Cheri thought back to when she was 10. The year was 1945, and she had just been returned to the boarding shelter. Her hair was kept short, and her bangs were neatly trimmed and cut straight across. The clothes she wore were secondhand, cheap, and plain. The War was coming to a close and welfare professionals were doing all they could to shut down orphanages. Caseworkers loved seeing children suffer, particularly when they could contribute to their pain. The Christian community pretended to care on the surface, but never did anything truly helpful unless it benefited the church. Rumors were making their rounds, and word had it that every orphanage would either be converted to a retirement home for the elderly or be turned into a psychiatric facility for kids who are mentally disturbed. She recalled this one girl who wouldn’t stop pressing her buttons, that finally got a reaction out of her when she shoved Cheri and pulled her hair, only to wind up with third-degree burns on her arms and neck.
Meanwhile, Agent Shelling was getting his fill of grief from the press, as the media was becoming more impatient and intolerant with the Bureau’s distinct lack of results. He didn’t have the energy or the heart to tell them that he was shut down and washed up, and that the FBI couldn’t give a shit anymore about finding Dawn. So, to avoid any awkwardness or explanation, he played along as if he were still actively pursuing public enemy number one.
“Has she called in, to taunt you or make any demands? Do you suspect any involvement with a religious sect? Is she a devoted disciple of an unholy army of Satanic warriors? Is she part of the Illuminati or The New World Order?” the relentless reporter asked preposterous questions, aiming for a fantastical twist of sensationalism for his absurd article.
“If she ever calls, we will trace it,” the disgruntled Agent lied. “And that bold act will be the harbinger of our salvation. If she’s in a Christian cult or a Satanic coven, we will dismantle her network,” he answered, sighing. “Trust me, you will know something when the FBI does.”
“Has there been any major arrests in the case? Any leads at all? Any co-conspirators?” he pressed the unemployed Fed, unwilling to take a hint and determined to get something from him that he could spice up. He was all about exploiting and exaggerating, and the Agent knew it.
“No,” Agent Shelling slowly shook his head. “We know who she is. The name of the perp isn’t in question. It’s just her whereabouts that are still unknown.”
“You’ve taken no one into custody?!” the reporter antagonized, as if to imply that it would be better that they arrest anyone, even if that person isn’t suspicious or guilty. Agent Shelling swallowed in relation, as he couldn’t deny that he had once resonated with this sick mentality.
“Dawn Moon is exiled, and will eventually have no other option but to seek refuge. I would imagine that she may already need medical attention,” Shelling responded, hinting that they will grab her the minute she checks in to a hospital. “The authorities, nationwide, are cooperating with the Federal Bureau. The more she rains Hell upon the world, the more evidence she’ll leave behind that will lead to her inevitable capture,” he lied again. Agent Shelling’s obsession with Dawn had long faded. She was too elusive and too clever, and he had grown weary of restlessly searching for her without any results. He started to wonder if there was more to her disturbing past that made her what she became. He loved his wrecked sister and deceased nephew, but he had just grown tired of dismal failure. He felt like he had been chasing a ghost, and just couldn’t do it any longer. His anger and hatred had mutated into doubt and defeat.
As the hair-raising stalker groped Cheri on the bed, and played with and fondled all three of her nipples, he grew more aggressive every minute that she allowed the heavy petting to go on.
“Stop,” she demanded, with a stern face. “Just stop.”
“What?” he asked back. “What’s the problem?”
“You. I can’t do this. You’re making me sick.”
“It’s a bit late for that. Once you walked into this room, you gave up control. You surrendered the right to be picky,” he informed her, still grabbing her by the back of the hair and forcefully sucking on the side of her neck, doing his best to leave the blackest hickey he could. As he marked his territory on her preferred flesh, she gave him one final opportunity to be reasonable and obedient.
“Stop. I’m telling you one last time,” Cheri warned.
Posing as if he would finally comply to her wishes, he let go of her momentarily and misled her by acting as if he had calmed down and had second thoughts. This was, of course, a total ruse, as he was completely comfortable with raping her. He had trailed her long enough to know that she had broken the law and therefore knew she had no desire to consort with the police. He looked up at her, with a wicked grin, and put her in her place by putting his foot down.
“Listen, bitch, think of this as a gambling debt. I didn’t sign you up for this or hold a gun to your head. You came here voluntarily, thereby silently consenting to an unspoken contract. You’re going to get fucked tonight and you’re going to like it. Or, perhaps, if you’re really not interested in me, we can make other arrangements?”
“Meaning what, exactly?” she inquired, knowing damn well that he had no intention of letting her off the hook, but still curious to see what his asinine answer would be.
“That’s a nice wolf you got out there,” he said, in the creepiest voice possible, as his breathing got even heavier. “What do you say you turn him over to me and I fuck his brains out, before I gut him from his throat to his dick and fry me up some Wolf burgers?”
It was at that moment that the rest of the house heard a horrifying scream, at a pitch that made the little hairs on their skin stand at attention. This scream wasn’t because he had discovered her third nipple, but because he had fucked with the wrong bitch. Cheri strutted out of that bedroom, leaving a pile of burnt ash on the bedspread. The ash was on her arms, hands, and face. She smelled of death…his death. She walked down the winding staircase, while holding the rail as she descended. The homeowner stood at the bottom and pointed a loaded pistol at her head.
“Stop!” he commanded, “or I’ll shoot! I swear, I will! I’ll do it!” he threatened.
“Go ahead,” she calmly gave permission, calling his bluff, while completely relaxed and unconcerned.
The frightened man pulled the trigger, only to hear a harmless noise that was much different than what he had expected it to sound like. The gun hadn’t kicked back or sounded violent in the least. He looked down at his hand and to his amazement, saw that his Beretta Tomcat had turned into a Mattel cap gun. Cheri lifted the man’s body off the floor and threw him back into his living room, using nothing but telekinesis. She considered leaving the house in a fiery blaze, but decided that the only one there who deserved to die had already been exterminated. So, she left the domestic hedonism event with only a departing smile and a middle finger.
"Well, that's a humdinger," one of the naked partygoers said, as he and his evening mistress peered through one of the bedroom windows. He wasn’t the host, but he had also been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. They watched Cheri climb into her Van, where Wolf was waiting and watching for her, and pull out into the hungry road.
Dawn kept smacking herself in the head and pulling out her hair, trying to force out the unwanted wicked thoughts that she didn’t want to admit to thinking. She could feel herself slipping further into madness, and lose what little bit of humanity she had left. She had the insatiable craving to kill, and it no longer mattered who her victims were or if they were among the few she cared about. Dawn grinded and gnashed her teeth, shaking her head and fiercely blinking her eyes. She loved the idea of mass murder, and hated herself because of it. The girls could see Dawn losing her mind in front of them. Julie begged her to stop hurting herself, until Dawn finally brought her hands down and opened her eyes…only to further scare the living shit out of her cellmates. They respected Dawn, but could see the darkness in her eyes, which was plain as day.
&nbs
p; “Who agrees with me that Dawn needs a therapist?” Stacey asked out loud, not thinking before she spoke.
“Yeah, or…maybe…a pastor?” the kidnapped Karen suggested, throwing her high-and-mighty two cents in.
“A therapist would only make her worse, not better,” Claire enlightened. “What do you get when you put a space between the e and the r, in therapist?”
“The rapist,” Julie answered, swallowing her own saliva and nearly choking on it, as her sad eyes swelled up with tears for Dawn.
“That’s right,” Claire acknowledged, “and preachers are no different than therapists.”
Dawn just stood there, once again blinking and squinting in a rapid and violent fashion, as if trying to extinguish her eyes from the Hell that she was seeing. Julie started to approach her, wishing to give her a hug, but when Dawn resumed gnashing and grinding her teeth, it made even Julie step back and stay clear from the crazy Indian. Dawn had no intention of hurting Julie or any of the other girls, but as she clenched her fists, she could feel herself losing control, and knew that she would soon have a difficult time restraining herself. Julie looked down at Dawn’s fists and saw blood dripping from them. Dawn was digging her nails into her flesh. It was as if Dawn was having a mild stroke or seizure, while Julie and the others felt helpless, not knowing what…if anything…they could possibly do to help her.
JULY 21, 1979
TIN MOON
It was the day after the tenth anniversary of the historic, Apollo 11, moon landing. A little boy and his sister were plopped in front of the television, in a middle-class, suburban neighborhood. They had awoken early, excited for the Saturday morning lineup, but their favorite (Jonny Quest) didn’t come on NBC until Noon. They had Quisp cereal for breakfast and found a hidden prize in the bottom of the box. The directions on the toy’s bag told them to pull the dolphin apart, put baking powder on the inside, and then snap the two pieces back together. This was supposed to make their dolphin dive repeatedly in the water. They had followed these instructions to the letter, after leaving a white trail from the kitchen to the living room carpet. They didn’t know what to put the dolphin in, so they put it in the fish tank over by the fireplace. This, of course, only made their white mess a bigger one.
As the unsupervised siblings watched their artificial dolphin bob up and down, an animated commercial played on the TV screen. The citizens of Toothopolis were being bombarded by the Cavity Creeps. They chanted ‘we make holes in teeth,’ just before the Crest Team dropped in to save the day. Their sugar-sweetened corn cereal was quickly losing its crunchiness, as the kids had left half their bowls to soak and get soggy in the milk. This was their typical attention span that was also shown by the Parker Bros. board game, Bonkers, which was often left spread out and forgotten on the floor.
The two grade-schoolers were distracted once again by a noise that was coming from outside. They took their hands out of the now cloudy fish tank and hurried to the big window. Two dogs, who were clearly in heat, were enjoying each other’s company in a way that children shouldn’t know anything about.
“Fucking bitches,” their mother said, after quietly sneaking up behind her excessively curious kids.
The young ones jumped, not having heard their mother come downstairs. She usually slept in till mid-afternoon, not having to work to pay the bills. Their pregnant mother recently had her 5th divorce and lived happily and comfortably from a combination of child support, alimony, state-funded welfare that she somehow astoundingly qualified for, and the money she had fraudulently embezzled from both the government and her exes. This had been her plan all along, unbeknownst to all the foolish men who had fallen for her act and believed in her phony persona. Rebecca often stayed in her cozy robe and fuzzy slippers for most of the day, unless she had to take the children somewhere that required her to begrudgingly get dressed. The children and their mother looked at one another for several minutes, without speaking a word. When the kids turned back to look again at the mating dogs, the three of them were shocked to see what appeared to be a well-dressed homeless man standing outside their window while pressing a FBI badge against the glass.
“Let me in,” the disheveled man-in-a-suit insisted.
Being the wonderful parent she was, she promptly took her knees off the edge of the sofa, where her kids were standing on, and went to open the front door for the alarming stranger.
Not too long after, Agent Shelling is lounging lazily on the relaxing couch, helping himself to a pastrami and sauerkraut sandwich he’d made in their kitchen. Rebecca and her two children were gagged and bound, sitting in front of him, on the floor. The kids were crying and wrapped back-to-back with duct tape around their little bodies. Rebecca was wide-eyed and terrified, also restrained with duct tape, but only on her wrists and ankles. Shelling had just come back downstairs, after helping himself to the shower. He was now wearing her fancy robe and cozy slippers, which were too small on his big feet. Rebecca was nude and shaking.
“I don’t know why I just bathed?” Shelling told her. “I’m going to get dirty again in a few minutes,” he said, smiling. “We both are.”
“Mmmm!!” she mumbled through the constricting gag, desperately trying to wiggle out of the tape, which was strapped tightly and securely. Her hands were behind her naked back and her efforts to struggle got her nowhere. She knew what was coming, and even though she was shameless in her detached promiscuity, she could tell that this time would be different. He was in control, not her, and she was smart enough to know that it wouldn’t be in his best interest to keep them alive after he was done with them.
Meanwhile, Boner was having his usual fun, at the prisoners’ expense. He had bought them the Milton Bradley Co. game, Twister, where the girls had to use their smooth bodies as playing pieces. They obediently complied, while they sweated on and climbed over each other, trying their best not to fall down. He forced them to play the balance game for hours, no matter how tired they got, as he sat back in a wicker rocking chair and played with himself through his zipper.
“I’m frightened, Dawn,” Julie whimpered, as she fought back the tears and noticed that Boner’s eyes were particularly zoning in on her body parts.
“Just keep doing what they tell you and don’t cause any trouble,” Dawn advised her, hoping that her young friend would be okay as long as she listened.
“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” Karen said. “The Lord is with me, whom shall I fear? Proverbs 9:10 and Psalm 27:1,” she added, as she talked into Julie’s open butt crack, who was currently bent over in front of her.
“Somehow, I don’t think the Lord is with us,” Claire observed. “And, if the Lord doesn’t want us to be afraid of our oppressors, then you would think that the Lord would do something to help us.”
“Shut your traps, bitches!” Boner yelled in a threatening tone, while continuing to stare and drool over Julie, whom he considered to be the perfect specimen. “No talking, goddammit! Just play the fucking game!”
Boner was sporting brand new, Studio 54 jeans, while drinking a glass bottle of orange soda. He sat there, singing the Good Vibrations song from the Sunkist commercial, while a heavy camcorder rested on his shoulder. He taped the girls’ activity on a Betamovie BMC-100P. This was technology that wouldn’t be released for another four years, but was granted to these human traffickers in advance, in exchange for services rendered. Corporate lust was just as enticing and compelling as corporate greed, and the executives at Sony were sadly no exception.
Meanwhile, later that same night, Rev. Mingan Moon is being treated at Maryland’s Holy Cross Hospital, in Silver Spring. He had suffered a stroke that nobody saw coming. After being rushed to the emergency room by his girlfriend and a couple of his male parishioners, no one had come to visit him after they left. As beloved and respected as he saw himself to be, it was a rude awakening to discover that his lovers and followers weren’t quite as fond of him as they had long conveyed. Rev. Moon had been there for severa
l days, alone and forgotten. The doctors claimed that they had done all that they could do. They had notified the next of kin after giving up on ever reaching Dawn, and once again, nobody showed.
Mingan laid there on his back, in the uncomfortable hospital bed, watching Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, on NBC, on the small TV that came out of the wall. As he watched the on-screen chemistry between Gil Gerard and Erin Gray, the primetime broadcast was interrupted by a loud disturbance of white noise. The stroke he had suffered was major, and the severity still reflected on his face. He looked like a Halloween mask, and though he couldn’t budge or speak, he was fully conscious and aware of his surroundings. He watched as the white noise revealed three forbidding characters that were in the shape of voluptuous shadows. As they walked closer and became clearer, the silhouettes crawled out of the boob tube. Within seconds, after a series of flashes and gestures, they stood at the Reverend’s bedside.
“We are Moerae, the Furies of Fate and the daughters of Nyx,” they said in harmony, in a sinister voice that made Mingan lose control of his bowels and mess himself. These beings were unquestionably female, though they bore neither faces or features. Their synchronized voices were also clearly virulent.
Reverend Moon would have cringed and trembled, had he been capable of being mobile. Mingan knew who these curvaceous demons were. He had been visited by the children of eternal night and they had come to collect his soul, which was just as dark as their presence. Though his physical shell was frozen stiff, his black heart began to pound and race, which showed on the electrical monitor. When the nurse’s station saw that his chest wires were reading dangerous rates, they immediately rushed to his room, only to find that he had flatlined and been mysteriously altered. A blackness had infected his entire body, as if he had somehow been dyed from the inside out. Dawn’s wicked father was gone, and off to star in his own nightmare. The difference between his and Dawn’s was that he deserved what was coming.
Moon River Page 10