Chapter 18

Annette Larreau could not definitely pinpoint the exact moment in her twenty-two years when she first contemplated suicide; it was as if the idea had been haphazardly floating around in her brain as far back as she could remember, before all of her father's mistresses, before "Cousin" Antoine had been sent to prison and his Madeleine had disappeared, before the evil ogre who had first her committed her mother to an institution for the mental deficient when she was ten, even prior to the time when she had come to understand that the name Larreau was synonymous with every conceivable vice and evil imagined or otherwise, and that her father was lord-governor of the domain.

All the same, she had never tried it, nor was it a mania or fixation with her, any more than did she fall into morbid states of depression or dwell on the subject when she was with the select few people she called friends. The simple explanation was that she had long ago decided she was a social freak and had always been, that the sight of her name in the elite gossip columns nauseated her, that she did not belong and in general, was not wanted; but she was that novelty piece, the risque bit, the notorious daughter of the nefarious Gaston Larreau, crime czar; and her first and immediate appearance at any function always made for a delightful raising of eyebrows and exciting under-the-breath conversation. The entire picture of her whole life had been, presently was, and would be as long as she existed, a waste, and she had no desire to continue on with it further. It was that simple; the time had finally come to put an end to things, but the question was, how?

Being of the new, mod, non-violent generation, she abhorred guns, knives and the like, and the mere thought of strangulation by hanging one's self, or administering poison, even wrist- slashing, seemed nothing short of crude, abominable methods. An overdose of sleeping potions was probably the more practical and less painful approach, however, a little item on the back page of the Montreal Star had finally helped her to make up her mind. It was a short and concise piece that told of a young man being found in his apartment, dead from an overdose of heroin: thus, Annette Larreau decided to become an addict first... a corpse later, once the novelty wore off.

There was one more issue of importance to be taken into consideration she thought, as she drove her sporty red, Karmann- Ghia south on Highway 9 from Quebec City where she had spent a "square-peg" few days with old Laval schoolmates, and that was the disposition of the sleek, noble beast seated erectly on the seat beside her... the future of her gallant and faithful Great Dane, Sir Launcelot. He was devoted to her and she loved him with a depth of feeling that went far beyond the shallow emotions peculiar to the human animal; she loved him as no woman ever loved even her lover, and the thought of leaving him behind to the unmercy of the world raised tears each time it crossed her mind. Yet, she had only to look into his great brown eyes to know that she couldn't bring herself to take his life; still, neither could she bear to leave him behind to some worse fate... Dear God, she did love him so... !

He was the only meaningful thing her father had ever given her, and she had raised him from a pup, raised, trained and taught him that his entire existence was meant to fill the void in her life. She had treated him as a human, never an animal, showering her love upon him and demanding the same in return. Her Launcelot had never known copulation with another dog for she had denied him that, jealously so, but in place of a bitch dog she had given him herself, patiently teaching and guiding him until she was certain there was no human of the male specie who could begin to match his magnificent love-making.

Dear God, she had only to think of their nightly intimate moments to work herself into a sexual frenzy. If only people could rise to the level of so-called dumb animals... what a different and wonderful world it would be, she thought. She reached over and stroked his great head, smiled at him and he whined back his response. Damn, for two cents she was tempted to pull off on a side road to some secluded spot and let him lick her between her legs to climax. That anticipating, wanting expression was gleaming innocently in his great round eyes, and the mere thought had pleasurably moistened the tight, hairlined slit between her warm, itching thighs. She shifted in the seat and felt her panties draw snugly up into the soft, vibrant crevice, gently splaying the fleshy lips to tauten provocatively against her suddenly aroused clitoris. Once more, she squirmed her buttocks down into the leather of the cushion causing delightful little sensations to tingle in her loins and belly. The giant dog, with ears erect, watched her and whimpered longingly, his brown eyes pleading, as if somehow he could, and had, read her thoughts. His nose twitched also, as if the odor of the excitement forming down between her legs had wafted over to him.

Annette laughed warmly, almost excitedly, again reaching over to stroke his head. "Ah... mon cher, but I'm afraid it will have to keep, eh? Maybe later, sweetheart... but for sure, tonight..." Then, her smile changed to an expression of sadness. After awhile, she said: "My gallant Launcelot... what's to become of us, you and me... ? We are all that either of us have in this rotten world... and in all humaneness I can't leave you behind when I go... nor can I take your life... Mon Dieu... I don't know... I don't know, Cheri."

Her abrupt solemn change of mood immediately dispelled her prurient desires of a few moments before. She settled back in the seat and drove with her eyes fixed on the road as she thought. There was something almost sadistic in the method she had settled on to bring things to an end for herself, plus the idea of addicting her body to heroin, inasmuch as her own father filled his coffers from the illicit traffic, amongst other evil things; yet, at the same time, it sounded like a wild and crazy adventure. She'd tried it and liked it, freaked-out on "speed" a few times and forgotten her woes, but "smack" was going to be a brand new trip, and getting the stuff should be simple. Armand Nicolet would help her.

She smiled as she thought of sweet little Armand, son of Canada Steel's first family, introvert, homo and addict. He'd help her all right; they were buddies who occasionally cried on one another's shoulder, understood each other's plight, had even slept together to see if he could stand it heterosexually, but with the exception of a bit of soixante-neuf it had fallen flat for him. Still, they were friends each knowing and sharing the other's problems, finding mutual consolation in their individual ostracism from the established world. Tonight, she'd see Armand and the few others she called friends... tonight at Mother Turtle's... and that would be the beginning of the end... but first, she was going home and spit in her father's eye. That was one more of the few remaining pleasures she still enjoyed on this earth.

Gaston Larreau, when he stood, towered a maximum of five- feet-seven-inches, a portion of this supplied by his one-hundred- and-fifty dollar elevator shoes, but what he lacked in height he made up in width, both in belly and shoulders, for he moved the scale-hand beyond the two-hundred-seventy pound mark. He possessed a glistening, naked pate and was deeply indebted appearancewise to his tailors who made him appear meticulous of dress. His nubbin head was round and set close between his shoulders, leaving him neckless, while his round-face gave him a pumpkinish look; his small grey, nearly colorless eyes were spaced too-wide apart, just as his too-small ears clung tight to his head. The aged scar left from an early razor wound ran the length of his right cheek, ending at the corner of his mouth, making the flesh there puffed and malformed until he smiled, and then one noticed little else but the line of strong golden upper teeth.

At the moment, he was not smiling as he sat imperiously behind the massive desk in his "ballroom" sized study, facing his daughter who had walked in to inflict a bit of mental torture on this man whom she despised with a passion.

"The hell you say!" he blurted in his native tongue. "The Godamned hell you say girl. I won't stand for it, you hear? Not one godamned minute will I stand for it... !"

The idea had come to Annette not minutes before as she walked into the house. It was so insane and bound to torment him that she couldn't imagine why she hadn't thought of it before. Right at the moment, she could hardly control her elation as she watched the little ogre before her fume and rant, and even Launcelot at her side momentarily bared his teeth and growled at the fat man's sudden fury.

"I can't imagine what you're going to do about it, pere," she said in English, knowing this, too, irked him. "I've made up my mind... I'm going to marry Armand Nicolet."

"Jesus Christ! You must be out of your rattled head!" the czar bellowed. "You know what he is... ? Do you? That godamned little queen! He's one of those, for Christ's sake... He's a... a... a..."

"A homosexual, pere," Annette put in calmly. "Is that what you were trying to say?"

Larreau gaped at her, his cheeks bloated, his eyes bugged. "What the hell... all right, yeah, that's part of it, and that ought to be enough for you. He's a godamned queer! On top of that, he's a... a... a..."

"He's hooked, pere, eh?" she interrupted again. "Addicted... and to heroin, right?" She lay her hand on Launcelot's massive head to keep the animal from growling. "But then, that should make you happy, mon pere, I mean, if it weren't for people like Armand, how could you get along? Really, I think you're very short-sighted..."

"Godamn you, girl! Don't stand there and talk to me like that, you hear? I won't put up with it!" Larreau raged, the scar on his cheek a livid purple. Angrily, he struggled to his feet and once more, Launcelot unleashed a fierce growl. The little fat man stared at the great animal and swallowed tightly. "Damn it... get that thing out of here. You know I don't like him, and he doesn't like me any better. I warn you, if he ever tries to bite me I'll put a bullet right through his skull..."

Annette's own eyes narrowed viciously before he had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth. "And I'll put one through yours, damn you, if you ever try to lay a hand on him!" she spat through her teeth.

Once more, the ugly little man gaped at his only child, but this time in shocked disbelief. For a long moment, he didn't speak, then finally, he said: "Ma chere... what the devil is it that's wrong between us? Mon Dieu! You're my daughter... my baby... all I have in this world..." He started to come around his desk but stopped at Launcelot's guttural warning. Again, he swallowed the lump from his throat. "Look, cherie... all I want is your happiness, eh? Whatever I have will someday be yours... all yours... everything you see around you. My God... why do you treat me like this... ? I mean, if you want to marry, then go find yourself a husband... a man... not some godamned fairy..."