Torture in the Garden of Eden
Chapter 1 – The Beginning
Time stood on my feet, held me down; the trigger had been pulled and that was that. It must have been right, correct, justified; I knew it had to be - the killing, I mean. What else was there but that?
I had been told how it would be, how I should feel, what I should do, so I did it. Rhymes and reasons obliterate your guts when you are standing, wondering about the ‘why’ and ‘what the hell was I doing here’. It was enough that as I was pulling the trigger, I was just thinking about that strawberry ripple cone that was four scoops for a quarter. God, that was great ice cream! So it was him, her or it that I was killing. Never thought it was me, always thought for a damn long time that it was them that was getting killed, but me? Hell no!
It is over now; well, it ought to be, but as most of you know who have stood in the same damn place, well, it never is, is it? I trundle on, oblivion the sword that defends me. Stuff like booze and drugs and wives and kids that always make me stop, most of the time I do, sometimes I cannot. What is that thing they say happens to saints? You know, the times when they bleed and cry, except they really don't? I don't know, but it is not the same. I think saints and angels are there just to make me feel so right about the so wrong. Maybe that only makes sense to me and the others who stood beside me, but damn sure at least they understand.
My slug for them and theirs for me and it is inside, somewhere deep down in my guts. I came around with theirs in me and my buddy somewhere near me. He was dead. I held his guts in my hand and I don't know how it happened but hell, that don't matter, really. The strawberry ripple is so good down at the ice cream store but now it is gone, just far away somewhere. I guess it is where fairies dance and children play and lick at strawberry ripple and never, never have the idea in their head that, other than shooting maybe a robin with an air gun, death was Never-Neverland and hey, Alice could kill and the killed would just get up and ask you for a treat or at least some strawberry-ripple. It was all gone, as I said, and all I had was his guts in my hands, just slippery red goo and nothing much to worry about. Hell, it was not my guts; it was his guts. I knelt to John, cupped his head in my hands, wiped the blood off his cheeks. We had stood, watching for the enemy, couldn’t see a damn thing till the fire rimmed around our bodies, dropped John to his knees only to strike again, a thunder that smashed him back, up and away.
Wicker strained, rebelled at my red, white, and blue T-shirt as I leaned back and clasped my hands together above my head. Sylvia, a long sanguine creature who had chosen me among many, stood behind, kneading the tightened muscles surrounding my shoulders as though they were a good slab of dough that had to be made right for baking.
"It’s nice to sit here, isn’t it, hon? I mean the veranda, where Mom and Pop spent those long summer evenings, sitting, holding hands and just loving each other, watching that old sun put the day to sleep. Don’t you think, Sylvia?"
I had heard it before, this signal of quiet passion sent to me from down deep inside where I was sure the devil dwelled, disguised by screaming blood-white angel wings. I dropped back, into her, pressed my head up against her breasts. Gently, they took me in, naked, firm, hard brown nipples for the suckling, dauntless, mother’s son.
"Dillinger? I am dead, right? Gonna go somewhere I suppose, right, brother? You got my hand? Oh Christ, it hurts!" I dropped back, into him, pressed my head up against his breast; they took me in, blood guts for the suckling, dauntless, mother’s son.
John is dead. So what? He had told me about his mother and his brothers, a sharp horny sister that he had always to protect. "Dillinger, that old man just took the hell off and fuck us! Can you believe it; he just upped and fucked off!"
"Yeah Johnny, the way of the fucking world, just is. What the hell you gonna do except fuck em? That’s it. That’s all you can do, man. Me? I pushed my old lady in front of a Goddamned bus when I was sixteen. Let’s face it, if anybody had a noticed, well hell, I wouldn’t be fucking here with you and a bunch of assholes and guns and bullshit, now would I, Johnny?"
"You fucking killed your mother, Dillinger? Christ, that’s hard. Your fucking mother?"
"I didn’t kill her; the damn bus did. All I did was make a suggestion!"
"Hey, Dillinger, you got a smoke?"
"Yeah, sure, here, take two, might as well smoke while we’re waiting. Won’t be long now."
Sergeant Grady Quinn came up to us, started shooting bullshit our way. I shot the motherfucker right between the eyes. I’ll admit he did look back at me with that ‘what the fuck’ stare; not the first time I’d seen it.
I found myself staring at John; that hard ‘what the hell’d you want me to do? Kiss his ass and tell him yes sir, no sir’? That’s when the shell landed close, blew us up and down, made me kiss his guts. Quinn was most definitely dead, John soon would be and me? I had something hard and red to chew on. Then I woke up in that nice white hospital room. Christ, that was sweet. So full of dope I could not feel a damned thing. Sweet non pain ‘Christ, this is a nice room’ kind of feeling. You ever feel that? Like it was as children think, I suspect. It has been a long time since I thought as a child. Bullets, bombs and assholes tend to make you think other than childish thoughts.
Nurse Nancy came up over the hills and told me gently that I was alive and nothing major was missing. "Thanks," I said to her; at least I thought I did. Apparently, I found out at a later date, that I had said something totally untoward and had shocked the hell out of her. Now, can you imagine that? I mean, shocking a damned nurse who had been running around in piles of guts and men screaming at the top of their lungs. Anyway, at a later date, I was reprimanded by her but she forgave me for what I said. Kind of a mid-western thing, I think. I am from the coast; Santa Monica, actually. Long, dark surf-city body and, at the time, nice golden locks to boot. Guess the Marines can knock that out of you but it still sits there in locked-up anticipation of your next Nurse Nancy. I suppose that is what started the problems and not Quinn. Nobody ever said a damned thing about that motherfucker. Nope, not a damned thing!
Nurse Nancy and I went out for beers and shots. She hung around for a few years and, like Quinn, she started to rub me the wrong way. I was out there, you know, doing the normal shit like work and more work. Sure, there were a few broads on the side and some good sex, along with good drinking, but man cannot live by lust and booze alone; he must have a direction in his life, so I decided to find mine. I decided to do whatever the hell I wanted, so I did and I joined a traveling circus. Not that life had prepared me for such an endeavor but hell, a circus is as good as anything when one is not sure and on the prowl for self-fulfillment, if not at least a little justification. So Robard’s Freak show came to town and picked me up.
"So, what the hell can you do for me, Mr. Flakewaiter? You got any special talents that might be useful in a freak show?" Hilliard Robard asked me this stupid fucking question. Why is it stupid? I’ll tell you: it was obvious I was a fucking freak. Anybody who had a good look at me could see that. It was fucking obvious.
"Mr. Robard, you can see I am a fucking freak, can’t you? Look, I have decided to join up with you guys and there is not a damned thing you can do about it, so just go with the flow and tell me where I can plop my shit and we can get on with it, alright?" I glared quite strongly at the idiot asker of obvious questions. He seemed to get my point and called his right-hand man into the office. Well, it was really his left-hand man because Albert, the two left-handed man, had two left hands. What the hell can I tell you? It was a freak circus and the first place you might find a damned freak, right?
"Albert, take Mr. Flakewaiter with you and see to it that he gets bunked up. You are going to have a nice freak roommate until further notice. Now, you can leave, Mr. Flakewaiter. We will talk later when I decide what kind of freak you are going to be here. Have a nice evening."
Albert and I walked over to his digs. "Hey, Albert, how long you been a freak anyway?"
"Shit, I dunno. Mind if I call you Dillinger?"
"Hell, no, Al. Mind if I call you Al?" I really didn’t give a shit if he cared. After all, he was a damned freak, right? "So Al, how long?"
"Ever since the last war, Dillinger; the one before this last one. Quite a bit of time, I suppose, isn’t it?" Al opened the door to his digs and begged me enter.
"This is quite the shit hole, Al. You like living in this shit hole, Al?" I threw my tote on the bed of my choice. Al did not have a choice; I was his master right from the start.
"You may call it a shit hole and maybe it is, but now you are also living in a shit hole, Dillinger. You like living in a shit hole, Dillinger?"
Al growled at me so I smacked him hard right in the mouth. He went down. I bent over him and picked him up by his left handed lapels. "You ever rude to me again, you shit head motherfucker, I am gonna make you hurt like you never hurt before. Understand, Al?"
I threw him back on the floor and gave him a light kick in the groin. Al groaned and asked me what the hell was wrong with being a motherfucker, as he had fucked quite a few and they were all quite pleasant fucks.
Me? I saw a wash basin, ran some water and cleaned off my hands. Al was a puddle in his own shit house that was now mine as well. I let him lie there and decided to go for a walk. If he was there when I got back - I had decided to buy a bottle of scotch or vodka, wasn’t sure yet which - but I knew he probably would be there and he would be alright as I would share with him and talk of his war and mine. Talking of wars always made things right and if it didn’t? Hell, I’d just kick his ass a bit more. That is, if I had a mind to. I wasn’t sure if I had a mind to but that could wait. Time for a nice stroll and that was that.
"Hey, you. Where the hell is the crappiest bar in town?" I asked some fellow wandering aimlessly down the road.
"You want a crappy bar, bud? Well, there is one about a half block down the road there. Antoinne’s it is called, but the locals call it Tony’s. Crappy as hell, that dump. Hey mister, why the hell you want a crappy bar anyhow? You look like you could have a drink in a far less crappy bar than Tony’s, that’s for sure?"
It seemed like a respectful and earnest question, so I decided to answer him. "I want to have a drink in the dump just to watch the low life assholes like you who are looking for a life. What? You think you are not a low life asshole, Mister? I bet you got a fucking asshole wife at home and kids and you owe somebody a shit load of money, don’t you, and I bet you never held a gun or fought in a war and you probably don’t even know what the hell your prick is for, do you, even with kids, right? Somebody did your wife just so she could sit down with herself and somebody else’s specimen and giggle and google and tell you how much the hell they look like you, you dumb stupid son of a bitch! There, you like that answer, Mister? That good enough for you?"
Mister wandered back into the night. He knew he was a dumb low life asshole; he knew it before I told him. He was on the way to blow his brains out before he was asked the question. Now he knew he had made the correct decision, so he did.
"Yup, this place is just as that fellow said it would be. Christ, what a shit hole! Hey! Keep, gimme a beer and double up on some hard stuff. I don’t give a shit what the fuck the stuff is, just make sure, if you like the fucking way your face looks, to make it a Goddamned double, now hear?" The Keep did not react, just poured the drink and placed it in front of me.
Now, let us stop just for a minute or two, alright? There might be a few folks out there hwo think I am just playing around, but the truth is I am not. I have come to the place and time in life when the truth has finally stared me in the face and I have to handle it as a man who has loved war and loved women and lust and all that crap. You know; the man who has searched and finally found? But to make things straight with you and me, I have to continue the story and tell you what led up to where I am and why, which seems perfectly understandable to me, and if you are half the person I think you are, you will also accept this and understand. If you are not then it best that you just go off and kill yourself or something, because what is going to happen here is far too important and should only be read by people who care about themselves and, even more, about me, which of course would be perfectly understandable. You understand, don’t you? Well, of course you do. Now, let’s continue, shall we?
I drank my fill and found, much to my dismay, that no one was going to cause any problems. I wondered if it was perhaps my face that scared them off, a freakish one to be sure. Couldn’t blame anyone for not wanting to try it on with my face.
It had been a rather handsome face, they tell me. If you could look at it now, you would understand why I could not find any trouble in that low life bar which I sought so desperately. I have very little of that old face left; the pain had gone other than the odd twitch which, they say, is caused by nerves getting re-routed or something like that. The lips are almost gone but still quite capable. The scars? Hell, I read somewhere that some women find scarring quite sexy. I suppose that is true, as I have had my fill, but to tell you the truth, I think it was really the fact that I was just flat dangerous and that seemed to get those whores going. Oh, they were whores for sure, at least most of them.
The lady referred to in the opening was not, although she did always have whorish thoughts, which were good for me and I should think most fellows, but that is getting away from the order of things, so back to my face. The scars were caused by burning mostly, a couple of long side-by-side ones that start in my hairline on the left side and rip my face almost in two. Jagged, they are, and only start to fizzle out when they dive into my neck. The burn scars? Doctor Jameson down at the VA said that I was lucky because they were just on the other side of my face and were not so bad that over time they would fade quite a bit. They have, but at the time I am talking about, they washed the right side of my face from the cheekbone down to just above my clavicle in opaque brutal ugliness.
Some of the whores used to like to pet my face, even lick the scars and the burns. They would get all hot and bothered and I’d just fuck them really hard and tell them to shut the hell up. ‘I ain’t talking about it. Now shut the fuck up and get to doing what I am paying you for’, even if I was not, quite often because of the scars they liked to lick. Of course they did, as that is what I was paying for and I always demanded good quality fucking for my money or my attention or my pity. There are a lot of whores out there who pity fuck and most of them are too stupid to realize that it is me doing the pity thing and getting my rocks off and usually damned cheap, but what do you expect? They are women and like most of them, all cheap and all whores. Now, back to that crappy bar.
I was leaving with my bottle when I noticed this cheap whore sitting on some asshole’s lap. I thought ‘now is the time for a bit of fun, yes sir’. So, I walked up to her and this is what I said to the whore.
"Get rid of the slug. I need a good fuck. Come on; let’s go!" I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her up off the lap of this giant slug she was on. At first she did not realize I was saving her but when she did, and it did not take long, oh boy, was she ready to leave with me.
I ignored the slug and spoke out of pity to her instead of just dragging her off for a good fuck. I think I was already starting to change. Well, a little bit, I suppose. So I am telling her that I am saving her from this giant slug and that she should be grateful and not charge me a nickel but just fuck me and suck me because I was saving her, which I was. So, just as I had wished, the giant slug stands to take back his whore.
Of course, before he could stand, I put an elbow in his nose and just smashed it like a damned watermelon falling off the back of some Mexican’s pick-up truck. All over his face, it went, and the slug started to scream at me that ‘what the fuck, you asshole’. So, like I said, I think I was already starting to soften up. Beats me, but it seems I must have been because I put him out of his slug misery pretty quickly, I thought.
He was holding his watermeloned nose so I just stabbed him really hard right in the eyes with a couple of erect fingers which, of course, blinded him. I mean really blinded him. The slug could not see, might not even be able to see today, for all I know and care, which I don’t. So, nice as I was, I grab the back of his head - mind you, I left his nuts in peace; after all he had a right to father other black ugly giant slugs for folks like me to punish.
Anyway, I just grabbed the back of his head, greasy hair, ‘Christ does this slug ever wash his hair’? I guessed not, and so I just smashed his face and his hands and his blind eyes into the table five or six times till the cracking of bones in his face started to sound more like thuds. Then I stopped and left him alone.
What a saint I was becoming. I took the whore back to her place because I did not want to share her with Al. I might share some hooch but no pooch. So I fucked her good and paid her five bucks and let her lick my scars and my burns then I kicked the shit out of her. A grand evening it was, I must say. Headed back to Al’s shit hole, which was now mine as well, found him sitting, trying to clean his face and when he saw me, he started. Well, that was a normal reaction. I told him to shut the fuck up. I was not going to smack him if he did not say anything stupid then we cracked the bottle and drank it all and talked about his war and mine. Yes, friends, it was a grand night, indeed. I slept like a damned baby, dreamed of the killing and all the wonders that I had experienced and when I awoke, you know what I felt? I bet you don’t. I bet you five bucks and a whore. You wanna know?
Hell yes, you do, so I will tell you. I felt different, kind of softer, as I was telling you. I thought to myself, ‘Dillinger, you are turning into a right fine fellow’, then I went to look for the fellow that called himself the boss of the freaks. After all, I had to find out what the hell kind of freak he thought I really was. Then I could decide if he was right or if I should change his mind. See how logical I was becoming, and so much kinder? Yes, I was feeling all soft and cuddly. Then I ran into that damned Erma with her damned beard and her tits and everything started to change again.
Oh, hell, it is not important what the hell happens after death. It is important to fucking stand up and be counted in this life, cause no matter what, nobody knows. Fear of flying and fear of dying. Me? I'll take the fear of flying. It’s something tangible and worthwhile. Working or thinking about the rest is bullshit. I told them I held a dying man in my arms; he looked at me, he screamed, his fucking guts were all over the fucking place and just before he fucking died, he looked at me once again. From that moment on I never feared a Goddamned thing in my life because his eyes reached into my guts and I felt the hand of something that I will never understand, do not care to understand, that is impossible for me to understand. He went somewhere. He passed.
It was action, not nothing, it was action. I have not a clue where the hell he went or what the hell happened, but the man did not die. He moved somewhere and the fucking Bekins van was right there and it picked him up and delivered him and thanks, John, you made my life by giving me the greatest gift that one person could give another. Now, you can continue discussing this till your asses fall off. Me? I know it, and that is that, and how’s yer father, and goodnight. It is fucking time to go watch the sun, have a few more hooters and just be grateful that the sun'll be there and if I am not, I will be off on my next adventure wherever the hell that may be and having a hell of a good time. Emma, shut the fuck up and pour me another Goddamned drink, will ya?’
Emma the bearded lady had apparently spotted me from a distance and decided that I looked like a man who would have no problem fucking a bearded lady. She invited me into her shit hole where a bunch of freaks were sitting around with what I must admit was a damned good couple of bottles of Scotch. She plunked me into them. They were having some fucking philosophical talk about life after death and all that crap. I guess freaks have some deep seeded need to justify something, whatever the hell that meant. As long as they were justifying maybe they could avoid the fact that they were freaks. I don’t know but I listened to the bullshit and that stuff above is what I finally had to say after a few drinks and so it went and so it was.
I think the last thing I said to them was something like ‘Jesus Christ, why don’t you freaks just admit what the hell you are? Freaks,’ I told em, ‘fucking freaks. Me? Yeah,’ I told em, ‘I was also a fucking freak but at least I had a life’. Of course, I lied to them but lies didn’t matter to them or to me as, what the hell, the whole Goddamned world was a lie. But what I said was not a lie; it was the truth and after this, I just stood up and told Emma that she could come over later and give me a good blow job and that her beard would not bother me in the least. I left and that was that, for a while anyway.
Life in the freak show was fun, not much more than that, and that was just fine for the time that I needed to be a freak. I sometimes asked that of myself. ‘Dillinger, why you want to be a freak?’ No answer, just the same old damned buzzing in my ears. I had decided that God was a freak as well, so I was in the ultimate situation for a God-loving freak.
I managed to be free enough to do pretty much as I wished and would have done it anyway, even if someone, or a freak, had minded. That’s why I chose them to hold me for a while. I got a lot of good blow jobs from Emma and was able to beat up that roommate often enough, but I was very loving to him. You see, I beat him, and it was an exception to the normal men I whipped, as I didn’t really care if they cared. Al, on the other hand, was allowed to get his guts full of booze so that in the morning he could not remember who kicked his sorry ass. I think he might have eventually had a mind as to who but he never said anything for fear of a sober ass-kicking.
Travel from town to town also has its advantages. I could pretty much, as I said, do what I wanted to do even if we didn’t travel, but the traveling just made it simpler and I did not have to press anyone to get the hell out of the way and who the hell do you think you are just because you wear a stinking Goddamned badge. So I pretty much did not have to beat up any of the badges, though on occasion I did and it was well received by all.
If most of you have never been in a freak show then you will definitely enjoy the experience I had when we visited Ardoine, Mississippi. A nice rural town full of nice rural folks who did not consider themselves freaks at all, but nevertheless were of a terribly freakish nature to say the least. Like lots of grease in the morning, loads of garbage stuffed into their cabbage heads and mouths. Creatures with great yawning gaps in their face, constantly filling them with garbage and spitting bullshit in the face of whomever had the temerity to even listen, which I did and only to torment them, which I was sure they would indeed enjoy.
Aaron and Fillibuster Morton were sitting in this booth behind me in some stinking greasy spoon. ‘Why the hell did you eat in that dump?’ you may ask, and quite correctly. The answer to this question is quite simple; no other place to eat in town and one must fill ones guts with something, right? So I am sitting, listening to these two freaks while the freaks with me are stuffing up and drinking liquids akin to coffee. I am, of course, sipping ice water and eating a gentle green salad with Roquefort and those crumby little bread things they throw on salads to make the freaks think they are getting something special. Now, here is what I heard these two talking about. Perhaps, though it would first be more appropriate to describe them, even though they were sitting. The one that called himself Aaron was about six-foot-four, I guess, and quite thin. His brother was a little smaller but about six-foot-four around his waist, which laid in great part upon the table in the booth. They were both dirty freaks, which I suppose is normal in Ardoine, as most of the freaks there appeared extremely filthy.
"Aaron, I think we can get one up around Grubber’s Corner. We can probably trap it good and then cut it up and nobody’ll know the damn difference. What a ya think, Aaron?"
"Well, Fillibuster, it is dangerous and we could get in a might of trouble if they catch us but damn, it’ll be worth it and that damn nigger flesh’ll be just what the doctor ordered for Mama. They say nigger flesh just up and perks sick’uns right up, so we really got no Goddamned choice. We gotta go trappin’ and that’s that!"
They were, to be truthful, great examples of freakishness in the human animal. I mean, can you imagine? They did not even try to keep down their voices, but Ardoine, Mississippi, population four thousand or about, probably did not care about their talking anyways.
They left after agreeing to start the trapping after the nigger got out of church. They did not say which nigger they preferred but I had the feeling, listening to them talking about good dark flesh, that it probably would be a young girl or lady they would pick. They said that church in the evening got out at around night fall which, in the summer, would have been about eight-thirty or so and they would just lay the trap and that was that.
I spent the rest of the day just walking and drinking a bit of booze and watching the freak show. The tent had been set up by me and a few others which, after all, was what they were paying me for. It did not take much time so, as I said, there was a lot of it to just hang and watch and have some booze and think about Aaron and Fillibuster and the joy of evening time. I pushed a few freaks around a bit but nothing special, although I did almost punch one in the face but decided to hold my pleasure for the evening.
As sundown approached, I found them where I thought they might be, which was in a bar, the only one in town. I had a beer or two with them and as they left, so did I, the excitement quite raising my spirits.
They walked up to the lane which came from the church at Grubber’s Corner. They hid behind a bush, which I thought was kind of silly, but what can you expect from small town freaks, anyway? The whole time I was with them, they did not notice as they were full of themselves and the trapping of the female nigger.
Me? I watched them settle down, then I walked up and into the church and sat with a bunch of nice folk who were the only non-freaks in the area. We sang and prayed and it was truly joyous and spiritual. I don’t think they even cared a bit that I was not one of them. Yes, nice folks, and just minding their business and praising God and having a devil of a grand time.
A beautiful tall, dark man by the name of Minister Righteous Golden Arm stood to the front of the congregation: A fine sign of a man and one who spoke, not of evil, but of good, which I found really interesting. "Love is the child of the Son of Man," he spoke. "We must cherish the child so that God can grow inside of us and spread joy and peace in our everlasting souls and those of the men and women that hate."
I thought that a nice thought but it was far too soon for me to stop hating so I remained a hate-filled freak, even though it was a delightful sermon. The folks just stood, swayed, sang and amened themselves into a frenzy which titillated me, I must admit, even though I was quite titillated even before I entered this lovely little church. Now it was time for the end. All of them stood and turned to one another and hugged and loved. They even hugged and loved me, which I thought very nice as I had not been really hugged or for that matter loved for such a long, long time. Then they filed out, still holding hands and arm in arm. I watched and smiled as one lovely creature of still rebuke caught my eye. I knew she was the one which Mama would enjoy eating because of the healthy nature of her skin and body. Quite a beauty, that lady. I think they called her Grace which was a very suitable name, indeed. So I will call her Grace, whether or not that was her name, because I felt it so became her.
Grace walked away down the dusty path and into the trap. The boys had set it far enough down the road so that screaming would not be heard, which made me think that all along they really had a pretty good idea who they were going to trap and they did.
Lovely Grace and me, just far enough behind to observe, walked down the trail as the sun set, and a beauty that setting was to be sure. She walked around a small bend in the path and I heard her scream as Aaron and Fillibuster sprung their trap. I walked up just a bit away from them so I could see but not so that they could see me. I do not think they would have, even if I had been standing there giving them directions. At any rate, they were well on their way. They had tied her hands behind her and stuffed her mouth with some dirty rags and bound her in with what appeared to be some kind of ripped up towel. No matter, it was going just fine and dandy. They had pulled up her lovely dress and pulled down her panties and were standing with their pricks all hard and ready to go. Grace had stopped even trying to resist and I could actually see peace in her eyes, acceptance of God’s will for her.
I had my nine-millimeter handgun and I stepped up to them as Aaron was about to stick her with his freakish dirty prick. I just took the butt of the pistol and smashed him across the back of the head. His brother was quite surprised and stood there with his mouth open as I put in the barrel and blew off the back of his head. Aaron was stunned, of course, but not out and as he was trying to pull himself up and away from Grace, I shot him as well and right in his crotch. I said I was sorry for their Mama and all, and that it was too bad she would not get a nice bit of dark meat but that Grace was not a freak and did not deserve to die and you guys did. So, I killed them and it was grand and made me feel really great as my night was saved and so was Grace, that lovely dark princess from the church on Grubber’s Corner. I picked her up and helped dress her. She was at peace and her eyes did not even open until I whispered to her that it was all good and she could just go on her way and that if she told anyone of this, then the devil would be at her doorstep.
Grace understood and that was good, because I really did not want to have to punish her. She actually smiled at me and, as she turned to walk away, she said in a very graceful way that she was thankful for my assistance and that even if I burned in hell, which I was fully prepared to do, that if she prayed hard and long that maybe God would save me, as he had her through me. What a lovely Grace she was. I wished her a happy and joyous walk home and the last thing I did was shoot the boys a couple of times just to make sure that they would not be hungry again and they were not.
In a few days we would be on our way again and my adventure with the freak show would soon be over as God decided he would come into my life, but that is for later. I returned to Ardoine and had a few drinks and went back to the freak show and drank some more and fucked Emma the bearded lady a few times then slept, and all was once again fine in my world.