Talking Heads (standard:horror, 20284 words)
Author: Reid Laurence	Added: Aug 03 2008	Views/Reads: 3148/2179	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Too strange to be true... or is it? Shockingly enough, it's difficult sometimes to tell the difference, but you be the judge...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

huffy customer, but lacking the ability to focus on reality for all 
that had taken place in his mind. “Who do ya think?” replied Guy. “The 
girl you walked in here for, that's who.” “I'm sorry sir,” said a very 
confused looking saleslady from behind the glass cosmetics counter. 
“You're going to have to leave.” “Don't get pushy babe,” commented Joe 
to Raymond. “Tell her where ta get off, Ray.” “Shut up! Leave me 
alone!” insisted Raymond quite plainly. But in doing so, he'd only 
succeeded in making the situation worse. “Do I have to call security 
sir?” questioned the petite, blonde employee. “It's apparent that 
you're in distress. We can't have a scene here sir. People are 
beginning to feel uncomfortable.” “I should say so,” agreed the 
customer, adjusting the fur hat she had on and pulling the 
short-waisted mink stole she wore ever tighter, communicating her 
disagreeable mood but drawing attention to the hard to hide pudginess 
of her ample shoulders, neck and back. “I'm fine,” remarked Raymond, in 
what proved to be the nick of time, just seconds before an apathetic 
looking security guard could intervene. But in making his daily rounds, 
the guard couldn't help but notice what was going on in cosmetics. “I'm 
really fine,” continued Raymond, to the wonder of the two ladies 
listening to him. Then, suddenly walking away from the scene that he'd 
inadvertently created – and acting on Guy's sound advice – Raymond 
swiftly made his way to a part of the store that not many men will 
frequent, except for those occasions which include special holidays and 
birthdays, which is of course... ladies apparel. But since he had 
caught the attention of security, he did not go there unnoticed, as the 
guard stealthily watched whatever Raymond now did, but from a safe 
vantage point, where he would not be so noticeable or obvious. Merely 
arriving at the third floor of the department store was no small feat 
for Raymond. Unlike so many other normal people, he fought constantly 
with himself, unbeknownst to himself of course, and in the guise of 
other character personalities. Being both fortunate and unfortunate - 
for although he was never alone - he was never at peace and Joe and Guy 
spoke to him nearly all the way there... “Where the heck are ya go'in?” 
complained Joe. “She ain't here. Turn this boat around. Let's get outta 
here. She left, can'tcha see?” “I have a hunch Raymond,” answered Guy. 
“Keep moving till you get to ladies undergarments.” “Oh great,” 
responded Joe. “Now all the broads are gonna think he's a weirdo. 
What's next, ya want him ta try on thongs?” “Don't listen to him Ray. 
Just do me a favor an hang out for a minute in the panty and bra 
section. If you have to, just tell the saleslady it's your girlfriend's 
birthday. Go on.” “Okay, okay,” muttered Raymond, in answer to his 
symbiotic friends. “I'm here,” he said, looking up at the sparsely 
clothed female torso on display - which in lacking all extremities, 
strangely attracted Raymond to it. “Now what?” he continued, unable to 
take his gaze from the lifeless mannequin on display. “Now look around 
you,” added Guy. “Look! Look there...” “Where?” replied Raymond. “Right 
there,” continued Guy. “She left the dressing room door open. You see 
the open door now?” “Well I'll be,” reflected Joe with a hint of 
jealousy. “I never woulda thought.” And as Raymond peered down the 
short corridor which led to several dressing rooms, he plainly detected 
the girl who had up till now eluded him, and she was just as beautiful 
in his mind now, as she had been when he'd first caught sight of her, 
in that magic moment on the street outside the store. Furtively – as a 
cat might keep watch over its prey - Raymond's eye followed the girl's 
every motion and for a few moments, seemed capable of predetermining 
any position in space and time that her carefully guided body might 
take up. But even as he watched her slowly smooth out any loose 
material in the translucent stockings she had on, he could not escape 
the equally watchful eye of the security guard who had followed him, 
and would have realized this sooner had it not been for the mesmerizing 
display which so effectively had attracted all of his attention. He did 
not even hallucinate, and the inner voices he so frequently heard were 
for the time being, quelled. Standing in awe, Raymond watched as the 
girl's procrastinating hands drew what seemed deliberately slowly up 
the length of her shapely leg. As if she knew she was being adored and 
admired from afar and as if time were not a factor at all, but of all 
things a compliment or testament to her being... a shrine to the 
shining light of her spirit. Although nothing about her – in those few 
passing moments – might be realized or collectively expressed as 
possessing or emitting, a soul. Almost simultaneously, as she worked 
her way up the smooth, underside of her thigh, lifting the light, 
summer-weight material of her skirt towards her small waist – the guard 
who'd been watching Raymond as Raymond watched the girl - moved into 
position, and summoned his attention with a hard pressed hand to the 
shoulder and a firm but polite, “excuse me, sir.” “Huh, what?” came 
sudden words from Raymond, expelled from him like the abrupt burst of 
helium from a floating, toy balloon. “What's wrong officer?” he 
continued, as coyly as he could. “I think you know, sir,” explained the 
guard, with a nod of his head in the direction of the dressing room 
door. “If you come along quietly with me now, an don't make a stink 
over this, I won't have'ta call the cops. But there is one more thing I 
must ask, sir.” “What's that?” replied Raymond, respectfully on cue in 
an effort to avoid a confrontation with the police. “Don't ever come 
back here.” 

While Raymond walked numbly to his car, he became emotionally stirred
upon finding a folded book of matches stuck under one of the windshield 
wipers of his nineteen forty-eight Oldsmobile. The cover read; Martha's 
Vineyard, Come strike up a friendship or two! And inside the matchbook, 
someone had written a brief but poignant note; Vicky 827-5858 call me. 
But as Raymond stood beside his car, reflecting on what must have 
happened in the past hour or so of time which had elapsed, the 
department store security guard was still trying to determine the best 
way to approach a sudden problem he'd encountered, as it was unlike 
anything else he was familiar with, and was feeling great uncertainty 
and anxiety over it all... “Er, Miss?” he began, for lack of better 
words. “I'm not exactly sure how to say this, but I don't think this 
place is right for you, or you're right for this place... whichever.” 
“Oh really?” she answered innocuously. “Yes, really.” 

Chapter 2 

It was a typical gray Chicago afternoon when Raymond pulled up in front
of the tall brick apartment house he lived in. He rarely had trouble 
finding a parking space and today was no exception. Getting out of his 
car, he walked around the shiny chrome front bumper of the Oldsmobile 
and stepped over the curb to the sidewalk. Looking up at his second 
floor apartment, he noticed the partially open living room blinds and 
wondered how in the world he'd forgotten to close them. “Could be Lorin 
or Danny up to their old tricks again,” he said quietly to himself. “I 
doubt it Ray,” replied Joe. “Why's that?” asked Raymond naively. 
“'Cause neither of ‘em got any arms or legs, that's why. Honest ta God 
Ray, why do you keep fergett'in that?” “Habit I guess.” 

It took time for Raymond to climb the stairs to the second floor. It
took more then a normal amount of time for him to do most anything - 
considering the psychological burden he constantly carried with him and 
the voices which rarely allowed him to believe that any of his thoughts 
were those of his own. So by the time he got to his own front door, he 
was not only tired from the physical exertion of climbing, but from the 
long and enduring argument between Joe and Guy which he consistently 
found himself in the middle of. “Why can't you leave him alone?” 
questioned Guy, in reference to Joe's own habit of badgering Raymond, 
brought on – in all probability - by Raymond's characteristic 
vulnerability and sensitivity, thoughtlessly established and 
conditioned by Raymond's own father. “Why can't you mind your own 
business?” snapped Joe, just as Raymond was opening the front door. But 
in regards to the self-contrived argument within him, Raymond wisely 
thought to change the subject, hoping to occupy the others with a new 
topic for conversation, and something else for them to think about 
other then their petty differences. “Hey,” he said aloud, just to make 
sure every strange character he'd created would listen to what he was 
about to say. “How's everybody do'in huh? Is everybody happy!?” he 
finished saying, closing the door behind him. “Ya got a kinda captive 
audience I'd say, wouldn't you?” replied Joe, in reference to Raymond's 
declaration. “I suppose so,” answered Raymond. “But it seems to me 
there's a much healthier way of looking at it... don't you think? I 
mean, I always have someone to talk to. I never get lonely like I used 
to. See what I mean? How are you guys anyway?” he asked, referring to 
the four decapitated heads he'd added a lacquer finish to, and placed 
neatly on dinner plates in his small, modest kitchen. “No worse for 
wear an tear,” replied Danny in Raymond's mind only of course, as heads 
without bodies are not actually in the habit of maintaining any lengthy 
and meaningful conversation – if indeed at all. “Not bad, we're just 
bored out of our mind's, that's all. I mean look at us... it's not like 
we're go'in out ta play tennis now is it?” answered Lorin, another of – 
shall we say - Raymond's more recently acquired dinner plate specials. 
“Now hold on just a minute,” answered Raymond, in readiness with a 
savvy reply he'd long thought over in his mind. “I laid out board games 
for you guy's; there's a radio; plenty of food in the fridge – you 
know, it's not like you guys are prisoners or anything. I even put 
cards on the table, in case you wanna play poker or something.” “It's 
your dad that put us here, Raymond,” quipped Dan. “You must have 
realized that by now. You held the knife, but he put it in your hand. 
Don't you see?” “I don't see anything but my four good friends, all 
gathered around, amusing each other. Tell me Dan,” continued Raymond, 
turning his back for a moment to hang his hat on the coatrack next to 
the door. “What's wrong with this picture?” “Your dad pounded you every 
time it rained, didn't he?” insisted Lorin. “What's right with that 
picture?” “How did you know that?” returned Raymond, angry and 
questioning Lorin's source of information. “You must be kidding... it's 
written all over your face Ray,” added Dan. “How did you think you 
could keep it from us anyway? The fruit stand he owned over on Maxwell 
Street... It went bust every time it rained, isn't that right? Nobody 
shops an outdoor market in the rain, and you got the brunt of it, 
didn't you?” “Yeah so? Lots a people get pushed around, what's the big 
deal,” responded Raymond with an air of concealment, opening the 
refrigerator door as he spoke, scrounging for something meaty and 
filling to take up the empty space in his stomach. And in finding what 
he was looking for, laid it down in a space between the four human 
heads. “See...” replied Dan poignantly. “That's what I'm talking about. 
Don't stand there and tell me we're drawing a senseless conclusion, or 
don't have a reason to complain.” “What?” answered Raymond as he 
gathered the yellow mustard in his left hand, pressed the ketchup to 
his chest with the same arm, and closed the door with his right. “That 
steak you're about to dig into,” explained Dan. “Yeah, what about it?” 
“It's a chunk of what used to be my leg, isn't it?” 

As daylight progressively waned and twilight fell, Raymond sat down in
his favorite chair next to a living room window and admired some of the 
artwork he'd collected. He was an excellent artist – except for the 
fact that he had trouble painting people – and had, with the help of 
Lorin and Dan, secured a number of authentic masterpieces by replacing 
them with his own work. Inevitably, they came to realize that working 
as security guards at The Art Institute Of Chicago had it's perks, but 
had they known how dear a price they were to pay, they never would have 
enlisted the aid of the seemingly innocent, Raymond... a severely 
handicapped schizophrenic, who would do anything, or go to any length 
to secure a lasting relationship. And losing their heads – both 
figuratively and literally was a serious obstacle in the course of 
their plan that they never could have imagined. Having known Raymond 
only briefly - sparsely enough time to realize who or what he really 
was. While shadows conjured strange shapes and cast them freely on the 
opposite wall of Raymond's living room, he suddenly recalled the book 
of matches he'd found on the windshield of his car and retrieved it 
from his pants pocket. “Go on,” prodded Joe. “what'cha wait'in for, 
brick to the head? Give her a call. Do I gotta dial it for ya?” “No... 
no,” responded Raymond, stirring gradually from a sullen mood. “I'm 
good, really. I'm gonna do it right now.” “Then, pick up the phone,” 
replied Joe. “I'd hand it to ya myself, but as you can see, I'm just 
slightly, ah... how would ya say it... incapacitated right now.” And as 
Joe finished his provoking course of reason, Raymond had begun to feel 
the odd sensation that he was not only being observed by Joe and the 
others, but guided or directed as well, and moved to emotion and guilt 
- which he was not altogether without - he opened the book of matches 
and called the number inside. Listening to the telephone signal on his 
end of the connection, Raymond wondered to himself how many times 
Vicky's phone must have rang. Losing count after so many lengthy 
moments of waiting, he was about to hang up - feeling at once 
sensations of relief and disappointment - when very unexpectedly, she 
picked up. “Hello,” he heard, but in return, only found himself 
hesitating to answer out of a lifelong fear he felt for the opposite 
sex. “Who's there?” she asserted, in an effort to find out who'd 
called, but to her, the line was dead as Raymond had found himself 
frozen with anxiety and unable to respond as if he'd felt the terrible, 
paralyzing effect of some great, venomous sting. But in hearing no 
reply, Vicky simply hung up the phone. “Why didn't ya say something? 
What's a matter with you? I'm just not gett'in through here. Ya know, 
you can lead a horse ta water, but ya can't make ‘im drink. I'm giv'in 
up on you Ray.” “Don't be so hard on ‘im Joe,” admonished Lorin. “He'll 
catch on, there's still time,” he added - and all in Raymond's mind of 
course - as Lorin listened and coached, he realized through the lack of 
participation he'd witnessed in Raymond, that finding a girl could 
never be a spectator event and if Raymond lacked effort out of fear, 
then advice on the proper conduct might help to fill this void and 
eventually get him socially connected. “Give her another call,” urged 
Lorin, knowing that at this stage, making repairs to a relationship 
that had hardly even begun would not be difficult to do. “You know she 
wants to hear from you, otherwise she never would've left her number.” 
“Good thinking,” agreed Guy. “All he needs is confidence. Go on Ray, do 
what he says. She looks like a very exciting person, doesn't she?” “You 
know it,” said Joe. “She's hotter then a new set a snow tires.” “Sounds 
good to me,” agreed Dan. “At least it'll get you out of the house. Just 
see that you don't get carried away, know what I mean?” “No,” answered 
Raymond, feeling sincerely puzzled over Dan's remark. “He means, yer 
not gonna make stew outta her like you done to us, are ya?” replied 
Joe, quite deliberately. “Heavens no,” said Raymond. “Why would I do 
that to such a pretty young girl? Besides...” continued Raymond, 
catching himself in a rare admission, or acknowledgment of preferences 
he was not in the habit of sharing. “She's not really my...” “Oh no,” 
began Joe. “I knew it all along. He's a frigg'in homo. I can't listen 
ta this anymore. Just put my head in a bucket a water. Get this thing 
over with. I can't take it no...” “No, wait!” exclaimed Raymond. 
“You've got me wrong. That's not me. It's just that I prefer to be in 
the company of other guys sometimes, that's all. I find it easier to 
talk to them, that's all, honest.” “All right, so,” said Dan, appearing 
– at least to Raymond – to be thoughtfully considering what Raymond had 
said. “You sure you still wanna pursue this whole thing? I mean, you 
didn't turn out to be exactly trustworthy you know. For example... one 
minute Lorin and I are leaving the apartment, then the next thing we 
know, we're meat on the hoof.” “You didn't give me any choice,” pled 
Raymond. “You were leaving, just because you noticed Joe and Guy.” “And 
that's exactly how we ended up,” interjected Lorin. “Like Joe and Guy, 
on dinner plates. So let's get this thing out in the open Ray... what's 
ta keep you from do'in the same thing to her? Is she gonna end up on a 
plate right next to us, or what?” “I give you my word,” said Raymond. 
“I promise... that will never happen.” “Alright then,” decided Lorin, 
in Raymond's best interest. “I'll tell you what you do then. You call 
her up, an you tell her...” 

Chapter 3 

“That's exactly what I said... Yes Vicky, I think you're the prettiest
girl I've ever seen.” “Ohh,” cooed Vicky, listening to Raymond talk on 
the phone - straining to hear him over the many muffled voices coming 
from the Italian restaurant, Mattatoio's which she lived directly 
above. “You sound like such a nice guy. I knew it when I saw you 
driving by the Marshall Field's store today. I'll tell you what... how 
would you like to come and watch me work tonight?” “I can watch you 
work?” echoed Raymond. “Good boy!” said Lorin quietly in Raymond's ear 
- illusory of course - but to Raymond this spontaneity of his 
imagination was just the boost of confidence that he needed. “Yes,” she 
whispered seductively. “I don't see why not. Lots of people watch me. I 
sing over at Martha's Vineyard. Remember the matches I gave you? That's 
the place.” “Cool!” replied Joe upon overhearing this, a little too 
loud for Raymond's liking. “Oh baby,” continued Joe, unable to contain 
his excitement. “I don't believe it! Ray got himself a real dish!” 
“Quiet Joe,” answered Raymond. “You'll spoil everything.” “What?” asked 
Vicky, wondering if the mumbling she thought she'd heard had been meant 
for her, or if she'd been confused between her conversation on the 
phone and the obscured voices of the restaurant. “Nothing,” said 
Raymond, in an effort to try to hide what he truly believed were the 
voices of his friends but were in reality, four slowly decomposing 
pieces of flesh. “Anyway,” he went on. “Where is this place? I'd really 
like to see you perform.” “Rush Street,” she remarked, very 
matter-of-factly. “806 North Rush. Show begins at eight, see you.” But 
before Raymond could get directions, she'd hung up the phone and left 
those more mundane, or earthly concerns all up to him. “Rush Street?” 
mumbled Raymond, to his small gathering of close friends. “How the heck 
do I get there?” “Hmm, she gave you an address, didn't she?” asked 
Lorin, having had much experience – in Raymond's mind at least – in the 
pursuit of the opposite sex. “So, you got a map of the city, don'tcha?” 
“Yeah.” “So bust it out. Lets get go'in. There's no time ta waste. She 
told you the show begins at eight, right?” “Right,” replied Raymond, 
beginning to feel the tension of the situation growing, and in letting 
his nerves get to him, he was starting to lose touch with more 
practical matters. “But how did you know? I'm the one she told,” he 
added, in keeping with his wrecked perception of reality. “Never mind 
Raymond, just get the map,” responded Lorin, and in retrieving it, 
Raymond unfolded it and held it up in front of the four severed heads 
that he'd moved from the kitchen to the living room coffee table. 
“There now,” he explained, calming himself somewhat in the comfort of 
knowing that he'd enlisted the aid of his four close friends. “Can 
everyone see it?” he continued. “Should I hold it up higher?” “No, I 
can see it just fine,” answered Lorin. “Sure Ray, no problem,” remarked 
Guy. “Don't worry about it. We'll get you there.” “Hmm,” muttered Dan 
after a few moments of unobtrusive study. “Why doesn't he just take 
Sheridan Road to the drive and get off on Chicago Avenue? Isn't that 
the fastest way?” “Exactly,” stated Lorin. “I don't see what the big 
deal is. You're such a ball of paranoia, you've got us worried too. 
Calm down Ray... everything's gonna be fine.” “Well, it's just that, 
you know...” started Raymond. “What?” asked Joe. “What's your problem 
now?” “I... oh, you're putting me on the spot,” exclaimed Raymond 
abruptly. “Why should I have to explain this in front of everyone?” 
“Spit it out, would ya,” replied Joe, impatient with Raymond's 
attitude. “Just say it. Don't be so damn bashful all the time.” “But, 
you know, I don't get out much. I don't see why I should have to spill 
my guts like this, in front of everyone too. It's so embarrassing.” 
“C'mon Ray. We've all been on dates before,” said Guy, in an effort to 
comfort Raymond. “What's the trouble?” “Well...” “Jesus, Mary and 
Joseph!” stated Joe, quite suddenly and very unabashedly. “This is his 
first date! You believe it? What are you... thirty, thirty-five, an 
you're just gett'in out now?” “Thirty-two,” muttered Raymond 
self-consciously, to the four, motionless heads. “Oh well,” interjected 
Guy, before Joe's remarks could become the predominant ruling of the 
day, tarnishing Raymond's reputation all the more. “Everyone's gotta 
start somewhere.” “Yeah, I suppose,” replied Joe sullenly. “Better late 
then never, right?” “I guess,” remarked Lorin, as if he could sense 
disaster in the future, and implying that perhaps it would be better if 
Raymond had never gotten started at all. 

It was already about thirty minutes past the hour by the time Raymond
found a reasonably close parking space within walking distance of the 
club. He was scared to death though, as he backed up into the empty 
space, centered his car between front and back vehicles, and turned the 
engine off. Just sitting there in the driver's seat made his hands 
tremble with fear and allowing his apprehension to get the better of 
him, Raymond found himself sitting still as a stone grey statue for 
what seemed like eternity before finally, reaching for the driver's 
side door handle, lifting up on it to disengage the latch, and opening 
the long, heavy metal door. Getting out of the car was no small task 
either, and in beginning his journey to the nightclub,   Raymond only 
found himself returning to his car moments after he'd left upon 
realizing he forgot to put money in the meter. Playing his minor role 
to restore the city's coffers, he set out once more to his destination, 
though riddled with anxiety as he went. “You're a mess Ray,” resolved 
Lorin, in Raymond's distorted mind. “I'm telling you, this is no big 
deal.” “This is no time to bother him,” expressed Guy, attempting to 
appease Raymond in his hour of need. But for all the semantics in 
Raymond's mind, his strongest accomplishment was in dichotomy – having 
become at once not only his own best friend, but also his own worst 
enemy. “Please,” asked Raymond earnestly. “I can't do this now... I'm 
nervous, can't you see?” “Yeah I see,” returned Joe. “But in the 
meantime, you're completely miss'in the place. Ya walked right past 
it.” “Oh no,” replied the star-struck suitor. “Now I see it,” he said 
aloud, with intentions of informing every dimension of his splintered 
perception. Looking on at the big, red, neon letters of the pretentious 
nightclub sign, Raymond finally admitted, “I can't go in anyway. I 
can't do it. You guys will have'ta do this without me.” “How the hell 
are we gonna do this without you?” reprimanded Lorin. “This whole thing 
was for you. Now you're telling me we came all the way out here for 
nothing? Joe was right all along... you're just too messed up to help.” 
“No I'm not!” Raymond vehemently expressed, as pedestrians looked on at 
the display of Raymond arguing with himself. But in surprising effect, 
and with a sudden burst of angry energy, he pulled open the vestibule 
door, only to stumble into the great mass of a man whose job it was to 
eject disorderly persons from the busy club. “Excuse me,” muttered 
Raymond, having bumped his forehead off the large fellow's chest, 
trying awkwardly to regain his composure. “I didn't see you there. 
Sorry about that.” “Don't worry about it sir,” returned the heavyweight 
bouncer, who - though dressed quite well - couldn't help but give his 
job away. And as he loomed over Raymond's head - by a most remarkable 
difference – offered an even more poignant observation. “I'm sorry 
sir,” he began, as he noticed the casual way Raymond had dressed for 
the evening. “But the club rule here is, ‘jacket required'. I can get 
you one if you like?” “Tell him thanks and let's get moving,” directed 
Dan. “We're missing the show. Somebody's up on stage right now, 
singing. I can hear her from here.” “That's good advice Raymond,” 
agreed Guy. “You don't want to miss Vicky's act.” “Be quiet, would'ja?” 
blurted Raymond to his imaginary friends, with the doorman looking 
straight at him. But in wondering what Raymond could have meant – and 
in seeing no other person in the vestibule other then Raymond – the 
doorman replied, “Did you just tell me ta be quiet?” “Uh... no,” 
responded Raymond meekly. “Yes you did. I heard you plain as day.” “No 
really, I didn't,” reaffirmed Raymond. “I wasn't talking to you... I 
was talking to them.” “Who? Listen Mac, there's nobody here but you. 
What are you try'in to pull anyway? Are you gett'in smart with me?” 
“No, no. I promise,” Raymond went on to assert. “I'm not pulling 
anything. All I want to do is watch the show, really. Please... can you 
get me a coat?” “I might,” considered the impressively built man, 
yielding in consideration of Raymond's near apology. “But if you start 
anything...” “I won't. You have my word,” returned Raymond. And in 
crossing his arms as if to gain a better vantage point with which to 
examine Raymond's sincerity, the doorman finally turned his questioning 
gaze away, and disappeared behind a second door – the only barrier now 
left between Raymond and his immediate destiny. Moments later, even 
before Raymond had anymore time left to worry about what he would do, 
or say, the skeptical bouncer returned with what appeared to be, a very 
nice looking dark grey sport coat. In fact, a patron of the nightclub 
may even have expected it to be from Raymond's own wardrobe, had it not 
been for the coat being at least, two sizes too big. “Here ya go,” he 
said, offering the coat to Raymond and holding it open for him to get 
his arms into it, first one and then cautiously, the other. “Not bad. 
Just a little on the big side. Whaddaya think?” But as Raymond stood in 
the vestibule; sleeves hanging down to the middle of his palms; 
shoulders of the coat missing his own by noticeable inches of material, 
and body large enough to envelope another small person, he was somewhat 
dissatisfied looking and only shrugged his sagging shoulders enough to 
let the doorman know that he accepted the ruling. Even though he wasn't 
overly excited about wearing it, the coat was something like a one way 
ticket, or a stepping stone to his desired goal. “It's fine,” remarked 
Raymond, buttoning the coat at the waist and pressing down over the 
front of it, as if to smooth out any would-be wrinkles. Then, with no 
further emotional trauma or hesitation, the doorman at last opened the 
second and last passageway to Raymond's metaphoric, Shangri-la. 
Doubting himself all the way, he walked past the doorman and on into 
the club, having felt very much as if he'd completed some great task, 
mastered a great obstacle, or even a transition in afterlife on a 
perilous journey. A so-called checkpoint between the doomed or more 
fortuitous, but just which path he'd taken, he couldn't say, and 
neither could anyone else. 

Martha's Vineyard was for the most part, one large room. At the far end,
a considerably sized band sat with their backs facing a wall and after 
them – to their left – a stage, well lit and skillfully conceived, 
providing excellent sound quality. Easily accommodating a group of 
performers - or one artist at a time - the nightclub was well noted for 
fine acts that played around the city and even some who strayed and 
knew no geographic limits, which their obvious musical talent would 
imply. But more unique, or more pertinent to the club, was a certain 
type of performer. The type which came around on a regular basis, more 
because of their own special appeal to the greater spectrum of crowd 
then anything else – which of course are terms that one might apply to 
many a star with a wide and varying fan base. But this type of star, or 
the type of singing star that Vicky was, far exceeded the mundane or 
norm. She was one whose fan base did not vary as much as one might 
think, especially upon first observing her. Although she certainly was 
different, and stood out amongst the competition. When Raymond walked 
in, he was met near the door by the maitre d' and led to a table which 
lacked view or social station, but because the nightclub was filling 
with an abundance of the usual crowd – some of whom expecting tables 
they'd previously occupied – there were very few other options left 
open to the courteous, but practical restaurant host. But as far as 
Raymond's timing was concerned, it couldn't have been better. He was 
just about to witness for the very first time, the talents of the one 
who'd captured his attention and enticed him away from his tedious 
seclusion – even though to Raymond, his activities at home were filled 
with the company of good friends. Just as he was making himself 
comfortable in his chair, the house lights began to dim and for a few 
unsettling moments, all Raymond could see were the rising tufts of 
cigarette and cigar smoke from the audience. But suddenly and without 
warning, the most powerful spotlight in the nightclub came on, focusing 
its solitary beam to center stage, and in its bright, revealing path 
stood Vicky – as stunning as ever – in a shimmering white, light 
reflecting sequin gown; long white gloves that extended up her 
forearms; blonde hair draped around her shoulders, looking as perfect 
as anyone could ever have dreamed possible. And with expert 
punctuality, the band began playing on cue, precisely after she'd 
smiled, addressed the crowd and started to sing into the waiting 
microphone. The song Vicky sang that night to open her act was ‘The 
Great Pretender' and as it began, even Raymond who had a most difficult 
time focusing on anything was caught off guard by the splendor of the 
moment, and all time – for just a brief measure – seemed to stand 
still... and in its absence, all that was important was Vicky, and 
everyone concentrated their attention, and every eye was on her... 
“Oooh yes, I'm the great pretender Pretending that I'm doing well My 
need is such I pretend too much I'm lonely but no one can tell 

Oh yes, I'm the great pretender Adrift in a world of my own I play the
game but to my real shame You left me to dream all alone 

Too real is this feeling of make believe Too real when I feel when my
heart can't conceive Oooh, yes, I'm the great pretender Just laughing 
and gay like a clown I seem to be what I'm not, you see I'm wearing my 
heart like a crown Pretending that you're still around 

Too real is this feeling of make believe Too real when I feel when my
heart can'lt conceive 

Oooh, yes, I'm the great pretender Just laughing and gay like a clown I
seem to be what I'm not, you see I'm wearing my heart like a crown 
Pretending that you're still around” And when she was finished, the 
audience cheered and began shouting requests for her to sing, as if she 
had no song itinerary of her own.  One voice - which seemed to ring out 
above the others - was of a man, dressed impeccably in a black suit who 
sat very near the stage. Although his companion for the evening was 
another man – much as if women were not at the forefront of their minds 
– both he and his friend were so taken with excitement, their combined 
energy seemed to fill the air with ecstatic human charge, and emanate 
as if it were a real source that could, and would, energize the entire 
room of people.  “Why Don't You Do Right,” he yelled out. And his 
request so consumed Vicky with polite admiration that in response she 
began to sing it and the band followed even as the first word rang out. 
All the while, the massive spotlight from above did its best to 
figuratively expose her - not as if it had literally removed selected 
pieces of clothing – but in a sense, to expose otherwise intangible 
emotion and upon closer observation, each evocative motion of a 
sexuality in turmoil... “You had plenty money, 1922 You let other women 
make a fool of you Why don't you do right, like some other men do? Get 
out of here and get me some money too...” As Raymond listened 
spellbound to Vicky, it never occurred to him that he was only one of 
many who had fallen in love with her. Each night the dormant time frame 
between music sets was cause for great concern amongst fans and 
faithful patrons throughout the audience. Everyone wondered who Vicky 
might reward, showing favor to, by sitting next to them for a few 
minutes; sharing conversation; signing an autograph or two and who 
knows... dropping possible hints as to any love interest she might have 
at the time. And tonight wasn't much different then any other night, 
the only real difference was in her selection – a patron who'd never 
been there before now and one who was completely naive about Vicky, the 
club she sang at, or for that matter, anyone in the audience. After 
smiling and bowing to the audience, the great spotlight that had worked 
so well to highlight her voice, skill and vivid emotion suddenly 
disappeared as quickly as it had appeared and with it went some degree 
of aura that accompanied the star – as excitement came to ebb and 
people again focused on their own petty troubles – a natural course of 
events that even an attraction like Vicky could never prevent.  In 
fact, all that really made this night different then any other was the 
direction Vicky had decided to walk in after leaving the stage. It was 
not usually her practice to mingle with those in the audience who sat 
so far from the stage. But figuratively – although she was unaware of 
it – the path she was on promised life altering events. Though all she 
knew at the time was that this path felt right and all that was 
necessary - besides the magnetic attraction she felt - was the will to 
pursue it. Easily done she thought, approaching Raymond's table and 
catching him off guard as he thought to answer one of the constant 
imaginary companions he indulged himself in. “I'm so glad you could 
make it,” she politely but sincerely remarked. “I didn't know if you 
were here or not. That bright stage light makes it hard to see people 
and you're sitting so far away. Couldn't they find you anything 
closer?” “I didn't see you there either, before you started talking. 
You look great tonight,” concluded Raymond – drawn to Vicky's pretty 
face, perfect body and charm, like a moth to a flame. “Please... sit 
down,” he continued, getting up from his chair to help her into the 
seat next to his. “I've never been to a place like this before, and 
everyone here is dressed so well. I feel kind of, uncomfortable.” 
“You're lucky,” answered Vicky, searching through a small white purse 
she'd carried with her for a cigarette and upon finding one, she neatly 
pushed it into the end of a pearl handled holder, waiting for Raymond 
to light it. “I'm here almost every night,” she continued, watching 
Raymond's face in the flickering light of a match. And searching the 
shadows of his youthful features, her eyes glanced to his and she 
wondered then what order of things might be concealed beneath the two 
opaque apertures. “Your eyes are so dark,” she reported unexpectedly, 
thinking aloud. “Do you have many secrets?” she said questioningly. 
“Everyone has some... You know, things you don't often talk about.” 
“Well I...” “Never mind,” replied Vicky. “I shouldn't have said that. 
I'm prying,” she remarked, looking as if she'd brought shame upon 
herself. But even as she finished speaking and her face looked to 
another direction into the dimly lit crowd of people, her hand meekly 
dropped to Raymond's knee and surprised by this, his body language 
changed rapidly to plain discomfort. Hunching his shoulders, resting 
his arms on the table, Raymond was about to express his feelings even 
more so when – like a young, mischievous teen – Vicky put her 
forefinger to her mouth, urging him to be quiet and told him, “it's 
dark... no one can see us in the corner here anyway. Why don't you just 
relax? Here,” she continued, taking his right hand and letting it drop 
as inconspicuously to her own left leg as possible. “Loosen up a 
little. I can tell we're good friends already. I have a good feeling 
about you. I just know it's right.” “But you don't even know my name,” 
replied Raymond, in nervous protest but nevertheless, voicing his 
concern. And also - due to Raymond's lack of experience with the 
opposite sex - a restlessness replaced what little relative calm he'd 
arrived with. “My hand...” he started to say, but before he could 
finish his sentence, Vicky had moved his hand to other, even more 
secluded regions of her furtive anatomy. “You're... but I... I 
thought...” he began to say, at a loss for all composure. “I what?” she 
returned, noticeably annoyed and herself, very much surprised. “I 
thought you knew,” she said very quietly, as if to keep a secret. 
“Practically everyone here knows.” But without waiting for any further 
explanation, Raymond got up from the table, walked quickly to the door 
with quiet desperation and made his way to the outside world, as if at 
last, the world at large was a safe refuge – one he never before 
realized until now. Resting his back against the cold, wet wall of the 
building, unaware even of the rain cascading over his head and face, 
Raymond did what he could to calm himself and as he closed his eyes he 
could hear the many real voices inside the nightclub – all struggling 
for dominance in a mind filled with fear and illusion. And this new 
illusion, a masquerade deposed? A beautiful woman - or so he thought 
until now - so real he could touch her, so very much unlike the voices 
in his head. But touching her, only scared him of life all the more. 
Standing against the wall as if it depended on him for support, he 
listened to the real noise of the nightclub door as it pushed open from 
behind, creating a small vacuum - sucking in any unwitting air around 
it as a consequence. Watching Vicky appear – listening to a loud burst 
of thunder in the distance – Raymond studied her face and realized 
she'd been crying. “Why did you leave like that?” she asked. “I told 
you I had good feelings about us. Why do you want to hurt me?” “Hurt 
you?” replied Raymond. “I don't wanna hurt you, but get real Vicky... I 
mean, you look great, that's not the problem, but for one thing, we'd 
never be able to... get together, or, you know...  have a family. 
You've got a...” “We barely just met, Raymond,” interrupted the stylish 
blond. “Why would you suddenly worry about making a family now? I don't 
know where this is heading, but why do we have to know? Why can't we 
just live our lives one day at a time, like any other practical 
couple.” “But Vicky...” Raymond began to say, now quite thoroughly 
soaked from the falling rain. “You have to admit. We're not just 
another couple. For one thing...” “Raymond don't you see,” she 
interjected. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. I am who I am. I like 
myself this way. To me, we are just another couple. This is the real 
me... I'm not wearing a mask.” “Why don'tcha try putt'in one on?” 
remarked a passing stranger, who neither Raymond or Vicky had given 
much thought to. Especially since the man was only one of many, walking 
back and forth in the steadily falling rain and dark of night. But in 
eavesdropping on the couple's conversation, he made his case a special 
one, delivering a bitter, poignant barb to each of them. “Do the world 
a favor,” he insisted. “An while you're at it,” he continued, this time 
with Raymond in mind, who was still standing with his back to the wall. 
“You could use one too, queer-o. This whole place is fulla queers.” 
“What?” said Raymond, as the sinister man walked slowly by, with no 
fear of retribution. “What's he talk'in about? What's this place got to 
do with anything?” “You didn't know?” answered Vicky, shedding tears 
all the more. “Martha's Vineyard is a gay bar. We all hang out here. 
Half the city hangs out here. Most of the people in the audience are 
gay.” Then, as the situation in Raymond's mind grew to disproportionate 
madness and even as the nightclub's sport coat he still had on draped 
clownishly down over the palms of his hands, Raymond reached under his 
shirt for the concealed dagger he never left home without – a dagger of 
no uncertain meaning which still bore an authentic Nazi swastika on its 
handle – drawing Raymond ever nearer to it and the abominable history 
it represented. Rushing up on the unsuspecting man in the dark of night 
– no other person, not even Vicky realized what Raymond was about to do 
next, as the flashing steel of the knife he brandished reflected any 
artificial light of surrounding bar room signs - soon to disappear with 
one great lunge into the lower right side of its victim, buried to the 
hilt in the soft living flesh of its abhorrent, yet desired human mark. 
One such lunge or stab was all that was necessary, as Raymond dragged 
the fresh corpse to a small alley between buildings, and was pleasantly 
surprised to find Vicky there by his side, nearly dry eyed, feeling 
that the level of her mood had risen. “Can you get me a few bags?” he 
asked her, showing no remorse or embarrassment over what he'd just 
done. “What kind of bags?” replied Vicky, wiping any remaining tears 
from her eyes with the back of her hand and forearm. “Big ones... the 
kind that won't leak.” “I'll see what I can do,” she answered calmly 
and in a manner well suited to any successful accomplice. And as Vicky 
walked back to the nightclub, on her way to a rear stage door entrance, 
Raymond busied himself with the task at hand - decapitating and 
dismembering the once rude pedestrian who was unfortunate enough to 
cross paths with one of the most brutal, unconscionable murderers in 
the fine city of Chicago. But oddly enough, even as Vicky had become a 
party to Raymond's ruthless act, it only served to bring the two closer 
together, simultaneously forging a commitment between them – as two 
children might have sworn an oath in blood, then fondly refer to 
themselves as ‘blood-brothers' – the new couple found themselves 
equally inclined. Then, with a bunch of garbage bags the club used to 
control refuse and maintain a satisfactory cleanliness, Vicky knelt 
beside Raymond on the cold, wet pavement and very matter-of-factly, 
began stuffing body parts into bags. Hardly missing a beat, the pair 
had the corpse packed into four large bundles in mere minutes... a 
fraction of the time it had taken the stranger to blossom into the 
fully offensive, malevolent nuisance he'd become, which only prompted 
Vicky to remark, “That sure didn't take long, did it? A lot less time 
then I realized, anyway.” “Well,” Raymond began to say, hesitating as 
he wondered how best to tell her. “I've done this before.” “Really? How 
many times?” “Enough to get good at it, I guess. Hey Vicky,” Raymond 
asked, tying the last knot in one of the bags as he spoke. “My car 
isn't far from here. For now, why don't we drag this stuff behind the 
dumpster where no one'll see it, then we can load it into the trunk an 
scatter the parts around town.” “You think a everything, don'tcha?” 
replied Joe, who'd been generally quiet until now, content to take a 
backseat to Raymond's real personality, or killer instincts. As for the 
remainder of Raymond's complex cast of personalities, they seemed for 
now to be content just to watch the master at work as coincidentally, 
one of the only times Raymond could concentrate without hallucinating 
was when he was taking life, because - almost like breathing air – it 
seemed to be a natural brain function of his and required no special 
thought or control. “Whad'ja do that for?” asked Lorin, in Raymond's 
busy mind. “I'll tell you later,” replied Raymond, just muttering the 
words but still audible enough for Vicky to hear. “I don't know what 
you meant by ‘I'll tell you later' but I like your idea. It seems as 
good as any right now,” remarked Vicky. “You know,” she continued. 
“This whole thing makes me feel like I've been here before, kinda 
like... Déjà vu. You ever feel that way?” she said, having a difficult 
time walking the distance to Raymond's car in her tall, white high 
heels. “You know that feeling I'm talking about, don't you?” “Yes, I 
know the feeling,” answered Raymond. “But we better get a move on, 
Vicky. These things take time,” he said, pointing out his car as the 
evening's rain clouds gave way and beams of reflected moonlight seemed 
to light the path to their destination - as if killing were a valid 
road or purpose to their lives. And in finding each other, they had 
finally found themselves. “I never felt better,” Vicky said, as she 
patiently waited for Raymond to unlock the car's passenger door. “I 
know,” Raymond agreed, staring down into the steering wheel, equally as 
taken with the gruesome course of events as Vicky was. “I know what I 
wanna do, after this is over,” implied Vicky. “What's that?” responded 
Raymond, with an innocence and purity very much in keeping with the way 
others perceive him, and which obscured his true morbid self. 

Chapter 4 

Without the Librium his body had grown accustom to – which helped to
quell hallucination and induce sleep - Raymond was happy in the arms of 
his lover, but never fell asleep that night. Instead, he laid awake in 
Vicky's comfortable bedroom for the remainder of the night, listening 
to the voices in his head and the real voices which came from the 
restaurant beneath them, carrying like echoes through ventilation ducts 
and other uninhabitable space. So when the sun rose and lit the room as 
if now, nothing could hide from view or the scrutiny of any casual 
observer – Raymond got up, sat on the edge of the bed and suddenly felt 
that he - as well as all things discovered by this impending brightness 
- might be in a kind of danger. The way a mouse might feel with nowhere 
to run or hide from a cat. But resting peacefully on her back without a 
care in the world, Vicky slept through the night and on into morning as 
if a long sustained burden had been shed and in its place a new 
relationship took hold. One that she thought would prevail over time 
and fill any void of loneliness. Because, like anyone else who had long 
sought after the right mate, Vicky felt she had found him; that there 
was no one better suited for her; no one understood her as well, and 
that her search was finally over. Any type of unpleasant flaw of 
Raymond's could be – in her mind at least – dealt with at the proper 
time and conditioned from his character as one might seek to remove any 
bad habit from many a man. Unfortunately, what Vicky did not know was 
that Raymond suffered from a full blown psychosis which could not be 
conditioned from him as one might repair a broken arm or hope to heal a 
minor wound. What Raymond suffered from – unbeknownst to her – required 
medication and professional counsel, things that without proper 
training she alone could never provide. But just how all that would 
affect their relationship, only time would tell... “Hey big guy,” Vicky 
said playfully. Slowly awakening and stretching out her arms and legs 
much as a cat might after a long night on the prowl. And what might 
that mean to a mouse like Raymond? He wasn't sure what kind of 
personality Vicky had. He had no idea if she was a dominating type or 
had a more passive, ‘ live and let live' temperament. The latter was 
more then a bit ironic, considering the body parts they had just hours 
before strewn about the city's dumpsters without guilt or remorse, and 
the former seemed out of touch with Vicky's sensitivity and femininity. 
So to Raymond - and even to some others - Vicky had fallen between the 
cracks of any one single interpretation and was clearly a concoction of 
characteristics and in that way, not unlike the rest of the crowd. 
Falling somewhere between the extreme black and white, we are all - for 
the most part – a compound of many shades of grey. Few people are 
merely good or evil, but usually rationalize their actions somewhere 
inside these shades of grey. And in this respect, Vicky was no 
different then anyone else. Only the matter of her decision to live 
life between sexes made her different to most of the population, who 
generally are content to leave this world the way they came in – as a 
man or as a woman. However, Vicky's thin, light, facial features; a 
curvaceous figure induced by hormones, and surgically supplemented 
breasts were more then enough to conceal the fact that she'd been born 
a man; was proud of her well endowed genitalia, and never thought to 
have it removed. In fact, as sexuality is concerned, she lived quite 
happily in the shades of grey most of us have never seriously 
considered. But her thoughts, reactions, emotions or summarily... the 
real content of her character very much made her a woman. “How'd you 
sleep?” she went on to ask, as she used her fingers to smooth out any 
tangles in her long blond hair the same way any woman might have done. 
“Not too good,” responded Raymond. Laying back down in the bed beside 
her, folding his hands to rest them behind his head as he spoke. “I'm 
so used to Librium every night... I can't fall asleep without it.” “Do 
you want to try to get some sleep now? I can pull the drapes closed and 
block out the light.” “No, I'll just wait till tonight. Thanks though,” 
he added, rising from the bed. “I had a good time.” “Huh,” she answered 
at first. Misunderstanding what Raymond last said. “You mean... what 
happened between us?” “Yes. I've never done that before.” “With 
anyone?” she replied, “or with someone like me?” “With anyone.” 
“Wow...” said Vicky very softly – breaking off eye contact from Raymond 
to look away and gather her thoughts - as if the whole idea were as 
incomprehensible to her as it was for Raymond to confess. “You mean... 
you were a virgin? I was your first?” “Yes,” Raymond admitted, trying 
to dress himself, finding Vicky's questioning less intrusive and easier 
to manage with his back turned to her, as he sat down again on the edge 
of the double bed to look for and put on his socks. “But do we have to 
talk about it so much? It's embarrassing.” “No, that's okay. I'm sorry 
– I just wasn't thinking.” “And now you think I'm a weirdo, don't you.” 
“No, no Raymond. I don't think you're a weirdo. I think you're great. 
The way you stood up for me and everything last night. That bastard 
will never pick on anyone again. No Raymond, I don't think you're a 
weirdo... I think you're wonderful. And I had a good time with you, 
too. I had no idea it was your first time.” “Really?” he said, finding 
it difficult that anyone could admire him for any reason. His past 
weighed so heavily on his mind that it managed to effect nearly every 
living moment of his waking and sleeping world. “You like me?” he 
asked, with so much humility that Vicky seemed able to feel it as well 
as hear it in his voice. “Oh yes, I like you a lot. But you sound so 
surprised. Why wouldn't I?” “I don't know,” responded Raymond. “Most 
people just don't like me much. But, I do have four good friends.” 
“Well... there, you see. Other people like you too. I'm not the only 
one.” “Yeah, I guess so,” he remarked, standing to fasten his pants and 
button his shirt. “They live with me.” “All of them, in the same place? 
It must get a little crowded. How do you avoid bumping into each 
other?” “Oh... they pretty much stay in one spot. But they sure do a 
lot of talk'in. Anyway Vicky, I better get back. They're gonna wonder 
what happened to me.” “Can't you call them from here and let them know 
you're all right?” “I suppose, but they never seem to pick up. I don't 
know, I guess they just don't feel comfortable on the phone.” “I have 
to work tonight anyway,” said Vicky, getting out of bed naked, feeling 
confident about her body and very much unembarrassed in front of 
Raymond. “Will I see you later?” “I just wanna find out what's going on 
at home,” replied Raymond. Sincerely believing that the four severed 
heads he kept at home on dinner dishes might be somehow, in someway, 
getting into mischief. “I'll call you.” 

“Still got blood on your coat, don'tcha,” Raymond heard, upon opening
the door to his apartment. The busy traffic on Sheridan Road in Chicago 
never really stopped and as Raymond stood in the hallway with his door 
open, he could hear the cars below going by – one after another – 
creating a monotone, bothersome noise, but Raymond had grown used to 
it, and listening to the self-fabricated voices in his head was 
certainly, no problem at all... “An it ain't even your coat. You 
weirdo, whad'ya do it for anyways?” “Not now Joe please, I'm tired. I 
stared at the ceiling all night.” But as Raymond replied, he realized 
Joe was right and looking down at the hanging sleeves of the sport coat 
he had on, he noticed the blotches of dark brown blood that had stained 
it; stains neither he or Vicky were aware of.  “Uh-oh... whatta I do 
now? I can't return it to the nightclub like this, an they're gonna 
want to know what happened to it.” “Why don't you ever think before you 
act,” interjected Dan. “How many life sentences can one guy serve?” 
“Hasn't anyone ever called you a name before?” remarked Lorin, in 
response. “I can't believe you killed him. Now what are you gonna do? 
You know you can't get the coat cleaned, right? It's incriminating 
evidence, and the blood will never come out of it anyway.” “Damn,” 
Raymond mumbled. “How do I get in to see Vicky sing. I'll never get 
past the doorman.” And as Raymond thought over what to do next, he sat 
down in his favorite chair to look again at the authentic collection of 
art work he'd stolen with the help of his friends. ‘What now?' He 
thought, as his eyes searched over a priceless original landscape by 
the French master, Claude Monet. The artist who worked in a style we 
know as Impressionism and who is thought to have been responsible for 
its very invention. “I have an idea Ray,” said Guy from Raymond's 
handicapped mind. “All you have to do is replace the coat with one that 
looks just like it. How hard was that? The bouncer will let you in, an 
no one will be the wiser.” “Why didn't I think a that,” replied Lorin, 
envious  – in Raymond's mind at least - of Guy's ability to think on 
his feet, but ‘feet' were indeed a matter of metaphor for either Guy or 
Lorin. “Looks like it's time ta go shopp'in, don't it Ray?” suggested 
Joe, in his own brusque way. “Bust out some cash an let's get a move 
on.” “Right,” said Raymond, to no real person other then himself. And 
standing up from his chair, he walked a determined path to his bedroom; 
removed the cash box he kept on his closet shelf and opened it, 
revealing its contents to no one but himself, but in his mind, he was 
one of five people who knew where it was and how he'd acquired it. 
“Would'ya look at that,” remarked Joe, admiring the view of money on 
display in the possession of one so dispossessed... Raymond. “Looks 
like beín a crazy ass killer pays off.” “You know why I did it,” 
answered Raymond, noticeably shaken at the mention of recent events  in 
Raymond's past that didn't quite go according to plan. A plan conceived 
by Lorin and Dan but executed – in more ways than one it seems – by 
Raymond, who radically altered it by murdering the art dealer he was 
sent to do business with. “He was cheating us. I had to do it, so I 
took the cashbox too... so what. You would've taken it... you know you 
would have. Just look at it,” he continued saying. Absorbed so in the 
contents of the box, that for the moment, his hands remained deep 
inside, filled with currency of all denominations, as his mind was 
filled with greed. “And the original paintings,” he continued. “I 
couldn't very well leave them in France could I? The police would've 
traced them back to us in Chicago.” But in summation, Raymond's 
argument to himself was the long known fact that he could not get along 
with most people for any lengthy period of time – after they discovered 
just how mentally troubled he was – and therefore, the money he stole 
didn't just make him rich, but made available to him a luxury that most 
of us just cannot afford. “I don't have'ta work if I don't want to,” he 
exclaimed, to an audience of one... himself. “I can't work anyway,” he 
admitted aloud. “They won't stop picking on me. Whenever I go to 
work... they always pick on me. Why do I have to tell you?” he said, 
removing his hands from the box and seeming to match his now sullen 
mood with the articulation of his body language. “Leave him alone,” 
contended Guy, as Raymond struggled to displace the feeling of guilt 
and replace it with the contentment that was never quite within his 
grasp. “Can't you see that arguing about the past isn't going to help 
anything? What's done is done,” said Guy wisely, in Raymond's twisted 
mind. “C'mon Ray,” he added, resolved to making things better than they 
were. “Grab some cash an let's get outta here.” 

“You are a thirty-eight,” said the portly salesman, who spoke in a thick
European accent, immediately taking for granted that he was superior to 
Raymond in many respects and the plain fact that he was providing a 
service and that Raymond was a cash paying customer made no difference 
to him at all. “Maybe you are a thirty-nine?” “I'm a forty-two coat,” 
replied Raymond meekly, quietly contesting the fact that he'd always 
been a forty-two and didn't see the reason to buy something that would 
most likely be too small. “Nonsense,” said the salesman, very 
distinctly and with imprudence. And as he spoke, he reached high into a 
space filled with sport coats reserved solely for size thirty-eight. 
“Here,” he added, holding the coat in position so that Raymond could 
put it on, one arm at a time. “Doesn't that feel right?” he said, as 
Raymond examined himself in the three-way mirror. “Any bigger and you 
would be swimming in it.” But as Raymond moved his arms forward and 
backward in the jacket, stitches in the shoulders and center seams all 
strained to capacity and were about to begin to pull apart when the 
salesman interjected with, “You don't have much to say, do you? You are 
afraid of your own shadow, aren't you?” “He ain't scared a his shadow, 
bitch,” offered Joe, in response to Raymond's vulnerability and 
unwillingness to argue. “Show ím who's boss Ray. Tell ím ta get lost.” 
“Just tell him it's too tight,” said Dan, knowing that this was a good 
time to intervene. “We don't need another corpse on our hands, Ray. If 
he doesn't want to help you, just go somewhere else. Go on, just tell 
him.” “I... It's...” “Yes,” answered the stout man, amused and laughing 
quietly but loud enough for Raymond to hear. “You have something to 
say, say it.” But too late for anymore words or opinions, the seams in 
the small coat began to give out and tear, causing Raymond even more 
embarrassment and humiliation. “Sockím Ray,” exclaimed Joe in Raymond's 
mind. “Knock ím back ta wherever he came from, foreign kook. Where does 
this guy get off, anyway? Go on Ray... give ím the old one, two.” 
“Hmm,” continued the salesman. “It looks as if you might use a size up 
after all,” he flawlessly reasoned, taking note of the two inch tears 
in various seams. “Try on this thirty-nine.” But when Raymond finally 
took the initiative to look up into the crowded rack filled with coats 
- searching restlessly for what he needed - he eventually noticed one 
that was a close color match, modestly pointed to it and requested, 
“that one... up there. That's what I need. A forty-two, please.” And 
after looks of frustration and anger had been traded and exchanged 
between both customer and salesman, Raymond at long last had won the 
chance to try on the coat he needed in the proper size. “You are a 
stubborn one,” reaffirmed the salesman, helping Raymond take off the 
torn sport coat that was at least, two sizes too small. “Here then, 
have your way,” he said with displeasure, as if a small war had been 
lost, making Raymond the conquering army of ‘sport coat land'. “Like I 
said before,” he continued - unbroken in will and determination - “You 
are swimming in it.” But when Raymond stood looking at himself in the 
full length mirrors, he got nothing but rave reviews from his loyal but 
fictitious friends... “Looks like it was made for ‘im, don't it?” 
remarked Joe, who never was one to withhold opinion out of modesty or 
shyness. “Indeed,” said Dan, duly impressed by the way the new coat 
precisely fit. “Why don't you pay him and lets get outta here?” “Right 
Dan,” answered Raymond aloud and uninhibitedly - admiring the coat in 
the mirror. “That's a good Idea.” “What?” asked the salesman, already 
annoyed at the thought of having to restrain his will over Raymond and 
unable to figure out if he was trying to provoke him more, or if all 
Raymond was guilty of was a simple and sincere mistake. “Who is Dan?” 
he continued. “There is no ‘Dan' here. I am not Dan, I am Rolf. Rolf 
Messerschmitt.” “Oh, hey Rolf,” said Raymond, very plainly and aptly. 
“Dan is... a friend of mine,” he added, seeing no reason to keep his 
friendship a matter of secrecy. “There is no one here named Dan,” 
replied the department store employee. “Look around.” And seizing the 
opportunity to persecute Raymond beyond what might be considered more 
commonplace jest, he went further to remark, “maybe you are one of 
those nuts, huh? One of those sensitive Americans who needs his momma?” 
“You know what I'd do if I had hands Ray,” Joe fervidly expressed. “I'd 
wrap ‘em both around that bastards neck... that's what I'd do.” “Just 
give him what we owe and let's get out of here,” admonished Guy. “We 
don't want to create a scene, right Ray?” And in heeding Guy's warning, 
Raymond reached into the wad of bills he was carrying, dumped a few of 
the crinkled notes onto a nearby tailor's desk and began to walk away. 
“You are forgetting your change,” exclaimed the salesman, surprised to 
find that a customer who at once appeared so subdued could also have 
the capacity to pay his bill in large denominations like hundred dollar 
notes. After all, most of the men who went suit shopping – who 
possessed actual wealth - were not ‘afraid of their own shadow'. “Keep 
the change,” said Raymond, looking back only once to make sure the man 
had heard him, and to get one last look at the face of one who had 
treated him with such contempt – a face representative of many such 
people who had treated him in much the same way. 

“Hello Vicky,” said Raymond into the phone, waking up from his nap and
slowly recognizing her voice. Still surprised to be the recipient of 
any phone call, he held the sad but firm belief that he must be one of 
the least popular people in the city of Chicago. “What's go'in on?” he 
said, in his own Chicago style dialect. “Nuth'in much,” she answered in 
hers, which was just one more small characteristic the new couple 
shared in common – that innate ability to be and sound... Chicagoan. 
“Are you coming to see me sing tonight?” “Sure,” he answered, yawning 
and rubbing his eyes to help clear them after so many hours of 
inactivity. And after a few more minutes of chatting with his girl over 
the phone – which was in itself, a new notion to Raymond – he got out 
of bed, got cleaned up and put on the dark grey sport coat he'd bought 
just hours before. Parking the big, forty-eight Oldsmobile, Raymond 
arrived at the club with time to spare. Glancing around himself, he 
took note of the many cars, pedestrians, and flashy social hot spots 
which the Rush Street scene in Chicago has always been known for. 
Suddenly apprehensive and wondering what might be happening inside the 
club, Raymond acted on his curiosity – as so many of us are inclined to 
do – and walked through the doorway of the nightclub - more so then not 
- eager to engage in the activities of the night and what it might hold 
in store for him. At the door greeting people on their way in, stood 
the same tall, stalwart bouncer as before. But because of their 
previous meeting, or perhaps because the coat Raymond was wearing 
brought back an instantaneous memory – the doorman's reaction to the 
sight of Raymond was something like the greeting of an old friend and 
went a little more smoothly then expected. But for Raymond's liking, 
maybe too smoothly... as the friendly encounter had caught him 
off-guard and especially so because of the new, perfectly fitting coat 
he was trying to pass off as the one he'd hastily left in. “I was 
wondering where you went,” responded the doorman, as Raymond entered 
the vestibule. “You took off in that coat so fast, what was I supposed 
ta think? For a while there, I thought...” “You thought I stole it?” 
interrupted Raymond. “Yeah well, like I say, what was I supposed ta 
think? But, you brought it back, so... no harm done, right? Besides,” 
he continued saying, eying Raymond as if he could see into, or through 
him. “That old rag never looked so good. What'd you do to it, anyway?” 
“Oh, the coat,” replied Raymond, doing a not so very good job of 
covering up the truth. “Yeah, the coat,” repeated the bouncer 
intuitively. “That's what I'm talk'in about, right? What's up with it?” 
he added, as new body posture he assumed - intentionally crossing his 
arms - only served to transmit his curiosity all the more, adding to 
Raymond's nervous tension. “Uh, yeah,” was all Raymond could say, 
fighting off the urge to turn, run out the door and never come back. 
“I...” “Quick Ray! Tell him you had the coat cleaned,” said Lorin, in 
Raymond's desperate imagination. “I had it cleaned,” remarked Raymond 
abruptly, clearing his throat timidly. “Yes, cleaned,” he repeated, as 
if to make the statement more valid through the repetition of the word, 
‘cleaned'. “Well hey, you look good in it,” returned the doorman, 
having taken notice of the fact that Raymond's height and weight were 
very much proportional, and although he was not a fan of exercise, the 
frequent walking Raymond did around his neighborhood helped to keep his 
weight down. It just so happened that the type of flesh Raymond had a 
taste for was not particularly high in fat, since it was of a human 
nature and required him to burn a certain number of calories in order 
to achieve his horrific goal... like any other carnivore, in any other 
jungle – Raymond stalked his prey and worked hard for it. “I don't mean 
to butt in,” he continued, becoming more polite as time went on, 
disclosing more of a growing interest then Raymond ever would have 
expected. “But, do you meet someone here? Is it someone special?” 
“Yes,” said Raymond slowly, feeling by now that something more then 
concern over his sport coat was brewing in the doorman's mind. “I do 
meet someone here,” he added, searching for words, not quite knowing 
what to say that would appease the large, nightclub employee, make the 
situation better and allow him passage through the second door. “What's 
his name? Anyone I know?” he asked, naturally assuming that Raymond had 
a sexual orientation leaning to persons of the same sex, since after 
all, ‘Martha's Vineyard' was a club which specialized in providing for, 
or developing such relationships. But now, feeling hard pressed for an 
answer to what might've seemed a simple question, Raymond could only 
look down at his feet in embarrassment and confusion – unable to admit 
his desire for Vicky in specific and in general, unable to admit his 
feelings. “C'mon,” continued the doorman in the same vein. “Your 
secret's safe with me. I won't spread it around.” “Promise?” asked 
Raymond, wondering if it might be better to lie then admit the truth. 
“Sure, I promise.” “Vicky,” said Raymond, thinking that sooner or 
later, the truth would come out anyway. “You're kidding me. She's a 
doll,” remarked the door attendant. Making his enthusiasm very clear 
and even sounding congratulatory. “I couldn't get within a mile of her. 
You're one lucky guy, you know that? I thought you had a kind of 
magnetism,” he went on to say. “No,” answered Raymond, regarding 
himself as one who possessed only run-of-the-mill looks and charm. But 
as the two stood and talked, other patrons began to form a line behind 
Raymond, causing the doorman to begin thinking about bringing his query 
to an unanticipated conclusion. “Hey look,” he began to say, watching 
people file in through the corner of his eye. “I'd like to talk, but I 
gotta do my job. Why don't the three of us get together sometime?” “You 
mean... you wanna meet Vicky?” asked Raymond, wondering if the 
bouncer's friendly manner might turn into competition for the same 
girl, causing Vicky to lose interest in him. After all, Raymond felt 
insecure when he compared himself to most any man on the street and 
when he stood next to  someone as tall and handsome as the doorman, he 
felt especially inadequate. “Call me Richard,” the doorman started to 
say quite casually, even though waiting room in the vestibule had all 
been taken up and a line of anxious people was beginning to form on the 
sidewalk outside. “And don't worry about it. Tell you the truth,” he 
went on to say. “You're the one I wanna talk to.” “Me?” questioned 
Raymond. Unable to understand why anyone would show interest in him, 
but for the whole of his life, he'd never frequented or ever been to a 
place like Martha's Vineyard and consequently, never knew what it was 
like to be appreciated for who he was – having led a very insular life 
- nor had he ever had the nerve to explore his own sexuality, until 
now. “Sure you, why not?” he restated, trying to make Raymond 
understand that it was not Vicky he was interested in but the thought 
of becoming Raymond's protector or guardian and the feeling that 
Raymond was humble  and submissive were key ingredients to the kind of 
relationship Richard found appealing. “But I can't talk now bud. I 
gotta let these people in. I'll catch you later, Mister...” “Raymond... 
Raymond Mort.” And shortly after allowing Raymond entrance into the 
club, Richard found himself thinking more and more of the smallish, 
thin man but not just out of a fondness for Raymond's personality or 
trim, chiseled features, but for something else altogether. Something 
which brought back an ever so vague memory... something about the way 
the dark grey coat fit on Raymond so perfectly. So much more perfectly 
then when he'd first tried it on. And then it began to come back to the 
doorman, slowly, but surely. Recalling the sagging, hanging shoulders 
of the coat; the baggy way it fit his body and waistline. And the 
rest... the rest of the story behind the coat Raymond wore... that was 
left to the doorman's imagination and whatever he could bring to the 
surface of his mind. 

Chapter 5 

Late that night, after the nightclub had closed, Raymond got in his car
and left for home, never taking notice of the lone car behind him, 
following him all the way north, down Michigan Avenue, on his way to  
Lake Shore Drive. He didn't realize because for one thing, he'd never 
been followed before and never had occasion to experience such a thing 
and for another, he was tired, drunk and thinking about getting into 
bed. Pulling the blinds closed in his bedroom and sleeping the morning 
away seemed to be the best option available to him at the time and was 
just about all that filled his mind, were it not for a few of the 
nagging suggestions his volatile imagination made on itself... “What a 
night,” said Joe, as the Oldsmobile's big eight cylinder engine 
gathered momentum and speed, passing Oak Street - famous for it's beach 
front access - then Bellevue Place, and Cedar and so on, through the 
city. And Raymond never looked back. Never thought of the possibility 
that someone might be watching... “Man that babe can really sing,” 
added Joe, in Raymond's mind's ear. “Really belts out a tune, don't 
she?” he continued, so impressed by Vicky's performance. “Hold on a 
minute,” remarked Raymond, just as the car was passing the green 
traffic light at Division Street. “Let me get this straight now. You 
mean... you like her?” “Well, I...” said Joe, fumbling for the right 
words to say. “She has a lotta talent Ray. Whattaya want me ta say?” 
“But, you know she's really a...” “Yeah, I know. I'd have'ta know by 
now, wouldn't I?” “And you don't care?” “Hell Ray,” continued Joe, 
about to give additional thought and meaning to what he had in mind to 
say – a rare seen quality in Joe, who is - or was rather - a very 
masculine, unemotional type and one who'd endured one of America's most 
terrible conflicts... World War ll. “You know me, I been around the 
block. I've seen a lot. Alotta things you wouldn't wanna see, either. 
So ya know what I think? Who cares? That's what I think. Who cares? If 
that's what Vicky wants outta life, then so be it. Who am I ta pass 
judgment on her, or anyone for that matter?” “I'm surprised to hear you 
say that,” replied Guy, all in Raymond's mind of course. “You're 
sounding very well-adjusted.” “Then try this on for size Buster... live 
an let live; ta each his own; whatever floats yer boat, I got a million 
of ‘em.” “Why now?” asked Dan, who'd been quiet up until now as the big 
car turned right into Sheridan Road, getting closer to Raymond's 
apartment. “Why the sermon? What makes tonight any different?” “Oh, I 
been think'in lately,” said Joe, in a moment of reflection. “Sure,” 
interrupted Lorin angrily. “Like none of the rest of us have anything 
to say? You think you're the only one who does any thinking? Look who's 
talking... Mr. Self-realization.” “Quit fighting already!” shouted 
Raymond, in an abrupt outburst of frustration - quieting the voices in 
his head for the time being, but still incapable of getting to the root 
of his problem without the aid of modern, antipsychotic drugs. “I can't 
drive with you guys arguing all the time. You're making me crazy.” But 
Raymond didn't have long to complain as the car steadily approached the 
corner of Sheridan and Granville, giving closure to the twisted debate 
he helplessly self-fabricated and for now, bringing his journey to an 
end. What he did not know, as he got out of the car and looked up at 
his own second floor apartment, was that he was being carefully 
observed and therefore stood without inhibition, staring up at the 
table lamp he'd left on by mistake, wondering to himself who had left 
it on. “That's funny,” he said out loud. “I don't remember leaving a 
light on. Who could've left it on?” “Why do we have'ta keep go'in 
through this?” complained Joe. “You know it couldn'ta been one a us. 
You're the only one with legs. Why would'ya keep blam'in us for your 
own mistake?” “Sorry,” muttered Raymond. “I'm tired. I need to get in 
bed.” “Geez,” added a disgruntled Joe, this time true to his character. 
But as Raymond slowly let go of his complaint and began climbing the 
stair on the way up to his apartment, the sensation or feeling that 
eyes were on him came out in the form of personality conflict and 
hallucination, as was usually the case at a time like this... “Hold on 
a minute,” remarked Lorin, knowing that something was wrong, but 
exactly what, he couldn't say. “What now?” asked Joe. “Let ‘im get in 
bed already.” “I can't say for sure,” returned Lorin. “It's just a 
feeling I have. The kind that you get when someone's watching you... 
you know what I mean?” “You're making us paranoid,” said Guy, taking 
the initiative to speak on everyone's behalf. “Just let Raymond go to 
bed. Don't worry Ray,” continued Guy, in a soothing manner that he 
alone - among the rest of Raymond's imaginary companions - had seemed 
to master. “Everything will look brighter in the morning.” “I hope 
you're right,” answered Lorin, as Raymond continued his ascent up the 
stairway and on, in the direction of his apartment. But as Raymond 
groped through his right front pocket, searching for his key, a man 
emerged from a dark colored sedan – as Lorin had forewarned – and 
walked from across the street on his way to Raymond's apartment, 
attracted to the table lamp mistakenly left on. Staring upward - 
observing the shapes in the window that he thought he saw - Richard 
couldn't believe his eyes. He'd followed Raymond home that night out of 
the newly found and growing affection he felt for him, but upon 
recalling how well the old sport coat suddenly fit Raymond and how good 
it looked on him – without the wear and tear of passing months of abuse 
one would have expected – he was moved to the fact that Raymond was 
hiding something and his curiosity literally drove him miles from any 
destination of his own, straight to the whereabouts of a scene he never 
could have conceived of, in the wisdom of any, or all of his years. “Am 
I see'in things?” He said aloud to himself. “Are those pumpkins in that 
window or what? This ain't Halloween.” But as Richard moved his hand to 
his shirt pocket – looking for the glasses he needed to see objects in 
the distance – something else was going on in Raymond's apartment that 
would indeed, alter the appearance of things. “Where are you guys 
hiding, anyway?” asked Raymond, as he walked into the middle of his 
living room. And wondering where he'd last placed the four severed 
heads of his friends, he again raised the question aloud so that one of 
them – in his poor mind at least – might tell him and resolve the 
matter. “Where do ya think?” asked Joe sarcastically. “I don't know?” 
replied Raymond, losing patience. “If I knew, I wouldn't need to ask.” 
“Over here Ray,” answered Guy, always helpful at times like this - of 
stress and need. “We're on the window sill - remember now? You put us 
here so we could watch life go by, remember? It was your idea. You 
wanted to give us something to look at while you were gone.” “Okay, now 
I remember,” remarked Raymond, picking up the large dinner platter 
whereupon sat the four, meticulously varnished heads of his friends. 
And once transferred to the dinning room table, Raymond took the time 
to adjust the Chicago Cubs baseball cap Guy had on, which had somehow 
been tilted from position. But the French beret that Joe preferred was 
flawlessly in place and served nicely to subdue his rugged good looks. 
“There you are Guy,” remarked Raymond, taking a step back to admire and 
get a better look at his own hideous, but noteworthy handiwork. And all 
the while Raymond looked on at the four, shiny victims of fate, Richard 
was outside on the sidewalk below, at last adjusting his glasses to his 
face and when he looked again at the arrangement of severed heads in 
Raymond's window, they had vanished. Only shock and paranoia had been 
left in their place - a sorry exchange for an even sorrier crime. “Why 
don't you get in bed now Ray,” said Guy. “Thanks for fixing my hat, but 
you're looking really pooped.” “That's exactly how I feel Guy,” replied 
Raymond, as a very confused doorman returned to his car. And seizing 
the opportunity, Richard turned one last time in the direction of 
Raymond's second floor window. Watching as Raymond walked into the 
light of the lamp, he recognized the outline of Raymond's features in 
the distance, paying careful attention as the bright electric light 
changed suddenly to complete darkness with a simple turn of a switch. A 
delicate maneuver made by one so delicate, in a world so filled with 
indelicacy. 

As the minute and hour hands merged – one over the other – on the clock
which rested on his nightstand, Raymond was surprised to be awakened by 
the unforgiving ring of his telephone. Awkwardly, he wrested it from 
its nearby position, placed it to his ear and gave the same, 
predictable response which everyone in the world who's ever spoken on 
such a device has become so enormously familiar with...  “Hello?” “Hi 
Raymond, it's me.” “Oh Vicky, hey, how are you?” “Fine,” she 
predictably said. “I was just wondering... are you busy now?” “Ahh,” 
mumbled Raymond, guessing at the time of day. “What time is it? I was 
sleeping.” “Time to get up sleepyhead,” replied Vicky. “It's past noon 
Raymond. Listen,” she continued, with growing enthusiasm in her voice. 
“I'm coming over to meet your friends.” “Oh, you are?” “Yes, what's 
wrong with that? Now what should I bring? Do they care for wine at all? 
How about a nice red table wine and we can have a picnic at the lake? 
You're just a stone's throw from the beach there, aren't you?” “Yeah, 
but...” started Raymond, worried about the type of impression his 
housekeeping and living arrangement might make on his newfound soul 
mate. “Don't say another word,” insisted Vicky, determined to meet the 
friends Raymond kept, even though she had no way of knowing the true 
nature of the way in which he ‘kept' them... as lifeless and inanimate 
heads. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.” But before Raymond could 
think of any good excuse for her not to come over, she had already made 
the decision for him and hung up the phone in haste. “The place is a 
mess,” complained Raymond aloud, after putting down the phone. “I 
haven't bothered cleaning in God knows how long and she's on her way 
over... now what?” “Helluva wake up call,” said Joe, in Raymond's 
schizophrenic mind. “Better move fast, you got a lot ta do.” “Yeah,” 
answered Raymond, eager to comply and continue in the smoothly running 
relationship he was so far enjoying with Vicky. “Maybe I should vacuum, 
huh?” “Vacuum!” repeated Dan. “You're crazy. You've got four human 
heads on a table and a refrigerator stocked with human flesh and you're 
worried about vacuuming. If I only had legs, I'd be outta here so fast 
It'd make your head spin.” “Ix-nay on the spin-nay bud,” remarked Joe, 
exercising his ability – or lack of it - for speaking pig Latin. “I may 
be just a head, but I got feel'ins too ya know.” “Never mind all that 
Ray,” interrupted Lorin - realizing there was a much more serious 
problem at hand then the trifling issue of Joe's superficial vanity. 
“Dan's right. You've gotta either put the heads back in the fridge with 
the rest a your wacko stash, or make up some last minute excuse why she 
can't come in.” “That's right,” agreed Dan. “In fact,” he continued, in 
a most contemplative mood. “Why don'tcha do both.” “Both?” replied 
Raymond. “You guys are moving too fast. Slow it down a little, I'm 
confused.” “I mean,” said Dan, feeling as though he'd better try 
getting through to Raymond for his own good. “Tell her we're not home, 
or we're all throwing our guts up with the flu and if that doesn't 
work, hide the heads in the fridge and make absolutely sure she never 
opens it... understand?” “I suppose,” acknowledged Raymond, but even as 
he stood in pensive calm – looking thoughtful and capable in the light 
of his friends help – the doorbell began to ring, telling him that 
someone was downstairs in the vestibule, waiting to come up. “Quickly 
Ray,” exclaimed Guy. “Stuff us all in the fridge while there's still 
time... hurry!” But reacting quickly at a stressful time was not one of 
Raymond's better qualities and as he fussed and panicked, the person 
downstairs in the vestibule grew more and more weary of getting no 
response at all. Picking up the big tray in which all four heads sat, 
Raymond clumsily lifted it and began walking toward the kitchen when 
suddenly – never noticing the PF-Flyer gym shoe in his path – he 
tripped, dropping all four heads very ungracefully, to the floor. “Now 
ya did it,” accused Joe, angered at the thought of having his own head 
fall and roll around on the unkempt floor of Raymond's living room. “Ya 
tripped over yer own shoe.” “No I didn't,” responded Raymond with like 
anger. “What are ya talk'in about?” answered Joe. “Then what are we 
do'in on the floor?” “It wasn't my shoe, it was yours.” “Now how am I 
supposed ta wear shoes, if I ain't got feet?” asked Joe, quite within 
reason. “Why do we have'ta go through this all the time?” “All I know 
is...” began Raymond, as he rose to his feet and reassembled the heads 
on the serving tray. “That's a size nine and I'm an eight an a half. 
There's no way it's my shoe.” But in the course of their bickering, no 
one had heard footsteps approaching the apartment door, and their petty 
squabble became an uncomfortable silence when all at once, Raymond 
heard a very light and feminine knocking coming from the front door, 
accompanied by just such a voice... “Raymond,” Vicky announced – softly 
and politely - never having been to Raymond's apartment before. “Are 
you there? Open the door.” “I'm here,” he responded, but not quite loud 
enough for her to hear through the solid oak door. And with no other 
warning, the handle of Raymond's apartment door began to turn. “Well 
hello there,” said Vicky from the threshold of the open door - bags of 
groceries in both of her arms. “Is that your idea of decorating?” she 
asked, referring to the four decapitated heads Raymond believed to be 
his ‘friends'. “Are they real?” “They're my... my friends,” replied 
Raymond nervously. “How'd you get in?” “One of your nice neighbors held 
the door open for me,” she answered, laying down her groceries on the 
nearest table. “Not exactly what I'd call, ‘live wires' are they?” she 
added, referring again to Raymond's peculiar friends. “Do you mind if I 
ask how you acquired them? They didn't just fall from a tree like 
apples, did they?” “No, I suppose not. But, they're here... with me 
now. We all... get along pretty well,” said Raymond, adjusting Guy's 
baseball cap as he set them next to Vicky's groceries. “Well...” began 
Vicky, searching for a moment to find the right words... words which 
did not come very easily to her, but without much regard to the gravity 
of Raymond's situation, she remarked... “That's a pretty tough act to 
follow. What do we do for an encore? You don't talk to them, do you?” 
she asked, wondering all the more about Raymond's state of mind, but 
never seriously considering the possibility of turning around to leave. 
She had grown much too fond of him to leave now, over a few severed 
heads. “Never mind Raymond,” she continued, nonchalantly. “You don't 
have to answer me right now. Why don't we just make lunch like we had 
planned and go to the beach. “ 

Chapter 6 

The small sail boats in the lake were anonymous but in particular,
beautiful. The varied colors of their sails were a striking foreground 
to the huge swathe of background blue and white shapeless puffs of 
clouds above and as Raymond and Vicky sat ripping shreds of fried 
chicken away from bone and gristle – enjoying their outdoor lunch – 
time seemed almost to stand still; as a landscape painting, or a 
photograph from a camera might suggest. A gentle summer breeze together 
with a view that imperceptibly drifted had inadvertently become the 
perfect background to a seemingly perfect coupling of appeal and 
personality and as the picnic ran its course, the two sat contentedly 
on a beach blanket looking on as life passed gloriously before them. 
While at last, leaning back in the warm contours made by their bodies 
in the sand, they blissfully fell asleep - without a care in the world 
- like babies in wistful cradles. Upon waking – after an hour or so had 
passed and the bodily process of sleep had stolen from them whatever 
time it could –  Vicky and Raymond couldn't help but notice the 
different people who idly walked by, and who were usually in good 
humor. After a long Chicago winter, the lakefront beaches were integral 
to rejuvenating energy and vigor, but to achieve the same results, 
different people did employ different means. Some – like Raymond and 
Vicky fell hypnotically asleep to the feel of a warm gentle breeze and 
the sound of small waves slowly loosing their energy to the sandy shore 
they rolled into. But some – the one's who couldn't get enough of the 
sights, sounds and smells – these were the ones who swam in and out of 
the water and patrolled the light beige sand for tiny shells and 
whatever else might be taken away in fond remembrance of the day, 
preserving its memory. And these were the ones who caught the attention 
of Vicky and Raymond, who were by now, fully awake and like cats with 
wide open eyes following birds, they detected any motion they could 
until it registered, cueing such animal instincts that had preserved 
their species - and the likes of which - for millions of sanguinary 
years. “Hi there,” said a girl who had twice before, casually walked by 
– acknowledging how pretty Vicky was and how unusual but appealing 
looking Raymond appeared, sitting there languid yet attentive in the 
sand. “You two look so content sitting there,” she continued to remark. 
“Like you were made for each other.  My name is Anechka, but my friends 
call me Ann. I'm from Russia,” she said - very aptly and in excellent 
English - placing her hands on her hips for emphasis. But suddenly and 
without warning, Vicky turned to Raymond and honestly expressed what 
she'd been indulging her mind in for the past few minutes... “Honey,” 
she began, very matter-of-factly. “Do you think we could?” And with no 
more need for any further explanation to one another, they quietly did. 


Back at Raymond's apartment, spirits were high. Vicky sat comfortably at
Raymond's dining room table, gently combing out tiny knots in Ann's 
hair while Raymond busied himself with what one might call – more 
practical matters... separating prime cuts of meat from those that he 
considered only mediocre and completely discarding many organs and 
entrails which did little for his taste palette. Similar to a jungle 
beast, he planned to bury all those parts which he did not favor – such 
as the heart; lungs; kidneys and so on, but he did take pleasure in 
consuming the liver, which he sometimes ate like any other broiled 
piece of meat, or turned into a delicious pate, depending of course on 
his culinary desire at the moment. As both of their tasks came to a 
close, it was soon time for Vicky to add a protective coat of varnish 
to the freshly severed head she so lovingly cared for and without much 
in the way of surface area to cover, it wasn't long before the job was 
complete and the morbid body part lay neatly out to dry in the warm 
summer breeze that circulated throughout the room. “What happens next?” 
asked Vicky quite prophetically, as the varnish she painted and daubed 
on slowly transformed from a sticky wet state to a lasting, dry, shiny 
gloss. “Whadda you mean?” returned Raymond, looking a little perplexed 
as he turned to meet Vicky's radiant, green eyes. “I don't know?” she 
murmured in reply. “I guess what I'm asking is... what do we do for an 
encore? Every repeat performance could cost us another life sentence, 
but I feel like I finally found myself... do you know what I mean? I 
think I like this even more then performing.” “I know exactly what you 
mean,” replied Raymond, an accomplished serial killer who was by now, 
exceedingly qualified and able to speak from years of experience and 
wisdom. “A lot of people find themselves sooner or later, don't you 
think? It just takes some a little longer then others. All those people 
who keep searching and don't give up,” he wisely remarked. “They're the 
lucky ones. We don't just have long lasting works of art here, we've 
got friends for life,” he continued, referring - with a wave of his 
hands - to any and all of the severed heads on display before them. 
“Has Ann spoken to you yet?” he asked innocently. “No. Why? How could 
she? She's dead.” “You'll see,” said Raymond. “It's all up here,” he 
went on, pointing a forefinger to his own head to illustrate his 
meaning. “It's all just a state of mind,” he continued, even more 
emphatically then before, holding Vicky firmly by both of her slender 
arms. “You'll see. But first, we've gotta eat dinner. Aren't you hungry 
after all that work?” “Sure,” she replied, her character and sensuality 
wonderfully enhanced by her shapely torso and perfect breasts – only 
beguiled by the noticeable and growing bulge in her tight, contour 
fitting elastic pants. “But dinner wasn't exactly what I had in mind,” 
she added, taking Raymond by his forearm to draw his body more closely 
to hers. “Let me guess,” he said, as any adult would have known Vicky's 
obvious intentions. “But what about supper... I didn't do all that work 
in the tub for nothing, did I?” “It'll wait. Some things just have an 
order of precedence.” “Things like what?” “Like me.” 

That night at the club, Raymond sat alone as he usually did in a booth
far removed from the stage. That side of his personality which 
uninvolved itself from any direct social contact - longing to avoid the 
attention of others - was nearly the complete opposite of Vicky's. But 
that separation, or difference in them seemed only to serve as another 
purpose – bonding them ever more closely - as the pair together became 
in the process a more complete organism and what one did not care for 
or was repelled by, the other only reveled in, thus creating a unity of 
opposites which neither could deny. Even in this opposition, they felt 
attraction, as the opposite poles of a magnet force - this difference 
only served them a better more suitable fit to the contours of mind and 
body... a resulting consequence of human connectivity and an adhesive 
to many a successful relationship. In time for Vicky's performance, 
Raymond nursed a scotch and soda in his right hand, watching the ice 
cubes in his glass swing around and around along the outer 
circumference, but as lights turned low and the band began to play; 
‘Don't Get Around Much Anymore', Raymond's daydream met a sudden end 
when Joe openly remarked, “That's for sure.” “What's for sure?” asked 
Raymond. “What now?” “I don't get around much anymore... whaddaya think 
I meant? Hey,” continued Joe, as inquisitive as ever. “Whatever 
happened ta Ann?” “You were there,” replied Raymond. “You should know.” 
“Naw, I missed it. I fell asleep.” “If you really need to know, I let 
Vicky use the bag from my bowling ball and Ann went home in that.” “So 
that's that?” answered Joe, wondering - with good reason - to what end 
Anechka, a lovely young Russian girl on vacation had come to. “Don't 
worry about it,” said Raymond. “It's a good thing. Vicky has someone to 
keep her company now. Why would you try to make something negative out 
of it?” “Oh, I don't know. Bad habit I guess.” But neither Joe, or 
anyone else Raymond considered his friend had much time to reflect on 
Anechka's life span – however long or short it may have been - as 
Richard, who'd been watching Raymond from his post at the door, came 
walking over, nearly in sync to the new song Vicky had just begun... 
‘You Belong To Me', once recorded by the late Patsy Cline. ‘See the 
pyramids along the Nile Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle Just 
remember darlin' all the while You belong to me...' But in the dark – 
as Raymond's booth was one of the most secluded in the club – Vicky's 
watchful eyes lost track of the two men and although mindful of what 
may or may not have been happening between them, she closed the song 
just as self-assured as she'd begun... ‘Fly the ocean in a silver plane 
See the jungle when it's wet with rain Just remember til you're home 
again You belong to me' And in coming to the last line of the last 
verse, she quickly replaced the microphone she was holding to its 
stand, gestured to the bandleader to take a break and walked swiftly 
off the stage, searching - inherent to her nature - like any other 
stealthy predator, with all her keen senses and to the rhythm of her 
strongly beating heart. Attracted by the flicker of a newly lit 
cigarette, she walked toward it to find Richard seated closely on the 
same side of the booth Raymond occupied, his arm gently draped over 
Raymond's slightly built frame - free from care or worldly obligation. 
And in a sudden, rapid response to her emotions, Vicky couldn't help 
but exclaim, “Raymond!” “Vicky!” he shouted impulsively in return, very 
much out of character for him, but shocked by the course of events. And 
in jumping to his feet, Raymond had inadvertently tossed Richard's arm 
from his shoulders, startling even the cool headed bouncer into a mild 
state of alarm. “What? What's the matter?” he went on to say, 
questioning her wild behavior. “I'm not blind,” she continued 
excitedly. “I can see what's going on.” “Nothing's going on,” said 
Raymond, sincerely believing that nothing emotional had passed between 
himself and the doorman. “Why don't you sit down,” he said, feeling the 
sudden pressure of many watchful eyes in the crowd around them. “You're 
m-making me nervous,” he added, stuttering and sitting back down, 
taking hold of his unfinished drink as though it were a life preserver 
thrown to a drowning man. “Wow,” muttered Raymond, back to speaking in 
the quiet, low tones which came natural to him. “What are you so mad 
about? Me and Richard were just sitting here talking.” “I saw his arm 
around you, Raymond. What was that supposed to mean?” “He's my friend,” 
returned Raymond with meaning, having been through very few lasting 
friendships in his lifetime. “I don't see what's wrong with that.” 
“What kind of friend puts their arm around you?” she replied, breaking 
out into tears. “I put my arm around you, don't I?” she continued, 
glaring at Richard, who was by now the most uncomfortable looking 
person in the nightclub. “Is that all I am to you?” she asked 
imploringly, clinging to her resolve. “...a friend?” “I didn't mean to 
start all this,” interjected the doorman, quite apologetically. 
“Honestly... if I knew this was going to happen...” “You what?” asked 
Vicky. “You wouldn't have sat there hugging him?” “It's time for me to 
go,” explained Richard, thinking that by removing himself from the 
scene, Vicky might find it easier to calm down, but as he was leaving, 
his mind began to drift from an amiable to a more practicable concern 
and curiosity got the better of him.... “There's just one thing I 
wanted to ask while I remember,” he began, focusing his attention once 
again on Raymond, even in the midst of Vicky's anger. “I gotta tell you 
Raymond, the strangest thing happened to me when I... l, followed you 
home and I... couldn't help looking up into your window. The light was 
on.” “What?” asked Raymond in response, oblivious to the direction of 
Richard's speculation, but curious himself as to why he'd been 
followed. “Why were you looking into my window? I don't get it.” “Just 
curious, thinking about you, that's all. I didn't mean to be nosy. It's 
just that, when I looked up into your window, I thought I saw pumpkins 
or something. There was just, one flashing moment there, but they 
looked a lot like...” “Like what?” asked Vicky nervously, “What did 
they look like?” “He knows Raymond,” interrupted Lorin, in Raymond's 
mind. But to Raymond, the voice was like any other. “Yeah, this don't 
sound good Ray,” remarked Joe, who agreed with Lorin only on rare 
occasions. “What?” asked Raymond aloud, answering the voices in his 
mind that he thought he heard, “what are you talking about?” “Yes,” 
inquired Vicky, feeling the urgent and absolute need to probe Richard 
for information. “What is it you thought you saw?” she asked, her anger 
having been displaced by a growing curiosity – at least for the time 
being. “Well... maybe I'm go'in nuts. Maybe I was just imagining 
things, but I thought I saw a bunch a heads in your window.” “Heads!” 
replied Vicky, as Raymond looked down at the surface of the table in 
embarrassment. “Absurd!” “Yeah, see,” continued the doorman. “It's 
probably just my eyes play'in tricks on me. You know, I need glasses,” 
he said, simultaneously pulling them from one of his pockets and 
putting them on as he rose from the table. “I just don't like ta wear 
‘em, that's all. They make me look older, don't they?” “No, I don't 
think so,” added Raymond, unable to contain himself. “I think they make 
you look smart.” “You think so?” asked the imposing, yet vain doorman, 
smiling and leaning closer to Raymond as he spoke - as Raymond had 
momentarily become a source of confidence and welcome self-esteem. 
“Nobody ever told me that before.” “It's true,” continued Raymond, 
returning the smile. “I'm so glad you like him with his glasses on, you 
have no idea,” said Vicky mockingly, interrupting the conversation 
between the two men before it could gather momentum and grow into 
something even more unbearable. “Don't you have a job to do, or 
something, Richard?” “Oh yeah, gee,” he said, appearing only mildly 
concerned – having to shift his attention away from Raymond and back 
again to the more mundane work world around them. “Can you believe it?” 
he went on to say. “For a minute there, I forgot I was at work. Oh 
well... back to the real world, right Ray?” “Yep,” replied Raymond, 
with a well meaning smile. “Take care a yourself.” “Hey,” returned the 
doorman, an accomplished, skilled practitioner in the arts of 
self-defense. “Don't worry about me,” he added, striking a perfectly 
balanced fighting pose. “I can handle myself just fine.” But in the 
brief time it took Richard to return to his post, Vicky had already 
begun filling Raymond's mind with suspicion - not so much guided by 
paranoia, as it was steeped in reality. “He knows,” she said to 
Raymond, just as soon as Richard was no longer within hearing distance. 
“Whaddaya mean, ‘he knows'? What does he know?” “Honestly Raymond... 
you get me so frustrated sometimes. Isn't it obvious to you yet? He's 
seen the heads of your buddies in your window, that's what he knows.” 
“He said he thought they were pumpkins, remember? Besides,” Raymond 
continued to say, urged on by his positive feelings for Richard. “He 
can hardly see without those glasses of his. I don't know what you're 
so worried about.” “I'll tell you what I'm worried about... a lifetime 
in prison, that's what. And you,” she began to say, carefully choosing 
her words as she spoke “...You of all people should know, your diet 
plan will be changing drastically if you go to jail. No more dining on 
those choice cuts of whatever, or whoever it is you like to keep in the 
fridge. Do you understand me Raymond? Am I coming in clear? I know you 
have trouble listening, but this you've got to hear. If you don't take 
action, I will.” 

That night when Vicky had finished her set, the band continued to play
without her until night faded on into the early hours of the morning. 
But Raymond and his beautiful friend were anxious to leave and enjoy 
the rest of the night available to them, since neither one of them had 
to wake up in the morning at any specific time. All that inhibited 
their evening's venture was the gently falling, warm rain, which had 
begun sometime around midnight and once it started, did not seem to 
want to end. Instead, it gave the uncanny impression that rain was 
falling everywhere and would continue to do so until whatever had 
caused it to begin had been somehow satisfied, but in what manner, or 
by what method, seemed to be a most puzzling problem, but one that 
Vicky and Raymond had inadvertently taken up to solve. Holding hands 
under the overhanging roof, near the entrance of the club, Vicky and 
Raymond stared out into the deep void of night, losing themselves in 
the cover and protection it provided until the intermittent headlights 
from passing cars revealed their forms like heartless, cold statues 
that shed the dripping rainwater as monuments set upon a grave site. 
Withstanding the ravages of time in the only possible way... they stood 
devoid of the spirit or soul that would otherwise occupy the natural 
condition of human life. Unsuspecting, Richard walked out into this 
same great, dark vacuum as was occupied by the abominable, loving 
couple – Vicky and Raymond, and watched as they stolidly let go of each 
other's hand. “I'll get the car,” said Vicky softly, as she left the 
cover of the protruding roof edge and walked purposefully to where 
Raymond had parked. Then, almost predictably, Raymond turned his 
attention to the tall doorman and declared... “It's a wonderful night, 
isn't it?” “I don't know what to say,” replied Richard, overwhelmed by 
a pervading aura of insentience. “I'm... feel'in at a loss for words 
right now, Ray. Know what I mean?” he said, as Raymond walked demurely 
toward him. “Rare for me, isn't it? I usually have a lot to say...” he 
added, dropping his emotional guard for a moment, and allowing Raymond 
to come closer - breaking those natural physical barriers of personal 
space which are so common from one man to another. “What will Vicky 
say?” continued Richard, as he bent at the waist and pressed Raymond's 
body to his own. “What she won't know, won't hurt her,” replied 
Raymond, wrapping his arms around the much larger man's torso in what 
would appear to be, a loving embrace, and it would have been, were it 
not for the authentic Nazi dagger Raymond stealthily manipulated behind 
Richard's back. “Vicky wants me to do this,” he murmured, bringing the 
needle sharp point of the knife into position over Richard's left 
kidney. “She what?” asked Richard, just seconds away from pressing his 
lips to Raymond's. “She wants you to kiss me? I don't get it.” “No... 
you're right,” conceded Raymond, retracting the shiny steel blade as if 
it were the venomous tip of a scorpion's tail. And unable to complete 
the gruesome task which had been laid out for him in vain, he also 
retracted his own two lips, which had come so close to something Vicky 
had never intended. “I can't go on with this.” “Good for you Ray,” said 
Guy, in Raymond's very vulnerable mind. “I'm so proud of you.” “Yeah 
Ray,” admitted Joe. “I thought you was about ta do the nasty back 
there, but you stopped yerself. Good for you.” “I just don't get you 
Raymond,” said the bouncer, frustrated and bewildered. “We could've had 
a good time, too... I just don't get you,” he added, easily pushing 
Raymond's slightly built frame from his own, acting more now as if he 
were controlling a crowd then urging on a lover's embrace. “Why don't 
you go back to your girlfriend? She must be waiting for you. Go on, go 
ahead.” But when Raymond finally did get back to his car, he did not 
find much in the way of consolation waiting for him. “Is it over?” 
Vicky asked, seeming to pour out the last signs of nervous energy into 
starting the ignition of the big Oldsmobile. “Yes,” said Raymond, 
without making any eye contact with his lover. “Take me home... I'm 
tired.” 

Chapter 7 

“So, you really think you can trust him, do you?” “What do you mean?”
asked Vicky, combing the last knots out of Anechka's hair, after she 
had applied new make-up in all the right places, over much of the fresh 
varnish. “Richard isn't dead, he's as live as you or I am... or rather, 
he's as live as you are, anyway.” “I shouldn't even be talking to you,” 
answered Vicky. “And why is that?” “Because you don't know Raymond like 
I do. He'd do anything for me... he loves me.” “Time will tell how much 
he loves you. Time will tell,” repeated Ann, in Vicky's very vulnerable 
mind. But just a few short miles away from what Vicky called home - 
above the restaurant Mattatoio's - Raymond was hard at work dusting and 
neatening up his apartment, doing his best to maintain a sense of 
cleanliness for himself and his close friends. Opening one of the 
living room windows to let in fresh air added energy to his mood and 
after dusting the sill of the window, he gently laid the large serving 
platter his good friends inhabited upon it, hoping that they would 
enjoy the breeze and take in the excitement of the many moving cars and 
people passing below. The only thing wrong with his well meaning plan 
was that he barely noticed – very much in keeping with his nature – the 
inconvenient reality of what was happening outside, not very far from 
his window. “Hey Ray,” said Joe very pragmatically, he himself unaware 
of what was going on outside. “My beret's com'in loose again. Could'ya 
come over here an fix it?” “Why sure Joe,” replied Raymond, “anything 
for a friend.” But as luck would have it and on Raymond's short journey 
to the living room window, he tripped on his own shoe as he was at 
times, prone to do and as he was busy trying to keep himself from 
falling, he again blamed Joe and the others for leaving their shoes 
carelessly strewn around the room, when it fact, everyone knows that 
any decapitated head should never have to take the blame for wearing or 
leaving shoes around the house in the first place... a totally 
dysfunctional concept. But to make matters worse, as Raymond finally 
got to the window, he continued to stumble and instead of making the 
mild adjustment Joe had requested, he only succeeded in fully knocking 
him from his resting spot, causing him to tumble out of the window and 
spin rapidly out of control to the sidewalk beneath. This act of 
indiscretion may even have turned out okay, were it not for the 
policeman downstairs handing out parking tickets... a devoted public 
servant who couldn't help but notice the entire odd event. “Joe!” 
yelled Raymond from above. “Are you okay? Speak to me...” But Joe was 
speechless and Raymond's unusual lifestyle had – in all probability – 
come to its calamitous end. After all, people just don't entertain 
decapitated heads in hospital prisons... or do they? 


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