It was the fragrant smell of roses and it only took a moment to find that my bed was covered in the crimson red petals. There was also a candle on my dresser, lighting the message, “I love you and want to do something that will take your breath away.”
I felt the air slip from my lungs…
She screamed at him because he was in jungle fatigues, loudly muttering, ‘I don’t want to remember all the faces of the people I’ve killed.’ He didn’t need to remember their faces; he woke every morning to their pale, rotting forms standing over his bed — each riddled with holes from the gunfire shot through them.
We headed to the outdoor shooting range 20 miles north of us. I noticed Bob was playing around with his prosthetic leg, a bonus from time spent in Afghanistan.
“What wrong with it?” I asked.
“I’m using my old one today and it’s uncomfortable,” he answered.
“Wanna go back and switch out?”
“Naw, it’ll be fine.”
With that, I let the subject drop because at times, Bob could be moody about his ‘fake leg.’ Within minutes we pulled into the gravel lot, got out and grabbed our shooting gear.
Our group included two Marines, two Army and one Air Force veteran. Making up the six-pack is a civilian named Harold, brother-in-law to one the Army vets and a real know-it-all.
Today, Bob, the other Army vet, and Harold were going to play cowboy and practice quick-draw methods. Harold assured everyone that he was a master of the art-form and was certain to come out on top regardless of Bob’s military background.
It didn’t take long for the two of them to square-off. Five out of six rounds, Harold out drew Bob in their private competition.
“See, told ya,” Harold bragged.
“Wanna go again?” Bob offered.
“And lose again?” Harold countered.
“What can I say, I’m a glutton for punishment,” Bob smiled.
Something was up as Bob turned to look at me and gave a quick wink. For the life of me, I had no idea what he was up too.
Suddenly, the red light flicked to red. Both men fired and Bob screamed as a stream of blood pumped from his right foot.
Harold looked at the blood as it gushed in a geyserly fashion over and over. The sight overwhelmed him as he squealed in a high pitch, ran in place for a few steps and them collapsed on the ground, having fainted.
For his part Bob walked over to the fallen man and shook him awake. Once Harold had a handle on himself, Bob told him it was practical joke, that he had shot himself in his fake leg on purpose.
Harold was so pissed, he refused Bob’s apology, loading up his equipment and leaving the range. The Range-master was none to pleased either as he banned Bob from the facility for the remainder of the year.
“So, was it worth it?” I asked Bob on our drive home.
“Oh, hell yeah,” he chuckled.
“Sir, we have intel suggesting the enemy is preparing to strike.”
“What kind of strike?”
“Like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”
“Get to the point – what are they planning?”
“To strike.”
“To strike what? Us?”
“No. sir, themselves.”
“I thought you said they were going to attack?”
“No, sir. I said ‘strike.’”
“That make’s no sense.”
“No, sir, it doesn’t, but then they are Unionized.”
“Any idea what they’re striking over?”
“Increased Chinese tariffs.”
“What? Why?”
“Appears they want the Chinese tariff’s reduced.”
“Don’t we all?”
“I would think so.”
“Then why?”
“Personally, sir, I think it’s that derangement syndrome.”
The old folk in the village spoke of a fabled pill box on the backside of the mountain above their forest home. I told them I planned to explore the other side of their mountain and find it.
“It would be best for you to seek your adventure elsewhere,” came each elders’ warning.
Finally I began climbing the mountain towards the top. It would take me a week to finally crest the peak.
Not only did I find this pill box, I also found the giant that used it to store his medications – or should I say – he found me.
It were as if my dog knew, don’t ask me how – he jus’ knew. His knowing at this moment wasn’t going to help me though as I sit in a jail cell waiting to be charged with murder and whatever else they could find to throw at me.
Clowns outside of a circus or a child’s birthday party have always left me really creeped-out. However, while I’ve seen many videos and a couple of news reports about random clowns appearing on people’s door steps, I never thought I’d have my own encounter.
That all changed two nights ago, as Charlie-dog began to bristle and growl at the door. I shushed him several times before I decided to go have a look outside.
But before I could do that, I heard a noise out front on the porch, that caused me to quickly retrieve my pistol. I waited and after hearing the sound again, I quietly unlocked the front door and jerked it open.
“Holy fuck me!” I screamed as I came face-to-face with a clown sporting the reddest hair and sharpest teeth I’d ever seen.
Instinctively, I raised my weapon, but he was half a second quicker as the ax he held slammed across my wrist, knocking the gun out of my hand and somewhere behind me. The blow also sent me to my left and falling backward.
That’s when Charlie jumped in and went to work.
To be certain, this is not Charlie-dogs normal behavior. In fact he’s always come off as somewhat shy, even cowardly, preferring to stay behind me when people come over for visit.
Before I could scramble to my feet, the dog had the clown by the arm and was shaking him, almost as if he were a rag-doll. I fumbled to find my pistol as Charlie found the man’s neck and began ripping at it.
Undeterred, the clown did his best to bring the ax around to defend himself. But I didn’t give him the chance as I fired a round directly into his face, jus’ above his bulbous nose.
This ended the attack. Having seen enough horror films, I kept my weapon trained on him as I used my cellphone to call for help.
Shortly after the law arrived, I was arrested on ‘suspicion of murder,’ because I shot the man while he was laying down and outside of my home. Sadly, I’m not sure what has happened to Charlie-dog and no one will tell me or even try and find out.
Seven blocks away, inside bay 3 of the county’s medical examiners office’s autopsy room…
“Tuesday, May 14, 12:15 pm,” stated the medical examiner, as she started the autopsy, “Subject appears to be a male…age undetermined due to excessive, white and red face paint…orange, red hair…his hair, appears to have been recently dyed…clothing consists of a single piece cotton costume, baggy, white with red and blue polka-dots…large, red leather shoes, 20 inches in length, white shoelaces.”
“Subject has a single gun shot wound to the face…mid-center…bridge of nose…slightly beneath obital socks…appears to be cause of death…is wearing some sort of off-white or milky-yellow contact lens with a reddish pupil… which…seem…to…um…be very hard to remove…we’ll have to come back to them…examining his mouth, he has…well that is odd…46 teeth…some are filed down. Are you getting this?” she asked the technician filming the autopsy.
“Yes,” he answered as she moved ahead with her external examination.
As she continued, becoming more puzzled by her initial findings, “After removing the subjects clothing and foot wear…he’s extremely pale…waxy skinned… unnaturally taut over his musculature…arms are slightly longer than normal…29 inches… feet…large at 19.5 inches…nails, very thick…hands, large…fingers long, boney…pointed nails…note to self: Marfans Syndrome…height is six-one…weight 181 pounds….”
“So, beginning with the ‘Y’ incision…” her voice faded off.
After a few seconds of silence, “What the hell?!” she exclaimed before ordering all of her staff from the building.
About twenty-hours ago, the quiet of the county lock-up was interrupted as several men, all wearing dark suits, came in and with official government documents in hand, escorted me away to another room. Even though I’d long ago refused to talk to anyone without my attorney present, they insisted on questioning me about last night’s events.
Exhausted, hungry and feeling chilled, I finally answered their questions to their satisfaction and they left. Next the district attorney, the chief of police and the sheriff came into the room to speak with me.
It was the DA that did most of the speaking, telling me in short that I wasn’t going to be charged and that I acted in self-defense. He even told me that Charlie-dog was okay and would be returned to me as well.
“So, why no charges?” I asked.
The three men looked back and forth to one another before the sheriff answered, “We don’t know for sure what you shot — but the higher-ups think you killed a Rake.”
Stunned, I sat in silence for a few seconds before asking,”Rake? Higher-ups? What the hell do you mean?”
Irritated, the chief relied, “He didn’t stutter. If it was up to me, I’d lock your ass up and throw away the key!”
“Good to know,” I responded.
They left me to sit in that room for about half-an-hour before I was escorted through the building to a waiting squad car and driven home. As we pulled up to the sidewalk, in front of my house, an animal control vehicle was already parked waiting with Charlie-dog.
It was a happy reunion until the deputy who had brought me home, stepped next to me. That’s when Charlie’s shoulder and rump hairs began to hackle and he started in with a low, menacing growl.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the deputy who backed away and started to get into his cruiser, “he’s shy around people and he’s had a long night.”
“No problem,” he called out as he turned the engine over and drove away.
“Never liked that guy,” the animal control officer casually stated, “there’s jus’ something about him and your dog knows it too.”
“Well, thanks for bringing him home,” I smiled as I shook her hand and headed for my front door.
As she drove away, her words hit me. It was then that I realized that the deputy was one of those things, but in a different disguise and Charlie-dog knows – he jus’ knows.
The Old Blog in the Desert 