Chapter 2

13:00, October 29, 1983

Three weeks was a long time to wait but somehow I stayed patient. Mainly, I spent a lot of time with Rhylls and Julie making them scream as I showed them other things we could do that made them feel really good besides just panty popping.

I also kept my eyes open and had Tie-Dyed Developments buy several properties around town. One which I thought would be perfect for my clandestine headquarters. I saw the little for sale sign almost by accident. It was small and in a place, most people wouldn’t have looked, near the top of the twelve-foot high fence around what was once known as Angel Falls’ Salvage.

Yes, that’s right, I had our company buy the local junkyard. Then I set up a dummy corporation that bought the whole thing from our company. That way I didn’t own it but the fake company did. There was no way to trace the dummy corporation back to me. I ran the sale through several shell companies that I set up while waiting for my contact to get me my illegal driver’s license.

The Junk Yard was perfect. The old man who’d owned it was ready to retire. The property was out of the city limits and had several structures on it. The one I was most interested in was an old steel building that looked like a small airplane hangar. It was the building that made me want the place.

The hangar was in the oldest corner of the property, what had once been the original junkyard back in the fifties. Since then, thanks to America’s bad driving habits, and the original owner’s hoarder-like mentality, the junkyard had grown and expanded. Several new buildings and a permanent office had been erected near the newest entrance to the property. You could see the progression of growth in the different fenced-in areas. That put the hanger behind four different fences. The stuff back by the hanger was mostly just leftover scrap, stuff that had been picked through so often that, once I owned it, I just put a big lock on that part of the gate and started working on refitting the hanger for what I needed.

It wasn’t hard to make a prison. I got some of the scrap steel from the junkyard and using a welding torch, built a series of cells along one side. The only thing left was to secure transportation for my intended prisoners, and the equipment needed to convince them to confess to Ms. Dent.

For the last fifty days since school had started, I kept a close watch on Craig and Deshawn. It wasn’t hard to notice patterns in their movements. Like most people, they had habits and were stuck in something of a rut in their daily lives. I made notes in a second journal I’d gotten at the Five and Dime. Those notes would be helpful. When the time came, I wanted to be able to snatch them with ease. I also kept making little trips to Lexington. I needed a discrete mode of transportation. So I searched several used car lots and checked the city papers for an appropriate car.

At the same time, I went and removed nine thousand dollars from my personal bank account. When the time came, I’d need cash to buy a vehicle, plus I still wanted to pick up a Suzuki Katana and paint it black on black. That wasn’t really the motorcycle I wanted, but once again being from the future messed me up. The motorcycle I wanted wouldn’t even be released until next year. I would rather have had the Kawasaki Ninja 1000, but those weren’t released until 1984, so getting one would mean delaying my plans for a year. I didn’t have the patience or the ability to keep my girls safe without giving away some of my secrets for more than a year.

So I would settle for a solid black Katana. Thankfully, there was a Suzuki dealer in Lexington, but of course, the bike wasn’t black, they didn’t make a black-on-black bike in the eighties. No, the bike was white and bright blue. But that wasn’t going to be a problem for me. I’d just take it to the Scrapyard and paint it myself. Once that was done, I would have what is labeled as the “Fastest Motorcycle in the World,” at least in the early eighties. With my paint job, it was looking very menacing. I also had a place to hold my ‘prisoners’ indefinitely.

As luck would have it, I found a little old lady whose recently deceased son collected muscle cars. He had an old 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner that the body was rough on. He’d been restoring it before he had gotten sick and passed. She had been trying to get the used car dealer to come look at his collection. Apparently, he had several old muscle cars he’d restored. The Roadrunner however wasn’t. The engine had been rebuilt and might have even come out of a Roadrunner Superbird; it was pristine and growled like a beast.