Chapter 1: Dance With The Devil

Thank you for the many responses I got when I asked for feedback. There were over two hundred answers to that request. I tried to answer all of the messages, but could not, due to all the other demands on my time.

That does not mean I did not appreciate the emails I received from all of you. Thank you for your comments. Out of all the people who emailed me, only five were totally negative. They were all signed "Anonymous." Go figger.

A few readers commented they did not care for pedophilia. A couple did not care for incest, or the violence portrayed in part one. These were the stated preferences of the readers. Inasmuch as they were presented in a polite and constructive manner, thank you for your input.

May I remind you though, this is just a story? People do have fantasies that remain just that. Remember "Lolita?" Nobakov's mediocre writing would not have carried the story without that sweet young thing to spice things up.

If you notice, this is more a story about people who get involved in situations they are not equipped to handle. However, they have to somehow cope to survive.

I neither extol nor promote illegal sexual practices, or other suicidal behavior. On the other hand, I do not condemn much of what today's society persecutes and prosecutes. Look at Sweden, Denmark, Norway Belgium and the other European countries that have more lax laws and lenient enforcement of those "softer laws."

Should nine year old children have sex with adults? My belief is, for the most part, no. However there may be a few exceptions. I don't know of any, though, first hand.

Should brother and sister make babies together? There are times when it would not matter and there are times when the babies would be born with genetic defects. I feel legal recourse should be available to consider these liaisons, case by case.

One last thing: I am not a Christian. (Well, ya woulda never guessed!) I do not believe in Jesus, the Easter Bunny or Charlie Brown's Great Pumpkin. More people have been harmed and killed than have ever been helped by religion.

Having stated the above, I now step down off of my soapbox and continue Part 2. I hope you enjoy the read.

Tom

Elaine got rear ended in traffic. The wetback who rammed her was arrested and turned loose by a Mexican Chula Vista Judge. Judge Hector Vargas ranted from the bench about the illegals, gave the wetback a thirty day suspended sentence and declaimed, "Let that be a lesson to you." Tony sat through the charade and left when the judge called a recess.

John had been visiting Elaine in the hospital and learned about it later from Tony. Tony helped him hobble do the elevator. "Dad, I think that was a setup." John nodded his agreement.

A week later, Elaine came home from the hospital. She sat on John's lap and asked, "When is this going to end? John, I can't take much more."

"Babe, this is the last straw. These people are after something. They kept asking me about some list. I told them I didn't have any list. They kept pounding on me and asked over and over about that list."

"Steve is afraid of these people and he doesn't even know who they are. We're on our own here." It's about time for some payback."

Tony sat at his computer and printed out the list John had given him. The list was a short one that contained twelve names. "Thanks, son. You did great, really great." He hugged the teenager's shoulders. Damn, I am so proud of you."

Tony seemed to swell as he heard the praise heaped on him. He pointed to the first name on the list. "That's the bastard who raped Mom while you were in jail, just before you went into the hospital." John knew the name well. He was also one of the cops who beat John while he was in jail.

The first name on the list was Julio Sanchez, recently discharged from the Chula Vista PD for cause. The "cause" was one of John's beatings.

A waitress found the dead ex-cop in the alley behind the low rent bar where she worked in National City, California, less than ten minutes after he was killed.

The dramatic "Z" scratched in the dead man's forehead caught the eye of the news media. Hours of prime time television were spent in speculation over the hidden meanings of the mutilation.

John smiled an angry smile to himself the next morning, as he watched the morning news on TV. "It means I wanted to send a message and get certain people's attention," he said aloud to himself. "Hidden meaning my ass."

Now John had one new worry, other than the murder of the ex-cop. He discovered a part of himself he was not certain he liked. It had been so easy to do the deed, too damned easy. No, the next morning, he felt neither remorse nor sadness because he had killed a man. His lack of emotion after he killed the ex-cop bothered him...

The previous night he had entered the bar, located his quarry, called "Julio," and gestured toward the back door of the bar. John made his way at a slow pace. His body had still not recovered from the recent beatings he had endured at the hands of this man and the other cops.

The ex-cop responded as expected. "Whatta you want, asshole? You want your ass kicked again?" Even as he asked the question, he followed John toward the outside.

"Let's not talk business in here," John answered. "I got a deal for you."

They stepped out the back door of the bar and waited in the alleyway until the door closed behind them. "Okay, what's the deal?"

"This." John brought an old fashioned ice pick up under the ex-cop's chin and shoved it upward through the soft flesh behind his jawbone. The sharp point kept going upward all in one continuous motion into the man's brain. John pulled the ice pick back out and turned away as Sanchez started to fall.

John stopped and turned back to the fallen body. It took but a moment to scratch a "Z" in the dead man's forehead. He wiped the trace of gore off of the pick onto the man's shirt and walked away. He took the ice pick with him.

On the back road between National City and Lemon Grove, John tossed the ice pick into the weeds that grew alongside the road.

He felt numb. Is this what it feels like to kill someone? Is it normal to feel a little numb and nothing else? Maybe I'm no longer human. Maybe I never was human. He drove on toward the apartment with his troubled thoughts for company.

Once parked in front of the apartment, John sat and cried. Great, wracking sobs poured out of him. A small part of him observed and thought, I still don't feel any emotions. "Oh Christ," he muttered under his breath. "What have I done?"

Elaine met him at the door. "Where have you been? I was worried, Hon. You shouldn't go out at night like this. You aren't all the way recovered yet."

She kissed his tear streaked face. "John, you are my life. Please don't do anything foolish." She looked again at his face and tensed. "John, what did you do?" She got no answer.

He moved like an old man, as he eased himself into his recliner. "Get my shoes off me, Babe, please."

"Where did you go?" she knelt and untied his tennies.

"Babe, don't ask any questions, okay? He made the way to his recliner and sat. He closed his eyes and rested. He slept the night away in the chair.

The next morning, John sat and drank his coffee, as he watched the news stories unfold on the television. In Europe, Americans were hated, but their money was loved. In state news, liberals hated the conservatives and both sides hated the truth. Then came the local news.

"Oh my god!" Elaine gasped as she recognized Julio Sanchez's picture. "That's..." She could not continue

"Yup, it sure is." He reached out to her.

Elaine crossed the room to take his hand for reassurance. "She tried to choose her words carefully. "John, Did you know this was going to happen?" She stood still as she waited for his answer.

"In a way," He stared down at his lap.

"What do you mean, 'in a way?' Did you plan... ?" Then her face became a study in horror, as she understood.

"Elaine," he began and got no further.

"You had someone kill him." Her horrified voice cut through him.

"Honey, I never hired anyone to do anything." His words seemed to echo in her head.

"You... ? How could you? You're too weak." She backed up a step. "John, look at me."

He turned his head. Their eyes met and he said, "Yes."

She had trouble understanding what happened. "John how could you? You haven't recovered yet. You're not strong enough to stab someone."