Drink Up

I didn't choose this. I was chosen. That sounds so preposterous, doesn't it? I guess some might say it's my calling. I call it survival. 

I came here many years ago because it was remote, not romantic.  It was my escape from a crummy, failed relationship I foolishly held dear; prayed could be mended.  Steven had been unfaithful again.  The first time was "a mistake" with a coworker.  The second, a "moment of weakness" at a bar.  And the last straw (because three strikes and  you're out) was, well, according to history ~ my fault.  Oh yes.  I was "too busy" and he, if anyone, was the victim.  I left him lonely.  Poor guy. So I needed to disappear to figure out if I could live without Steven.

Pulling up the drive to my (now) humble abode, was and still is breathtaking. The flowering pear and almond trees nestle together alternating pink and white blossoms while the creeping phlox lines their Earthy skirts in a soft lavender. The house itself sits atop a  hill where ivy winds up the front steps providing emerald green direction to the white lion herself. A front porch, screened and suspicious, frowns with just a little sag.  My front door groans as you enter. Once inside, you are welcomed by covered couches and chairs in burgundy, amethyst and deep indigo blue. There, tattered, old books stuff cases looming along walls that were once colored a romantic sea foam green which has sun faded to a less than energetic grey. There are antlers and  pictures adorning the walls while darkly stained tables shelve brick-a-brack and trinkets from lives long ago lived. Three floors, though only two permit guests, provide a castle-ish feel.  I have a conservatory, library, kitchen, game room, office, den, and of course servant quarters and guest rooms. There is a brightness to the home as the curtains, though heavy and thick, are usually open. Yet there is the sting of must that comes from any old home filled with memories. The furniture makes it elegant with its curvy, clawed legs and rolling arms but the house does have almost a comical tilt to it.  Because it's so old, things are warped, cushions are flat and springs have...well... sprung. But it's clean and I take care of it, allowing people to wander through and smudge. They talk too loud and are careless with all of it. But they pay handsomely to stay here and I cook up a storm, keep them warm and watch. I watch very carefully for I am merely the caretaker.

At night, I begin my work. I clean. I prep the next day's meals and activities; making reservations at museums, restaurants, and hiring cars to take them, and I listen to what the house tells me.  In whispers that hover and choke behind my ears, it threatens to make my lungs too scratchy and dry to breathe.. unless.. I do my job.  Most times it whispers of infidelity, little dishonest couples playing house while an unsuspecting spouse is away on business.  Sometimes it mumbles of addiction; illegal substances shot in to collapsing veins, or tossed back from a tucked away flask with tears of rage and shame that swirl down these old pipes like distasteful cough medicine. It interests me very little anymore. I only do what I need to to survive. So different from when I first arrived.

During my "initiation" as I call it, I met Mrs. Whitaker, a stately, kind yet reserved woman who seemed to hover around me but only in the background.  She was never in my way so to speak, but always near.  She lead me to what I not so affectionately call the quiet room. It was anything but. I set up camp and laid low. I didn't want friends or company. I ate and hid away. I could not rest though for I was plagued by disturbing dreams; waking to the same whispers that I do now. I didn't understand what it wanted at first. I ignored it, supplementing naps for night time sleep.  There was an oddly shaped closet door in my room. It was locked, yet at night, I heard the handle click and the creak of the hinges. There were the footsteps that approached my bed and the pulling of the blankets. The worst of those nights was when it sat at the end of the bed and then crawled slowly up toward me. I saw its hulk and felt its breath, like melted Swiss cheese and scorched brown sugar; stinging and sweet. It had arms of sort but they were too long and bent in the opposite direction from ours with spindly claw like fingers.  It's legs were stumpy and thick.  It's head was long with a square bulldog like jaw that held jagged misshapen teeth.  It's eyes were close together and dark, endless. It threatened me, my soul, unless I could feed it; beginning with the old care taker. I remember a nausea so great that I nearly tumbled out of bed. 

"I could never..." I cried in despair but with a giggling from everywhere that churned my stomach,  the shadow moved toward me, I shuddered as the long tendrils wrapped me, chilling and slathering my flesh with terror and the horror of how I could and would learn to survive....

She was in the attic getting linens that next morning.  She stopped and stared, her face tired and knowing.  A warm heavy lump of fear and self loathing swelled in my throat.  I tried to clear it.

"It came to you?" 

I slowed but steadily approached; saying nothing.  She sighed and folded blankets I'd slept on.

"Gave you quiet a gruesome choice, did it?  I see you've made yours."

I drew to an old table with a distinct and heavy labra on it.  I rested my hand and pretended to be casual.

"Choice?" My mouth was full of dust.  The room chilled.  She stood straighter and smoothed her apron then her hair.  She folded her thin bony fingers in front of her. Her head tilted a little as if someone were speaking in her ear.  She waved it off and turned to look inside me.

"Let me tell about this "Choice"." she said with a small chuckle.  "I made this same one.  In fact, if you look at that heavy candlestick, you might still see some clumps of hair or bone from Zula Webster.  Check the archives after I'm gone."  She smiled wanly.  Her gaze drifted away.  "I was afraid of the death it promised me so for the first time since my Frederick passed I wanted to live.  You see, for me, the fear of death not by accident was powerful.  Suicide is a sin. But what I've spent my life doing?  I'll never see Frederick again.  I refused to feed you to the house.  It told me all about you.  Your sadness, your breakup, your desire to die.  So the house has decided it's time for me to ... go."  She sighed again and wiped at her eyes.  I didn't see tears but I couldn't really look for them.  I had a job to do.

"So it came? Visited?" she asked again

I remained silent.  A breeze tickled my ear urgently.  

"It fed off your despair; not unlike mine.  It will keep you busy; this house.  It will consume your energy, thoughts, time, guests, and at last, your soul."

"Enough" howled the wind blowing open a shutter.  It began a rhythmic banging as a shrill gnawing voice cracked inside my skull "doitdoitdoitdoitdoit..." 

I lifted the labra.  I saw her shoulders droop.  There was a heavy thud as I continued to beat her to the shutter-drums. I found myself panting. Her body lay motionless in a growing dark pool.  I reared back and caught myself at the edge of the table.  With trembling hands, I replaced the weapon.  I looked again at the mess I'd made to save myself from the shadows of this cursed house.  It looked a little neater, a little smaller; then I heard the soft thirsty sucking sound and watched as the blood drained into the floor.  The old woman shifted with a jerk, her dead empty eyes glaring up at me; a dreamy smile plastered on her thin lips.  I was jealous of her peace.

"Good." the room cooed and continued to drink. It trembled almost with giddy enthusiasm. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I realized the warmth had returned, the house more alive than ever.  I staggered down the steps, unable to watch the feast any longer.  I found in the library a folder on the desk with all the paperwork for the house. I saw a collection of owners.  My home puffed in my ear happily and soothed me.  It promised all would be okay; better than ever.  And it was for a  while until hunger struck.  Was it six months? three? I don't know and anymore I lose track of time with so much to do.  But I was being nudged like the plant from Lil Shoppe of Horrors "Feed me Seymore! FEEEED MEEE!"

New to the ways of the homestead then, the thought of killing an innocent stranger was sickening but I had to ease its pain; my pain. So I dialed.

Steven was glad to hear my voice.  He excitedly promised he'd be here soon to discuss things; our future.  I assured him I would pour wine, show him around this sprawling beast and drink up. 

But all too late he will realize his future is much shorter than mine.

The magic in calling me Baby

His mother had warned him that karma would come around.  Marjorie remembered that bitterly, standing at the edge of Kenneth's grave.  It was empty of course.  Even after all this time, Carol wouldn't give up the location of her only son, gone for more than seven years.  He had been declared legally dead. Cold granite was all she had left of her precious boy.  A fresh wave of tears trailed her cheeks. She was surprised at how they just never ran out; even when you didn't want them anymore; were tired of them ruining your makeup and causing that hitch in your throat as they threatened to pop up again and again. People came and softly touched her arm, whispered in her ear their sorrow for her; her loss. The police held the kook who took her son away quietly at the back of the crowd that gathered; who was mourning and who was gawking, she wasn't sure.  Carol stood stoically with her head hung, humming. Marjorie ground her teeth, feeling the heat of loss and the emptiness that "closure" was supposed to bring by having her son's killer serving a life sentence. It was a farce.  The insanity plea had had an influence on Carol's sentence, though not as much as her outlandish acting which kept her from the lethal injection Marjorie would have sold her soul to administer, if not to sit right up front and cheer while that witch died tied up like the animal she was. Glancing over her shoulder, she noticed Carol swaying and humming a song Kenneth had sung or whistled on many happier occasions.  The mother of the allegedly slain young man leaned against a high backed cloth covered shabby royal looking chair to steady the rush of nausea and hate that rushed upon her.  How dare that evil witch ever sing. Let alone one of her son's favorite songs.

The story of Kenneth and Carol was the stuff  bad television shows were made of.  No one would have watched it, she thought to herself almost giggling.  She coughed in her hand instead, dispelling a little of her queasiness.  Kenneth had met this wall-flowered, conniving witch at a bar one night; so true to his form.  He was a little frisky in the pants but he was still young, unready, unwilling to settle down and be a proper family man. But with age, time, career settlement and the right kind of woman, he would marry, have a beautiful family that would grow and give her loving, precious grandchildren, while they as a couple and a family would take on the world and succeed.  Marjorie dobbed her eyes again.  Her lip quivered.  They were burying her future, his ... everything was covered in dirt.  All because of Carol.

That nutjob had been introduced in her home and had played childishly with her hair, speaking in a voice that was soft and whiny at the same time.  Marjorie had to ask her to repeat herself constantly.  Carol, ate little, spoke less and seemed enamored by everything Kenneth did. To that milk-sop of a woman,  he was magical.  Marjorie worried about this puppy like girlfriend, but Kenneth had waved her off when she voiced such concerns.

"Ma, don't worry.  She won't be around long. In six months, NEITHER of us will remember her name." and he laughed,wiggling his eyebrows mischievously, heading off down the hall.  She shook her head, calling after him with a scornful tone about Karma and biting his ass, but leaving him to his womanizing ways.

To Marjorie's astonishment,  Carol WAS around; MUCH longer than she or her son had anticipated.  With each visit, she began to speak with more confidence and contribute to conversations; even begin them.  She called her son, doted on him, cooked and cleaned for him.  Kenneth had confided, much to Marjorie's chagrin, that he was frustrated that they hadn't slept together.  Marjorie, approved just a little of Carol's fortitude in the matter.  Carol was a challenge for her son. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted and when.  It was Marjorie's fault, she realized now... all too late.  But he kept at it with Carol.  Faking the good boyfriend role until she gave up and took him to bed.  And it all went to Hell when that crazy bitch opened her legs. Marjorie spat maliciously in to her tissue and sobbed. In the back of her mind, she too began to hum the song her son loved to sing. It was the closest thing she had to ever holding him again.

Carol stood between Officer O'Hara and Detective Moorman. The court had permitted her to go at the urging of her therapist; Dr. Matt. Carol had remained almost catatonic since the alleged crime.  Carol knew they would never understand.  Not even Dr. Matt could know what she'd done.  Carol sighed and looked up at the cornflower blue sky speckled with cottony clouds.  She smelled the sweetness of churned earth and relished the heat and sweat the sun pushed down on her.  She began to hum softly (or so she thought) a song that Kenny had always sung when he was happy.

She had met him at a big club one night while being left behind by a not-so-good friend, despite the concoction she'd made and consumed before leaving.  It wasn't a new occurrence.  She would go, her friends would get noticed, chosen and taken home.  Carol would call a cab and leave.  But on this night, a handsome young man bought a drink and brought it over to her.  He had said something stupid and pick-upish but she had falsely laughed, accepted the drink and smiled. That was it. She grinned that the magic had worked and gotten him here, but she didn't know what to say, how to start or continue a conversation... she was choking inside and although most of her wanted to run to the safety of aloneness; a silent cab ride home to her dark empty apartment for one, a tiny part, that shook her knees and kept a sweet smile on her face, kept her sipping her drink and left a colony of butterflies completing countless aerobatics in her belly told her to stay.  So she did enjoying the power of the potion.

And Kenny did too.  In fact, he wrote down his number, giving her hand a warm squeeze as he left her table to take home a friend who had overindulged.  She called him from  her cab. He laughed at her, no with her because she had done the same; laughed. The magic had given her courage as well, she noted.  And then they made plans to have coffee. Lunch another day. And then? Dinner.  He had asked her to dinner! Carol! The slightly doughy, non-painted, simple woman who bought from Dress Barn and wore Pay Less shoes.  The girl who had a silent cell phone and a no-poked face book page, surrounded by herbs, ancient spells and rickety magic, was going out to dine with a man that everyone seemed to know and love.  Carol swirled in her tiny dungeon of an apartment feeling like Cinderella.

 So she dressed finely, drank a little more of the potion and went to the ball with a prince.  It was a dream for her.  He was kind and polite, ordering for her, complimenting her, listening to her... Carol couldn't believe it. Almost on the verge of tears with shear joy, she was proud to be seen, with this man. When he took her home, he traced her cheek, bending to kiss her.  She giggled and bit her lip, hugged him in a rush and dashed upstairs to tell her empty chairs that waited up for her all that had happened, all that she felt.  The heat, the power and excitement was far more intoxicating than the wine she had let him pour.  But her second bed pillow had scolded her since she had not let him in her apartment. She had not slept with him.  She had ignored what he wanted after all he'd done- to "earn" a night in her bed.  Carol sighed and figured he would never call again.  She punched her pillow, thanking it for ruining the most incredible night of her life and went to sleep. She thanked the magic for the opportunity at least.

But he did call. He did want to see her again.  His first words were always "Hey Baby."  She was his BABY?! Ohhh she swooned at the thought.  The sound, she drank it in like Koo-aid on a hot summer day. It was sweet and delicious to her.  She never wanted to be without that sound. "Baby."  And so they began to see each other more... and more.  Always she was his baby.  When he took her home to meet his mother, she was fearful yet ecstatic. She threw up four times before they even got to the interstate.  When she finally arrived and got settled, she found the calming potion and survived the weekend and subsequent meetings with Marjorie using her new powerful magic.

Her love for Kenny grew at an astonishing rate.  She loved doing things for him. she loved seeing and hearing about his day, all through the day.  She loved hearing him call her Baby, never her real name.  It was so cute and loving and romantic.  When she finally let him in to her apartment and bed, she thought the magic circle she had traced was now complete. Her body came alive and her heart was filled with Kenny.   She was very wrong.  The morning after, the morning she had dreamt would be filled with quiet "I love yous" and chatty plans of their future was instead carved up with a note, stating it wasn't her, or lack of anything she was, it was him.  It was a fear of commitment, of a weakness for other women (of which there had been plenty during their time together) that kept him from furthering their relationship.  He wasn't going to call her.  He wasn't going to see her.  Because she deserved better.

She called out of work and went to his apartment.  The doorman let her in because he recognized her.  She smiled tightly and said she was going to sneak up and just grab a quick few things for their weekend together.  He winked and let her go.  She did what she said she would but they were things SHE actually needed for something much more important than a weekend.  She scampered out and waved cheerily to Hank who blew her a kiss and shook his head; blushing just a little. So pretty a girl would never see such a plain ordinary man like himself.

Once home she began to work, hard at preserving her relationship.  She called but he didn't answer.  So the message she left ensured a response.

"Hey Baby. I got your message. " he seemed dry and irritated.

"Yes Kenny.  It's me."

"What's up? I am on my way to the airport soon.  Got a big meeting tomorrow in New Hampshire."

"Oh how good. I hope things work out for you."

"Did you get my note?" he asked after an awkward silence.

"I did.  The one you left after sleeping with me?" she felt a burn of anger in her voice.  She ground up the herbs and added the oil.

"You understand?"

"Oh I do." she said simply wrapping the doll in the hair she had collected from his razor tray.

"So, Baby... why did you call?"

"I wanted to give you a second chance Kenny."

He sighed as if bored.

"A chance to reconsider what you've done and make it right. We could be so happy together."

"Baby..."

"This can all be solved and put to rest if you just say my name."

he said nothing.

"Say my name Kenneth. Do you even know it?"

"Baby... of course I do..."

"Uh huh. Then let's just toss it out there."

Silence.

"As I suspected." One last tear dropped from the tip of her nose.  She sniffed and steadied her gaze on the table. It was time. She cranked up the volume on her little radio and said his name quietly.  She waved her hands over the doll and closed her eyes, beginning to mutter.  He asked her to repeat it but she just kept going, these rantings. He began to get angry and berate her.  He told her it was all a game and that he never loved her.  He didn't even like her.  She was fat and ugly and childish.  She was boring and stupid... and then there was shrieking from his side of the phone and a loud cracking noise.  Carol turned the volume down on her radio and hung up the phone.  She smiled, proud of her work and achievement of her goal.

The police came only a few days after Kenny had been declared missing by his mother.  Carol clucked softly at the thought of Marjorie.  She had been kind.  But maybe that was all false too. After all, Kenny had to have learned it from somewhere.  Carol chose not to believe that, genuinely sorry for the woman who lost her son.  Marjorie would miss him.  He had always said they were close.  Carol wished she could have told her the truth.

The truth had to be seen to be believed.  She had worked hard on Dr. Matt to let her have a  few creature comforts.  She had permitted tests and mental probing.  She had endured countless questions and incorrect analyzing. But it had paid off.  She had her radio.  Her precious radio.  All she really wanted was her music she had said tearfully.  "I can deal with what I've done. I will accept my punishment given by those who don't and can't understand.  Just please let me sing with my friend, my radio.  It's all I have left Dr. Matt."

He had gone and gotten it. She had squealed with joy when he'd handed it to her.  She stroked and cooed to it, spoken to it and told it that she had missed it; missed all the time with it and that now they would be together forever.  Dr. Matt made notes and left his disturbed patient alone with her radio. She danced and hugged it, oblivious to anyone else.  Late at night the guards reported hearing Carol in her room, the radio going and giggling.  They noted conversations she had with "herself" , the people in her broken mind, and the radio. And that sometimes she would say:

"Call me Baby. I love to hear you call me Baby."


You know, I have wanted to write this piece forever.  There is a song by Helen Reddy; "Angie Baby"  ( I will try to post it) that I loved as a little girl.  It was scary and funny and exciting to me.  My favorite songs are those which tell a story.  I finally wrote this in honor of a favorite childhood song.  I hope you enjoyed it.  A little long and drawn out but still fun and a good story for me.  I hope you enjoyed your weekend.  I did.  We came up north and I loved the lake, the mountain and my Promises. 

Until next time, thank you for coming by to sit with me a bit. I am happy you chose to spend a little time with me.

Angie Baby- Helen Reddy (lyrics on screen & info bar)

A Trip Downhill With the Gang

Regret. It's a pebble of a feeling which if left unchecked, begins to roll tragically down the emotional hill in our minds, collecting other thoughts that culminate in to a huge ball of madness. This snowball, with Regret at its core, surrounded by Anger, Hurt, a hint of Jealousy and smothered in the foolish desire to control, careens into disaster and shatters lives leaving smithereens ... of? Regret. Ron let his pebble of regret roll down that hill. It was now picking up speed and bad ideas.

He hastily wrote the address down almost digging a hole in the paper.  He knew where she was now; 170 Rockwell Drive. The announcement for his top nomination would be made in two weeks.  She had been his first bad idea; a silky night inside a plush hotel outside his marriage bed during a conference.  They had met several times after that, certainly never at their homes.  She made him feel alive and invincible.  She was exciting and sensuous; willing to do and go places he'd never been with his wife. Her body was intoxicating, her voice hypnotizing.  He was addicted. When his wife, Jan, found out about little Miss Heather, she had been.. upset? Her own pebble had started to trickled down, with her threats of a very public, messy divorce;  a scandal. So Ron had done what was right; what was best.  He told Heather, they were through.  He'd held her, wiped her tears and said goodbye. That was supposed to be that.  He was back on track.  Jan had reigned in her pebble and was working on a new direction and life for them both; one of public life in politics.  She practiced her wave and speeches about his integrity. She could be proud after all; perhaps.

Heather began to call.  At first it was to plead that they stay together and keep it quiet.  Ron actually thought about it, remembering how her long thin legs had wound around his body. How she chirped and giggled, clawed and moaned his name as they wrestled in the sheets.  But he was just getting noticed, making his way and that "way"could not include a mistress; not yet.  Maybe he'd look her up when he'd settled in and had some more clout to keep it quiet.  Then Heather's pebble rolled too; only she let it go.  She still called but to hound, follow and threaten.  The first of the pictures came to his office.  They had been addressed to him, but if he didn't do as she said, pay the money, she promised that all would change. They would go to his boss, his wife, his church, his daughter in Arkansas and Jesus himself if she could find the PO Box.  

Now her calls caused him to chomp three Tums at a time with a wince.  He slept rarely through a night, worrying and counting down to his nomination that he had worked so hard for.  His little pebble had begun its journey, quickly collecting Panic, Fatigue and Fear which all spurned what seemed like a simple solution.  He could solve his Heather problem, keep his skyrocketing career and his picture perfect family.  Regret had picked up speed and some pals on the way; down.  He smiled and checked his calendar. Tuesday? Thursday? He wondered if those were good days to commit  murder. Not Monday. Everyone had a crappy Monday. Not Friday because it was the weekend and everyone had stuff to do. Saturday was date night. Church on Sunday.Wednesday was a good TV night so that left the two benign ho-hum days. He nodded to himself, approving what Logic had begun to do to, organize the gang, the other feelings  Logic was  was giving him control.  He left for the store to get supplies for their plan.

After several stops, many changes of clothes: hats, coats, shirts and glasses (he didn't want to look the same in any security camera) and almost fifty miles of driving (not didn't want to shop locally) He hauled his loot in to the basement of his modest home.  He laid it all out, surveying, planning, envisioning the end of his problem; the end of Heather. Glee snuck in and was welcomed by the others though told to keep it down. What a party!  It was late when he left. Jan had gone out with friends. Heather had been nagging all week to meet for the final money drop and picture exchange.  Since Ron had agreed, she had been almost pleasant, flirty; like old times.

"You know, Ron, it doesn't have to end so badly." she cooed.

He could picture her pouty red lips sucking softly on her fingertip as she spoke.  He cleared his throat and his mind, knocking Desire on its ass.  Logic scolded it and told it to shut up.

"You're right, Heather. I've been thinking a lot about you lately."

"Me too Lover." her voice was thick and sweet.

He let her pick the place, the time and then looked up her home address. He had never abused this power before, but Common Sense (at the prodding of Foolishness) told him it was okay.  He had decided that he just couldn't wait to see her. Excitement had to be shushed but continued to giggle with Glee inside his head. The voices grew louder. He wrote the address down almost digging that hole in the paper.

Her street was cute and quaint, dotted with a few small houses; like a development that just didn't quite make it. They were older and smaller homes, most in need of work or at least a little attention, but it suited Heather's personality.  She was all of those things too.  He sat in the car he'd rented from upstate and pulled the mask over his face.  He heard the soft playing of "Silence is Golden" by The Four Seasons.  "But duct tape is silver" he mused with Sarcasm and shut off the car. 

Tension woke Panic and they got Nerve up.  He began to shake.  Regret tried to speak, but the others covered it up with whispers of encouragement.  They pointed out  his bag was packed, his tools ready.  He just had to follow through.  He could regain everything if he could just follow this through.  With a heavy sigh that brought bile in to his throat, he hoisted himself from the car.  He looked around and saw a woman walking her dog about a block away.  She couldn't possibly see him or identify anything about him.  He simply looked like a man walking up to his house; just coming home.

"People travel." His new friends murmured to him.  His face and head were sweaty inside the mask. Fear was terrified but Logic still soothed and pointed out this was the only way. She would not stop until ...  His conversation with himself escaped in nervous misty puffs in the night. He walked with Intent to the house. Logic had elbowed Courage who had been dozing in the corner. On wobbly legs,Ron and his pals moved on.

"One- oh- seven Rockwell" he whispered to them.  That little pebble was now a stone, racing around in his chest.  His hands wiggled playfully in his gloves. His heart was pounding inside his jacket, trying to keep up with all the commands and hullabaloo. Quickly, he went around to the side and found an access door.  It was easy to jimmy.  He was in.  He walked quietly through the house in search for Heather.  He marveled at the decor.  It seemed so much more grounded and homey than her personality.  Heather was a little wild, reckless and selfish.  Ron had pictured Heather satisfied with a bean bag, a couple of plastic art deco chairs and a cable spool for a table with an oriental dressing screen to give her the amount of privacy she needed... which wasn't much. Heather enjoyed being watched.  This little home was filled with brick a brack, flowery fabrics, conservative furniture. Caution cleared its throat to speak but Haste kicked its shin and told him to stop dillydallying. "It's time" they echoed between his ears.

He walked slowly down the hall and discovered the brunette woman sleeping peacefully in a simple tee shirt and panties.  Ron's mind jumped track for a moment, but then he saw the envelope on the dresser and he regained momentum. He scooped the envelope in to his bag and stood above her.  The hammer came down quickly with a thick grunt. He only needed to do it once.  He couldn't risk blood splatter or patterns on the wall to denote his left handedness or his height... Once only. Logic said that was good enough.  She never moved; never saw what happened.  Just like that, Ron regained control. "See?" they all sighed.  His breath rushed from him as if he had been mauling molten iron over a hot anvil for hours.  His skin was clammy and shiny with sweat.  There was no movement, no protest, nothing but a growing puddle on the bed.  He dangled the hammer over the blackmailer's body and bagged it.  He slipped it in to his kit and turned to go.  Ron carefully retraced his steps, wiping all the things he had touched with a bleached cloth to smear the skin and print evidence.   He then stepped out the door, looked in both directions and headed back to his car. There was the soft jingling of a dog collar.  He glanced nervously but saw no one on the street. They were cheering for him.  He yanked the envelope from his bag and began to pull what looked like X-rays from it. Regret screamed "Don't look!" and began to argue with Pride.  Both decided it was too dark and it was time to go. They all just wanted to finish what they'd started. Ron sided with Confusion but pulled away.  Although Exhaustion was pouting and whining like a child, Logic kept them all alert for just a little longer. He drove the speed limit all the way up state where he detailed the car, returned it and stopped periodically to throw pieces of his murder kit away in unassuming dumpsters.  The hammer was dipped in bleach and left at a construction site he'd seen on his long trip out shopping.  Ron drove home and hummed his new favorite Four Seasons song.

"It IS golden." he chuckled to the songbirds. His breath was even and calm.  He felt light inside. He was proud of his problem solving skills. He began to build his acceptance speech.  Maybe Jan would like to sneak away for a romantic weekend once the nomination had been upheld. He patted the envelope that he would shred when he got home. It was early morning now. His timing was perfect.  There was a lot of chest bumping going on inside his head. They had pulled it off.

The woman who lived at 170 Rockwell Drive stood stock still.  Her breath quick and terrified.  She prayed that her nervous pug Dewey would keep quiet and not bark at the stranger who went in to Kelly Parker's house carrying a bag. Kelly was a simple home body who lived alone.  She had recently divorced and was doing a great job of moving on as a Radiologist at the local hospital.  The woman recited the license plate over and over to Dewey as her hands shook uncontrollably. Dewey looked up and wagged after each letter and number as if to say "Yep. Got it. Got that too. Yep. We got it Mommy." All she wanted to do was get home.  Something was horribly wrong.

She keyed in and threw herself against her door. Then raced about, unlocking and re locking all her windows and doors.  She tugged her phone from her pocket and barricaded herself in her bathroom; Dewey waddling along every stride. She scolded herself for being nearly unable to dial the phone. She hissed his number.

"I would like to speak to Commander Ronald Garvey." she almost choked with surprise when the board picked up. She could hear the boredom in her voice.

"Well, my name is Heather Quimbly and I live at 170 Rockwell drive.  I think I just witnessed a break in." She was surprised to hear he wasn't in his office.  He had told her he couldn't make the drop tonight because he'd had to work. Not at work on a Wednesday?  "No. No message. Please put me through to dispatch. This is an emergency. They will page him."  Her knees were still knocking but she managed to tell the woman what she'd seen.  They assured her an officer would come to her quickly as well as to Kelly Parker. She walked down the hall to her dresser and pulled the photos out of the drawer.  She put them in her bag that she had packed.  Once she met Ron tomorrow and got the last installment, she was going straight to the airport with her one way ticket.  The original photos were already in the mail to the Mayor.  She'd walked them down herself with Dewey tonight and slipped them in one of the few mailboxes in town.  She'd be long gone by the time he'd have to explain his misconduct to his wife, his boss... the nomination for Commissioner was going to be withdrawn and he would regret ever knowing her.

Heather smiled. Her stomach didn't hurt anymore.  She felt sleepy.  She couldn't wait to doze in the sun and begin her new life.

The doorbell rang and the officer stood outside.  Heather began to tell them what she'd seen.


Ahahaha... I LOVED this. Absolutely loved and am proud of this one.  Okay I know some innocent woman got bonked but I loved this ending. It was DELISH! I got some flack about it already but it still makes me smile. I really hope you did too. Thanks for stopping by.  I have another one but it requires a little digging and research.  I'll see you in a few days.  Thanks for coming by to play with me today. 

Well it's been quiet on this homefront this week.  Cheech has been away and things have been busy for me. But I've missed you, sorry for being so aloof. Thanks for all the good luck wishes on our trip up north.  We decided to go up to Promises despite the snowpocalypse that threatened us.  We were glad and lucky to make it just in time.  We got about six inches of beautiful powder which my kids can't wait to get into it.

Today is blustery and our skating rink has been drifted shut. I've enjoyed sitting at my desk, looking out over the lake while the toddlers snuggle in blankets at my feet.  The sky is brilliant blue and the fire is roaring.  Winston refused to get out from in front of it until his little heiney got burned by a stray coal. "TOLD YA!" but what could I know? I'm just a silly "mommy"

I hope that all of you in Nemo's path are doing well and doing the exact same thing; enjoying.  I have written one I'm SUPER happy with, but I need to edit so we'll join up again late tomorrow?

Stay warm.
See you soon.
Tessa