PROLOGUE vi.i

Half Dancing

It is raining; a fine mist or vapor. It hangs in the air like a thick cotton blanket. Lisa’s lapel is soggy and she asks to come inside. Her dress is clinging to her voluptuous curves. I cannot help but stare at her breasts. It is a mess indoors. I entertain her in the card table room—the one coming in the house to the left—the one with all the pictures of my late family. Bookshelves and records sitting in tandem looking like square soldiers.

“I think it’s better if we don’t talk about it anymore,” she says drunkenly looking like Marilyn Monroe. She is hanging on to the bookcase now. Her arm swings down slowly like a performance.

I take a hold of the doorknob. I shut the door, “It’s something to think about,” I say to her with a mechanical tone; as if reading a script.

With drunken grace she plucks a record from the shelf. She shifts all of her weight onto her left side. Her right ass cheek hangs in space time beckoning me. With a kind of determined laziness she slips the vinyl from its sleeve. Lisa is very sure to place it correctly on the turntable. The record player whirls with electric life. The analog hiss and steady pops at the beginning of the record bleed into Miles Davis. She begins to sway and swagger. Those curves of her hips play with the light like waves of the ocean. It’s something animal inside.

Suddenly she stops half dancing, “I told you I need you to hurt me.”

The Belt

As she moves towards me I unbuckle my belt. It makes a metallic clanking sound as it comes loose. I tell her to bend over, putting her hands on a book case. The curves of her ass roll with the light. It is nice and round. As I pull the belt out of my jeans it whips my side gently. She moves her hips side to side in anticipation. She turns her head so she can see me standing behind her. I am holding the belt in my left hand. I transfer it to my right and fold it up.

“Leather is my favorite,” she says as if her mouth was overflowing with godlike nectar. Lisa turns her head back towards the bookcase, “Are you going to hit me or what?”

I gulp. My mouth is dry. My brow begins to sweat. I begin to feel my cock harden, “I’ll give it to you. First, you have to slip your underwear off.”

Without protest she hikes up her skirt. In one fluid movement she slides her thumbs in between the straps of cloth and pulls them over her ass. They fall down around her feet. I lick my lips. She looks back at me as I raise my arm. I come down on her left ass cheek. The smack echoes throughout the small house.

Again and again with the same amount of force I slap her ass. It shakes a different way each time I hit it. She quivers and arches her back after each blow. Everything becomes a blur. Only her ass is in focus. It becomes red. As I continue my appetite begins to increase. I begin to hit her harder. She moves more dramatically as I spank her harder.

Now she is moaning. Her legs begin to quiver. The sound of the slap is methodical. I can almost see my pent up aggression leap from my hands to her now purplish ass. Books tumble off of the bookshelf. There are books on the floor around us. She is thrashing about.

I notice sweat running down her long curvy legs, “Fuck me,” she says trembling.

Purple

Lisa’s ass is purple; that deep red purple of a righteous orchid. I unzip the zipper on my jeans. She continues to sway side to side. She is wet. I feel her moist lips envelope my cock. She pushes her ass back towards me and begins pushing on to me. I push back. We start to go at it.

I’ve had sex before but not after smacking an ass with my belt. I’m so turned on I almost lose it sixty seconds in. I bite my lower lip and push my tongue up against the roof of my mouth. We are making harder contact now. She is moaning and gasping louder and faster.

I feel her nicely rounded ass bounce against my cock over and over. I smack her ass with my hand. I time the spankings as she nearly comes off of me. She says, “Fuck me harder.”

I do. We are matching each other’s rhythm now. I thrust into her with all I’ve got. She grabs the bookshelf and starts to whine slightly. She pushes back with all she’s got. I feel her vagina tighten. She is even wetter now. She lets out a noise that tells me, ‘Well done.’ I smack her ass one last time. I pull out and climax all over her round purple ass.

She turns around and plants a kiss on my right cheek.

“Let’s get into bed and watch TV,” she says.

The Silks

Across the street, is a house that could have been down the street from Rainbow Row in Charleston; a house surrounded by cypress and oak trees dripping with Spanish Moss; with a long red brick walkway leading up to the large white columned porch and oak door; the brick walkway is paralleled by waist high neatly groomed boxwood shrubs. In this house Mr. and Mrs. Silk eat dinner calmly. An instrumental piece of music hums comfortably on speakers mounted on the walls. The Mr. is 69 years old burgeoning on 70 here in a month. Mrs. Silk is less wrinkly, clocking in at 62 years living. They’ve both let their hair whiten. While Mrs. Silk has a light brown speckle in her hair the Mr. has very little color left. It is roughly the color of salt and pepper on white sand.

“I think we should let this one go,” Mrs. Silk says as if she speaks of vermin.

Gritting his teeth the old man says softly, “But I had just gotten started. They won’t notice this one is gone.”

“I actually want someone to notice at this point,” Mrs. Silk says enthusiastically. She takes a scoop of mashed potatoes into her mouth.

Mr. Silk tosses a piece of meat over on his plate with his fork. He moves it around on the plate thoughtfully. He spears several peas. Before he takes the bite he questions, “Are you serious? What has changed?”

After swallowing she says with a glint in her eyes, “We’ve been going back and forth for too long. I am starting to have an appetite for glory.”

Mr. Silk smiles, “You want to take his seat?”

She cuts a piece of meat and puts it in her mouth. She nods her head.

“Has something convinced you of this? I know I’ve been saying it for years…”

“I saw a woman and a man in love… our neighbor across the street. There was a look in his eyes as we pulled in earlier. It was human resolve,” Mrs. Silk says royally.

“We will let this one go but not here,” Mr. Silk says finishing his plate of dinner, “Human resolve huh? I can go on that.” He stands up taking his plate from the table, “Should I wait on you or would you like me to take care of it?”

“You can go. I’ve got some planning to do,” Mrs. Silk replies as she cuts up the last piece of meat on the plate.

The Darkness Weeps for You

Claire has been trembling for many hours. Weeping is pointless now. Her eyes have gotten used to the complete darkness by now. She can only see those two tiny little lights shining off to the right somewhere. The horror—she had been told people like this existed. She had not believed it. She also had been told how to be successful in life. She hadn’t wanted it. She puts her right hand over the needle track marks she can’t see on her left arm. Cuts on her arms and legs are nothing in comparison to the pain she feels under her hand. Her left arm throbs.

Restraints keep her from moving her legs. Shaking she checks the restraints for the thousandth time to see if she can escape. Nothing doing.

Suddenly a piercing light appears. A door swings open. Light floods into the room for a moment. She can make out that it is the man entering. She thinks she hears him chuckling.

“Time to let you go…” he says as the door shuts behind him. The darkness returns.

She says nothing.

“What? No, ‘Thanks Mister?’” Mr. Silk laughs coarsely, “You know I wouldn’t just let you run off. You are smarter than that. Good. You will need to be where you are going.”

Claire hears him shuffle off to the right where the little lights are. She sees him pass in front of one of them. A switch has just been flipped. To Claire it sounds like a light switch. Now she thinks the man is typing something. She hears what sounds like fingers on a keyboard.

The man walks back to where she is sitting on the floor, “Good luck little morsel.” He turns around and opens the door. The light blinds her again. As the door shuts she feels the restraints loosen. Claire thinks she hears gears moving, almost like an old grandfather clock. The sound of gears is followed by a loud metallic sound almost as if a large metal door had been unlocked.

The restraints unlock loudly around Claire’s feet. She tries to stand up in the darkness. After tumbling onto the ground she does her best to work through the pain. She finally stands up. She slowly limps to where the door had been. Two lights stare at her menacingly. She reaches for a doorknob. Nothing is there. She feels for the door. The door no longer exists. She begins beating on the wall with her fists. Thinking she would be banging on wood or drywall she hits it as hard as she can.

The covering she hits bursts into pieces and red light weakens her sight. Overwhelming heat envelops her. She hears screaming and the sound of metal striking metal. The area where she had thought the door should be crumbles away as the heat sucks its matter away. Claire breaks the threshold of through the ‘doorway’. She looks behind her. The ‘doorway’ and room have vanished. Surrounding her is a red desolate plain. Like the surface of Mars.

An intense stinging erupts in her lower left leg and she screams. She tries to kick it off. Her eyes seem to betray her.

“Time for lunch,” it says.

A Path to Glory

Mr. Silk’s wife sits in an upper room adorned with large golden framed mirrors and impressionist oil paintings. The wing chair she sits in is leather and the color of blood. Mrs. Silk looks like Meryl Streep and Glenn Close. Her gaunt slender face looks down on a newspaper. It headlines ’Teen Musical Sensation to Visit Downtown’. A twisted smile broaches her face. Sweat breaks out on her brow. She hasn’t felt anticipation like this in decades.

Mr. Silk appears through the door, “Done and done. That one is taken care of.”

The Missus remains entranced with the newspaper.

“Something got your attention dear?” He asks gently.

She points to the headline, “I found him. He is the one I want.” She looks up to her husband with desire.

“Now that is what I call a catch,” Mr. Silk says nodding, “We can do that. Justin Bieber will do. Still has some youth in him.”

Mrs. Silk furrows her brow, “You aren’t concerned about security? He is not too high profile.”

Mr. Silk puts his hand on her shoulder comfortingly, “If we pull off what we are planning I don’t think that will matter. I’ll get on the computer and see what I can find out.”

“It says here that VIP tickets can be purchased,” Mrs. Silk matter-of-factly reports.

“Should I call Vernon to play a role?” Mr. Silk asks.

Mrs. Silk giggles, “He sure would have a blast.”

“I just don’t think the two of us would fit in there. Snatching him afterwards is also an option.”

She looks at him like she did on their wedding day, “I want to help. Let’s snatch him ourselves. In the dark…”

Mr. Silk bends down and kisses his wife on the lips.

Lunchtime in the Dawn of Apocalypse

Claire screams with her entire body. She is trembling. Incredible electrifying pain erupts from her leg. The terror her eyes report makes little sense to her. Some human form is biting ferociously into her leg. Blood is pouring from the wound. She tries again to kick it in the face. She hits bone. Yet it felt soft… almost like some kind of cardboard. The creature looks Claire in the eyes. It grins.

It has no face. As in… it appears to have been ripped or scraped off; no eyelids, no nose, no mouth. Only meat red muscles and grey bone the shade of rain clouds. Its beady circular eyes seem to bulge out. Its teeth appear to be filed and sharp. In this moment of eye contact the creature hisses like an over-sized snake. Claire scrambles backwards almost crab walking. She catches a glimpse of the bite wound. Slightly underneath her lower left calf is a mess of skin and muscle hanging limp. She almost blacks out. Screaming for her life she scoots back as fast as she can. Claire thinks she is in some kind of desert. She feels sand under her hands. Now it starts sprinkling itself into her leg wound. The pain is too great. She is immobile.

The faceless creature leaps toward her walking on all fours brandishing its teeth, “Are you already tuckered out?” It cocks its head sideways.

Claire now sees this beast is wearing a blue tattered pinstripe suit. It has nicely cropped hair. It has skin on its hands the color of bloated dead fish. Claire looks around for some kind of object to use for defense. The heat is overwhelming. It reminds her of opening an oven. She sees nothing around her to use as a weapon. Her adrenal glands begin working overtime.

She puts her hands up as the creature grabs hold of her by the shoulders, “I’m going to enjoy you…” it says slowly. It is pinning her to the ground. She tries not to move her left leg too much as she thrashes. With all of her strength she wedges her arms in between the creature’s arms. Its skin feels soft. In fact it breaks under the pressure she applies. She feels the skin almost melt away. Now she feels bone.

It hisses again and lunges down taking another large bite; this time on her neck. Claire hears tendons pop before she feels the fiery pain of the creature’s teeth. Warm sticky blood soaks her clothes and skin. Claire screams again and instinctively knees the creature in the crotch. It crumbles off of her for a moment groaning.

Claire flips onto her left side. Sand grinds into her open leg wound. Luckily she can’t see the mealy mess it has become. Using her right leg she kicks the disabled monster. Pieces of skin and muscle fly off of it like shrapnel. It tumbles onto its back. There is enough room. She aims for its head. As hard as she can she kicks it in the head. A loud ‘thunk’. The creature screams and rolls. Claire has dented its head. Black bile and dark green liquids begin to ooze out of the monster’s wound.

It stands up and scuttles right back to where she huddles, crawling backward on her back. The sounds of metal striking metal increase in volume and the monster screams at her, “I am hungry you little shit!”

Therapy Through Horror or How You Came to Know the Dreamscape

The goddam heat. Sweat and blood soak Claire. She officially looks like a B-movie horror extra. The monster licks its teeth as it approaches her. The mechanical sounds of metal striking metal all at once seem right next to her. It almost sounds to her like a broken washing machine. Or a washing machine with nuts and bolts as its load.

The faceless beast screams at her, “The gods love their king… You are their sacrifice dumpling.” It’s mouth widens in a brutal teeth filed smile.

Confused and terrified Claire covers her face waiting for death. The sound of metal striking metal stops all at once as a sonic boom washes over the monster and human.

The beast turns to her, “How did he get here?!” The monster is pointing to a large chrome-metallic oval shape. It is the shape of an American football. It hovers silently to their left. The monster’s face twists in anger. It lunges onto Claire once more with a face full of teeth. Claire screams holding her already burning, itching, and bleeding wounds.

The beast pries her hands free. It pins her arms down. Mucus and saliva drip from the monster’s mouth as it straddles Claire. Claire hears only what she can identify as steam escaping from a valve.

A raspy cigarette smoking voice bellows, “Hold still!”

Claire almost laughs not knowing who this person was talking to. As the monster lunges down on her for the kill she holds her breath. Claire hears a brief but loud pulse. She sees a flash of blue-green light behind the silhouette of the beast. She feels the beast’s weight over her vanish. One second the faceless beast’s teeth are open wide right in front of her face. The next second she is showered in a mist of black and dark green bile, teeth, bone fragments, and an unidentifiable purplish substance the consistency of anti-freeze.

Claire is done screaming every other second. She tries to wipe the gore from her nose, eyes, and face. The sticky combination of bloods and insides doesn’t seem to come off. Actually she begins to feel it harden. Her eyes won’t open. The crust keeps them shut.

The raspy voice shouts down to her again, “Try not to move!” The sound of a zip cord being descended followed by crunchy running footsteps registers with Claire’s brain. She feels herself being lifted up into the raspy voice’s broad arms, “It will be dark soon. We don’t want to be out here in the open when that happens.” Claire hears a latch click and feels herself ascending in the person’s arms. “My name is Ahab Wandrawner. Welcome to the Dreamscape…”