No, I Have Not Forgotten

Ok, hello all. Apologies for the ridiculously long post before, as well as the gap in between postings, but the length of that post, as well as it's being written in my blogging notebook (bad idea. My handwriting is atrocious and the notebook seems to inspire me to write longer posts, so the Michael Jackson Memoriam was a two and a half page long illegible muddle. And every time I opened the notebook to try and complete the post, I grew a headache).

By the way, before I get into what I was going to write about, I wanted to say that I have not forgotten about Dogs of Wrath, The (I am going to change the title). I will continue to post sections, but my life is kind of busy right now. Got back from a two week vacation, where I was essentially cut off from the Internet, and on Saturday, I'm going out west for two weeks, so I don't know what the Internet status will be. Keeping my fingers crossed that I will be able to post, etc. And for those of you who have checked my profile recently, I have another blog, where I am going to be creating this sort of world. Hope to develop it into a novel eventually, and I might actually do that for NaNoWriMo.

Which brings me to what I wanted to write about. I am considering doing a two character novel about a world in which God disappears (idea came to me in the shower, so don't knock it) and I think it might actually be workable. It allows me to fix the sixth degree and another project I was working on, and helps me to actually have CHAPTERS! Instead of the two 35 page long blocks of text that is currently DOWT. (I like the sound of that. DOWT. And it's a homophone. It fits.)

So what do you guys think? Can I do it, the God thing? Comment or something, but I'm probably going to do it anyway, so whatever. Encourage me then, or offer ideas on what happens afterward, because THAT I don't have. Right now I have about five pages of exposition, a page or two of God's appearance, page of God speaking to the world and then he vanishes and a page of the world's reaction. How can I make this a book?

Extended Addendum

Oh, and by the way, I am very close to getting Dogs of Wrath, The (I should delete the "The" when referencing the work, it's annoying me [Oh, little parenthetical asides, how I have missed you! What fun we shall have again! {I love Deadpool, and am not so keen on the fourth wall, by the way. Just in case anyone was wondering where the "parenthetical asides" thing came from} Oh, yes we will! Yes we will!] But I like it as a pun) up for sale on the blog. I know that I said if I didn't get it up by the 2nd, I would just continue with the installment posts, but I feel that it would be a bad idea to offer the entire thing for free. I swear this time. If it's not up for sale by Monday, the 22nd, I will put up some more posts.

If anyone out there is reading this thing (I know you're there. I know you visit the site. [ Statcounter dot f*cking com tells me that] Read the damn blog!), please take the time to comment telling me whether you think this is a good idea.

And in case you guys think I can't follow through on anything, suck it. I just deleted my Twitter account.

Dogs of Wrath, The: Hiatus

For those who missed the Dogs of Wrath last weekend, rest assured, I will not let it go the way of The Sixth Degree. It is finished, and I am trying to be able to sell it.

That sentence made no sense at all.

What I mean is, I want to be able to sell the Dogs of Wrath manuscript as an eBook. I have the PayPal thing set up, but I also want automatic delivery or a download link, or something. That's the part I'm having trouble with. I can't figure out how to have both of them together.

Help would be appreciated.

Oh yeah, and I never did write that follow-up post about the meaning of life or the one about money, did I? Well, that's on my list of things to do (which is, essentially, in no particular order: 'Get girlfriend, get married or become responsible baby-daddy whose baby's mother is irresponsible [just to flip the stereotypes and be a single father], adopt female [preferably Asian] child [haven't worked out how to reconcile those two yet, since I want to have one kid and I also want to be a baby-daddy and adopt a girl], finish writing second book. And the aforementioned 'finish blog post series.'

I think I might have trouble finishing things [Wow, one of my parenthetical musings has never had its own line break before. Can you do that?], or maybe just staying on topic). So I'll get one of those done soon.

A'ight, good night guys. See you tomorrow.

Dogs of Wrath, The: Part 7

India woke up in a strange bed. Where am I? she wondered, as she tried to get up. She couldn’t because there was a large strap over her stomach, which only increased her unease. Why am I being kept here? She gazed around the dark room, trying to pick out some identifying features, but it was too shadowy for her to see anything.

She lay back in the bed. All right, I don’t know where I am, or why I’m here. I have a massive headache and I am hungry. And to top it all off, I can’t feel my foot. Wait, foot?

The events of the afternoon rushed back to her and she nher foot exploding after Robb moved his hand. After that, it was dark. I must have blacked out, or fainted, she decided. Not unlikely, considering the pain she must have been in at the time. Her body couldn’t deal with it and had shut down to shelter her from the distress. Ok, if my foot is gone, then I must be somewhere where they’d take care of it, since I’m not dead. Am I dead?

She explored her surroundings and felt soft cloth, and sheets. Ok, I may be dead, but I may not be. Back to square one then. I’ll assume I’m not dead, since my head hurts like hell. Then, I’m probably in a hospital or something.

Reassured now that she had puzzled out her location, she relaxed, not expecting any immediate harm. Of course, when one relaxes, one’s guard is down and if one is a target, this is the moment when one’s enemies are apt to strike. This stream of thought came into India’s head as soon as she rested it upon the plush pillow, which shocked her back from the state of lethargy that she had been in. Luckily, no one chose this moment to harm India and she soon fell into a light, fitful sleep.

______________________________________

Mr. Duke looked up from the manuscript he was reading and stood. He took off his reading glasses and stuck his head into the busy hallway of Duke and Shelby Publishing Corporation. He grabbed an intern and said, “Can you call Loretta for me?” The intern nodded and ran off.

Mr. Duke closed the door and rubbed his temples. The manuscript he was reading was perfect trash, not even worthy to grace his trash can. The largest of many problems with the manuscript that sprung to Mr. Duke’s mind was the complete and rather noticeable absence of any overarching plot at all. Some books could get away with no plot, but with this one, because of the relatively nondescript characters, the complete lack of scene description, awkward phrasing and the odious dialogue, it needed an unbelievably stellar plot to even have a chance of breaking even on the world market. And this it simply did not have.

Mr. Duke sat at his desk. Make no mistake, he thought, this author, Eric Glencoe, he has a lot of promise, but this thing he’s written is garbage. He’d be better off scrapping it and starting anew.

His intercom buzzed. “Yes, Loretta?” Mr. Duke answered, pressing the button.

“You asked for me, Mr. Duke?” The intercom crackled with Loretta’s voice. She had a beautiful voice, but the intercom could take the most beautiful sound and turn it into a static-filled, crackling, nearly indecipherable mess.

“I did. I wanted to know if you had any means of contacting Mr. Glencoe. Did he leave a phone number, an address, anything?”

“Yes, he did indeed, Mr. Duke. He left his home address with me. I’ll fax it up to you if you want.”

“Yes, that would be splendid,” Mr. Duke responded.

“He also left a message this morning asking if you had finished his manuscript yet. He’s really quite anxious to see it published, Mr. Duke.”

Mr. Duke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you for passing that along. That will be all, Loretta.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Duke. Good night.”

Mr. Duke shut off the intercom. Another problem with Glencoe was that he had the most annoying, cloying, abrasive, irritating personality Mr. Duke had ever encountered. He didn’t want to break the kid’s heart, but he hated the guy’s personality. If he were a little more charming, and actually had a plot, Mr. Duke would give his book a shot, but because he wasn’t, the book was going in the trash and Mr. Glencoe was getting the standard Duke and Shelby Publishing Corporation rejection letter. It was five pages long and one of the best pieces of writing Mr. Duke had ever produced. He had worked on it for three months, and it was a masterpiece. It would be used for decades longer, with only slight alterations and was designed to let disappointed authors down gently, without the name of Duke and Shelby leaving a bad taste in their mouths.

While Mr. Duke waited for the fax to arrive, his thoughts wandered, until he began to think about writing his own book. It can’t be that hard, he reasoned. I mean, I’m the CEO and Editor in chief at a huge, multinational publishing corporation. Hundreds of manuscripts find their way to my desk every day. I know what the average reader wants and I’ve had thousands of story ideas bouncing around in my head for years. I can do this. It’s not that hard.

Mr. Duke’s reverie was interrupted by the whirring of his fax machine as it prepared to spit out the paper with Eric’s address. Mr. Duke grabbed the paper and opened the file. He changed the name and address portion of the letter to that of Eric Glencoe and searched the document for any recurrences of the name of the person the letter had last been sent to.

Satisfied that the only name in the letter was Eric’s he printed the rejection out, saved the template and shut down the computer. Grabbing his gray felt fedora, his darker gray wool – cashmere blend overcoat and his black briefcase, he dropped the letter in his OUT bin, turned off his lights, exited his office and tipped his hat to Loretta as he passed her cubicle. He entered the hallway, pressed the button for the elevator, and when it arrived, he quickly entered the empty car, pressed the button for the basement and headed for his car.

Once inside his Aston Martin DB9 COUPE, on the way to his apartment, Mr. Duke couldn’t stop thinking about perhaps writing his own story. All I need to do, he reasoned, is to get started. Some authors write a book a month, like that R.L. Stine with his Goosebumps series. I don’t expect to be able to do that, but perhaps I could write this book in a year. But, again, I’ll never know until I get started.

He arrived at his apartment building, disembarked from his Aston Martin, grabbed his briefcase and over coat from the backseat, tossed the keys to the adolescent valet, mentally cringing at the idea of this pimply, gangly, oily, teenager driving his car. He’ll probably destroy the suspension, pretending he’s James Bond, or something. He made a note of the boy’s name, resolving to call the super and get the boy fired if something happened to his car.

Mr. Duke entered the elevator that was always waiting in the garage and took it to the penthouse. A slot opened where he inserted his key, and without further delay, the elevator sped up to the penthouse floor.

He stepped out of the elevator and eyed his foyer. Nothing had been touched, as he had requested. Mr. Duke took of his overcoat and hung it in his closet, which was full of coats and hats similar to the ones he had been wearing. He stepped into his office, where he placed his briefcase and then went into his bedroom, where he changed from his suit and tie into more comfortable clothes. A few hours later, Mr. Duke sat in front of his fireplace with a glass of Mondavi, still thinking about writing a book. Airheads like Britney Spears, Paris Hilton and Pamela Anderson have done it, he reflected. I am a very rich man with a degree from Yale. My IQ is 144. He placed his wineglass on the table and abruptly stood up. You know what? I am going to write this thing now.

Mr. Duke walked into his office and turned on his computer. He logged in, opened a new document and typed one word. The. He stared at the screen for a minute, his fingers poised over the keyboard, ready for action, awaiting commands that were not forthcoming. A brief flurry of motion produced another word. Man. The screen now read, The man. Five fingers flashed and the word walked appeared on the screen. Slowly, and with great effort and long pauses in between each word, The man walked over to the newsstand and picked up a paper, finally emerged onto the screen. Mr. Duke sat in his chair, sweating at the exertion.

He realized he was sweating and laughed at the ridiculous notion that twelve little words could cause him to feel as winded as if he had run a marathon. An idea materialized in his mind, and without second – guessing himself, he typed, On the front page, there was a story about a man who had dropped dead writing a book. Bit by bit, and with gratuitous use of the backspace button and long pauses in between words and sentences and paragraphs, the following words began to materialize on Mr. Duke’s screen.

Copyright ©2009 Malcolm Clarke

Dogs of Wrath, The: Part 6

Chris walked into his house and was immediately greeted rather enthusiastically by the pungent smell of wet, dead dog. He wrinkled his nose. Oh God, when did that happen? He walked into the kitchen and saw his golden retriever, Copper, lying on the floor in a puddle of his own excrement. Damn, Copper, I know you can open the dog food bag by yourself, why didn’t you? Holding his sleeve over his nose, he opened the closet and discovered that every last scrap of food had been eaten, as well as a portion of the wall.

Ok, how long was I away? When I left, the dog food bag was full and Copper was alive. He ran out of the kitchen and into his backyard to escape the smell, which seemed to be attached to his clothes. Outside, he was struck with a thought. What day is it, anyway? He took out his cell phone. It was dead. Figures. He went back inside his house, and checked the clock. It was frozen at 2:00. Ok, that could have happened while I wasn’t here. It doesn’t mean anything. He checked the microwave clock; it was off. Hmm, that’s odd. Wait, let me check something. He flicked the light switch on and off. Nothing happened. Crap, the electricity company shut off the damn power. Well then, I’ll just ask someone.

Chris left the house and stopped a boy that was biking down the street. “Hey, what day is it?”

The boy looked at Chris and without stopping, cried over his shoulder, “Monday, the 30th of May.”

As the kid sped away, going down the hill, Chris would never know that if he had asked the kid one more question, he could have saved the boy from the untimely fate that awaited him. If he had, the boy would have stopped and Chris would have learned that the kid’s name was James Alexander, that he was ten years old, that his father abused both him and his mother daily, that his mother beat him to let off her anger at the father, that he was running away now to his aunt in California after stealing every single piece of cash that he could find in the house while both his mother and father lay at home drunk from a night at two different bars. Chris would have invited him home, and they would talk about themselves as Chris called the power company to get his power back on and soon enough, James would be playing video games while Chris phoned DYFS to get James’ parents tried and sent to jail. James would have grown to love Chris, as Chris would have to James and soon Chris would adopt James, becoming a father. This selfless act of kindness would get India to reconcile herself with him, and in exactly fourteen months, Chris and India would get married in a lavish ceremony in the Bahamas, with James serving as ring bearer and after a splendid honeymoon, Chris, India and James would settle down to become a real family. But Chris knew none of this, and as he turned and staggered back to his house, he didn’t see that James sped into the road without looking for cars. He never saw the eighteen-wheeler that bore down on the young boy, the look of terror on the driver’s face as he struggled in vain to bring his rig to a halt, not wanting to hit the kid that just sped in front of him on a bike. He didn’t see the quizzical look on James’ face as he half turned his head, sensing something to his right. He didn’t know about the rainfall of cash that slowly floated down while the driver and some passerby surrounded the dead child, giving the whole scene a slightly comical air. He was not at the funeral for the young boy, where his mother and father were seized by the authorities and arrested for neglect. He couldn’t know that they were eventually jailed for child abuse and neglect. Chris was oblivious to this, as he lurched inside his house, shocked by the knowledge that he had just missed a whole month of his life.

How did this happen? he wondered. How could this happen? Where was I? What did I do for this month? He somehow stumbled into a chair and rested his head in his hands. Oh my God. Things like this never happen in real life. It’s only in movies and TV and books. I have to call India, or Ian.

He stood, slightly steadier, but still off balance and made his way to a payphone. He dug in his pocket for some change –Thank God I still have some money – and with shaking fingers dialed Ian’s cell phone.

He waited for an eternity, until Ian picked up his phone. He heard laughter in the background and Ian’s curious voice saying, “Hello?”

He sighed in relief. “Ian, thank God.”

“Chris? Is that you? Oh my God! We thought you were dead! Where have you been?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“Oh my God, Chris – Chris, you have to come over! India’s been worried sick!”

“Ok, I’ll get over as soon as possible. You still live at the same place?”

“No, we moved. Where are you?”

“I’m at my house.”

“Ok, I’m at 2600 Osmont Boulevard.”

“I don’t have a car and that’s kind of far to walk.”

“Ok, I’ll pick you up. I’ll be there in about fifteen, twenty minutes. God, Chris, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice again.”

“I think I do. See you soon.”

“Ok, bye.”

There was a click on the other side of the line and Chris hung up. He sat on his porch bench and tried to remember the last month, but the last thing he could recall was driving down a lonely highway with no particular destination in mind. His thoughts were still a confused jumble, his mind full of senseless noise. Suddenly the noise ceased and he saw the men in his mind, as he had all morning. He was looking – No, not that!

Chris cut off that memory and leaned back in his chair. I’m not reliving that night. I did what I had to do and if I get sucked into that quagmire, I might not come out again. It’s best to avoid it completely.

He leaned back. So, what shall I do until Ian arrives? I wonder if my book still upstairs where I left it?

He entered the house, found his book, The Ethical Assassin and began to read.

______________________

India paced in Ian’s kitchen. Ian had left five minutes ago, telling her that Chris was back. She didn’t know had she felt about that.

Yes, she had been extremely worried about the fact that Chris had been missing, but that was more because she didn’t want him to tell anyone about the bodies. She knew that he wouldn’t tell anyone on his own, but he might have been kidnapped and tortured until he told his kidnappers the location of the bodies. She still didn’t know what those thugs were doing in her house that night or why they were there. They could have been sent by the mob for all she knew. And with Chris being the only person who knew the exact location of the bodies, his disappearance had greatly worried her.

Chris walked into the kitchen, followed by an excited Ian. He looked around and saw her. He was wearing the same clothes as the last time she saw him. It could just be a coincidence. He had no new scars or other lacerations that were immediately visible. Those mafia goons could know methods of torture that don’t leave marks. She ran her eyes up and down his body. He looked exactly like he had when she saw him last. Huh. Maybe the Mafia didn’t get him and I’m just being paranoid. She sighed, inhaled, and nearly retched.

“What the hell!”

Chris and Ian laughed and Chris walked up to her and embraced her. She smiled up at him and

tried not to show her displeasure at the awful, disgusting dead dog smell that clung to his clothes.

“I wondered how long it would take you to notice,” Chris whispered into her ear, holding her closely.

She looked into his light brown eyes that were flecked with gold and black, those eyes she had always admired.

“So, what’s up?” They parted and she eyed him again.

“Not much. I moved.”

He blinked.

“But the real question is,” she continued, noting the blink, “is where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there,” he answered evasively, looking into her eyes and trying to convey to her the message that he knew she had been worried and he had even less of an idea where he had been than she did. He saw the light of comprehension in her eyes and knew she understood.

“Where is ‘here and there?’” she asked, wondering why Chris was blinking so rapidly and moving his eyes in such odd patterns. Then she understood. I was right! It is the Mafia! They did something to his eyes and he’s trying to tell me without alarming Ian! We should get him to a hospital!

As if at a signal, they both turned and looked at Ian, who was staring out the window, trying very hard to appear as if he wasn’t interested in their conversation, but failing miserably. For one thing, he was practically standing between the two of them. He noticed the lull in the discussion almost immediately, but to keep up his pretense waited several long, silent, awkward minutes until he finally turned and noticed he was the subject of their attention.

“Oh, am I in the way?” he asked innocently. “I’m sorry; I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure you have some catching up to do, so, I’ll see you later.” He left the room, cursing at his obvious eavesdropping.

They waited a few more painful seconds until it was clear that Ian was truly gone until they resumed the conversation. This time there was no talking around the issues.

“So, where were you?” India asked bluntly.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?” Chris replied, the hint of a grin on his face.

“With your sense of direction, I might,” India retorted. “But seriously, where were you? You were gone for a whole month. No warning, no ‘Oh, by the way, I’m going to Bangladesh to visit my sister.’ No, you just vanished.”

“Well, why should I tell you? We’re exes. You broke up with me. There’s no reason I should tell you.”

India turned from him and checked to see if Ian was really gone. “Well,” she said, finally convinced that their mutual friend had left, “there’s the little matter of three dead bodies in my basement!”

Chris laughed. “Oh my God, when you say it like that, it sounds like a bad horror movie plot. But what about the bodies? They’re dead; they can’t hurt you anymore.” A shadow crossed his face as he spoke and he was glad she couldn’t see him.

She turned to face him and he quickly composed his features. “Well, those three might not be able to, but maybe they have some friends who might. Chris, please, be serious for the first time in your life! There are dead people in my basement! I was out of my mind with worry that you had been kidnapped by the mob and you were being tortured!” She checked the window again. “And here you are, acting like it’s all a big joke!”

He grabbed her shoulder. “Look, I understand how serious it is, but you know me.” She shook him off and walked away from him. He followed her. “You used to complain how I never take anything seriously, and this is no different. I haven’t changed. I’m still the same person!”

She turned and faced him. “Chris, this isn’t a game! I know you’re the same person, and I’m glad of that, but you need to grow up! There are some people out there who might want to fucking kill us!”

“Why are you so worried?” he shouted at her, veins popping out on his neck. “Nothing has happened in a month, or you would have mentioned it! If it takes the mob or the Mafia, or the gangs, or whoever the hell you think is after us this goddamned long to get us, then they probably don’t deserve the reputation that they’ve been given!”

“Well, actually,” said a familiar voice from the doorway, “the only reason that it’s taken this long is because you two haven’t been in the same place since the night of the murder.” India and Chris turned to the voice.

“But, since I have you now,” Robb said, a gun at Ian’s head, “I think that we rather deserve this reputation. So, it would be best if you just came quietly. Unless, of course, you’d like your friend’s brains splattered all over the floor, in front of his wife and children.” Robb moved over to a closet and kicked it open. Inside, Robb’s wife, Miranda, and his two daughters were lying on the floor, tied and gagged with duct tape and rope. The girls’ eyes were watering as they saw their father on his knees with a stranger holding a gun to his head. They had seen enough movies to know what would happen if he pulled the trigger.

India and Chris both froze. Neither of them knew how to react. Chris stared at the gun, the cold, black harbinger of death that Robb was holding. It was the same type of pistol that he had used that night. Abruptly, the memories came charging back, threatening to overwhelm him, to take him back to the most horrible night of his life. He held his ground, gritting his teeth as he tried to fight the psychological onslaught.

India recovered first. “So, Robb,” she said, sauntering over to her erstwhile friend, “who were those goons working for?”

“Stop right there,” he said, moving as if to aim the pistol at her. Then he paused and reconsidered. “Listen to me,” he said in a voice that demanded obedience. “I have three friends outside who have a little device. It’s called a remote control. This house is wired with enough dynamite to destroy an entire apartment building, so I don’t think a house in the suburbs will withstand the blast. If any of you make a move to attack me, they see it and they press the button. So keep your distance, unless you have a suicide wish.”

India froze for a minute, and then spoke again. “How do we know you’re just not bluffing?” she asked, slowly strolling nearer.

Robb pointed the gun at India's foot and pulled the trigger.

India’s foot exploded in a shower of blood.

She screamed and fell over onto the floor, right in front of an oblivious Chris, who had fallen to the floor and was kneeling there, moaning, apparently unaware that he was covered in blood and India had just been shot.

Robb eyed them both for a minute. He seemed to be wrestling with a problem. Then, he unexpectedly shot Ian and walked over to India. As Ian’s dead body fell to the now blood-stained linoleum and Ian’s bound family silently screamed in the closet, unable to make the sounds that would express their grief, Robb crouched so that he was right next to her and only she could hear his words. “Ok, so I was bluffing. But does it really matter? I have a gun, bitch."

He pulled away for a moment to look around the room. Ian's family glared at him, the daughters conveying an immense hatred through the veil of tears that covered their eyes. Chris was moaning on the ground, seemingly wrapped in his own personal hell. Robb kneeled back down and spoke to India again. "It would be so easy to take you right now,” he muttered, his lips right next her ear. “I’ve had a crush on you since the tenth grade. Did Chris ever tell you that? Of course he didn’t, he was too busy FUCKING you! You and all of those over goddamned fucking asshole cheerleader whores!”

He bent closer to her and his mustache brushed her ear. “But you know what? I don’t care. I have you now. You’re in my power and I can do anything I want to you.” He unzipped his pants. “So, let’s start with basic sex, and then we can move on to cock sucking. Bitch.”

He had just taken his penis out when Chris sprang up and punched him in the testicles. Robb’s face turned red, then green, and his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pain. Chris hit him again, and again, then began to pummel him in the testicles, aiming for the same spot, time after time, until those precious, sensitive spheres were nothing more than mush.

Robb looked up, just barely maintaining consciousness. He tried to say something, his mouth moving soundlessly as he tried to fight past the wave of unconsciousness that was quickly and obviously overwhelming him, as evidenced by the contortions of immense pain that covered his face and wracked his entire body, until he passed out.

Chris glared at the semi-comatose body of his once-best friend. He gave Robb’s genitals another kick, out of spite. “Asshole. You don’t mess with my friends, no matter who you are.”

He stood up, as if he was in pain, and turned to India. She was lying on the ground still, her foot bleeding copiously. He unsteadily walked towards her, then ran to the phone and called the police and an ambulance. He sat down in a chair, wearied at his exertions and his emotions.

A thud caught his attention and looked to the closet. Inside were Ian’s wife and daughters. “Oh, shit! I almost forgot about you guys!” he cried, astonished at his mistake. He ran to the kitchen drawers and began to rummage for scissors. There were none to be had in the first drawer he searched, so he moved on.

Several drawers later, he had still not found scissors. He opened the cabinets. “Hold on, I’ll get you out of there,” he shouted, and a sarcastic thump sounded from the closet.

Sirens neared the house as he was freeing Miranda from the bindings. Both uniformed police officers and plainclothes cops burst into the house, with shouts of “You’re under arrest!” and “You have the right to remain silent!” They gathered around the fallen Robb, who was quickly handcuffed and loaded into the back of a patrol car. Paramedics entered the house soon after the officers’ dramatic entry and began attending to all members of the household. They flocked around India and after a few tense moments of confused squawking, determined that she had lost a great deal of blood and gently placed her upon a gurney and flew off to a hospital.

Chris, Miranda and the girls were taken to a different hospital where they were examined, declared to have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, provided with some pills to take and discharged.

Ahhh, the reassuring efficiency of uniformed public employees. Does it get any better? Chris thought, as he wandered through a park near his house. It was a few hours after Ian had been killed and Chris had beaten Robb senseless. The doctors had told him that he could visit India tomorrow, so here he was, wiling away the hours by walking in the park.

Well, I’m sure she’ll be fine, he thought, as he walked home. He took off his shirt and pants and collapsed into bed.

Absence and Child Abuse

As some of you have probably noticed, (and I know you're out there, I get status reports weekly) I have not posted in over a month. I offer no apologies or explanations for this occurence, nor will you get any in this post or any other, since I proclaimed in this post that I would no longer apologize for gaps in posting, since I feel that humbling myself is not the best way to gain followers and/or readers. However, not posting for about five weeks is also not the best way, since the amount of hits decreased the longer this place wnet without an update.

Might be a coincidence, but it probably isn't. Regardless, I have returned.

I suppose you might want to know why I was unable to post and what I was doing. It's a long story, but the condensed version is this: My computer was hit by a virus that blocked most sites (except Yahoo! and gmail), so I reset to factory condition, but couldn't find the USB that held my wireless settings (that had been set up by a techie friend of mine who has since moved) and I was unable to set up the network again. I just found the USB yesterday, and all is good. My Norton antivirus is up-to-date and I have unlimited internet.

As to what I was doing, I have begun writing a novel about a girl who is being abused and I expect to be done by July or so. Which reminds me: I will resume posting of Dogs of Wrath, The on Saturday, and continue every weekend until it is finished, I get published, or the world ends (which it supposed to do in 2012, according to the Mayans).

Ok, so that's what's up. Ducky, thanks for the comment, and I'm glad that you read my blog. Shout-out to everyone from Travian and playdiplomacy.com.

Dogs of Wrath, The: Part 5

India sat in the pew next to Bruce, letting Reverend Mel’s deep, resonant voice sooth all of her worries. It was Sunday morning and she had decided to go to church as she had for most of her life. She had gone rain or shine for the past ten years, no matter how she felt and she was not about to break that custom.

“Now today,” said Reverend Mel, “I am going to take a sermon from Melvin Newland at the Church of Christ. This sermon is about anger.”

“We all experience anger, whether it be anger about someone cutting you off on the highway, or anger about your favorite team losing a game.” The assembly chuckled, for Reverend Mel doted on his Yankees. “Or even anger,” continued the Reverend, “because you got up on the wrong side of the bed that morning. Anger is human. But if you wish to live a godly life, you must learn to not let your anger take control. This story comes from the late 1800’s.”

“Alfred Lord Tennyson invited a Russian nobleman to his estate,” said Reverend Mel. “And early one morning, this nobleman took off with dogs and guns and servants to go hunting.”

“At mid-day he returned and Lord Tennyson asked him how he did. He answered, ‘Not very well. I shot two peasants.’ Lord Tennyson thought for a moment and then said, ‘No, we pronounce it with a “ph” here. It is “pheasants.” You shot two pheasants.’”

“‘No,’ the nobleman replied, ‘I shot two peasants. They were insolent towards me, so I shot them.’”

The crowd chuckled. Reverend Mel waited for the laughter to die down, and then continued his sermon. “Now we smile in disbelief at a story like that,” he said. “But last year, a driver in Philadelphia shot another driver on the highway. There was a construction blockage on the road, narrowing traffic down to only one lane, creating long backups as cars from each direction took turns getting past the blockage.”

“Well, this driver patiently waited his turn, as he should, according to the rules of the road. But just as he was about to get past the blockage, a car came up fast on the shoulder, passing all the waiting cars, and crowded just in front of him. Then after doing that, the driver turned around with a smirk on his face and made an obscene gesture.”

“Well, that infuriated the first driver. So when traffic was stopped at the next construction bottleneck, he got out of his car, took out his gun and shot the man in front of him to death.”

The assembly gasped again. Some of the young boys in the assembly laughed quietly and promptly received smacks on the head from their mothers. Reverend Mel lowered his head in respect for the fallen driver, prompting the assembly to do also. Soon, he spoke again. “That happened in Philadelphia. But stories like that have popped up all over the country.”

“Now, of course, we wouldn’t do anything like that, we say. But have you ever lost your temper? Do you ever do things you wish you hadn’t done, or say things you wish you had never said? Yes, of course you do. I do as well. We’re human.”

“But the Bible has something to say about overcoming anger. Proverbs 19:11 says, ‘A man’s wisdom gives him patience. It is to his glory to overlook an offense.’”

Reverend Mel’s voice became louder, and more urgent. “Now there is the secret, isn’t it? If someone offends you, and if you are a man of wisdom, a man of God, then you can overlook it, and not allow the situation to become a major event that overwhelms you.”

“As I studied the Bible this week about the subject of anger, I discovered that there are four types of anger dealt with in the Bible.”

Reverend Mel lifted his index finger. “First of all, there is sudden anger. The Bible says that sudden anger is to be controlled.”

Reverend Mel lifted his middle finger. “Secondly, there is sinful anger. The Bible says that sinful anger is to be condemned.”

Reverend Mel lifted his ring finger, displaying a plain golden wedding band. “Thirdly, there is stubborn anger. Stubborn anger is to be conquered.”

The reverend lifted his pinky finger. “Finally, there is sanctified anger. And sanctified anger is to be channeled.”

Reverend Mel closed his hand and returned to the pulpit. “So this morning, let’s look at each of those 4 types of anger.”
“First of all, there is sudden anger and the Bible says that sudden anger is to be controlled. There is no compromise on this. If you become angry suddenly, you must, you must, you must control it. Proverbs 14:17 says, ‘A quick-tempered man does foolish things.’ We already knew that because we’ve experienced that in our own lives. We’ve had it hammered into us since we were little children. But as adults, we may have forgotten it, one of the most basic lessons. Even as we hammer it into our children, we ignore the words that come from our own mouths. But that is no excuse. We may blame our quick temper on our red hair. Or we may blame it on our heritage. After all, we’re Irish or something like that and our father, or mother or grandparent was quick to anger. We may even be proud of it because it helps us motivate people to get things done.”

“But the bottom line is, if we have a short fuse, we’re going to do a lot of foolish things. When we lose our temper we’ll say things we know we shouldn’t have said, and do things that we’re going to be sorry for later on. Once it is unleashed, you can’t control sudden anger.”

India squirmed, as if the Reverend was looking straight at her and seeing into her soul. Bruce felt this and placed his arm around her small shoulder, trying to comfort her. She smiled up at him, her brilliant grin concealing the torment that was going on inside of her.

Reverend Mel, oblivious to this drama, resolutely marched on. “Next, Proverbs 15:18 says, ‘A hot tempered man stirs up dissension.’ That simply means that if you have a short fuse, if you’re always losing your temper, if you’re walking around with a chip on your shoulder, if you’re just looking for somebody to say something that will irritate you, then you’re going to leave a trail of hurt feelings and unhappiness behind you. And yes, perhaps even fear.”

“Will Rogers said, ‘Whenever you fly into a rage, you seldom make a safe landing.’ And he is right.”

“Chuck Swindoll said, ‘I got so angry that I gave him a piece of my mind. And it was a piece that I couldn’t afford to lose.’”

“The writer of Proverbs said, ‘A hot temper stirs up dissension.’ And they’re all right. Being angry all the time just gets people angry at you.”

“Proverbs 18:13 says, ‘He who answers before listening - that is his folly and his shame.’ He is talking about jumping to conclusions. We hear just a little bit of what is said, and we instantly jump to a conclusion, and oftentimes it is the wrong conclusion. This happens far too much in today’s world, and a lot of it is done by our children and our teenagers.”

The younger members of the congregation squirmed in discomfort, and Reverend Mel smiled, happy to have garnered the reaction he was looking for. “Have you heard about the dog named ‘August’ who was always trying to chase a mule named ‘Conclusion?’ One day he jumped at Conclusion and bit him, and Conclusion kicked back at August. And that was the last day of August. Think about that for a moment.” The congregation chuckled and Reverend Mel waited patiently for the laughter to die down.

“Sometimes we jump to conclusions, and Solomon says that it is to our folly and our shame.”

“Proverbs 19:19 says, ‘A hot-tempered man must pay the penalty.’ We’re being told that almost every day. Doctors tell us that losing our temper consistently brings about high blood pressure, dryness of mouth, and a fast-beating heart. It could even bring pre-mature death. We, as Black people are already at higher risk of these ailments, these dis-eases than our lighter skinned White and Hispanic acquaintances. And we know this far too well. Yet we continue to get angry and lose our temper. The result? Too many Black men and women dying long before it is their time to go to God.”

The assembly nodded and murmured their ascension. Reverend Mel continued at a slower pace, “A hot temper could also mean loss of family and friends. The penalties of losing our temper are many.”

“So the Bible says, "If you have a sudden temper, then you need to control it." But how can we do that?”

“You say, Why, I just can’t control my temper. It gets away from me. I’ve tried before and I always failed.’ But you can and I’ll tell you how to do this in a minute. Have you ever found yourself engaged in a heated discussion with your voice getting louder and your words are becoming more rapid, your blood pressure is rising? Then the telephone rings and you can say, ‘Hello,’ in a calm voice without a hint of the anger that was filling your veins just a second ago. Sure, you can control your temper.”

“So we need to recognize that we have a problem with temper. As long as we deny it, as long as we blame it on heritage or short-fuse or whatever we choose to blame it on, we’ll never improve. The first step to solving any problem is acknowledging that it exists!”

The congregation nodded and assented once more. “If you agree, then what do you think the first step should be? Yes, we must confess our problem to God and ask for His help. Pray with me.” The congregation members bowed their heads. “Lord, I’m beginning to lose my temper, and I’ve done it many times before. Please help me see what is causing it to happen, and then help me to overcome it.”

“The Bible teaches that when the Holy Spirit guides our life, that one fruit of the spirit is self control. And if you have a sudden temper, you need to control it.”

“The second type of anger discussed in scripture is sinful anger. Not all anger is sinful, and we’ll talk about that in just a minute. But some anger is. So let me give you some tests this morning to help you determine whether your anger is sinful or not.”

“In Matthew 5:21, Jesus says, ‘You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, “Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.” But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgment.’”

India fidgeted in guilt and shame, feeling as though the Reverend had written this sermon just for her. For the first time, she regretted coming to church. The reverend continued at full steam. “Now that passage tells us some things about anger that should help us realize when our anger is sinful and when it is not.”

“Notice first of all that it says, ‘Anyone who is angry with his brother.’ Now if you’re a brother or sister to someone it indicates that you are a member of the same family, whether a domestic family or the family of God.

“If we’re brothers and sisters, we ought to be lifting each other up, supporting and helping each other. We should not spend our time being angry at one another.”

“The King James Version speaks about being angry at your brother ‘without a cause.’ If we are angry and don’t have a legitimate reason for being angry, then this tells us that our anger is sinful. I know that you are angry at your relations a lot. The last time you were angry at a family member, why were you angry?”

Reverend Mel scanned the crowd and saw many embarrassed faces. He leaned on his pulpit heavily. “I’ll tell you why. It was a trivial reason. Something that you didn’t need to fight over, but it just got stacked up on top of all of the other stuff that had happened that day and, next thing you know, you and you brother or your sister are yelling at each other, about to come to blows. Your anger, your fight had no real reason, no basis or grounds of any importance.”

Reverend Mel scanned the congregation again and saw that almost without fail, every single member was furtively studying the ground, afraid to meet his eyes. The sole exception was old Mrs. Brands, who was derisively known as “Saint Brands,” behind her back. As far as anyone knew, Mrs. Brands had never broken the 10 Commandments, nor ever done anything even the slightest bit immoral for any reason. Even in situations where an immoral solution seemed to be the only way out, Mrs. Brands always was able to find another solution or she simply ignored the problem and pretended it didn’t exist. She was the closest thing to Jesus that had ever walked the Earth (with the obvious exception of Jesus) and it was generally accepted that she was a better person than Mother Teresa had been.

“But there is another reason that you shouldn’t get angry at your brother. If you’re angry at your brother that indicates that you are focusing your anger on a person. We should never focus our anger on people, but rather on the sins they commit.”

“Jesus was never angry at people, but He was angry at their sins. So look beyond the person. We must love the person, but hate their sin. No matter how horrible a person seems to be, do not get angry at the person, but get angry at their sins.”

“So if you’re angry at your brother, if you’re focusing on a person, then that means that your anger is sinful.”

Reverend Mel surveyed the assembly. “Now in Romans 12:19 Paul says, ‘Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.’”

India shifted again, now more uncomfortable than before. Reverend Mel finally saw her writhing and wondered what was the cause, as did Bruce. “So the third test of our anger is this: Is it anger that seeks revenge? Are we always trying to get even? The Bible teaches that God is the one who has the right of vengeance. Not us. ‘Vengeance is mine,’ says the Lord. We don’t have the right to repay anyone. But rather, turn that over to God.”

“So if our anger is geared towards seeking revenge, then it is very definitely sinful anger.”

“If it is vengeful, then most likely it is also an anger that is cherished.”

“Remember what Jesus said to the man who was by the pool, waiting to be healed, and he couldn’t get to the water soon enough? Jesus asked him, ‘Do you want to be healed?’ This is a very important question!”

“There are a lot of people who enjoy being sick because of the attention it gets them. And there are a lot of people who love being angry. They’ve been angry for years. Inside of them there is a boiling mass of anger.”

“So if anger is cherished, it most certainly is sinful anger.”

“If it is a cherished anger it will also be anger with an unforgiving spirit. And the secret to getting rid of anger is to be able to forgive. But if you can’t forgive, if you can’t release it, then it is a sinful anger.”

“So here are the 5 tests to tell whether or not our anger is sinful anger.”

Reverend Mel lifted his index finger and the screen behind him lit up on cue. It displayed the words as he spoke them. “1. Is it anger directed towards a person?”

He lifted his middle finger and the screen wrote accordingly. “2. Is it anger without a justifiable cause?”

“3. Is it anger that seeks vengeance?”

“4. Is it anger that is cherished?”

“5. Is it anger that has an unforgiving spirit?”

Reverend Mel closed his hand, but the words stayed on the screen. “If any of the answers to those questions is ‘yes,’” he said, “then our anger is a sinful anger. And the Bible says that it is to be condemned.”

“If it is sinful, then we need to repent, to turn away from it, and allow God to forgive us of it so that we can become forgiving people, too.”

The screen cleared and Reverend Mel walked from behind the pulpit and paced the stage.

“The third type of anger is stubborn anger. It is an anger that just stays there, day after day after day.”

“One of the classic passages that deal with anger begins in Ephesians 4:26. The Bible says, ‘Be ye angry, and sin not. Let not the sun go down on your wrath.’ And the next verse says, ‘And do not give the devil a foothold.’”

Reverend Mel paused here and cleaned his glasses, while the congregation fidgeted in impatience. He took his time, knowing that they would wait. They’d be very unhappy about it, but they would wait. When his glasses were polished to his satisfaction, he perched them on his large, Nixonian nose and went on. “One day you go home and you’re angry. You’re carrying a chip on your shoulder, just waiting for someone to knock it off.”

“Then your wife or your husband says something you don’t particularly appreciate, and soon heated words are being exchanged. It really doesn’t amount to much, but you’re determined to get your way, and she is determined to get her way. So the argument continues.”

“The sun goes down and nighttime comes. Then in bed she faces that way and you face this way, and you both make very sure that you don’t touch each other.”

“Do you realize what has happened? The Bible says that you have opened the door, and said, ‘Mr. Devil, come right on in. We’ll make you welcome here. Have some tea. Do you want some upside down cake? Do you want to watch some television?’”

“Then in vs. 31, Paul mentions what happens when Satan begins to do his dirty work.”

“The first result is ‘bitterness.’ You begin to think about all the bad things people do and say to you, all the insults, all of the inconsiderate things that happen to you and you begin to stew over them, letting the hurt build inside of you.”

The screen lit up again as the reverend spoke, displaying his words in a font that simply screamed malice. “Then Paul says, ‘After bitterness comes rage and anger.’ ‘Rage’ is bitterness boiling and bubbling inside of you. And ‘anger’ is rage being expressed. It is no longer just inside you. Now you begin to kick the cat, and hit the wall. Now you begin to say all kinds of things, until finally it becomes ‘brawling,’ which means ‘shouting loudly,’ and ‘slander’ or ‘insults.’”

“You come home and instead of greeting your wife politely, you say, ‘Look at this house. It’s a pig sty. I come home every day and these kids are dirty. You don’t know how to take care of them. What makes you think you’re a homemaker?’ She gets riled at this and shouts back at you. And on and on it goes, back and forth.”

“And the end result of it all, Paul says, is ‘malice.’ And ‘malice’ means that you really desire to harm. That’s why we’re always reading about someone shooting his wife and turning the gun on himself after she is dead. Because the ultimate end of stubborn anger is malice.”

“Paul said, ‘Here is the way to get rid of stubborn anger. Don’t let the sun go down on your wrath.’ Verse 32 says, ‘Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.’”

“So first of all, there is sudden anger. And it must be controlled.”

“Then there is sinful anger. And it must be condemned.”

“Then there is stubborn anger. And it must be conquered.”

“Finally, there is Sanctified anger. And that must be channeled in the right direction. It must be channeled to work for God.” Remember, Ephesians 4:26 says, ‘Be ye angry. . .’ It is okay to be angry, but do not sin.”

Reverend Mel walked behind the pulpit again and opened the Bible. “Let me read to you from Mark 3:1-5. This is a passage that deals with a situation in the life of Jesus and I think it is very revealing. It says:”

“‘Another time he went into the synagogue, and a man with a shriveled hand was there. Some of them were looking for a reason to accuse Jesus, so they watched him closely to see if he would heal him on the Sabbath. And Jesus said to the man with the shriveled hand, “Stand up in front of everyone.”’”

“‘Then Jesus asked them, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?” But they remained silent.’”

“‘He looked around at them in anger and, deeply distressed at their stubborn hearts. . .’ You see, the focus of His anger is their hearts. He is angry because of their stubborn hearts and their stubborn anger. The sun has gone down. The sun has come up. And the devil has established a foothold in their lives. And Jesus is angry at their stubborn anger.”

“‘Then Jesus said, “Stretch out your hand.” And he stretched it out, and his hand was completely restored.’”

“The Bible says that Jesus was tempted in all points, even as we are tempted, but He never sinned. So this passage teaches that Jesus became angry but it wasn’t sinful anger. It was sanctified anger, channeled anger, anger that has the right focus, and the right object.”

“Maybe an infusion of anger is the very thing that the church needs. We need to become angry at the corruption of the world. We need to become angry at the forces of evil. To become angry at pornography that reaches into every segment of society.”

“We need to become angry at the millions of abortions. We need to become angry at the increase in crime and murders and rapes. We need to become angry at the abuse of alcohol and drugs in our society. To become angry because there are millions of people who are dying and going to Christless graves.”

“It is time for the church to become angry, with a sanctified anger, a holy anger that is channeled in the right places.”

“There are all kinds of anger. And if you are wrestling with them, God promises to give you victory, if you’ll let Him.”

“So be angry, but don’t sin. Don’t let the sun go down upon your wrath. Don’t allow the devil to have a foothold in your life. But channel that anger so it can begin to accomplish victories for Jesus.”

“We offer His invitation this morning. He stands ready and willing to come into your heart and into your life. If you’ll confess your faith in Him, and repent of your sins, and be faithful to him in Christian baptism, He has promised to forgive your sins.”

“If you are already a Christian, an immersed believer in Jesus, then we invite you to join with us in the ministry that God has given us here. Whatever your decision, we offer the invitation of Jesus. Will you come?”

A few people stood and the Reverend welcomed them to the church and went through the usual proceedings. Then they sat back down, the screen shut down, and the church was silent for a moment. Then the organist played a note, the hymnals opened, and the congregation began to sing, with the Reverend leading the way, belting out every word at the top of his voice. India sang as well, though she felt cold inside, as if God had guided Reverend Mel to get this sermon and give it today, the day after she had killed a man in anger, sinful anger according to the sermon. She had to repent, and seek the forgiveness of God. I can’t though, she thought. All of these people have known me since I was a child. If I go up there and say I’ve killed a man, they’ll be shocked. They will see me in a whole new light. I can’t do it. I
just can’t.

The singing stopped and Reverend Mel called to the congregation, “It is now time for the declaration of sins! All of ye who have sinned, come to the altar and pray for God’s forgiveness!”

Slowly people flowed out of the pews and walked up the aisle to the altar where Reverend Mel waited. They spoke quietly to him and he laid his hands on their head and professed them free of their sins. They then walked back to their seat with a noticeable spring in their step.
India watched them, seeing how they seemed to feel much better after confessing their sins. Go on, tell the Reverend. It’s now or never, she thought. No, I can’t. Their sins are trivial things, unimportant, compared to mine. I killed a man who didn’t wish me any harm. I stole his life from him in a moment of sheer cruelty. He might have had a son, a daughter, a wife, a sister, a brother, a mother or father. I didn’t know him, and I took his life away. I didn’t know why he wanted to rob me. He could have been doing it for them. Yes, those two pigs deserved to die, but maybe not him.

She continued to watch the worshippers receive forgiveness from the Reverend and wondered, Should I go up there?

© 2009 Malcolm Clarke

Dogs of Wrath, The: Part 4

Chris lay on the double bed in the dark room, thinking about the two men whose lives he had taken. His conscience screamed at him, Murder is never right! And no matter how much he tried to say he loved India and had saved her life, he couldn’t beat down this impenetrable argument.
His mental anguish was greatly eased by India slipping into the bed next to him. He made no move towards her, thinking she was in pain caused by the damage those two inhuman creatures had done to her in order to satisfy their visceral desires and was greatly surprised when she stirred in the bed and edged closer to him.

“Thank you for saving me,” she whispered in his ear. He didn’t respond, as he was once more engaged in his mental battle. She placed her arm gently onto his shoulder and moved closer to him, so that they were touching. He could feel her naked skin and he turned to face her. He wrapped his arms around her and she smiled. They kissed in the darkness and he gave himself to her.

________________________________________

Sunlight filtered though the blinds and India reluctantly opened her eyes, squinting at the brightness. She turned in the bed, and saw that the covers had been disturbed and a note was lying on the nightstand. She got out of bed, pulling on a robe and picked up the note. It was in Chris’ handwriting. In a flash she remembered the events of the night before, the dead bodies, Chris’ breakdown, and her decision to have sex with him.

She put the note in her robe pocket and ran down the stairs, nearly killing herself in her frantic flight to check on the bodies. She threw open the basement door and looked down. The bodies were gone. Ok, Chris is gone and the bodies are gone. Perhaps I should read that note now. She walked to the kitchen, opened a cabinet and took out some coffee grounds and a bottle of water. She put the grounds and water in her coffee pot and turned it on. As it began to warm up, she took out the note, sat down at the kitchen table and began to read.

Dear India,
Thank you for letting me stay over last night. I got rid of the bodies and they are now underneath your basement floor, courtesy of that refinishing job that I never got to finish. By the way, you should put a carpet down there. See you around
-Chris.

India dropped the note onto the table. She sat there for a moment, and then went back upstairs to her bathroom. The tub was still full of water. She took out the drain plug and as the water withdrew from the tub, she thought about what to do next. Well, obviously I am going to have to get rid of the bodies another way, she thought. I can’t just leave them there forever. What if I sell this house and the next owner wants to put a pool down there or something? So the question is now, who will move the bodies?

________________________________________

Chris drove down the highway with no particular destination in mind. His thoughts were still a confused jumble, his mind full of senseless noise. Suddenly the noise ceased and he saw the men in his mind, as he had all morning.

He was looking through the window again. The laughing had just stopped and two very content sighs could be heard. Perfect. He hopped over the pile and surprised the skinny man by kicking him in the groin as he flew through the window, causing him to fall to the ground in pain. He landed and heard a crunch. Chris looked down and saw that his foot had crushed the man’s kneecap. That guy wasn’t going anywhere soon. He kicked him in the groin again for good measure, then shot the big man right through the neck, killing him instantly. The third man had started at the sound of gunfire and was struggling to extricate himself from India’s butt when Chris’ final shot hit him right above his Roman nose. Chris dropped the gun.

But then, the flashback took a severe departure from the event. The two men stood up, and circled Chris, jeering and taunting. “You killed us,” the big man whispered. “You took the lives of two men, who were sons and brothers and fathers.”

“You stole our lives from us,” sibilated the second. “We had done you no harm and yet you felt it necessary to kill us in order to save that bitch.”

“She doesn’t even like you. She would have preferred that you stay out of it. She was having loads of fun with us.”

Chris covered his ears to shut their insults out, but he could still hear them. He turned to run, but he was no longer in India’s house. He was in a dark room with no walls that he could see. The two men were giants, laughing and pointing down at him, threatening to crush him.

“You were wrong to kill us! Murder is never right!” they cried in unison, and as if this was a cue, a chorus of voices began to shout, “Murder is never right! Murder is never right!”

“Shut UP!” Chris roared, and he reached for the gun, but it wasn’t there. He scanned the floor in desperation, looking for the weapon that would end this, but he couldn’t find it. The two giants laughed, and Chris glared at them, but they ignored him. He was like a petty insect; how could he harm them? His glaring only made them laugh harder.

Chris ran away from them, but they never seemed to get any further away, they just stayed in the same spot, as if he was on a treadmill. He threw himself to the floor, crying out, unable to rid himself of these two monsters, unable to evict the chorus from his thoughts.

© 2009, Malcolm Clarke

Dogs of Wrath, The: Part 3

Chris drove down India's street, listening to Nas' The Cross. He had just left his house after going home to change his clothes. I am not going to apologize to someone with ice cream on my shirt, he vowed. As he neared her house, he slowed. I wonder if she's home now? He pulled into the driveway and turned off the car.

He got out and walked up to the door, but suddenly had a feeling. He walked to his car and pulled out the gun he kept underneath the seat. He put it in his waistband and approached the door again. He peeked in the mail slot to see if anyone in the hallway, though he doubted it. What he saw shocked him.

India was on the floor, naked and bleeding from her butt and vagina, with two men having sex with her. The larger of them had a towel and he was beating her with it. The other one was laughing and as he watched, India screamed, a hoarse cry that he had never heard a human utter before. He closed the mail slot and sat down in horror, horror that soon turned to rage. How could anyone be so cruel to anyone! How can you treat your fellow human beings like that! He stood, furious and out for blood.

__________________________

India thought she heard something, over the shouts and jeers of Leo and Donny, and she looked towards the front door again. The mail slot was open and two eyes were peering through. She blinked rapidly, wanting to make sure the eyes could see that she needed help, if they required further evidence, but the slot had already closed. She kept looking at the door, partly because the men were holding her so she couldn't look anywhere else, and partly because she hoped that the eyes would look in again and their owner would help her.

Then Leo lost his balance and fell onto the ground, dragging her down with him. He began to straddle her, forcing her gaze up the stairs, as the other one, Donny, fell over in exhaustion and lay on the floor, his penis still wedged into her ass.

__________________________

He peered in the mail slot again and looked at the men. They were large and on the bigger man, he could just see a gun. These guys knew what they were doing. He closed the flap and took out his gun, aiming it at the sky, just to make sure that he was used to the weight. He opened the slot once more and checked the position of the men. Chris knew he wouldn't have many chances and he didn't want to hurt India.

As he looked in through the opening, he caught India's eyes. He closed the slot before she could give away the fact that someone was there. He opened it again, just the slightest bit, to see if India was still looking in his direction. She wasn't. He opened it all the way, and tried to see if he could fit the gun through the opening. He couldn't, and the window in the door was obscured by one of the large, ornamental wreathes that India put up. Dammit, India! I'm trying to save your life here!

He edged to the front of the house, and looked in the dining room window. He could still see the men, but it would be a tricky shot and he wasn't sure he could pull it off without alerting them. Fuck, how the hell am I going to pull this off? He circled to the back of the house and nearly fell to the ground; the living room window was open and he had a perfect view of the men and India. He could also see another man, a pale, skinny man that was looking outside as if he'd rather be somewhere else. There was a collection of furniture in the backyard and Chris crawled towards it, thankful for his dark skin and dark shirt and pants, which helped conceal him in the night.

He hid behind the furniture and stole another look into the house. The skinny man was still there, with his thousand-yard stare and as Chris sized him up, didn't look like the kind of person that could be trusted with a gun. But then, I don't either, Chris thought, as he ducked back behind the chairs, tables and other furnishings, and I'm a damn good shot. He dismissed the man as a threat and turned his attention back to the two men that were busy with India. He hated to let them have their way with her, when every single fiber of his being called out for him to rush in there and just shoot the place up and kill the motherfucking bastards, like something out of a Wakefern movie, but he had to wait. He had to approach it calmly and get them while they were least expecting it. He had to think about it like chess, or war, or some perverse game of tag.

Wait, why don't I call the police? They can handle this much better than I can, and I don't want to get into any kind of legal trouble because of my murder, or manslaughter, or whatever. But as soon as the idea came into his head, he dismissed it. It was a hostage situation and the police were notoriously ineffective in that predicament. They had to worry about getting all parties out in as good condition as possible, so that the wrongdoers could be tried by a jury of their peers. No, in order for India to be saved, he had to go in there. But he had to do it logically. This was no place for a hot head. So he leaned against the pile and waited, trying to ignore the screaming and wicked laughter that came from the house behind him.

__________________________

India wondered if the eyes had come back, or if their owner had left. She had seen them what seemed like an eternity ago, but still, no police or avenger had descended upon the house to smite her attackers. She wished Bruce would come, or anybody. Even Chris would be welcomed if he would rescue her from these animals who were abusing her body like it was their personal plaything.

She could tell from the pressure in her ass that Donny had resumed consciousness and was rhythmically thrusting again. God, she wished fervently, please smite these bastards from the face of the Earth, and send them to the deepest, darkest ring of hell! Please torture and torment them for eternity!

__________________________

The laughing lowered in volume, until two loud and content sighs could be heard from the house. Chris leapt to his feet, and pulled out his gun. Now is the time! He turned off the safety, cocked the gun, made sure it was loaded and glanced over the pile into the house. None of the people inside had moved. Perfect. He hopped over the pile and surprised the skinny man by kicking him in the groin as he flew through the window, causing him to fall to the ground in pain. He landed and heard a crunch. Chris looked down and saw that his foot had crushed the man's kneecap. That guy wasn't going anywhere soon. He kicked him in the groin again for good measure, then shot the big man right through the neck, killing him instantly. The third man had started at the sound of gunfire and was struggling to extricate himself from India's butt when Chris' final shot hit him right above his Roman nose. Chris dropped the gun. They were dead. He had just killed two men.

He walked over to India numbly and pulled the two corpses away from her, then he fell to the ground and began to cry as the full implications of what he had done hit him. He tried to hide his tears, but they were just coming out in waves, a waterfall of grief and guilt caused by the two murders. He tried to rationalize it, he told himself that they were raping India, that he had to stop it, that he'd feel even worse if he didn't stop it, but it was no use. The tears kept coming and the grief and the guilt threatened to overwhelm him. Through the tears he could barely see India picking up the gun and moving over to the skinny man. He turned, unwilling to watch, but he was a second too slow in covering his ears.

__________________________

India picked up the gun and casually strolled over to Mikey, who lay on the ground, his hands between his legs, groaning. "Hello, Mikey," she said. "This is for invading my home." She kicked his hands and he opened his mouth in a silent scream. "This is for ogling." She kicked him in his jaw and heard a sharp crack. She smiled. "And this," she said, slowly lifting the gun, "is for not stopping those two maggots as they raped me." Mikey's eyes opened wide and he tried to open his mouth to utter some sort of protest, but his jaw refused to cooperate and he abandoned the effort and began to try and crawl away. She watched his futile efforts and when she deemed that he had gone far enough, she pulled the trigger.

Mikey's head exploded, showering little bits of brain all over her very nice ecru colored walls, one more grudge to hold against these thugs. She kicked his dead body and went back to Chris. He had stopped crying and was now staring blankly into space, his mouth slightly agape. She went upstairs to put on a robe and when she came back down, he had not moved at all. She gently tapped him on the shoulder.

"Chris," she said softly. She received no response and repeated herself slightly louder. "Chris, we have to do something about these bodies." He stirred and stood up, as if under the weight of some unimaginable burden.

"Just throw them in the backyard," he said, his voice an emotionless monotone. "I'll deal with it tomorrow, as well as the furniture."

"We can't do that; the animals will get to them."

"Then just toss them in the basement," he said and began to lift Leo. He dragged the big man's corpse over to the stairs, where the body received a well-earned kick to the groin that toppled him over and he fell into the basement. The other two received the same treatment and soon, Chris and India were standing at the top of the stairs, looking at the pile of bodies.

"How are you getting home," she began to ask, and then she looked at Chris. He was in no shape to drive and anyone who saw him walking down the street would know that he had done something violent, for blood was splattered all over his shirt, face and pants. She swallowed her unasked question and instead said, "I only have the one bed and the couch is outside. Do you want to sleep on the floor, or-"

"The bed's fine, thanks," he replied, cutting her off and she grinned at the trace of the old Chris, always ready to crack a bad joke.

"I still haven't forgiven you. I mean, I am grateful, but what you said was unbelievably offensive and I may never forgive you."

"Ok. I understand," he said, in that same monotone that was quickly growing irritating. "I'll get ready for bed. Do you still have my stuff?"

"Yes," she replied, slightly glad that her procrastination in getting rid of his things had paid off.

"Ok. Good night," and then he was off, going to her room to undress for bed. She stood there a moment, in the bloodstained carnage of her hallway and smiled. It was nice to have Chris back. She tried not to admit it, even to herself, but she had missed him. Now he was back and had saved her life in the bargain. What's a better entrance than that?

Dogs of Wrath, The: Part 2

Chris walked out of the movie theater with Ian and Robb, all of them meditating on the film they had just seen. Robb broke the silence.

“I have never seen that many explosions in two hours,” he said flatly. “Wakefern has outdone himself.”

The other two just nodded mutely, still trying to discern the plot of the latest Wakefern film, though they knew it would a futile effort.

Charles Wakefern was an American director who also wrote all of his films. His movies usually consisted of a heavily muscled hero with always perfect hair globe-trotting from exotic locale to abandoned warehouse to exotic locale, relentlessly pursued by a bald, heavyset man who was vaguely reminiscent of Ernst Blofeld. In each location the hero found himself, he was accompanied by various scantily clad, buxom women who were overly eager to jump into bed with him. Whenever the hero was not romping in the hay with the women, he was either producing or just barely dodging a ridiculous amount of bullets. What little dialogue the films had was either sexual innuendo or thinly veiled threats, but more often both. However, either of these both raised all sorts of questions about the hero’s sexuality.

In other words, Wakefern was a director of cheap Bond knockoffs. Despite lacking plot, often just consisting of sexual innuendo followed by sex and/or gunfire, and receiving little advertising, if any Wakefern films always opened in the top five and consistently broke box office records

“I can’t believe we used to enjoy those,” said Ian.

“We were younger,” Chris replied.

The three of them sat on the curb and thought about their high school days.

_____________________________

India leaned back in her tub and trailed her fingers over the water. Ah, this is perfect, she thought. Just me and my book in a bath full of perfect temperature water. She opened her novel, Saturday, by Ian McEwan and began to read.

A little while later, just as the water had begun to chill a bit, she heard a slightly muffled thump outside of the bathroom. She looked up, startled. What was that? she wondered. She thought about getting out of the tub and going to investigate, but dismissed the idea as too much trouble and opened her book again. Soon, however, she heard another thump. Ok, now this is getting out of hand. She stepped out of the bathtub and picking up a towel, exited the bathroom. Once she was in her bedroom, she froze, listening for another sound. Hearing none, she walked out of the bathroom and headed for the stairs. She paused, thinking she might have heard something and listened. She strained and just barely heard the faint scrapings coming from her living room.

She slowly and quietly descended the stairs, wincing at every real or imagined creak of the wood and peered into her living room. Inside, three men were quickly and methodically removing every piece of furniture from her living room through the window, and dumping in her backyard. She quickly peered into the other rooms on her ground floor; they had been in there already. Fuck! Why didn’t I take my dad’s advice and keep the gun near me? She could hear her father’s words as clearly as if he were standing right there: “India, a beautiful girl like you should have some protection. The world is more dangerous than it was in your mother’s and my time. Now, with all of these shootings and all of this other nonsense, nobody is safe anymore,” he said, his deep voice making the words a little difficult to hear. “Here,” he said. “This is my service pistol. It works perfectly, and I’ve had all of the registration changed to be in your name.” He took the small gun out of his pocket and handed it to her, his large, cool hand brushing her smaller one; his could have easily swallowed hers. “Keep it near you at all times,” he said, looking into her eyes. She nodded, understanding the seriousness of the situation.

He stepped back, and wrapped his arm around her mother, a small, shapely woman, much like India herself. He seemed much older suddenly. “Goodbye,” they called, as the bus doors closed and drove away with her. “Have fun at college! Learn! Don’t smoke pot! Marry a rich smart guy and give us lots of pretty babies, but not until you graduate!”

That had been four years ago. Now, she remembered the gun that she had soon begun to see as an unnecessary burden, sitting underneath the seat of her car. Dammit! Why didn’t I listen to him? And Cynthia got robbed just last week! She turned and began to walk away.

“Hey, lookit that!”

She spun, instinctively clutching the towel closer to herself at the sound of an unfamiliar male voice. The three men were looking at her and as she watched them, the largest of them whistled. “Fuck, Mikey, you told me this house was empty!”

“Well it was!” said a weasel faced man who was apparently Mikey. “I didn’t see any lights on, anywhere in the house and-”

The big man raised his hand and Mikey fell silent. “Shut up,” the big man said, quite unnecessarily. “Well, she’s here, so what should we do with her?”

The third man, a quite innocuous looking person approached her and circled her. India bristled, despising the fact that this person was so offensively checking her out in her own home. But he could do nothing about it; all three had pistols hidden quite obviously in their waistbands and looked rather tough. She had only a towel and didn’t want to even consider the possibility of exposing herself to these horrible creatures.

“She’s real fine,” said the unobtrusive man. “She got one hell of an ass, Leo. I say we fuck her now, then get her over to Raph and get what cash we can for her and all her shit.”
Leo thought for a moment. “That’s a good idea Donny.” Then he turned to India. “Bitch, you got any company up there with you?” He chuckled and answered his own question before she could answer him. “Course you ain’t. No self-respecting man sends his girl down in just a towel. Less you one of them dykes, but I doubt it. So, how 'bout it, sugar? You want us to show you a good time?”

“You ignorant PIG!” The words were out before India could think about what she was saying, and they kept coming. “How DARE you come into my HOME and try to rob me of my things? Then you have the gall to even THINK about suggesting having sex with me! THEN you go and call yourself a self-respecting man! You and your group of thugs are worth no more than shit!”
India stopped talking and looked at the man, fully expecting to be beat or shot. At first the man had looked shocked that she would be talking to him like that, but he eventually had deflected the storm of vitriol that she had directed at him.

The room was silent for a moment, and then the man spoke once more. “Mikey, take the woman’s towel off.” Mikey approached her and made a move to grab her towel. She glared at him, until she looked in his eyes. He had no desire to take part in this at all, and meant her no ill will. However, that didn’t mean that he could undress her. She directed such a look of malice and hatred at him that he backed off. Leo sighed. “Fuck, do I gotta do everything myself?” He approached her and in one motion ripped the towel off and twined it into a rope.

She stood naked in front of the three men, and as their eyes lustfully scanned her body, she adopted a defiant pose, fully aware of her lower status. She didn’t try to hide her breasts or groin, knowing that would mark her as weak and an easy target, but simply planted her feet shoulder width apart, crossed her arms, lifted her chin and dared the three to meet her eyes.

They didn’t. They were too busy eyeing her curves and ample bust. Leo was the first to shake himself free of the trance and began to walk towards her. “Donny was right, you are fine,” he said, a lascivious grin on his face. “Matter of fact, you’re too fine for them over at Raph’s. They just can’t appreciate a beautiful woman like yourself.” He grinned broader, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was displaying several pieces of rotting barbecue chicken wedged between his teeth. “Now me? I can appreciate a woman. And I appreciate you. I’m gonna treat you like you never been treated before.” He took his shirt off, revealing his grease stained, sleeveless T-shirt, and threw his shirt over the back of a nearby chair. India backed away, having no desire to let this greasy, unpleasant man get anywhere near her. Leo frowned and took out his gun, freezing her in her tracks. “Ah, you know what this is! Now then, don’t fight and this will be over quickly and you can come with us.”

India’s eyes flashed towards the door, hoping someone would burst in and rescue her, but the door remained in place, closed and silent. Leo began to open his pants, and Donny followed his example. They approached and surrounded her. Donny hit her in the stomach, making her double over, where she was held by Leo. She was too afraid to scream, as Leo’s penis came closer and closer. When it finally reached her, she shuddered with revulsion. Leo stuck it into her, grinding away, obviously enjoying it, oblivious to any discomfort he was causing her. She fell to the ground, and Leo kneeled with her, still grinding. Donny’s piece approached as well, and entered her butt. She screamed, because nothing was meant to go in that opening. The two laughed, and India began to cry in pain. Through her tears, she saw Mikey turn away in disgust, which gave her a slight measure of pleasure. At least he’s decent enough to recognize when something is truly wrong. She screamed again, but no one heard her.

© 2009 Malcolm Clarke. All rights reserved