, Patty and Ted were fucking like two rats on a sinking ship.
Outraged, Beasley screamed, “NO! NOT IN MUMSY’S BED!”
With no hesitation, the madman unholstered his pistol, cocking it as he bolted through the door. Sitting in the dark, my mind raced ahead, wanting, needing, pleading for a way to warn my friends of their impending, looming and booming death. I didn’t have to wait long. Moments after the lunatic left, a roar of eight shots, the entire clip of the fully loaded .45, hideously thundered throughout the compound.
Unable to believe the series of events erupting around me, I sat in stunned silence. I told myself there was nothing I could have done to save Patty and Ted… nothing… and, as I repeated that hopeless mantra over and over, I also said that maybe… just maybe, I could still save myself… but I had to act… I had to move… limping, crawling, dragging myself… whatever it took, to get out of that closet and hide. The compound was big. With any luck, it could take the asshole hours, maybe days to find me. All I had to do was make my way back to the Hummer, hide inside again and wait for Beasley to take me out of there. It could work. It had to.
The safest place to hide was the large storage room where Ted, Patty and I had taken cover for three days; but, aware that his stronghold had been breached, Beasley’s guard was up. I had to be careful.
Miraculously, the tourniquet had worked and my leg was no longer bleeding. Examining my wound as I left the closet and re-entered the control room, I realized my ankle was possibly broken but, hobbling slowly, it somehow bore my weight. The nasty gash in my lower leg undoubtedly needed stitches, but the pain, while still substantial, had subsided. Moving as fast as I could, I grabbed the envelope of documents, then unplugged the control room computer, knocking out the compound’s surveillance system. That way I could move through the building undetected—at least until Beasley restored the system. Guessing which entrance the madman would likely use re-entering the control room, I then cautiously exited on the opposite side. Shaking as I stood in the hallway, I waited until I heard the sound of two doors opening and closing, as my antagonist left his mother’s room and returned to the compound’s hub.
Knowing that I had a few minutes while Beasley investigated the messy aftermath of my confrontation with Chester, the dead Rottweiler, I quietly limped back to the storage space, instantly collapsing on the pile of bedding I had recently shared with Patty and Ted. Sobbing, as I watched my tears collecting into tiny pools on the concrete floor, I struggled to regain control of my emotions. As my thoughts locked in on the specter of Crawford Beasley emptying his pistol into the writhing bodies of my companions, my sorrow was slowly replaced by outrage. At that point I had what I needed to put the fucker away, but I could only do it by somehow escaping the madman’s hellish black hole.
Exhausted, hungry and still in pain, I decided to eat and rest then wait a few hours before attempting to conceal myself in the rear of the Hummer again. I assumed the surveillance system was back up but my hiding place in the storage area was well concealed. Regardless, I remained tense and edgy until finally, around 4 a.m., I decided to go for the Hummer.
Assuming the compound’s security cams were online, my hope was that by this time, Beasley would be fast asleep, consequently I wouldn’t be seen limping through the hallway and into the back of the big SUV; also, after the execution of Patty and Ted, it was possible that the madman thought the threat was over. As far as he knew, they were the ones that offed the dumbfuck Rottweiler.
Opening the door and stepping out, the first thing I noted was an absence of light in the circular corridor. Patty, Ted and I never left the safety of our little womb at night, so maybe this was a normal power-saving device, but feebly limping into gloomy darkness only inflated my already looming feeling of dread. Amping my apprehension even more was a series of lasers, beaming across the open corridor, another security device designed to detect intruders. The pinpoint rays of light, a few inches above the ground, crossed the hallway at intervals of about three feet. By painstakingly stepping over each beam, I slowly moved a few feet down the passageway until a subtle and curious sound grabbed my attention. It was a faint whooshing, almost like an electric fan, emanating from somewhere near the ceiling of the dark corridor. Confused, I froze, listening as the sound continued, and as it did, I suddenly noticed the presence of something else: a moist ephemeral presence appearing, then vanishing, leaving a wet and slightly slippery spot near the bridge of my nose. Then I felt another, lightly caressing my fingers, as more landed on my head, my shoulder, my arm, until, raising my right hand, one settled upon it with the lightness of a tiny cloud, but this one, instead of disappearing, remained for a few moments, allowing me to raise it to eye level and, squinting into the darkness, the sense of recognition was immediate: it was a bubble! A soap bubble, and in the same instant, I realized the hallway had somehow become engulfed in airy, aimless blobs… hundreds, thousands, maybe millions appearing, floating and popping on every surface within the dark, connecting corridor. Unnerved, I attempted to resume my tricky passage down the hallway, but as soon as I took another step, I instantly grokked my dilemma. The floor, suddenly shrouded in the oily residue of bursting bubbles, was like an ice rink slathered and lathered with K-Y Jelly, a slick and slimy nightmare that quickly had me sprawled on my back, writhing in pain and watching as my supine body broke the beams of several lasers, triggering yet another soon-to-be-suffered security device.
Laying in the darkness of the hallway, I couldn’t actually see the apparatus, obviously designed to disable an unknowing intruder, but based on the results, it wasn’t hard to figure out. A series of muted whizzing sounds was quickly accompanied by several sharp, stabbing pains in my side, shoulder, and thigh. Grabbing at the small darts penetrating deeply into my flesh only increased the pain radiating from my broken ankle. Unlike anything I had ever endured, the agony was all-consuming, rising from my ankle and abruptly swallowing my misery into a sucking, screaming and endlessly sinking pit. I was burnt toast.
The first thing I noticed when I finally woke up was a series of parallel stripes crossing a bright area enclosing my prostrate body. Attempting to clear my beyond-the-valley-of-mondo-murky head, I noticed that the stripes were actually shadows and, by forcing my throbbing brain to function, I came to the realization that the shadows represented a lack of brightness caused by objects blocking the passage of light from its source to the surface on which the shadows appeared. Consequently, I assumed, there had to be a series of parallel objects between myself and a light source. Simple deduction… and by scrutinizing the surrounding area, I quickly discovered several evenly spaced, equ
ivalent objects—bars… steel bars, crossing an opening that separated me from the brightly lit area on the other side. Working really hard, I slid over to the barrier and peeked through, recognizing Crawford Beasley’s control room just beyond the bars. I was in the doghouse… the space last occupied by Chester, the once deadly but currently deceased Rottweiler.
Occupying the room on the other side of the obstacle was Beasley himself. It was early morning and the madman, still dressed in camo robe and pajamas, was fondling his .45, the same one he used to kill Patty, Ted and Duane. As I began to stir in my canine-scented cell, he spoke: “Is that you, Franky… finally awake in there, are you? How’s the memory, there, Franky? Huh? The Midazolam in those darts makes some people go bonkers, Franky… can’t even remember their goddam name… do you know who you are, Franky? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? Cat got your tongue… OR MAYBE THE DOG! I was VERY UNHAPPY after you killed Chester, Franky… he was my pal… my pal… how do you like it in there, Franky… do you like living in Chester’s doghouse?”
Okay, I was groggy as hell… apparently from the drug Beasley used in the tranquilizer darts that whacked me in the hallway, but I knew who I was and I sure as shit knew who he was. All right, I was locked in a doghouse… the fucker had me, but I didn’t have to just sit back and take his abuse… pausing a moment, I looked around… the space was roughly six by six… it was dark and the only thing between me and the concrete floor was a filthy, mud-caked blanket… and it smelled like a dog… What the fuck! Maybe I did have to take the asshole’s abuse. “Okay, yeah, I killed the fucker but he was chewing my goddam leg off… and how do you know my name… Crawbaby?”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT! ONLY MY MOTHER WAS ALLOWED TO CALL ME CRAWBABY! It sounds disgusting and profane coming from you… Franky.” The madman paused for a moment then reached over and picked up something laying on his desk. It was my wallet. Smirking, he looked toward me and continued, “It looks to me like Chester was doing his job… right, Franky?… good old Chester… did he rip your pants off? Good dog… and there it was in the back pocket of your blood-soaked pants… all the information I needed… California driver’s license… credit cards… Social Security card… and a membership card from the Southern California Writer’s Association? It seems you’re a writer… correct?… is that right, Franky boy… you’re a writer…”
Yeah, a writer locked in a doghouse being toyed with by a maniac. My normal bubbly sense of optimism was starting to fade. “Yeah… So what?”
“Well, the ‘so what?’ is that’s the only reason you’re still alive, Frank. The world needs to hear what I have to say… and you’re gonna tell it… do you understand, MR. ELL-AY WRITER?”
I paused to reflect on this unexpected turn of events. Apparently, the only reason the madman hadn’t already offed me like Duane, Patty, and Ted was because he wanted me to document his life story or his philosophy or his favorite jokes or something. What a weird fucking world. It was like some of strange reverse Scheherazade. The only way I was going to stay alive was by listening to this crazy fucker rant hour after hour… day by day… forever?… in a doghouse? This was not life. It was hell—I had to be dead.
“So often… oh so often there simply is no justice in life. HA! My words give this trivial truth the weight of sagacity but every child who has had his ice cream usurped and slurped by brigands learns this lesson at an early age. I was only four years old when they started calling me Beastley… BEASTLEY!… mocking my teeth… I still hear their vicious little voices, ‘BLACK TEETH! BLACK TEETH! BLACK AS COAL! BLACK TEETH! BLACK AS SATAN’S SOUL!’ Hell… They weren’t even black… just dark brown! Cruel! Cruel! Life can be so CRUEL!… Did you get all of that, Franky?”
Infused with his personal philosophy and words of wisdom, the madman Crawford Beasley was telling me his life story as I dutifully archived it for posterity. “Yeah, yeah, just give me a second to clean it up… Okay, what now?” We had been at it for over an hour. I had had way more than my fill of the fucker’s bullshit… but he was just warming up.
“All right… This next one is about the monumental joke known as marriage… Are you married, Franky?”
“Huh? Well, no, not anymore… I mean I was, but…”
“BUT? BUT? Of course you say ‘BUT… BUT…’ because it’s nothing BUT a big joke!! Here is the plain and simple truth… Legalize brothels! LEGALIZE BROTHELS! Of course that’s the answer! How many hollow marriages and superfluous children enter the world every day in the name of a nonexistent deity, when the ultimate intention is, of course—SEX! SEX! Yes, as a species we do have to reproduce… yes, we do need more children, but DO WE HAVE TO HAVE HORDES AND HORDES OF THEM? UNWASHED… UNEDUCATED… AND UNLOVED… All worshiping a vast cornucopia of absent almighties—JUST TO GET A LITTLE PUSSY! LEGALIZE BROTHELS! Sex should be a public utility like water and gas. IT’S SO FUCKING SIMPLE!…”
“But what about love? I mean, marriage wasn’t so great for me, but don’t you believe in…”
“‘Love’… LOVE? I’ve been married three times, Franky, and I loved them all…WHEN I WAS HORNY! Love? I loved my dear Mumsy but… but…” Staring into space, Beasley was lost in the dark whirlpools of his own self-sustaining fantasies. Enthralled with the power of having an audience for his insane ranting, the madman was compelled to continue, expounding and elaborating. How long could this continue? I feared finding out.
“Yes, I loved my dear Mumsy, but… but…” Pausing again, the madman wiped away a tear before continuing, “I can’t say how much it pains me to reveal the degree to which my own beloved mother succumbed to the heinous and insidious plot of FLUORIDE! Convinced of the healthful benefits of that cancer, Mumsy demanded that I brush my teeth TWELVE TIMES A DAY with fluoride toothpaste. She also insisted that I consume an additional twelve servings of tea, the result being THIS!” Grimacing, Beasley paused, pointing at his cola-colored teeth, then resumed his tirade. “But the truly extraordinary outcome of this treachery was how remarkably inept the Communists were in capitalizing on their success! Regardless, the determination to pollute our water and numb the minds of our children STILL EXISTS! Hence the need for PAGWAG. With diligence as our watchword, the glorious irony of our movement is how, by blackening the teeth of the so-called celebrity class, PAGWAG will successfully turn the conspirators’ plot against them! WHO SAYS THERE IS NO JUSTICE IN LIFE?”
“But can’t you see… you’re a criminal… a murderer… you have hundreds of millions of dollars… you could have worked within the system… sponsored candidates with a clean water agenda… but PAGWAG… PAGWAG is crazy!”
Oops. As the madman’s glare suddenly narrowed and focused on me, the thought occurred that maybe I’d gone a little too far. Cringing as he charged across the room, Beasley abruptly stopped and bent over, thrusting the .45 into the doghouse. With his face pressed against the bars, the asshole screamed at me like a burning baby. “WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY? BECOME PART OF THE SYSTEM? A SYSTEM BASED ON CORRUPTION, HYPOCRISY AND LIES! MINGLE WITH A MINDLESS MASS OF SHEEP? LED BY EQUALLY MINDLESS SLOGANS, DELIBERATELY DESIGNED TO CONFUSE, MISLEAD AND DECEIVE? TO FULFILL NO OTHER PURPOSE THAN ENSURING THAT THE POWERFUL RETAIN CONTROL OF THEIR MEANINGLESS, SHEEPSHIT-FILLED LIVES? IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK I SHOULD DO, FRANK? IS IT?” By this time the veins on Crawford Beasley’s forehead pulsated like swollen squid, bulging about the perimeter of his beet-hued face. “NO! I SAY NO! AND I HUMBLY BEG AND BESEECH ANYONE THAT SEEKS TO SALVE A SULLEN SOUL! STEP OUT OF THE SHADOWS, SHEEP! BUY GUNS, DRINK PURE WATER AND FROLIC IN THE SUN! LIFE IS GOOD WHEN FREEDOM SINGS!” Composing himself, Beasley pulled the gun back and plopped himself down on a chair just outside the doghouse, a self-satisfied smile tweaking the corners of his mouth. “Did you get that, Frank… That was a good one.”
Okay, that was it… doghouse or no doghouse… gun or no gun, I couldn’t take any more of the fucker’s smug, sanctimonious and bogus bullshit. He was fucking nuts and his plan was pure insanity… and it was time he heard it. “Yeah, CRAWB
ABY, that was a good one… Almost as good as your looney-tunes plan to pollute L.A.’s water supply. What a fucking joke!”
Caught off guard, the madman leaned forward in his chair. “Huh? What… what do you mean?”
“I mean you are nuts, wacko, bonkers… do you have any idea how many celebrities actually live in L.A.? LIKE ZERO, YOU STUPID MORON! Yeah, okay, they occasionally come to L.A.—FOR WORK!… but when they do, do you think they drink TAP WATER, BB BRAIN? FUCK NO, THEY DRINK BOTTLED WATER! Evian, Arrowhead, Crystal Geyser, Perrier, San Pellegrino… yeah, I can just see Julia Roberts or George Clooney walking up to a faucet, filling a glass and THEN DRINKING IT? IN YOUR DREAMS, FUCKFACE! Hey! Tell me, bozo… exactly how much money have you blown on this dumb fucking plan that can’t possibly affect anyone except a few thousand poor Mexicans… WHAT A FUCKING JOKE!”
The ensuing silence enveloping the room was breathtaking… as in the air being suddenly replaced with a vacuum, vile, venomous and evil, and as the silence swelled, consuming the space like a tiger shark sucking baby seals, I wormed my butt into the back of the doghouse… okay, I asked for it…
His face the color of a putrefying pomegranate, Crawford Beasley exploded out of his chair, thrusting the gun back between the bars as he screamed, “LIAR! LIAR! IT’S NOT TRUE… IT’S NOT… IT CAN’T BE!” And with that, he aimed the gun at my head and pulled the trigger… and nothing happened… jerking it back, he cocked the .45 and fired again… nothing… again… and again, until the madman finally realized that he had forgotten to reload the clip after killing Patty and Ted. Furious, he turned and bolted from the control room headed for the gun belt he left in his bedroom, leaving me alone sitting on the floor of Chester’s doghouse staring at Ted Hendricks’ laptop.
For some reason the fucker had given me both laptops, mine and the kid’s. I can only assume he didn’t know which was which, and with me locked in the doggy hoosegow, he probably didn’t care, but now, in total panic, my mind screamed into the void created by the madman’s feverish exit. Hendricks had used his laptop to gain access to the compound’s security system and now I had it. I knew I didn’t have much time. As I watched the lunatic rushing toward his bedroom on the control room’s surveillance system, I opened the techie’s laptop, immediately spotting an alias labeled “PAGWAG_Security_Remote_Access.” Clicking on the icon got me into the system, then thirty seconds later I was looking at a screen labeled “Intruder Deterrents.”
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