Holidays To Remember (standard:horror, 25120 words)
Author: Reid Laurence	Added: Jan 19 2010	Views/Reads: 3223/3764	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Why is it we can't all lean back and enjoy ourselves over the holidays? Sometimes, tension and bad memories just tend to overwhelm...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

in time, his wife began to wonder what the delay was, and came to the 
closed door of her husband's study. 

Neatly addressing her thick brown hair with her hands to lightly adjust
it back into position – not wanting to appear unkempt before the one 
she most adored – she gently knocked and calmly asked, “Honey, what's 
taking so long? That turkey needs to be turned and I can't do it by 
myself... It's well over a twenty pound bird. Aren't you going to help 
me?” 

But she didn't have to wait long for his reply, as he very purposely and
while seated behind his desk which faced the door to his study - 
reloaded the heavy weapon of war that'd been resting peacefully beside 
the now brilliantly sunlit window of his study. The lengthy 30-06 
shells fit precisely into their magazine, which were to detain them 
from supersonic flight only for a few moments longer, as he re-attached 
the five-shot magazine, pulled up and back on the bolt of the rifle and 
chambered one of the armor piercing rounds he'd imported back from one 
of the fiercest wars America had ever been involved in. These rounds 
were of adequate means and grains of gunpowder to propel themselves 
through concrete block walls if need be, but the obstacle before this 
ex-marine was only a mere solid core oak door, and was nowhere near a 
sufficient material barrier to withstand a projectile like the one 
intended. 

After the necessary time it took to reload this rifle had elapsed, it's
bearer finally replied, ”don't worry honey, help is on the way...” and 
one after another, fired those deadly reminders of the war - which he 
never could successfully eradicate from his mind - into and through the 
door of his study, until blisters and air-born fragments of hard wood 
had taken flight in such a way as to become strewn about the room into 
far reaching and remote corners one would never have imagined possible. 
But on the other side of the door, and as if struck down like a deer by 
the incapacitating bullets of a hunter whose incalculable wishes will 
never be fully understood, his once dedicated wife lay quickly fading, 
slowly bleeding out the life force and years of devotion and 
well-wishes she'd lovingly spent on a family, which before now, had 
only given her reason for joy and abundant admiration. 

As a conclusion to the last few shocking seconds of her lifetime on
earth, she had found herself in a seated position on the floor of the 
adjoining hallway, having been thrust backward and into the wall by the 
tremendous force of each bullet, violently knocking down all but one of 
the family portraits which hung there on the wall like memorials to her 
sacred vows, and the many self-sacrificing years of helping those in 
need before herself. And in witnessing this, her beloved and faithful 
pet Rusty came to her aid, licking the many entrance wounds which 
revealed themselves more and more, confused as to which one he should 
try to cleanse first in his attempt to help, and found instead that his 
well-meaning effort was very much in vain. 

Oddly, the one photo which remained in place, hanging on the wall by one
small nail only, was the one of the day the very same couple had been 
joined in Holy Matrimony. Captured in time in one frame of black and 
white film, shown drinking a toast to the good fortune and happy days 
that were to follow. Unfortunately, and at times, everything doesn't 
work out quite the way one might expect, or hope. 

Picking up the faint sound of a car in the distance, Rusty stopped what
he was doing and with ears perked upward, turned his head in the 
direction he thought it was coming from. Sure of what he was listening 
to, he began barking in alarm, doing his best to try to warn anyone who 
might approach of a real and present danger, knowing only that the lady 
who'd taken care of him for the last ten years was suddenly 
unresponsive... something he'd never before experienced, until now. But 
although he made as much noise as he could, the insulated walls of the 
farm house worked to his disadvantage, muffling his best efforts and 
deflecting his outcry in every direction, until the only sound that 
could be detected by the human ear upon driving up the long unpaved 
road to the home was all but a whisper of noise, or one that a person 
might only think they're hearing, as in an auditory hallucination, or 
trick of deception the human mind has played. 

Then, in this blaring silence, a young couple who were only just
recently wed began the last leg of their journey up the long driveway 
of the farmhouse, toward their final destination. With car tires 
pressing on over layers of newly fallen snow that had not yet begun to 
melt in the warming afternoon sun, finally coming to a predictable 
stop, halfway up the small gravel road and unable to proceed any 
further, having been blocked by a well placed car, appearing to them to 
have been left there by chance... 

“Do you hear that?” asked the young man who was driving, shortly after
turning the ignition of the car to its ‘off' position. Son to the 
father who's last shocking achievement just a few minutes prior had 
been the murder of his unsuspecting companion of the last twenty-five 
years. 

“Hear what?” questioned his pretty wife, who after meeting her proud,
handsome spouse at a university student protest - an opposition to the 
ongoing war in Vietnam - decided that he was the one she wanted to 
spend the rest of her adult life with and both went happily about 
believing that they'd made an equally good choice in selecting each 
other. “I don't hear a thing,” she added. “That's what I've always 
liked about this place. It's so quiet... it's almost like you're 
walking around a cemetery or something. Listen,” she said, pursuing the 
idea further. “You can almost hear the leaves fall.” 

But in this near state of deafness and false perception that no one was
around but them, the hunter had taken time to reload the same killing 
machine he'd just finished firing and now had fixed the eight-times 
magnification of his wartime, ‘John Unertl' rifle scope on these two 
innocent relatives who sat calmly talking, enjoying the peaceful 
serenity of the forty acre property. 

“Are you sure you don't hear that?” continued the young man, unsure of
the faint sound he thought he heard, but like his father before him, 
possessing a keen sense of awareness... a valuable wartime asset where 
the hunter may very well become the hunted, given the appropriate set 
of circumstances. “Maybe it's just in my head,” he went on to admit, as 
his own father trained the powerful sniper rifle on him. ‘One shot, one 
kill' had always been the sniper's motto and that was all, in the way 
of words, that circulated throughout the suffering, shooter's mind. 

“You just need a rest,” replied the new bride. “You've been working too
hard. Mom's turkey will fix you up. I'm starved,” she continued. 
“When's dinner?” 

“It's just that I never...” but even as he struggled with his hearing
and intuition, he was cut off in mid sentence by the armor piercing 
bullet that smashed through the windshield of the car like a finger 
through soft butter, entering just under the ridgeline of the left side 
of the jaw and exiting out from behind the head at the base of the 
skull. And in witnessing this shocking depiction of the transient 
nature of life, the young man's wife did not have time enough even to 
panic, as before she could, she was hit by a clone of the projectile 
that had just stolen the precious life of her beloved, and she too lay 
stricken by a sudden death, a syndrome which at present no one could 
have guessed was coming, and no one could have avoided. And in as much 
as the youthful driver was about to add that he'd never heard Rusty 
bark as much as he thought he'd just heard, he may very well have 
followed up with a list of the remainder of things he had never 
listened to, or done, or seen, or visited. Even the admission that the 
young couple had never had time to consummate their marriage, a fact 
which now will rest with them forever, and ever, ‘until death do them 
part, when God calls from on high, until death do them part, and it's 
time to say goodbye'. 

As the bodies of these two most unfortunate people tended to slump over
to one side or another by the very weight of their own heads, another 
car carrying three more unsuspecting relatives drove up the long gravel 
path, and came to a stop just behind the last. The girl driving was a 
daughter of the man who was at present, observing her through his 
telescopic rifle sight, who paused only to re-focus the sight and 
adjust his aim, making up for the greater distance of the shot he was 
about to make, since this next car was slightly further down the drive 
and required a little more time, effort and skill. Three matters which 
were not of great concern to the shooter, who possessed ample amounts 
of each, and so once again, he carefully and methodically carried out 
the task at hand, killing each and every occupant of the second car 
exactly as he had the first. 

When he was finally sure that everyone on the guest list had been
destroyed - as he had done similarly many years before in vanquishing 
the enemy – he calmly leaned his M1903-A4 rifle in position against the 
wall where it had been, lit a cigarette and walked toward the kitchen. 
Stepping over his wife's fallen body in the hallway as he went, he let 
the snarling family pet out the front door, as it appeared Rusty wanted 
nothing more to do with this, his master, who once had been a most 
trusted friend and caregiver. 

Running from the doorway, Rusty did not look back and was never seen
anywhere near the farm, ever again. But even as he ran, the smell of 
roast turkey permeated the air and became ever stronger; as the once 
brave warrior removed it from the oven, cut a drumstick from the large 
bird and sat down to reflect on his days work... which to him, was a 
mission accomplished. 

But in yet another part of our great nation, the holiday celebration had
only just begun... 

When the six foot one inch, powerfully built professional wrestler
arrived home, he was affectionately greeted at the door by his two, 
Bull Mastiff dogs. These dogs – named Romulus and Remus – would have 
grown to impressive proportions on their own, but were helped along in 
the first year of their lives by substantial amounts of anabolic 
steroids and growth hormones... a habit, it seems, they'd acquired from 
their master who found it difficult to tolerate any of those people or 
animals which appeared too small to bear effect on, or to compete in 
this world. ‘A man must fight' he thought, in agreement with the 
heavyweight prizefighter Gene Tunney, who penned a novel by the same 
title. 

In a world where the opportunity to not merely endure life, but to
outperform others - displaying oneself as a combatant - presented 
itself nearly every day and to him, and many others like him, being 
undersized meant too great a risk and endangerment that had to be 
avoided, or corrected, no matter the cost. Even when the cost proved to 
be more severe then any enemy either reality, or paranoia might 
conceive of, resulting in the loss of one's own health, balanced state 
of mind, or worse. 

“It's like tak'in vitamins,” he said to his wife one day, after dosing
himself and removing the thin hypodermic needle he used to administer 
the drug. Even more sizeable and deadly then one might have imagined, 
this paranoid ritual both involved and required the patient consent of 
his wife and cooperation of both of his dogs, who had not only grown to 
such amazing dimensions of their own genetic inclination, but 
obviously, also due to the unnatural effects of anabolic steroids which 
were administered to them as growing puppies in order to assist and 
enhance what nature had already provided, which was, according to their 
master, ‘just to keep ‘em from becom'in undersized mutts.' 

Then, when he'd finished inoculating the two massive animals against a
disease which existed only in his mind – the fear of being or appearing 
small – he turned his attention and the hypodermic needle he held in 
his hand to his wife and implored her, doing his sincere best to 
impress upon her the importance of taking her shots, which to him, had 
lately become doses of anxiety more then anything else. As the 
musculature of a human being - coaxed by modern drugs though it may be 
– will always be beset by inherent limitations. 

“You don't wanna be weak, do ya?” he asked of his wife, who began to
emotionally shrink at the sight of the still dripping needle, oozing 
with the drug that she'd suspected had lately been the source of her 
husbands irritability and odd behavior. “You build up your body and 
your mind follows,” he continued to explain. “You keep this up like we 
been do'in an there ain't no mountain we can't climb. You'll see... How 
do ya think I do what I do, an I always come out on top, huh? I always 
win... this is how... right here,” he went on to say, repeating himself 
to add emphasis. “Right here,” he maintained, raising the hypodermic 
before her, squeezing out a small quantity of its contents to assure 
himself and her of its presence, its qualities and its beneficial 
effects, but in so doing, had only succeeded in drawing more of her 
concern to the situation then he'd anticipated, causing her to take 
literal and figurative steps backward, barely avoiding the padded but 
stoic bench press behind her and in her path. The weight room in the 
four thousand square foot house the couple shared had always been as 
much a place to gather in as much as anyone's kitchen, but for this 
dynamic pair, even more so. 

“I can't do this any more,” his wife began to complain, very
nervously... feeling all of the uncomfortable effects that having to 
back up, in retreat of an approaching hypodermic needle had caused her 
to feel. 

“Why not? Are you tell'in me you don't wanna be a part a this team
anymore? Is that what you're telling me? After all the time an money I 
put into this? You know that when I get into that ring, you're there 
with me in every way. You back me up in this. It's all one big effort 
from both of us, not just from me. Lemme tell you something... either 
you're with me all the way,” he continued to explain, with a measure of 
irrationality and a dose of spontaneity. “Or you ain't with me at all. 
I need someone I can trust...” he was beginning to add, just as his 
massive but pretty wife had begun to trip and fall over the costly 
piece of exercise equipment that a combination of chance and bad luck 
had set in her path. A course of action and a turn of events she was 
not due to recover from at any time soon, or for that matter, at any 
time at all. 

In falling backward over the five foot long piece of exercise equipment
- which was only eighteen inches from the floor to the top of its 
padded surface – the wrestler's wife, manager and companion of the last 
ten years had unfortunately fallen, hitting her head on the unforgiving 
surface of the polished oak floor beneath her, knocking herself 
unconscious and rendering herself helpless. Although she was physically 
stronger than many other women and could have fought off a man just as 
well as many men may have, this was not to be the case, as she lay 
helpless and a victim before her still raging partner and husband... a 
man who'd been made a beast of his own volition and a monster by his 
own hand. 

Unresponsive to his touch or any further persistent litany of delusion,
the furious but surprised looking brawler placed a burly right hand to 
his wife's chin and shook her face slowly, back and forth like some 
great ape of the jungle may have done in questioning the status of a 
vanquished enemy, or nearer yet to the point, a fallen family member 
who no longer served a purpose to the clan. 

Then, having received no more response from his wife other then a few
involuntary muscle contractions or the body's continued control of the 
basic functions that keep it alive, a spontaneous idea flashed into 
this hulking man's mind that pleased him greatly and acting upon it, he 
walked to the machine he and his wife had used to do a type of ‘pull 
down' exercise which utilized a three sixteenths inch diameter steel 
cable suspended from a system of pulleys. 

Removing a horizontal bar from its attachment clip, he pulled down on
the steel cable, checking its tensile strength through the amazing 
force gathered in the application of both of his enormous upper limbs. 
Having satisfied himself thinking that the cable would be well suited 
for the task in mind, he let go of it, casually returned to where his 
wife lay still breathing but unconscious and grabbed her up in both of 
his large hands, easily lifting her one hundred ninety pound girth from 
the floor as if she were a child, or ballet dancer of some one hundred 
pounds lighter. And then, by hefting her torso about in his left arm, 
holding her in position like a dangling inanimate doll, he wrapped the 
loose end of the cable three times about her neck, made it taught and 
secure and let her drop suddenly and violently downward by the force of 
her own weight, breaking her neck between the cervical vertebrae C4 and 
C5, causing her heart and other internal organs to gradually shut down 
- once having lost their connection to the appropriate governing 
control centers of her brain. 

Satisfied for the moment with his handiwork, the wrestler did not look
back at his wife but suddenly recalled the dinner his devoted companion 
had been preparing - recalling it from the odors which permeated the 
large house - and made his way through the many twists and turns of 
hallways and stairs, taking him through changing points of interest 
around the carefully planned compound until he arrived at the kitchen 
and what had been waiting for him all through the outbreak of his 
strange and irrevocable outburst. 

Having arrived at his destination and joined by the two great beasts
Romulus and Remus, the wrestler - who was by now, able to add the newly 
acquired title of ‘murderer' to the list of credits to his name - bent 
neatly at the waist to open the oven door. There inside, rested the 
main course of the holiday feast his wife was preparing for them and as 
the two impressive but seemingly unaffected dogs, Romulus and Remus sat 
patiently watching from a nearby vantage point, this very unemotional 
and equally unaffected killer, removed the hot, roasted turkey from its 
position on the bottom oven rack, ripped a still steaming drumstick 
from the savory fowl and carried it to a seat at the massive wood 
kitchen table which occupied the opposite side of the great room. 
Concurrently, as he ate, he showed no concern at all for any of the 
growth hormones the bird had been so stuffed or engorged with in its 
brief and uneventful lifetime... not such a grand contradiction to his 
nature, or facetious contrast, but only an observation of a soulless 
man who so easily devoured anything in his path – both literally and 
figuratively and as any large predator in the world it inhabits would 
be expected to do... not very much different then the two huge 
carnivorous beasts who sat watching him. 

And it just so happens – by strange coincidence or possibly through
another controlling source - that on that very same holiday evening 
another couple sat in dark-hued discourse, around a modest but not very 
humble kitchen table, lamenting their spotted past together and 
regretting each other... even as the traditional and usually, fun 
filled holiday wore on... 

“Ain't that damn turkey done yet? I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse. Ya
know,” continued the noncompliant patriarch. “If you didn't spend so 
much time yack'in on that phone, we could'a been eat'in by now.” 

“I'm allowed to talk to my mother and sister if I want. Just because you
don't get along with them, doesn't mean I have to shut them out of my 
life too. Besides, you're no angel yourself.” And although there was 
truth in what his wife was saying, it was also true that she herself 
had a terrible mean streak, complete with a suddenly erupting temper 
which flared on occasion – not unlike her father's, who some would have 
said was the genetic origin and reason behind her fits of rage. But 
then again, one psychiatrist she grudgingly visited blamed ‘poor 
conditioning' in early childhood stages of development as the reason 
behind these fiery tantrums, along with the need to vent and act out 
what she'd witnessed growing up, having spent so many counterproductive 
years with an ex-marine father who's disciplinary actions were much too 
harsh for any child to bear. In all though, it would have been much 
better for her and for others around her, if she had learned to give 
outlet to this emerging and worsening temper in another way, or ways. 

“Don't start shit with me now. The crazies in your family aren't none a
my problem. I just don't want ‘em interfering in my life. You do what 
you want... all I ask is you don't drag me down too. Hell,” he began to 
say, in summary of a painful point he was about to elaborate on. “You 
go on with ‘em, that's fine by me, I don't care. You go right on 
talk'in to those nuts, even though they helped make you this way.” 

“What way?” she answered. “'What way' did they make me?” she reiterated.
Resting a rolling pin down on the kitchen table in an effort to shed 
any unnecessary item or detail that might be weighing her down or 
keeping her back in a literal and figurative sense, helping her to 
mentally focus more on the anger she felt welling up over years of 
verbal and sometimes physical abuse. 

“Why do we gotta go through this again? You know we been all over it.
Besides, it never did get us anywhere, did it?” 

“You brought it up,” she said in response, with a growing animosity. And
as she stood beside the kitchen table - arms folded - almost frozen in 
place, with a stare that matched the icy-cold of her body language, she 
subconsciously removed herself from any type of warmth or warm bond 
between herself and anyone else who had ever formed an impression on 
her psyche, either dead or alive. “I would like to know,” she continued 
to say, insisting that her husband – who firmly believed he was 
speaking through the experience of their unsuccessful and brief 
marriage – explain himself more. Mostly because the spontaneity of her 
mood compelled her not just to probe, but to wear out the issue, as it 
had always been an open wound. 

“Okay,” he started. “I'll tell you again then... as if you didn't know.
Yer damn father made you nuts. You told me so yourself. He beat hell 
outta you, didn't he? I mean, where are we going with this? He locked 
you in the bathroom, didn't he? I don't get it, what good is all this 
anyways? You ain't got any better since the last time we went over it, 
have you?” 

“I'm no more nuts than you are you bastard,” replied his wife, as her
slowly burning mood seemed to flourish from the small bit of flame it 
had been, to the rapid onset of pandemonium... as if an arsonist had 
deliberately thrown all caution and accelerant to the wind, and very 
much intentionally, in her path. “If you didn't have to remind me all 
the time of what a bad childhood I had,” she continued to counter, 
immersed in anger. “I might be able to put it behind me. But no... you 
have to dig up my past and stick my nose in it even when I work hard, 
trying to make you happy. What kind of a life is that? I feel like I'm 
living it all over again,” she ended saying, doing her best to defend 
the first awful twenty years of her life. 

“I don't give a shit anymore. You're never gonna get any better anyways.
Let's face it... yer a loon.” And almost in the same breath, he went on 
to add “...when's dinner ready, I'm starved?” 

And the turkey, which amounted to most of the holiday feast she'd
prepared, sat resting on a low temperature in the oven, but not all 
that she had lately planned would be served up that night, only some 
she thought, but it would be in proportion to and in accordance with 
her own present disposition... a sorry state of mind, and one she could 
not relinquish. So, without hesitation or threat, she said nothing but 
only bent at the waist in search of the nine inch diameter, heavy iron 
skillet she'd finished using and put away for the next time she'd need 
it. But to her, the time had arrived sooner then expected and she 
hefted it from its position in storage, looked briefly at it, turning 
it in her small right hand so that the bottom side faced the kitchen 
table and her quarrelsome husband and raised it mightily to the far 
side of her own body and with full arm extension - knowing well that 
this posture would offer up the most striking force she could possibly 
have delivered, and inflicted a devastating blow to the back of her 
husbands skull, causing it to rupture and crack as well as to thrust 
the upper half of his torso to the kitchen table with the sound of a 
heavy ‘thud'. 

“What do we do now, Sweetie?” she asked of her loving, tiny Chihuahua,
who'd scampered into the kitchen to find out what all the noise was 
about. But as the scent of freshly let blood mixed slowly with the odor 
of the holiday feast, Sweetie - who was one of the most calm and doting 
of his breed – merely sat and looked on at the lady who reciprocally 
adored him, but forgiving her as always for any transgression, however 
large or small. “I know,” she continued, as he cocked his head to the 
side, trying to figure out what she was saying by the tone of her voice 
and the familiarity of simply directed language. “Why don't we take a 
little vacation? We deserve one. Where would you like to go?” But after 
barely any time had elapsed, she excitedly remarked with a raised 
forefinger as if to further accentuate the idea... “I know where we'll 
go Sweetie, we'll go to Chihuahua! Isn't that funny! But first, tell 
mommy what you're favorite part of the turkey is, and don't be shy. 
C'mon,” she insisted, opening the oven door to remove the fifteen pound 
bird from its warming spot on the oven shelf. And even as the pool of 
blood grew larger, encompassing more area of the kitchen table, her 
mood was largely unaffected and in fact, it was as if a burden had been 
shed from her, or as if by some confabulation, she had finally gotten 
revenge over her father as her husband took his place in her mind, 
relieving for the time being, those terrible memories she'd carried 
with her since childhood. “Hmm,” she began to say aloud. “Where shall I 
put this? Oh fiddlesticks,” she remarked in mild annoyance. “I'll just 
rest it up here on top of the oven.” And having resolved this minor 
difficulty, she began to carve the steaming hot bird. But as she 
thought more about what piece of it that she and Sweetie might enjoy 
most of all, she at last based her final decision more on the fact that 
when her pet Chihuahua caught sight of the drumstick, he appeared to be 
most excited by it, then by any other part. And so it was decided – on 
Sweetie's behalf – that the two would eat the drumstick first. And for 
every bite she took, she pulled off a proportional amount for her 
dearest companion, and they shared and ate that evening until they had 
eaten their fill. 

When they were done with dinner, the lady of the house – having looked
once more upon the growing mess on the surface of the kitchen table, 
which was by now a pool of blood that covered its entire area – began 
to think more of how nice it would be to get away from it all. Not so 
much from the stress of daily life, as she had just come to terms with 
that, but more from the untidy conditions which now prevailed at home – 
a cleaning task of grand scale which far exceeded the amount of 
patience and time that she was willing to spend on any such activity. 
In other words, it was just too big a mess to deal with and so it 
appeared to her that the best thing to do was to leave. 

Walking nonchalantly to her front room closet, she opened its bi-fold
door and removed her favorite winter coat from its hanger. Its color 
was a dark brown which resembled many of the leaves that somehow manage 
to stay fixed to their branches through much of the cold winter season. 
She then reached for a number of scarves that she'd collected over the 
course of the few years she'd been married and selected the one she 
thought most appropriate... a pattern of leaves, embossed over a fine 
brown silk, large enough to fold and tie beneath her chin, which she 
promptly did. Her shoes, she believed, would be practical for the long 
walks she anticipated as they had only a short, stout heel and were 
made of a fine, comfortable leather which formed well over her small 
foot. But most importantly, the handbag she thought she ought to take 
would require size and practicality. It needed to be large enough to 
contain not only basic belongings, but Sweetie as well. And so her 
choice was made simpler by these requirements and she selected the only 
handbag in her collection which satisfied them – a large light tan 
leather bag, with a brass plated clasp that shut firmly closed upon 
demand, carried rather easily and conventionally, over the shoulder by 
its strap. 

Lastly, without any special coaxing, Sweetie jumped into the purse as it
lay open on the floor by his own free will. He was always up for a walk 
and this new adventure, which he sensed intuitively, only served to 
peak his curiosity that much more. And without further hesitation or 
second thoughts about what had happened or what might happen, this lady 
killer and her devoted pet, set out on a one way bus trip to Chihuahua, 
Mexico. A city she hoped would afford her the opportunity to continue 
to forget her past and help her to live for today, in the bright 
optimistic light of the pleasant Mexican sun. 

“‘Raymond Mort Born July 15th 1930 Died August 12th 1958 I told you I
was sick'. 

Hmm... young guy... must'a been a car accident or somethin'. Well,”
continued ‘Wild Bill' Benoy to himself. “Whatever. I got enough on my 
plate right here.” He continued to mumble aloud, as he lifted the heavy 
grey, gravestone into position with ease. This outta fool ‘em,” he 
thought to himself, as he stood up straight to study the results of his 
effort. Carved deeply into the lightweight concrete marker, the 
heavyweight wrestler read off the inscription he'd only just finished 
with the accompanying pride one may get from having accomplished some 
difficult task... 

‘William ‘Wild Bill' Benoy Born June 17th 1940 Died November 26th 1970
Excuse me if I don't get up' 

But nearly simultaneously and some two hundred yards from where Wild
Bill stood reading, wondering to himself, having second thoughts over 
whether or not people would believe he was really dead and buried at 
this spot - another man crouched and intently worked on another 
tombstone... 

“That should do,” remarked the focused and slender visitant, and then
prepared to read off the few lines he'd so painstakingly carved... 

‘Ari Schwartz Born June 10th 1925 Died November 26th 1970 I'd Rather Be
Sailing' 

“I sure hope the cops believe this,” he muttered. “At least... it should
buy me some time. No time for regrets now, eh,” he added, seeming to 
want to rationalize some of the events of his recent and long since 
buried, past. “I'm sorry kids,” he said aloud and momentarily stirred 
even his own warped mind and cold hearted determination. “But I know 
you're all better off where you are now. I saved you,” he continued to 
say, with eyes fixed to the ground, unaware of the passing of time, or 
of life for that matter. “...saved you,” he repeated. “I saved you from 
Satan, I know it. I saved your souls. May God watch over you now. My 
Jesus, mercy.” 

“Did you know him?” asked Bill, who posed the vague question while
standing some two feet behind the engraved stone marker – having 
approached with a stealth that belied his size - not really interested 
in who was buried beneath the gravestone, or what was inscribed to its 
surface. 

“W-what's that?” returned Ari, surprised to see anyone standing near
him. Very much absorbed in his own thoughts but as always, eternally 
lacking the ability to find any peace of mind, since the time he'd 
spent as a soldier, or at any time thereafter. “Oh,” he followed with, 
barely looking at the bulky figure of a man, who'd given rise to the 
question more just to start a conversation than anything else. “I 
didn't see you there.” 

“So... did ya know ‘im, or you just giving your respects?” 

“Yes, I knew him,” replied the ex-sniper and self-imposed expatriate.
“But he died and life goes on, just like people say. Do you believe 
that a man can change?” asked Ari, with a suddenness that swiftly 
redirected the path of their conversation. 

“That's a tough question bud,” replied Wild Bill, whose biggest concern
in the world was only to meet it head on, denying any necessity to 
conform to many of its rules, or at times, even to another persons best 
interests. “Why would you want to?” he maintained “...unless something 
bad happens. Somethin' that makes you feel like you gotta change, cause 
you don't got a choice.” Then, as suddenly as Ari had asked the 
question, Bill felt the strong impulse to prompt his own. “You ain't 
runn'in from the law, are you? I mean, I don't usually pry but, all 
this talk about change an everything – whaddaya gotta change for? The 
weather changes... you change your shoes, but people... people don't 
change.” 

“I suppose,” answered Ari, who was not very much convinced of Bill's
summary explanation, but if only to avoid any further disagreement, 
resolved to move on to other matters. “Anyway... I've got to go. It was 
nice meeting you Mr...” 

“Benoy,” replied Bill uneasily, out of character. But it made him more
then a little nervous to repeat his name, since to the rest of the 
world, he now wished himself to be considered dead and buried. Having 
not had much practice in the art of deception, he didn't quite know how 
to answer and felt coerced into telling the truth. “But hey...” he 
began, equally as agitated at the thought of what he was about to ask. 
“You can't give me a lift, can you?” 

“How did you get here?” asked Ari. “We're out in the middle of nowhere.
Look around,” he continued, trying to emphasize the point, probing for 
motives or answers as curiosity and concern for his own personal safety 
slowly rose to the surface of his thoughts. 

“I got here on a bus, most of the way, anyhow. But, so... if you don't
wanna, I guess...” 

“No,” returned Ari, with his hands on his hips in a gesture of command
over the ensuing situation - more then likely due to his war and life 
experiences. “Where you going?” he asked, simultaneously pointing the 
way to the dirt and gravel parking lot where he'd left his car. 

“Away... outta here... anywhere. Anywhere you're go'in.” 

“That's a little vague,” muttered Ari, feeling as though he may have
made a mistake by relenting and offering the brutish looking man a ride 
to no place in particular... a turn of events that would cause concern 
in many. But still, feeling he could do little else at the time, 
choosing not to retract the decision he'd first made, Ari led Bill 
Benoy to his car – a nineteen sixty-eight Oldsmobile station wagon... a 
vehicle of ample interior space, with room enough for even a large 
person like Bill to stretch out in and relax. A large space that once 
put in motion, helped to put Bill's physical body at ease. But as far 
as resting one's conscience is concerned, for Bill, no special or 
particular place was really needed... all it need not be, was prison. 

The sun had set in Chihuahua Mexico and Ari turned on the headlights to
his car as he drove past a bus stop on the outskirts of town. He was on 
his way back to his hotel to check out, thinking that the feeling of 
security might follow the geographic changes he intended to make. And 
in consideration of the horrific crime scene he'd created in the United 
States, this seemed the logical path to follow, even for one as 
irrational and unsound as Ari. 

But as daylight faded and without the aid of any guardrail or lighting
to the sides of the lonely desert highway they pursued, Ari unwittingly 
began to lose touch with those sensory perceptions – of sight and sound 
– that are involuntary, or autonomic. In their stead, drifted his 
subconscious and all the guilt within it, while one by one, fleeting 
visual memories of family members whose lives he had cut short, 
appeared to him in his mind's eye, becoming unwelcome ethereal images 
to the side of the road and in front of the car. 

Making matters worse and navigating the bleak road even more difficult
or hazardous, Ari's eyes began to swell with tears, blurring his vision 
further and adding danger to an otherwise brief road trip. So when a 
small shadow seemed to dash from one side of the road to the other, Ari 
did not really know if it was real or imagined and never thought to 
slow the four-thousand pound car to a safer, more manageable speed. 
Never realizing the real human being he wound up grazing, then 
striking, with the front left quarter panel of the unwieldy and heavy 
car. But the entire event lasted only seconds and its effects did not 
completely register in the very much disoriented and unfocused mind of 
the driver. 

“Shit!” shouted Bill, stirred from the tranquillizing effect of the dark
road and the passenger's position he occupied. “What the hell? You hit 
something... stop the car... pull over.” And whether it was curiosity 
that motivated Bill that evening or something else which compelled him, 
it hardly mattered, as the same person at the side of the road would 
have been laying there no matter what reason or emotion had stirred in 
him. And as the headlights of the big car did more then slightly 
illuminate the body, Bill had the opportunity to examine it... “I think 
she's dead,” he said, just loud enough for Ari to hear, which for Bill 
expressed a rare facet of sudden shyness to his unabashed personality - 
a personality which was for the most part; valueless; transparent, and 
of little moral substance. 

“Well... what do you want to do?” asked Ari, nervously straining for
words, still clutching the steering wheel of the car, wondering what to 
do next and thinking himself responsible for a murder that no one ever 
anticipated - not even himself, in his wildest, most obsessive rage. 
“What if we just leave her here? What if... what if we just pull the 
body into the desert for a ways? ...so at least no one'll see it from 
the road? Here,” Ari began to say, as he got out of the car to offer 
his help and oddly enough - in consideration of his impaired past - 
feeling that the blame for what had happened fell upon himself. 

“That's okay,” remarked Bill lightly. Feeling a sudden familiarity with
the situation, due in fact to his own empirical, or first-hand 
knowledge... having killed his own wife. “I can take it from here,” he 
said, easily plucking the lifeless body from where it had spun one full 
revolution and fallen on the asphalt. But on his way into the dark, 
uninhabited desert and only shortly after he'd taken his first few 
steps, he noticed something in the distance moving toward him. “There's 
a dog here,” he shouted back to Ari. “A tiny damn thing,” he remarked, 
with the kind of disdain for the frailty in life that only a man like 
Bill Benoy could aspire to. 

“Well here,” replied Ari, doing what he could to help share the burden
of the task, walking swiftly to arrive at the spot where Bill had last 
spoken from. “Let me help. Here boy... c'mere...” he called. And the 
small dog that had been hiding, watching from afar, decided to drop his 
guard long enough to meet this new friend, knowing instinctively that 
he would not survive the harsh conditions of the desert on his own. But 
as the dog jumped into Ari's waiting arms – and as Ari reacted as if he 
could be relied upon to provide and care for someone or something else 
other then himself, as he had done in the past - ‘Wild Bill' Benoy's 
attention became divided, as the woman he carried in his arms began to 
stir from what both men had believed was certain death... 

“Put me down you lug,” she said, very sharply and distinctly, and Bill
put her down on the desert floor, as if she were some newly discovered 
disease he thought he might be in danger of contracting, very much in 
tune with his self-involved character. And in straining to stand, doing 
her best to get her shaken legs to support her slight frame, she called 
to Sweetie, who struggled to free himself from Ari's arms. “What 
happened back there?” she then asked, justifiably so. “Sweetie started 
running, and the next thing I knew I was flat on my back. My side is 
killing me. I feel like I've been hit by a bus.” 

“I'm sorry,” replied Ari, as Bill looked on with disregard. “My eyes
were playing tricks on me. I couldn't tell for a minute what was real 
and what... what wasn't. I guess I shouldn't've been driving. I've been 
through quite an ordeal lately...” Ari began to awkwardly explain, 
rubbing his forehead with one free hand as he grasped Sweetie firmly in 
the other. But relating his ‘ordeal' was not something he wished to 
express just then, or at any other time, even though he actually 
believed that his actions were justified. 

“So you decided to run me over.” 

“No, it's not like that at all. I never meant to harm you... honestly.” 

“But you did,” she said, unable to shed her anger, which was not only a
lifelong resident of her disposition, but very nearly the sole 
component. 

“Don't we got somethin' better ta do?” Bill interjected, bored by the
entire incident. Having determined that neither the woman nor her pet 
would be of any benefit to him, Bill concluded that the two were only a 
nuisance and an obstacle between himself and the open road ahead. At 
least Ari, he thought, could drive the car, although somewhat 
precariously at times, as he'd just finished proving. 

“What are you in such a hurry for?” questioned Ari, wondering once again
if Bill had a motive to be running from the law, knowing that he 
himself had reason to keep moving. 

“You really wanna know?” asked Bill. Walking up to Ari in the dark, with
only the dim background illumination provided by the car's headlights 
to see by, Bill very deliberately intimidated him. Crowding Ari with 
his body, Bill succeeded in making him very uncomfortable, even though 
the two were roughly the same height and even though Ari had been 
witness to the some of the most terrible scenes of war – having himself 
been the cause of many, but compelled by the most patriotic of citizens 
who were grateful he was. Thus he had become as many had inadvertently 
become... a finger poised on a hair trigger. Though this operation was 
remotely achieved from thousands of miles away and by men of a more 
powerful or sophisticated presence then he. The same way wars have been 
fought for generations. 

“Yes... that's why I'm asking,” Ari said, though softly, as he did not
want to back down at a time in which he felt sensitive information 
might be gained, even though the two were standing nearly nose to nose, 
in a not so subtle struggle for domination. “What is your problem?” he 
went on to mutter, bravely prodding the much stronger, if not taller 
man. 

“I just got through burying myself back there old man. Is that what you
wanna know?” gibed Bill. Believing until then that he might be able to 
hide that fact from any and all other people, but events and those who 
play prominent roles in them, have had and forever will have, a way of 
coaxing the truth. 

“You mean...” began Ari cautiously and with an air of apprehension. “You
faked your own death? Then, that grave back there... it's empty?” 

“You got it. What about you?” returned Bill, very promptly and without
reserve. “What were you doin' back there, starin' at the ground like 
you lost something? Drop your watch? Lose the cross around yer neck? 
C'mon,” coerced Bill. Doing what he could to force the truth from Ari - 
as he had been persuaded only moments before - and by any provoking 
means he could think of. 

“I was born Jewish,” began Ari, very consciously shifting the
conversation as a result of his own religious fanaticism, and finding 
it easier – for the time being - to defend the more minor infraction... 
that of being born a Jew. Therefore, he would not have been wearing a 
crucifix. 

“So... what has that got ta do with anything? You lose the star around
yer neck? What's the difference? Tell me now, what were you doin' back 
there in the middle a nowhere? Give it up.” 

“You want to make me feel as though I've lost touch with God, but I
haven't,” insisted Ari, with a sudden air of pride and with all of the 
experience of having gone through a war, fighting alongside so many 
Christians he'd come into contact with, having adopted their ideals of 
Heaven and of Hell. “I had a good reason to do what I did. My 
family...they're safe now. They're in the hands of God. I don't have to 
worry about them now.” 

“Yeah, right,” quipped Bill, feeling no need to press the question any
further but instead, redirected it. “What about you princess?” he asked 
of the still dazed pedestrian they'd nearly killed. “What's yer story? 
What brings you out here? Just out for a stroll?” 

“The name is Bette Cook, and don't speak to me in that tone, I won't
have it.” 

“Sure,” returned Bill, as snidely as he could, crossing his
overdeveloped arms across his chest, doing the best he could to express 
his disrespect all the more. “Who'd you kill, or you just here visiting 
long lost family?” Feeling sure of his first guess, knowing well that 
Bette would not be wandering in the afternoon sun were it not for 
something having gone wrong, or in her case, having committed a violent 
breach of conduct... like the cold-blooded murder of her husband. 

“Mind your own business,” argued Bette in return, very naturally and
very easily. “And give me back my dog,” she replied, reaching out for 
Sweetie as the moon and stars of the night sky prevailed over dusk, 
like shining pinholes through a dark black curtain and as if something 
more powerful then they had purposely set a stage for them on which to 
act. But more telling or coincidental still of its influence over the 
three was the constellation of Orion - which loomed over Ari's head 
like the Sword of Damocles - and of the constellation Canis Major, the 
faithful dog that followed its master in an unrelenting, never-ending 
chase. “Are you deaf?” Bette went on to say. “Can't you hear me?” she 
continued. 

“Huh?” muttered Ari, fumbling for words, having retreated to a safer
place inside his mind after Bill's invasive questioning. But even as he 
realized that he'd been holding the dog all along and offered him back 
to his rightful owner, Sweetie was at the moment, not very much 
interested in reuniting, having found comfort in Ari's arms, but to 
what purpose or advantage, none could tell. Perhaps an obvious void in 
Ari's persona, filled instinctively by a companion for the hunt was 
what drew the dog closer, but the small pet did not realize all that 
this encompassed, only what came naturally to him and to Ari. 

“I was just on my way back to my hotel... it can't be much further, down
the road a bit. Can I give you a lift?” inquired Ari, thinking that 
since Bette appeared to be stranded, he might at least offer her a ride 
to somewhere. Anywhere, even sleeping in the car was better then a 
night on the desert floor. 

“That's one way to pay me back for hitting me I suppose,” she remarked
curtly, which suited her disposition and her lack of trust in men. But 
as Bette nimbly tucked Sweetie into her purse and grudgingly got into 
the back seat of the station wagon, the mood that prevailed amongst 
them all carried an uneasy or unsteady air about it, as neither of them 
had any idea of what the near future might bring. Even the mere thought 
of meeting people at this point made Ari apprehensive, but the idea of 
isolating himself or of becoming a hermit made him feel equally as 
strange, since he'd always lived in the company of others... an ironic 
twist to one who's idea of thoughtful help and support lie in the act 
of murder, unconventional as it may seem. 

Arriving at the hotel was no simple task since the sign was so sparsely
lit and could barely be seen against the dark night sky. In fact, it 
became an undertaking in which the three of them worked on together, 
with the help of Ari of course, who was the only one among them who'd 
been there before. 

The actual building – old and neglected – stood alongside a clear
running river and had once been a picturesque two story farmhouse, with 
more then enough room for its many family members. There was even an 
addition made by one household patriarch which doubled the size of the 
living quarters, making the house quite extraordinary. But time and 
overburdened soil, along with the overwhelming competition that larger 
and more modern, industrialized farming had brought with it eventually 
caused the small, family owned operation to close. But instead of 
completely disbanding the property, the idea to turn it into a motel 
and to try to continue to make it a profitable business had occurred to 
one of the family, and the few who stayed on to keep it running, 
tediously trudged on. Barely eking out a living, they made just enough 
to subsist on. 

Finding a parking space for the big car rendered only the most minor of
difficulties, since many acres of abandoned land surrounded the 
Spanish, Colonial style building and Ari left the car in a spot very 
close to the front door, easily accessible and impossible to forget. 
All that remained to do was for him to walk in and pay his tab, but 
chance and unexpected circumstance played deeply into the lives of the 
three, unbeknownst to them, or to others who were about to cross paths 
in time, destiny and space... 

“You pay the bill then,” declared a man who, although accompanied by no
other person, seemed very deeply involved in conversation. “You think 
you're so smart, you're the only one who matters... how about a little 
help then. Vicky and I are broke.” But as Ari, ‘Wild Bill' Benoy and 
Bette each looked on, closely observing the scene, not one had a clue 
as to who this hotel patron might be talking to. Moreover, the incident 
only grew in confusion as this slightly built, middle aged man walked 
down the stairs from the second floor on his way to the front desk, all 
along continuing his exchange - evidently with no one other then 
himself... “I don't have to take that from you Joe,” he added to the 
baffling discussion, which apparently, was baffling only to anyone else 
who might be watching. “Nobody's stopping you. You know where the door 
is, take it. You can leave anytime you want.” But only quiet ensued, 
until the attendant at the desk finally arrived and began to question 
the man – not over the state of his wellbeing or mental health – but of 
all that he really cared about... his substantial bill with the hotel. 
“Would you like to pay your bill señor?” asked the clerk, very 
inexpressively, but very much to the point. “Ahh, how much do we owe?” 
answered the odd guest, who replied with surprising promptness 
considering the disadvantage of his handicap – a very obvious and more 
then mild case of the psychosis, schizophrenia. “Let me see...” started 
the clerk, again very matter-of-factly. But as he began the task of 
totaling the balance of the bill, the guest let out a very loud reply 
to a question or statement that no one had even voiced. This of course 
caused a visible tension in the room, which was created and even 
increased in scale through no apparent means or origin, but even so, 
the clerk still acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 
“You owe for seven days,” he calmly explained. “But if you include 
today, that will come to a total of eight.” “Don't bother me now,” said 
the guest, but not however in reply to the desk clerk's candid 
disclosure. “Can't you see I'm in the middle of something?” he went on 
to announce, expressing himself to a companion who seemed to exist only 
in his mind. “Mr. Mort...” began the clerk, now exhibiting some of the 
annoyance that anyone by now would have thought long due. “Now what 
Joe?” “Señor, you know my name is not Joe and all I want to know is... 
do you want to pay your bill now, or later?” “I know your name isn't 
Joe, I wasn't talking to you. And call me Raymond would you. I told you 
remember? We don't need to use my last name... especially with all 
these people around,” continued the guest, in a voice so low that the 
clerk could barely understand, but loud enough unfortunately, to have 
been picked up by other, more inquisitive ears. “I'll pay you later, 
don't worry about it,” returned the very unusual character, and finally 
in appropriate response, or in a sensible, reasonable way one would 
expect. “Very well,” remarked the undaunted clerk, closing a book he 
used to record transactions - no worse off for having gone through such 
a strange discussion, having been through it many times before with the 
same guest - but feeling as though he'd sooner talk to himself than 
have to go through yet another conversation with Mr. Raymond Mort. A 
strangely ironic thought to the hotel employee, but nevertheless true. 
And while the clerk stood thinking to himself, wondering what we all 
must have wondered at such times. Things like...‘What am I doing here?' 
or even more poignantly... ‘Isn't there an easier way to make money?' 
Mr. Mort had finally, decided to leave. He was on his way out of the 
building, having followed a path he was long familiar with, and a door 
he quickly left through, knowing it would take him to the rear of the 
building and expansive courtyard beyond. It was at this moment Bill 
introduced himself, taking the opportunity to question the clerk as to 
what he'd just been witness to... a scene of questionable social 
conformity to say the least, even to the likes of Bill. “What the hell 
was that?” was Bill's first reaction, as he leaned the weight of his 
large frame against the four foot tall desk, compressing the surface of 
the counter and causing a noticeable ‘squeaking' sound as the wood 
fibers inside stressed and struggled to maintain their shape under 
load. Bill himself struggled also, against the sudden urge to express 
emotion, even though he was for the most part, so unemotional. “What?” 
answered the clerk mildly, having taken for granted that most of the 
Americans he met in this far off, secluded location were just a little 
bit off balance to begin with. Otherwise, he believed, why would he be 
meeting people like Raymond Mort. “That guy who was just here talking 
to himself, what else? Man, what a weirdo... what'd he say his name was 
anyway? Something Mort... I remember that name from somewhere... I 
can't exactly remember where though.” “Oh, him... he makes a big deal 
for nothing,” replied the hotel clerk. “He wants me to keep his name a 
big secret... like people are supposed to care. He's nuts. He is one of 
the looniest guests we have ever had; take my word for it señor.” But 
before Bill had much time to get to the problem on his mind - which for 
the moment had eluded him - another equally as extraordinary a person 
had descended from the same stairway, but this person was indeed, a 
very different story. This person appeared to be as much of a living 
dream, as the last had been a waking nightmare. Her beautiful features 
and the fluid, syncopated motion of her body and stride captivated 
everyone who watched her. Most of the people who met her did not have 
time even to feel emotions like jealousy, as astonishment and wonder 
caused much darker passions to remain submerged until at least, she had 
left the room – and whenever she did, a vacancy or void persisted in 
her absence. But beyond the depth of aura and pronounced beauty about 
her, one had to wonder what someone like her was doing so far off the 
beaten path of nightlife and social verve. In fact - or as it appeared 
on the surface of things to the three newly arrived guests - this 
isolated, out of the way spot was entirely unsuitable for a person of 
her ‘attributes', but just what that consisted of, or amounted to, 
neither one among them could explain. Only that from one superficial 
meeting, one might be compelled to believe that there was much more to 
her then could be easily explained away. Or that there was indeed, more 
to her then meets the eye. And what added all the more to her mystique, 
was the fact that she disappeared just as she had appeared... as a 
magnetic force, pulling her tenaciously and devotedly behind Raymond 
Mort, bound to him by such an invisible, but ever so noticeable, field 
of emotion and unquenchable sensation. “What the hell was that?” asked 
Wild Bill intuitively, repeating himself and in a similar rhetoric as 
before, when it appeared to him that Raymond Mort might be the 
strangest man he'd ever met. “What?” replied the clerk, in very much 
the same manner as he had the first time Bill had asked and just as 
unpretentiously. “You know... don't play dumb on me. That girl who just 
left... who'd you think?” “She's here all the time. That is Mr. Mort's 
wife. I can't tell you any more personal things señor. We have rules 
here at the hotel.” “She's damn pretty,” returned Bill. Losing himself 
in the moments of time he reflected on the woman who'd just passed 
through the lobby, leaning more of his weight into the surface of the 
hotel desk top, inadvertently causing it to groan under additional 
vertical load. “What's she do'in with a loser like that Mort guy? What 
could she possibly see in a runt like that?” “I could not say,” 
remarked the clerk indifferently and suitably to his nature. “That is 
something you would have to ask either Señor Mort or his lady friend.” 
“Sure bud... I can read between the lines. What's her name anyway? You 
can tell me that much can'tcha?” “Vicky... that is all I can say. The 
rest... is up to her.” “You got my curiosity go'in now pal. Whadda you 
mean by ‘the rest'? What's to tell?” But before Bill could attempt to 
question the clerk further - who was bound by moral code not to reveal 
personal details about hotel patrons - Ari interrupted, bringing to a 
close a conversation that was destined to end unresolved, even if it 
had been prolonged. “I'd just like to check out,” he said, stepping up 
to the desk very self-consciously, and as if he had much on his mind 
that he did not wish to share – obvious matters that were better left 
unspoken...actions not beyond reproach. But Bill was tired and although 
he did not feel the burden of conscience that Ari felt, he still needed 
a place to rest for the night and maintained that there was nothing 
wrong with staying over right where they were, especially if it meant 
that he might get to meet Vicky – a person who had immediately 
intrigued him, even in the absence of any words and besides, he'd grown 
fond of the hotel in the short time he'd been there. Even it's name 
seemed to suit him very well... ‘The Holiday Haven'. “Hold on a minute 
there Ari,” began Bill. “I could really use a break. I'm not into 
sleeping in the car. Why don't we just stay where we are for awhile? 
What about you Bette?” he asked abruptly of the lady friend they'd made 
through no casual means. A means which may well have been fatal had 
Ari's timing been slightly different. “Let's stay,” suggested Bette. 
“Why not? This place is as good as any, isn't it?” “Alright then,” 
conceded Ari. Since giving in to the preferences of others was 
something he was not altogether unfamiliar with, having been a family 
man for many years. But that night as the three rested – Ari and Bill 
in a room to themselves with two double beds and Bette next-door with 
her beloved Sweetie, who immediately began to burrow under the 
blankets, settling in for the long night ahead – Bill did not have long 
to wait before his curiosity had overtaken him, causing him to lie 
awake, wrestling for a change with his own thoughts instead of some 
other physical paradigm of recklessness. ‘Where have I heard that 
name,' he wondered to himself. ‘Raymond Mort... I know I've seen it 
somewhere... on something.' And then it occurred to him that before 
he'd met Ari that day, he'd been reading the words on another tombstone 
in the cemetery. And as he lay in bed in the dark with his hands folded 
neatly behind his head, the epitaph Raymond had written for himself 
suddenly came back to him, just as if he were standing there in the 
bright afternoon Mexican sun, shading the gravestone in the massive 
dark shadow of his own silhouette... ‘I told you I was sick' it read, 
and by this sudden epiphany, he knew - more or less - who he'd met that 
day. 

The bar where Raymond sat sketching had gotten a head start on their
Christmas decorations that season. Brightly colored red Poinsettia and 
purple flowering Christmas Cactus stood atop the bar itself in pots, 
while paper designs of different patterns hung suspended from the 
ceiling along with the ever-familiar piñata – awaiting the strike of 
some reveler's stick due in appropriate time. But in Raymond's mind, 
the piñata seemed more like some poor sacrificial beast waiting for the 
slaughter, then just a candy showering toy – understandable in 
consideration of his abusive father who beat him like that sacrificial 
beast and never expected anything good to pour out of Raymond, unless 
the contents of his soul might be counted amongst items that were once 
good and pure but had since fallen to the floor in a heap. But like the 
candy once devoured, Raymond's soul was unrecoverable and he filled 
this vacuum of space inside with the pleasure of his lady's company and 
the artistic talents he displayed whenever possible – for the pleasure 
of exploring and exposing those skills and for the money they sometimes 
brought. “Señor,” remarked the Mexican citizen of Raymond's artistic 
focus - sitting as still as he could, as Raymond strained to block out 
the static in his mind and the real musical notes emanating from a band 
that seemed to play endlessly. “Have you ever thought about the 
future?” “You've got to hold still,” replied Raymond, trying to capture 
the embodiment of the man as his outward features might represent or 
conversely, as the persona might articulate the real and present man. 
Even though Raymond did not know him for more then a few minutes, he 
had an uncanny way of comprehending people at will and could usually 
explain away their identity in a few careful brushstrokes, or in this 
case, a few accurately placed lines and arcs of a flat tip, artists 
pencil. “Why?” answered Raymond, building a caricature but 
nevertheless, a precise and professional image of his customer. “Things 
always seem to work out okay. Why should I worry?” “Oh, I do not mean 
necessarily worry,” explained the stranger, fussing gently with the 
cowhide drawstring of his southwestern style hat. “I just mean... well, 
everything changes...” “Yes,” interrupted Raymond, anxiously trying to 
understand the point his client was trying to make, while he guided his 
pencil vicariously through passages of time throughout the man's face. 
“So... so things change, so what? Things have to change otherwise, we'd 
all be even more bored then we are.” “Yes but, some of these changes, 
they are not so good – you see?” replied the man, as if by some 
prophetic means, he could see Raymond's near future. But before the 
artist had time to give much more thought or consideration to whatever 
fortune or misfortune might be waiting for him, the lights in the bar 
room dimmed and the band stopped for a few moments as Raymond's 
girlfriend Vicky stepped up to the fore of the band and began to softly 
sing ‘South Of The Border' – a song made famous by Patsy Cline... 

‘South of the border, down Mexico way That's where they fell in love
When stars above Came out to play And now as they wander, their 
thoughts ever stray South of the border, down Mexico way...' 

An appropriate song thought Raymond, as he handed the man his completed
caricature and gladly accepted the twelve pesos he was given in return. 
But that was not all that the man had to furnish Raymond, as he dropped 
the coins into Raymond's outstretched hand and began again to offer him 
advice. “My friend,” he said. “You draw very well. You seem to know me 
yet we have never met before this.” He then paused briefly, lit a 
cigarette and took a deep drag from it. Continuing to speak, as the 
smoke he exhaled rose in the air and dissipated, adding to the hazy 
cloud that already permeated the room. “That lady who sings... you know 
her?” “Yes, I know her. She's my girlfriend. Why?” “She is very 
pretty,” he began to say, stretching his vocabulary to find the right 
words in English sequence to explain his thoughts in the proper order. 
“But... there is something about her. A thing I cannot explain,” he 
continued to say. “What do you mean?” inquired Raymond, as anyone else 
in a similar situation would have. But in a way or ways, Raymond's 
situation was so unordinary, an accurate comparison or analogy between 
others would be too difficult to draw. “She has a way about her. This I 
can tell,” he added, unable to restrain his thoughts, trying to let 
Raymond know them in a way that might lighten their impact. “But at the 
same time... she has a strength... an attribute of... how can I say, of 
a very tough girl. But don't get me wrong. I can tell you love her 
much. I think just, she could be difficult, no?” “She has her moments I 
suppose,” returned Raymond, in his usual casual manner. “But all women 
do, don't they?” he added. Having had no other intimate relationship 
before Vicky that may have helped him to arrive at a more accurate 
conclusion, and so all Raymond could really do was answer a question 
with a question and follow up with...”Everyone disagrees sometimes.” 
“Yes, that is true amigo. But this one is so pretty, a flower like no 
other... all I am saying is, you should watch her.” And as the man got 
up to take a seat at the bar, Raymond found himself heeding his advice 
and sat back in his chair in time to watch his girlfriend finish her 
song, only to begin another and yet another, which for the moment 
calmed him and reassured him that whatever might happen, she was for 
the present, out of harm's way and doing what she was meant to do. A 
satisfying conclusion and much more then the conjecture a stranger 
might have to offer. 

When the night came to a close, Raymond and Vicky – who had taken up
residence at the Holiday Haven for the past few years – counted up what 
Raymond had earned for the night and together, with what they'd saved, 
believed they could now catch up on their hotel bill. Since the two had 
run out of money some years before, living expenses became harder to 
cope with and the good-life they were living became a thing of the past 
– a recent past the two had trouble forgetting, which gave them both a 
feeling of longing and discontent that they could never have foreseen, 
or believed possible. Especially since they'd gone through a small 
fortune that Raymond had accumulated by stealing some of the most 
prized art work the Chicago Art Museum had in its collection. A 
benefit, Raymond perceived when an artist as gifted as he has the 
ability to create fine replicas and replace them nearly at will with 
their original counterparts. An asset to an artist hired as a security 
guard, duly trained to watch over the things he most adores in this 
world – besides Vicky that is, the one person in this world Raymond 
found himself loving, and trusting with all or anything secret. 
Arriving at the hotel in the very early hours of the next morning, 
Raymond unlocked the door and the loving couple walked into their 
modest room as they had many times before. Surrounded by artwork of 
unimaginable merit, talent and value the two casually did what they 
always did at this time and flopped immediately into the comfortable 
queen size bed, without regard to the genuine fortune which surrounded 
them, hanging on their walls. The paintings Raymond had taken – with 
the help and gentle prodding of others – and would have sold, were it 
not for a scheming art dealer whose cash box Raymond took instead, 
thereby dispensing with anymore complicated transaction and ending in 
murder – a crime Raymond did not plan on, but felt compelled to commit 
after believing himself cheated. A crime which turned out in his favor 
if one were to simply add assets to cash, as Raymond fled the scene 
after scattering the body parts around Paris and came back to Chicago, 
Illinois a rich man. Although his mental illness was impairing, it did 
not keep him from practicing another of his talents – murder... but in 
specific, decapitation and dismemberment. And the trophies of these 
awful conquests remained with him, as he cherished keeping their heads 
with him always. While other assorted body parts were just plain good 
eating, as pieces of them became the embodiment or summation of himself 
- and in conclusion, in his mind, he'd become a much less lonely man... 
as strange as that may seem. But from a biological standpoint, Raymond 
was living life by literally taking it in, as a single celled Amoeba 
might surround and engulf its world, so did he. “You really should move 
the Cézanne over a bit. It needs to be closer to the Haystack 
painting... that Monet thing. Both of them look so lonely apart like 
that. I don't want there to ever be a space between us like that. I 
don't ever want to be lonely again. People die of loneliness Raymond. 
It's a serious thing.” But the voices of Raymond's deceased and 
everlasting friends were talking to him at the same time as Vicky and 
whenever that happened, Raymond had to intervene. It was then and at 
other similar times that he would grant a type of priority, otherwise, 
Vicky would get irritated and lose patience with him – as was 
unfortunately, many times the case. It did not however, daunt her love 
for him... “So... what are you wait'in for, an invitation?” asked Joe, 
who was one such friend of Raymond's. An acquaintance who'd made it to 
Raymond's good side but furthermore, to his dinner plate. “Ain'tcha 
gonna do the nasty?” “Ease up,” argued Guy. Another good friend who had 
many years prior, gone from the recesses of Raymond's refrigerator to 
the depths of a vigorous, but ailing imagination inside Raymond's 
incomprehensible mind. But besides having literally been served, one 
could never accuse Guy of being self-serving – in life, or thereafter - 
having helped Raymond in many a time of need. “They'll get there when 
they get there,” he said, always acting on behalf of his friend. “Let 
me be. I'm tired... It's been a long night,” replied Raymond aloud, to 
people Vicky could never see and had never met, but remarkably got to 
know despite the ambiguity of their presence. “Are they bugging you 
again? Are you too tired to do it?” she questioned, still feeling up 
from the high of performing in front of a small crowd of faithful 
followers. “I don't think so,” he answered, never having tired of her 
through the years of their relationship. “...but I thought you were 
having problems,” he added, wondering how the estrogen she had to take 
would affect her ability to function. But the remnants of her original 
sexual gender were not much affected on that early morning, as Raymond 
realized when he reached out with an exploratory touch, and surveyed 
the masculine bottom half of her physique. When Raymond and Vicky first 
met in Chicago, he was unaware of her true gender identity, as it would 
appear to most people – if not all – that Vicky was female and the 
barrier between sexes that she'd crossed remained as soft and pliant as 
the delicate skin and features of her body and face would imply. And in 
the course of their initial meeting, the discovery he'd first made of 
her was not considered a setback, as the idea of intimacy with a 
conventional woman did not stir him much to begin with – in fact, it 
scared him. And so the early morning hours progressed on into the day 
and slowly became the preface of early afternoon, but as it arrived, 
only found Raymond and Vicky fast asleep, content in each other's arms. 
And like any other long enduring, successfully matched pair of lovers 
might find themselves - naturally bound together - as the gears of some 
larger mechanical system in the greater scheme of things that we might 
call part of life, and its detailed social inner mechanisms. 

When the aroma of scrambled eggs and bacon wafted upward to the second
floor rooms, Sweetie could hardly contain himself. It wasn't long after 
waking that Bette found him crying like a baby, scratching at their 
door, doing his best to get her attention. But at first, she couldn't 
tell if he just plain had to relieve himself, or was signaling some 
other type of distress to her. Just one of the typical problems one 
faced as a pet owner, or one of the typical problems one faced as a dog 
– depending on one's point of view. At breakfast that morning and as 
Raymond and Vicky lay asleep recovering from a particularly active 
evening, the dining room below was already alive and hectic with the 
small throng of guests which stayed or boarded in the second floor 
suites above. Among the guests - whose outward appearances suggested a 
small microcosm of any bustling city - a single common thread ran with 
consistency through most, but upon any first observation, one would 
never have known. This obscure thread was characteristic because most 
had committed some type of crime and the only thing which really made 
each individual patron stand out was the fact that each of their crimes 
was different. In fact, very few of the hotel guests which stayed on at 
the Holiday Haven felt freedom from guilt, and usually the ones who did 
were too mentally ill to acknowledge any. Perhaps though they were the 
more fortunate, as the actions of their past did not weigh upon them. 
One such guest was Emmett Dalton who had become renown for his 
achievements in banking and finance, but as investors began to seek him 
out all the more – trusting in his ability to help them make their 
money grow – the temptation of scamming and deceiving overcame any 
initial good intension he may have had, and soon he found himself 
entangled in a web of lies he could not free himself of. At least, not 
without giving himself up to the Federal Bureau of Investigation... 
which did not appear to him to be the more attractive choice. And so, 
the lure of Mexico called to him, as for the time being the view from 
his window did not include the obstruction of steel bars - a matter 
which understandably concerned him. Also in attendance, spooning out 
perfectly scrambled eggs from a heated tray as she deliberated over 
what else to eat that morning, was ‘The Angel of Death', Kristen 
Gilbert. A nurse by profession, Kristen liked to murder hospital 
patients in their beds with lethal doses of a stimulant that mimicked 
heart attacks. ‘All in a days work', she thought at those times, as 
patients slipped away one by one under her watchful eye and careful 
hypodermic. But Kristen was also smart enough to know when others were 
beginning to catch on to her successive crimes of brutal, but mute 
violence. And Mexico began to look more and more like the prolonged 
vacation she'd needed after so much hard work. After all, where else 
could one relax and forget all the job related pressures of homicide, 
so comfortably close to home, and so conveniently far away. So as Ari, 
Bette and Bill sat down at the long, dinning room table about to take 
full advantage of the buffet style banquette, they could not have known 
exactly who they were sharing breakfast with, or who among them was the 
most bizarre and psychopathic. In fact, given the attributes of many of 
them and if it were some sort of bizarre contest to have to choose 
among them, the number of first place awards given out would've 
staggered the minds of any spectators, except of course the recipients 
of these, who knew full well what they had accomplished. And no one had 
more pride in his accomplishments then Fred ‘Killer' Burke, who had 
seen his chance one evening to sever the ‘long arm of the law' and took 
it... methodically gunning down four officers in the prime of their 
lives as they sat talking, sipping coffee, waiting for their shift to 
begin. It was he who sat down opposite Ari and carefully watched every 
move he made for no real reason other then the need he felt to dominate 
his immediate surroundings, affording himself the luxury of dropping 
his guard just long enough to eat before resuming his demented hold on 
others. Though the malady of paranoia was the least of Burke's 
problems, but the most dangerous of all to others, as anyone he 
believed might turn him in to the police was as good as gone to this 
world and would never be seen again – albeit in pieces. Then abruptly 
and without warning, the sinister looking Burke - whose mustache 
resembled the same trim band of facial hair characteristic to Adolph 
Hitler – suddenly dropped his fork into his dish. And as if he'd taken 
a bite of something distasteful, cast a downward look of contempt at 
Ari, giving the impression that all of his patience had run out in that 
one brief instance. “Where you from?” he grumbled, in a manner which 
made him sound as if he were voicing some complaint. “Why... America,” 
replied Ari. “That's my home. That's where I'm from.” “You got no home. 
You people don't have a country,” blurted Burke, looking proud of 
himself and feeling relieved at having held in his remark as long as he 
had and then finally, letting it out in one scornful outburst. “You 
have no right to say that,” returned Ari, like a slowly steaming kettle 
about to boil over. During the war he'd encountered a steady flow of 
anti-Semitism from his fellow soldiers, which tended to suppress what 
might have been a more extroverted personality had he been less 
ostracized. And the aftermath or the irrational crimes he committed may 
have been averted were it not for the undue abuse he'd suffered. Like a 
swimmer, with added weight to carry through an already difficult 
ordeal, he floundered and gasped for air through life's events, but 
there was no one around to pull him from the water. No one who would 
listen... so what was the point in talking about what could be 
perceived as weakness. ‘Deal with it,' he thought to himself, many 
times and on many occasions, but on this occasion, he felt differently. 
He had risked his life too many times and had risked also being taken 
prisoner by the Nazi's and all too well understood how he would be 
treated as an enemy soldier, a sniper and a Jew. “I don't have to take 
that from you,” said Ari, rising from his chair like a swiftly growing 
tree, birthed from this commonly shared ground and no different from 
anyone else. Emerging from his quiet before a man who - unbeknownst to 
Ari and the others - kept two fully loaded Thomson sub-machine guns 
under his bed, along with a bullet proof vest and thousands of rounds 
of ammunition. Enough fire power to have killed off an entire village 
of people. “I served this country. I served this country,” he 
reiterated, making his angst all the more clear, but all the more 
earnest as well. “All so that people like you could stay free and out 
of harm's way. And what thanks did I get, while I helped keep you safe 
from that monster... Hitler? Don't tell me I don't have a country.” But 
before the villainous Fred ‘Killer' Burke had time to reply and as 
Sweetie stood upright, scratching Ari's leg for attention, Bill who'd 
been watching, wisely interrupted the two before their clash could 
escalate further. Odd for one like Wild Bill, who usually found himself 
at the epicenter of such a scene, not at its fringes. “Hey you two,” 
shouted Bill without an inkling of timidity to his voice, but then 
there rarely was. “Don't wreck my breakfast or I'll have'ta come over 
there an teach you boys a lesson.” A suitable retort from a man who not 
only stood taller then most, but could also bend a steel reinforcing 
bar like a child playing with a straw. But the thing that most 
influenced Ari was not the pending dispute between himself and Bill, 
but more so, the innocent needs and instincts of Sweetie, who tugged 
repeatedly at the cuff of his trousers and who in his own way added 
civility at a most critical time, when other more malevolent energies 
would dictate otherwise. So Ari sat down slowly in his chair, 
unappreciative of the feeling of retreat which came over him like a 
cloud of embarrassment – a feeling that he rarely gave in to, but in 
consideration of the many bad scenarios which could possibly have 
played out – he was the wiser for having sat down... for at least he 
was still alive. And upon stubbornly realizing this, he bent at the 
waist, picked Sweetie up off the floor and gave him what he'd been 
asking for all the while, which was a portion of bacon and eggs all for 
himself... a suitable reward for one so small, but also so wise. “Be 
careful with him,” was all Bette had to say throughout the entire bit 
of drama. “We don't want him to fall off your lap. He might get hurt 
and where in the hell would I find a doctor out here in the middle of 
nowhere? Anything could happen in a place like this,” she added, 
staring boldly into Killer Burke's expressionless face and deadpan 
eyes. “It scares me to think about it,” she muttered deceptively, icy 
cold in her gaze, looking away only momentarily to finish what remained 
of her breakfast... some scant pieces of bacon which appeared isolated 
from each other on her plate, but were brought together, swept up by 
her with a small wedge of toast in a sudden, angry flourish... hungrily 
devouring them like the wolf in sheep's clothing which she was, and 
could barely hide much longer. 

“You gonna sleep all day?” asked Raymond, as the hot afternoon sun's
rays strained to penetrate the window shades of the room, heating them 
generously even though most of North America had ushered in the month 
of December with robust, freezing temperatures. “I need my beauty 
sleep,” responded Vicky facetiously, but then, anyone could see that 
she did not require sleep or rest to restore any God given or genetic 
qualities that were already so natural to her. The only disconcerting 
factor was that she had not begun life as a consummate female and the 
threshold of birth remained ambiguous to her, but to Raymond, that was 
not a matter of contention or concern. He had fallen in love with her 
for who she was, not with, or for who she was supposed to be. 
“Raymond,” she continued to say, questioning only the décor of the room 
- never Raymond's devotion and admiration of her beauty and talent. 
“Don't you think it's time to change the paintings around? These things 
have been here for months on end.” “If that's what you want, sure. I'll 
just put on some pants and bring a few up from the car,” said Raymond, 
acknowledging Vicky's request to make simple changes to their wall 
hanging arrangement. But although the activity of making those changes 
may have been simple, the works of art he used to accomplish the task 
was far from it, as Raymond's collection consisted of some of the best 
examples of Impressionism the late nineteenth century had to offer - 
along with a number of his own copies, which only an expert with a keen 
and practiced eye could detect from their counterparts. “I still think 
about the good old days sometimes,” he remarked on his way out the 
door, as the light of the noonday sun forcing its way through tiny 
slits between blinds highlighted the silhouette of Vicky's body to a 
work of fine art in itself. “You know... back when I was a guard at the 
museum... about the time we met.” “Just get the stuff Raymond, c'mon. 
If you hurry, we can take a swim in the river. And don't bring up those 
crummy heads,” remarked Vicky, speaking bluntly, trying to avoid 
another quiet outburst of sentimental memories in Raymond... compounded 
and worsened every time he looked at the heads of his ‘friends' which 
he kept in the trunk of his car. “Don't worry,” was all he said as the 
door closed behind him, but a voice of one of his buddies remarked 
otherwise... “Why can't we all be tagether?” asked Joe innocently - a 
long time advisor and confidant. “I don't see why I can't come upstairs 
an be with you guys like it used ta be... remember? Besides, it's 
stuffy in that damn trunk. Tell her, she outta try liv'in in it 
sometime... let's see how she likes it.” “Don't be mean to Vicky,” 
replied Raymond aloud on his way downstairs. “I won't have it.” “Oh 
yeah,” quipped Joe out of anger and frustration at being cooped up in 
such close quarters. “What're you gonna do about it? One chance at life 
is all any of us got, an now a'hm stuck do'in time in a dark, lonely 
trunk. How much worse can it get? Aint'cha gonna even say you're 
sorry?” “You've got Guy to talk to, don't you?” returned Raymond, as he 
fished around in his pant's pocket for the key to the car's trunk. “I 
thought you two got along?” he added, popping open the heavy trunk lid 
which immediately exposed the interior space and caused it to 
illuminate with the bright light of the afternoon sun. “Are you kidd'in 
me?” asked Joe poignantly. “He's the most detached person I've ever 
known.” “What about Lorin an Dan? You can't tell me they don't talk to 
you.” “It's like talk'in ta the dead. You try it. They don't listen to 
me like they do you. It's like...” but Joe only hesitated to speak, 
searching for the right words to describe his predicament, as Raymond 
sifted through the works of priceless art he kept neatly arranged in 
the trunk. “Like what?” asked Raymond, knowing full well that they were 
having a conversation in the very presence of Guy, Lorin and Dan, who 
were all good friends of Raymond, but did not always take part or share 
in what he believed to be were his own good intensions. Nevertheless, 
the severed heads in Raymond's trunk were but clay representations of 
the real ones he used to spend his time with – enjoying them as his 
close companions before the police confiscated them as crucial evidence 
of his so-called irregular and bizarre behavior. But years spent in 
psychiatric prison did little to cure him of his need to communicate 
and get along with his pals, and Mexico seemed as good a place as any 
for him to continue on in the manner to which he'd become accustom... 
but of course to Raymond, he was only being himself, which is really 
all the crime any of us happen to be guilty of, isn't it? “It's like 
they think they're too good for me, that's what.” “That's not true,” 
interjected Dan, who in Raymond's mind had been listening to the 
discussion all along. And as Raymond leaned his selections of artwork 
against the rear bumper of his car, he also propped up the perfectly 
crafted sculpture of his buddy inside the trunk space, as if he were 
giving Dan the courtesy of a special podium. “But I will say one 
thing,” said Dan, continuing on in the same vein. “He's right about the 
trunk. We're all pretty tired of living in it. Can't you talk Vicky 
into letting us upstairs?” “I know,” replied Raymond, in a most humane 
way even though at times, he was predisposed to contradictory 
activities – like cutting heads off. A paradox one might find difficult 
to surmount, considering the end results. “I'll see what I can do. But 
there's one thing I want you guys to do for me.” “What's that?” asked 
Lorin. “You've peeked my curiosity now,” he remarked facetiously, 
rarely drawing the line between helpful criticism and insensitivity, a 
habit Raymond had long found difficult to deal with. “If I take you 
upstairs,” said Raymond aloud, very earnestly and to all of his virtual 
friends. “You've got to promise me you'll all be quiet.” 

“You didn't Raymond... after I told you not to. You brought them up
anyway.” “But honey,” responded Raymond, setting the replica clay heads 
of his friends down on the bed as Vicky finished dressing. “They can't 
go on in the trunk like that, they're going stir crazy. There's nothing 
to do in there.” “There's no room in here for them,” she maintained and 
anyone would have thought that to be true. But Raymond still felt the 
need to make his buddies feel comfortable and at ease. In his haste 
though – and having anticipated an argument with Vicky – he'd forgotten 
to close the door behind him and on the way to their room, Ari and Bill 
couldn't help but look in... having both taken more then a passing 
glance at Vicky's half dressed, shapely figure. “That's all the 
sight-see'in I can handle for right now,” exclaimed Bill unabashedly, 
loud enough for all to hear. But Vicky did not act startled or shy and 
so the two couldn't help letting their eyes roam further around the 
room, looking beyond her and eventually at the walls, which were of 
course, covered with Raymond's priceless works of art. Fortunately 
though, most people would not have believed that they were real, 
thinking instead that they must be replicated prints, and that, as luck 
would have it, was exactly the conclusion that Bill and Ari had arrived 
at. “Quite a nice collection of artwork you have here sir,” commented 
Ari. “I hope you don't mind the intrusion... I couldn't help but notice 
from the doorway.” “That's okay,” said Raymond, a bit surprised by the 
sudden visit, busy trying to find good spots for his clay friends but 
nevertheless, resolved to showing good manners when he could. “Who 
painted ‘em?” asked Wild Bill bluntly and without any proper 
introduction or civility – true to his name. “Oh... That one there is 
a...” But Vicky could tell that Raymond was about to become painfully 
honest and interrupted what was on it's way to becoming a dreadful 
fiasco, especially if a man as unscrupulous as Bill had known, or even 
suspected the truth. “He painted them all,” she said quickly and 
followed this up immediately with a very complimentary... “Isn't he 
great? He's the best artist in the world. But of course, it's just a 
hobby. He never sells them. That would be... forgery.” But upon closer 
inspection, Ari could not help but question the authenticity of Vicky's 
remark and began to wonder aloud. “This one is signed ‘Paul Cézanne 
‘94'. How did you make such a remarkable copy? It looks so real... but 
it must be a copy.” “Oh it is,” returned Vicky. “It definitely is a 
copy. Painting is Raymond's hobby, isn't it Raymond?” she said, 
nervously restating herself, hoping that the right words would come to 
her in time. “How in the world could two such poor people like us have 
a real Cézanne hanging in their hotel room? Isn't that funny?” she 
asked and shook her right hand in the air in a quick and deliberate 
gesture that articulated the absurdity of the situation. “How in the 
world... honestly.” “Yeah, that is nuts,” acknowledged Bill, who found 
Vicky a much more fascinating subject then any painting and never 
questioned her own authenticity, in his own lascivious thoughts. “Where 
you two from,” he added, needing to satiate his curiosity about her and 
wanting very much to create a dialogue between them. “We're from 
Chicago,” answered Raymond, trying to redirect Bill's attention away 
from Vicky and acting on the advice of his friend Guy, who was very 
busy causing a deliberate and continuous clamor in Raymond's mind. 
“Tell him as little as possible Raymond. You know what he really 
wants.” “He's got the hots for Vicky,” said Joe, in a very rare state 
of mind, where common ground between himself and Guy never seemed to 
endure more then a minute or so, and arguments flared due to very 
divergent personalities – a problem Raymond could do little to amend. 
“And what brings you to Mexico?” asked Ari, more sincerely then Bill 
but then just as intrusive. “Oh... Mexico was just a getaway for us,” 
replied Vicky, which was more a double entendre then Ari could have 
realized, as Raymond's escape from psychiatric prison was the real 
reason for their stay, but Ari and Bill had no idea. “I see,” returned 
Ari. “Then you're here on vacation. I didn't mean to pry... I just 
thought you might be here on business or something. Well...” he began 
to say, looking for a way to close the conversation and return to their 
room. “You have a good day.” But before leaving, he did his best to 
introduce himself and Bill in an amiable and customary manner. In fact, 
in a way in which one would never have suspected him of being capable 
of multiple homicides... the common thread that unwittingly, joined 
them all. 

“You know they bother you more when they're close to you,” said Vicky,
reminding Raymond of the impairing disadvantage of having the heads of 
his friends in the same room, a factor which only caused him to 
hallucinate more then otherwise. “It's not just the amount of room in 
here we have to put things,” she went on to say in frustration. “It's 
that they're not good for you. They make you say weird things... I 
don't like it.” “But Vicky, they're my friends. How many guys end up 
seeing their friends less and less because their wives want all the 
attention? That's what's happening here, don't you see it? Don't I give 
you enough attention? I'm doing the best I can Vicky.” But his 
explanation only seemed to fall on deaf ears, as Vicky could not see 
the logic in pursuing an argument around friends which to her, did not 
even exist and instead, only wished to change the subject. “I'm going 
for a swim in the river,” she said, too frustrated to argue the point 
any further. “Don't you want me to come with?” “No.” 

The river that adjoined the property was wide and at its center, five to
six feet deep. It was not the mighty Mississippi, but it was far from a 
small, shallow creek. It was a good place to lie down and enjoy a 
natural sandy shore, collect some rays of the sun and forget one's 
problems for a time. But to most of the guests who stayed at the 
Holiday Haven - whose personal problems ran deep beneath layers of 
callous skin, where healing rays of the sun had much difficulty 
penetrating – barely a few of them really benefited at all. But one of 
those who did was Vicky, who did not suffer from deeply upsetting 
issues; was mostly at peace with herself, and her sexuality did not 
present an obstacle to her lifestyle or self-esteem. And so, she was 
amongst the few who found this time rejuvenating and healthful. 
Moreover, she had never committed murder by her own hand, and did not 
bear the weight of guilt. Although she was guilty of acting as 
accessory on occasion - during those times in which Raymond had 
transgressed, by virtue of his childhood - she had never initiated the 
act. That would require a much more shallow or vacant soul then hers. 
One not so fun loving or at peace with themselves, as Vicky's spirit 
had demonstrated. But the hotel was filled with guests whose soul was 
not resident to their body, mind or heart. Vacant shells of people who 
could make the decision to kill in a heartbeat of time, and one such 
person was watching Vicky now, through the window of his hotel room, as 
she lay basking in the sultry, Mexican sun. As Wild Bill watched Vicky, 
his eyes were glued to the tight fitting bikini top she wore and the 
wrap around sarong which covered her hips but only accentuated them, 
making her even more attractive then if she had worn a tighter fitting 
garment. “Looks like fun out there,” he muttered to Ari and to himself, 
as a kind of reaffirmation that it was in fact, a good idea to go 
outside. But the superficial reason he used was not at all a true 
intention. “Think I'll take a swim,” he added, just to make things 
clear that he was about to leave for awhile. “We should really be 
moving on,” replied Ari, feeling the urge to flee as many in his 
position would have. “The longer we hang around here, the more chances 
we're taking. I don't want to make it easy for the law to catch up with 
me.” “Take it easy, we've got plenty of time,” said Bill, who regarded 
Mexico as a safe haven and believed that the Mexican police would never 
catch up with him. “You're worried so much about the cops here... you 
think they'll catch you, don't you. Believe me,” he went on to say, 
with added sincerity to his voice. “All they want is their paycheck. 
These guys are all on the take. Anything goes here... make the best of 
it, just take what you want. That's the only law here. You know what 
they say... first-come, first-served.” But as Ari walked to the window 
to see what Bill had been looking at, it didn't take him long before he 
realized his true purpose. “You're just gonna get yourself in more hot 
water. What about the guy she's with? He's not going to just stand by 
and let you play around with her. She's not just a thing you can just 
take, either. She's a woman; a person with feelings, not a possession.” 
But Ari's words could not persuade Bill to think otherwise and he left 
the room abruptly, of a single-minded disposition. 

“I don't see any chairs around,” stated Wild Bill, impertinent to his
core. “Is it that hard to get next to you?” “My boyfriend will be here 
any minute. I wouldn't get too comfortable.” “What do you see in such a 
little guy?” remarked Bill, standing proudly and openly in front of 
Vicky, as if he had nothing to hide when in fact, there was much he 
could not tell her, or anyone else. “Why don't you switch to a man for 
a change,” he said, meaning that she should undoubtedly feel more 
attraction to someone like himself, but the words he spoke descended on 
Vicky's conscious and subconscious mind like a blow from a hammer, and 
she at once felt scared that he knew the truth about her, and repelled 
by what he actually intended to say. And just as she had begun to weep, 
no longer able to contain her emotion at the thought that her sexual 
identity had left room for doubt in anyone's mind – a thing she rarely 
questioned - Wild Bill was duly interrupted. “I didn't know it was time 
for your bath,” said Bette to him - having seen the two from her 
window, believing that no good could possibly come of it and having 
guessed right. As a consequence, it appeared that Bette had known Bill 
just long enough to be able to assess the workings of his mind - having 
lived through a terrible relationship at the start of her life and 
having learned enough from the experience to give her insight beyond 
others. The price one pays for having to adjust to intolerable 
conditions at home, but by now she knew who to stay away from, although 
her deceased husband might be considered, collateral damage. An 
unfortunate mishap and the result of a poor judgment call on Bette's 
behalf, regarding the question of marriage or in specific, who should 
marry and who should not. It all became a question of timing then – be 
it good or bad - as Sweetie jumped from Bette's purse and began barking 
uncontrollably at Wild Bill Benoy. He barked as if he really understood 
the interior of the wrestler, and had not just judged him from an 
equally inhospitable outer façade. “What a cute little thing,” said 
Vicky, who shared feelings with the tiny Chihuahua at that moment and 
at once became fast friends. “Would he mind if I held him?” “Go for 
it,” answered Bette, trusting that Vicky was as gentle as she appeared. 
But as Sweetie turned his attention to Vicky when he was called, he did 
something no one could've expected and jumped right up into the 
sensitive genital area that men find most vulnerable to a surprise 
incursion like an excited pet. “Ow!” was all any man would have said, 
and Vicky - even for all the feminine beauty that she exuded - was no 
exception. But even so, Bill was none the wiser for having witnessed 
the event. Only Bette had grown skeptical of Vicky's true identity, but 
at the time, had decided to keep the issue to herself, knowing how rude 
it would be to start asking questions about something she felt was such 
an awkward state of affairs. “Vicious little mutt,” grumbled Bill, who 
disliked the dog even more then the dog disliked him. “Are you okay?” 
asked Bette, who did not find it difficult to allocate room in her 
heart for Vicky or others who were not outwardly hostile. A 
characteristic Bill did not bother to conceal, but couldn't have if he 
tried. “You can't trust the little ones,” continued Bill, in the same 
vein as before. “Really?” asked Bette. “And who can you trust?” she 
said, bending to pick up the small, devoted pet and return him to the 
reserved space inside her handbag. “Even friends turn on you. Who 
should we trust? Can we trust you? Better yet, can she trust you?” 
added Bette,” knowing full well that if she hadn't intervened, Bill may 
have had time enough to commit a sexually motivated felony - or worse - 
and that did not sit well with her. But thinking that Vicky would be 
alright if left alone, Bette left to return to her room and did not 
look back on a scene that soon after, worsened, despite her efforts. 
And William ‘Wild Bill' Benoy assaulted Vicky that afternoon, in the 
loud, torrid current of the river which dampened the shrill sound of 
her struggle and partially hid them from view in it's deep and changing 
flow – a driving force which at once obscured and cleansed itself of 
all natural disaster and manmade – a talent innate to nature, but 
profoundly exploited by this heinous monstrosity which called itself a 
man. All this had caused Vicky's level of pain to rise to an all time 
high. An awful plateau she had never known before, and all this had 
taken place with such little time left until Christmas. So little time 
before the celebration of the birth of Jesus, the savior and deliverer. 
But ‘peace on earth, and good will toward men' did not filter through 
Vicky's mind as it normally would have that season, for obvious reasons 
that she could not possibly keep to herself, for long. 

“What are you doing with that thing? ...it's hideous.” “Don't worry, he
won't be here long. He says he can't stay, and he says...” “He's dead 
Raymond. What in heaven's name could he have said? You're not going to 
put varnish on this one too, are you? You have enough friends in your 
collection as it is.” “I know but, they're just clay. I mean... I can 
hear them just fine but... it's kinda like talking to a picture or 
something. You know what I mean? It's not reality.” “Oh God Raymond,” 
ascertained Vicky, feeling disgusted at the sight of the decapitated 
head, but knowing full well that she could never part from Raymond, 
despite his strange habits and perception of reality. Her only wish was 
that he would not use that knowledge against her and somehow hurt her 
feelings. But although Raymond was hopelessly schizophrenic and at 
times could not control his intense madness, he knew he'd met his one 
soul mate in Vicky and never intended to leave her side. He so 
desperately needed her for the duel role she played in his life; as a 
nurse and constant caregiver, and as a lover. “He raped me Raymond! I 
don't want to be stepping over his head, I just want him gone. I want 
that thing out of here. I just want this to be over.” “Okay, I 
understand perfectly.” “No, you don't. Otherwise, you wouldn't be 
playing with his head. Now get rid of it. It's still leaking, and it's 
creeping me out.” “I did it for you, Vicky,” explained Raymond, through 
lightly falling tears that began to drip down his face and descend to 
the bare wood floor. “I just wanted to make you feel better. He can't 
hurt you any more, can he?” “No Raymond,” she began, knowing the 
difficulty she faced whenever she tried to explain matters of life and 
death to a man who did not understand the limits or borders between the 
two. “He can't hurt me anymore. He's gone now. But please, you've got 
to get rid of it somewhere before someone sees it. The people he was 
traveling with... we can't let them find out. Hurry now. God...” she 
finally implored of Raymond and of the Holy Spirit. “Why do the 
holidays have such an effect on people? Why do people go crazy, when 
they should be having fun?” “I don't understand, Vicky. You mean... why 
did I go crazy and cut Bill's head off? I didn't think that was such a 
bad thing.” “No, not you Raymond... I'm just feeling down, that's all. 
Don't worry about it. I appreciate you defending me. I just don't know 
why this had to happen so close to Christmas. I guess that's what I'm 
saying.” “I feel like I always do,” answered Raymond, speaking from the 
heart. “I didn't think the holiday changed anything. I'm just the same 
as ever.” “I know,” replied Vicky, doing what she could to calm Raymond 
and explain away the eccentricities of the holiday season. “It's just 
that... people don't know how to enjoy themselves when they should. 
They've all had such tough times growing up. It's a pity how people 
clash at such strange times.” “A pity we can't all get along,” answered 
Raymond in agreement, as he fondled the hair of the severed head - 
feeling the sudden urge to comb it, or at least straighten it out 
through the very adept and skilled hand of an accomplished artist. “Yes 
Raymond. We all have such drastic differences of opinion too. Opinions 
on everything... it's scary. And then... there are those who act so 
impulsively. I think that's what his problem was,” she stated very 
indifferently. Pointing her right forefinger at the head in Raymond's 
possession, which now rested conveniently between his knees, in much 
the same way a carpenter might retain a section of wood in a vise. And 
Vicky could not help but watch, as he neatly arranged the tousled hair. 
“That's for sure,” replied Raymond, while he wrapped Wild Bill's still 
bleeding head in an old coat to carry it down the steps and to his car. 
“I wonder if he understood a word I said,” mumbled Vicky to herself, as 
she watched Raymond through the open window. “He means well though and 
after all, everyone comes with a little baggage. It just depends on how 
you look at things.” 

“Have you seen Bill?” asked Ari, nearly simultaneously as Raymond closed
the big heavy trunk lid of his car. And devoid of sympathy, he'd set 
the decapitated head of Wild Bill Benoy in the confining, dark 
compartment. But at the time, Raymond was not thinking of good manners 
and didn't really care what Bill thought about being so cooped up. In 
fact, Raymond thought that the lonely spot was just what Bill deserved 
for being so cruel to Vicky. “Ah... no,” replied Raymond, while he put 
his hands in his pockets and stared nervously at the sandy ground on 
which he'd parked that day. “I think Vicky told me, he went back to 
town... back to Chihuahua.” “But, that doesn't make sense. Why would he 
leave without telling me? Did he say why?” “Nope, I sure don't know. 
But Vicky might know. You can ask her if you want. Anyway,” continued 
Raymond, feeling surer of himself as he intuitively believed he could 
bring their conversation to a brief and blameless conclusion. “I've 
really gotta be going.” “Where?” asked Ari. “Do you mind if I come 
along for the ride?” “Well...” began Raymond, hesitating to speak as he 
listened to the mute advice of two of his hallucinatory companions. 
“Normally, I'd say ‘get in', but... there are just some things a man 
has to do by himself,” he said boldly, resolved to the fact that Ari 
would not be good company on the trip, considering that he might object 
to the task of burying Bill's head in the desert. “Good go'in,” said 
Joe in Raymond's mind. “He might seem like good company, but if he 
squeals, you'll wind up in a hot, stinky prison in Tijuana. Go on... 
tell ‘im what we told ya ta say.” “Chores... that's what I've gotta do. 
Vicky gave me chores to do.” And with that said, Raymond backed out of 
the parking space and sped off down the crude highway on his own. But 
in his mind, Raymond was forever in the accompaniment of his friends, 
and was never want for companionship. 

Knocking on Vicky's door made Ari nervous, since he'd never known such a
beautiful woman before and Wild Bill did not have time enough to tell 
him otherwise. That is, that Vicky was not all that she appeared to be. 
But intrusive thoughts on such subjects were far from Ari's concern at 
the time, because to him, there was really no reason to question 
anything about her, if it weren't for Bill having suddenly turned up 
missing. “I have no idea what happened Mr. Schwartz, or what made him 
leave, but as I recall, he did tell me that he decided to go back to 
Chihuahua. I'll tell you one thing though; he wasn't a very nice man. I 
can't say that I miss him.” “I suppose I'll have to leave without him. 
He wasn't a really great friend; I only just met him on the road. I 
just don't understand why he'd leave so suddenly and without telling me 
anything. Especially because he left on foot, he didn't have a car 
so... he must be hitchhiking. Not a very good way to travel if you ask 
me.” “What about your lady friend? Does she know anything about it? She 
seems to be a helpful type of person. Have you known her for very 
long?” “I only just met her too... on the road,” admitted Ari, knowing 
how awkward it sounded to repeat himself but nevertheless, he was not 
one to lie. “I sort of, bumped into her.” “He means, he ran me over,” 
explained Bette, who'd overheard the conversation from the hallway and 
could not help but offer her own version of the story. “My side's still 
killing me. This guy's a real ‘lady killer', if you know what I mean.” 
“He does have rugged good looks,” added Vicky. Believing that to be 
true, but knowing also that the flattering remark might help bring an 
end to Ari's questioning and thus bring the memory of Wild Bill Benoy 
to its well deserved conclusion. But however uncomplicated it may have 
been to lose contact with someone like Bill – who had already 
coincidentally and conveniently for Raymond, buried himself in 
Chihuahua - Ari did discover something else that he never would have 
known or guessed, largely due to Bette's keen eye for detail. “You're 
kidding me,” he said to Bette, as he sat on the edge of her bed 
thinking over the events of the past few days. “I don't believe it. 
She's so pretty... so much a woman. How do you know?” “Trust me. I just 
know. She's one of those transgender people who hide it very well.” And 
as Sweetie jumped into Ari's lap for attention, the idea began to weigh 
on him even as no wartime combat or other hardship had done before. 
Because although he'd seen and witnessed so much in his lifetime, he 
still had never known anyone quite like Vicky and deep down inside, he 
could not be convinced that she was not a full-fledge woman. Her 
demeanor or appeal, was that convincing. “If you say so,” he replied, 
hoping for the time being to change subjects to something he could come 
to terms with... a subject not quite so earth-shattering. “I'll have to 
take your word for it. But what about leaving this place? Have you 
thought about it? I know I'd feel better if I kept moving... at least 
for now. I can't imagine years of being a vagrant. I'm starting to feel 
like a gypsy as it is, but I need to leave my past behind me.” “I'd 
like to stay for awhile. There's something about those two,” said 
Bette, who was for the most part, unmoved by her realization but felt 
there was still more to Raymond and Vicky that was yet to be 
discovered. And for some reason, she felt inclined to explore the 
issue, whereas another might have felt equally inclined to disregard 
it. 

When at first Raymond walked to the jukebox, he couldn't seem to make a
decision. There were just too many selections and the responsibility of 
having to pick out three choices at once overwhelmed him. He was always 
so worried about what people would think of him, but his friends – who 
were all more bold then he – didn't hesitate to prod him on. “Boogie 
Woogie Bugle Boy,” demanded Joe, who was not one to mince words, 
especially at an important time like this. “Nah,” rebuked Lorin, who 
also had a strong personality and always seemed able to manipulate 
Raymond, but then again, it was sometimes for Raymond's own good. “Too 
old... the song's an antique. How about ‘Light My Fire' by The Doors.” 
“Yeah,” replied Dan, who could not help but overhear the conversation, 
having occupied the same space in Raymond's mind for some years thus 
far. “Make a choice already and order me a scotch an soda. I'm dy'in a 
boredom Ray. Ain'tcha got noth'in ta read?” “What good's a scotch gonna 
do you?” wondered Joe. “It's gonna hav'ta go through Raymond first.” 
“He's not the only one with taste buds,” insisted Dan. “He's the only 
one with arms an legs though,” reminded Guy, who was probably Raymond's 
truest friend and certainly the most practical at times like this. But 
as Raymond stood in front of the jukebox, appearing to other patrons of 
the bar to be lost in thought, wondering what to play, he suddenly let 
out an embarrassing remonstrance in the form of, “I'll play what I feel 
like playing!” and this only attracted attention that he never really 
wanted. As to any casual observer, Raymond was not in the company of 
anyone else but himself. But a customer who'd witnessed this unnatural 
reaction and who'd recognized Raymond came unexpectedly to his aid. 
Wondering what could have caused the sudden outburst, but somehow 
realizing that the occasion was not as extraordinary as a complete 
stranger may have thought, and questioned Raymond on the pretense of a 
former ‘get together', not so much on what he'd just been witness to. 
“You're woman, señor... you are playing songs between her breaks, no? I 
remember you from the last time we met. Why are you so upset? Hasn't 
she been good to you?” “Oh, it's my friends I guess. I can't seem to 
make everyone happy and it just drive's me crazy.” “But... you are 
alone now aren't you? I don't see anyone else here with you, except of 
course, the woman who sings for you. You remember me? You drew my 
portrait here? How is life treating you?” “Okay I guess,” answered 
Raymond, weary from the stress that social conflict can bring with 
it... the price one pays for being ‘not so good' at getting along. 
“...But Bill, he had to go. He wasn't nice anyway.” “And this Bill, 
where did he go?” “I'm not sure. I'm not sure where any of them go. All 
I want to do right now is choose one more song for the juke box. Have 
you got any ideas?” “Why don't you play ‘La Bamba', some Ritchie 
Valens... everyone likes it.” And so, at least the song list was 
resolved, but other issues like life, death and the question of 
afterlife would have to wait, at least until Raymond could find himself 
in a mood more conducive to deeper, questioning thoughts, and a 
philosophic study which would naturally have to include the 
participation of all of his ‘friends', however bothersome they appeared 
at times to be. But as The Andrews Sisters began to belt out their 
famous tune, ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy' and Raymond took a chair at a 
favorite table - setting up drawing and painting supplies to his 
satisfaction - an unexpected but unavoidable tryst had made quick 
progress behind Raymond's back and was not due at any time soon to 
adjourn. “Go on,” urged Bette. “Open it. There's more to this couple 
then meets the eye, I just know it.” “Okay, it's unlocked,” replied 
Ari, knowing full well that they were intruding, but unable to satisfy 
his curiosity any other way. “What the heck are these clay heads about 
anyway? Is the guy just into sculpture? Am I missing something here?” 
“Don't know,” answered Bette, more attracted to the paintings in the 
room then the realistic looking clay busts. “People get attached to all 
sorts of things, don't they? But these paintings, can you believe how 
real they look?” “If he tried selling them, he'd go up for forgery, 
that's for sure. They're more then just good prints. One thing's for 
certain, he's the best artist I ever met. But, why does he seem so 
attached to these heads...  like he can't bear to be without them?” 
“You've seen him talk to himself, haven't you?” responded Bette, almost 
having coincidentally explained away the mystery behind Raymond's 
shocking social activities – like removing and keeping the heads of 
those he admired. Not a very desirable or conventional pastime, at 
least as far as most people are concerned. “Look here,” she remarked 
upon closer examination of a nightstand. “A prescription for Lithium... 
I told you he was nuts.” “Yes,” said Ari, about to say something he 
could claim to have known by empirical means only - a mundane concept 
though, or at least, not as profound as Ari would have liked. “Isn't 
everyone nuts though, to some degree at least?” “You've got me there, 
but what about his girlfriend who's not even a girl? That's a little 
weird now isn't it? You've got to admit.” “I'm still not so sure you're 
right about that. She looks every bit a woman to me.” “You think what 
you want,” returned Bette, choosing instead to reflect on the perfectly 
executed Claude Monet painting she felt irresistibly drawn to... more 
then likely because it was one of the genuine paintings Raymond had 
stolen as a night watchman - having replaced it with a flawless copy 
that no one could have suspected. “I wish I could paint like that.” 
“Not many people can,” said Ari respectfully. “But let's get outta 
here. I don't feel good about this and besides, I don't see anything 
out of the ordinary.” “Then what's this stain,” asked Bette almost 
nonchalantly. Not at all unfamiliar with what had suddenly attracted 
her attention, in the form of a dark brown, curious looking patch on 
the floor that ran its course from the nightstand to a spot just 
underneath the double bed. “Looks like someone might've spilled 
something. What do you think?” “I'm no saint myself,” remarked Bette, 
which was quite an understatement, having intentionally committed 
homicide. “...But I can read between the lines. I bet this is Bill's 
blood,” she went on to say. “I bet they killed him and somehow, he bled 
right there.” “I don't know if we should jump to any conclusions, 
Bette. Besides, I'm going to leave all this behind me when I get out of 
here and I'm getting out just as soon as I can. You know we can't get 
the police involved anyway... we'll just be attracting attention to 
ourselves, and that would be a catastrophe.” “Okay, okay,” admitted 
Bette. “Then we leave this all behind. Bill wasn't my favorite person 
anyway. I just don't want to wind up like him. Who knows where he is.” 
“Or in how many parts,” said Ari, realizing that most killers are not 
the squeamish type; don't mind the sight of blood, and have been known 
to live life on its precarious edge – precipitous and unconscionably 
steep. 

“Something's wrong, Vicky. This isn't where I left my pills.” “You mean,
someone's been in the room? Is anything missing? The paintings are all 
here.” “I think you convinced them into thinking that I did them. We 
really should be looking for a buyer though. It's a wonder some of the 
other guests haven't gotten to thinking about them.” “That's silly 
Raymond. No one will know if you don't tell them. There is one thing 
I'd like to know though... just before I go to sleep.” “Curiosity 
killed the cat, Vicky. But if you've got to know, what is it?” “It's 
about that Bill guy.” “What about him? I didn't think you wanted to 
talk about it,” said Raymond, pulling the sheet up to his chin to go to 
bed, even though thin beams of sunlight were just beginning to shine 
through the window blinds in full force. “Well... I just wanted to 
know, where did he go? Where did you put him?” “In the desert... he's 
next to a lot of Yaqui people. He wasn't nice, but I didn't want him to 
get lonely. I know how bad it feels to be lonely, like I felt before I 
met you.” “Oh, that's sweet of you Raymond. But who are these Yaqui 
people? Do you mean ‘yacky' as in; people who talk a lot?” “No, I mean 
‘Yaqui' as in Indian. Anyway, that's what the sign said. ‘Yaqui Indian 
Burial Ground'.” “Oh my,” replied Vicky, putting one of her fluffy 
pillows over her bright green eyes to block out the small streams of 
daylight in the room. “...but, where did you put the rest?” “You mean 
his head?” “Yes... that nasty big head of his. Where is it, I'm just 
curious to know?” “He's going on vacation... with the friends he came 
with. That was what he wanted, anyways. He told me he wanted to get 
away from it all, and be with his friends, so I helped him into their 
car. He'll be fine, plus he won't bother you anymore. It's kind of like 
killing two bids with one stone, you know... just like people say.” 
“Oh, no Raymond... what did you do that for?” But even as Vicky 
exclaimed what a terrible mistake it was to put Bill's head back in 
Ari's car, the big dusty station wagon pulled away, out of its parking 
space, and rumbled down the road. En route to the next closest town, 
but with slightly more baggage on board then Ari and Bette had 
anticipated. 

“Could you reach back there for my sunglasses Bette? I can hardly see
the road.” “Certainly,” she answered, willing to do practically 
anything, as long as it would help get them where they were going and 
in one piece. “If it'll help your driving skills... I don't think you 
want to run anyone else over, do you?” “No, I don't Bette. If it's not 
going to help matters, then I certainly don't.” But Bette didn't have 
much time to look, as Sweetie had drawn her attention to something else 
entirely which had attracted his sharp canine senses of smell and 
sight. “There's a coat back here,” she disclosed mildly, as the 
knowledge of what was inside could never have occurred to her, nor 
would it have occurred to anyone else under similar circumstances. “Is 
this thing yours? I never noticed it before.” “Can't say... If you show 
me, I should be able to tell.” And as curiosity took its toll on the 
travelers, about to cost them its due fare in nightmares to follow, 
Bette picked up the men's, grey wool dress coat, set it on her lap and 
showed it to Ari... as if it were a mere thing, like any other form of 
apparel. “Never seen it before,” said Ari. “How'd it get there?” “I 
don't know, but Sweetie doesn't like it,” answered Bette. “It's heavy 
too. Feels like a basketball. Wait a minute...” she remarked, as she 
unwrapped the coat like the Christmas present Raymond had intended it 
to be... always thinking of others before himself. But the gift that 
Raymond had given was not very well received and Bette let out a very 
loud, shrill scream upon its disclosure, piercing the air of the car 
like a high pitched whistle and sending Ari off to the side of the road 
in a safe but dusty cloud of desert sand and gravel. 

“In the end, we'll all convene ‘twas too much parmesan that did us ‘een
but at the start and day to day We've only this and that to say... 

Upon my grave I do bequeath this much beloved bottle 'neath my shaking,
sweating hand as sheath and all this cheesy blend release the parmesan 
inside I hide but grant to you if you'll abide and allow me here to 
turn this thread of words and like some cheesy bread can sprinkle them 
but oft in vain proliferate this cheap refrain. 

And in the end we'll all convene 'twas too much parmesan that did us
'een. 

Too much parmesan that did us 'een.” “Whaddaya think of it?” asked
Raymond, lacking confidence in his new avocation but still, the artist 
in him could not keep from searching out new and different media. “I 
like it,” replied Vicky. “But I'm not sure what it means. It sounds 
like we're in danger from parmesan cheese. Maybe if you explained it, 
then I'd catch on.” “Well...” began Raymond, knowing he would have to 
defend the meaning of his poem sooner or later. “All I really meant 
was... I mean, the message of it all is just, we're all going to die, 
right. I mean, sooner or later, something's gonna get us all. You might 
get hit by a bus, right? You might die in your sleep from a heart 
attack. You never know.” “So... what does that have to do with parmesan 
cheese?” “It's just a symbol Vicky. It's a thing like any other. It's 
like... something you could end up doing too much of and then bam, 
before you know it, you're push'in up daisies. Now do you get it?” “Not 
really, but... I think it was a nice first try. You're not going to 
quit painting for this are you?” “No of course not... what's that 
supposed to mean, anyway? Oh, never mind,” returned Raymond. “I'm 
working on another one you might like better. It's more serious though. 
I wrote it when you were asleep. It's about, the holiday season. It's 
not very happy.” “There you go,” remarked Vicky, still unable to 
understand why some people have such a tough time coping during the 
holiday season. “This is a time for celebration and so many of us can't 
seem to handle it... even you.” “Do you want me to read it off to you? 
If not, I'll just save it for a rainy day... some other time when 
you're more open to new ideas.” “It's not that Raymond... oh, sometimes 
you can be so frustrating. Go ahead and read it. I'm listening.” “Okay. 
It's called; ‘My Jesus, Mercy' and it goes like this... Holidays will 
come what may They come, they go But hear this nay... 

That Christmas time And frills of folly Mistletoe and leaves of holly
Dissatisfy the deeds and plan To run amuck the tyrant man 

Somehow he lives We cannot say For war, for lies We kneel, we pray But
will there come a better day? We bury dead But still we say... 

A holiday must take its course But to what end In what discourse And to
what end And with remorse A holiday must take its course 

So, whaddaya think?” asked Raymond, open to discussion, wondering how
well his new poem had gone over. “First of all... I'm wondering about 
the title. What does it mean? How does it tie in with the rest?” “That 
was Al Capone's epitaph. He wrote it on his gravestone. He wanted to be 
forgiven for his sins. I've committed a few myself, you know. Some of 
those people... like Joe and Guy, they never really asked me to become 
friends but, they sort of did anyway. Before the police found them, 
they were keeping fresh in my refrigerator, remember?” “That was gross 
Raymond. I'm sorry you went to prison, but someone had to say 
something. I just didn't want to hurt your feelings. Anyway, it sure 
sounds to me like you're sour on the holidays. Can't you get happy for 
Christmas? It's just around the corner.” “I've got these mixed feelings 
that come out Vicky. I just don't know. People go to war and lie and 
deceive each other, and then we drink and party and look away, like... 
nobody knows what's going on. It's fake... that's what it is.” “Oh, you 
need some sleep, that's all. There's nothing wrong with you. Let's talk 
about it tonight at the club. Go to sleep now... love, love.” “Hold on, 
I'd like to watch a little t.v. first, do you mind if I keep it low?” 
“No I guess not. I'm so tired anyway; I could fall asleep to whatever.” 
But as Vicky put one of her pillows over her head to block out light, 
she realized that whatever Raymond was watching, could never qualify as 
normal television programming and felt the need to intervene. 
“Raymond,” she endeavored to say. “There's no picture on the t.v. 
Remember, we've been through this. You told me you were going to try.” 
“I like the static, Vicky. It's the only thing that makes sense to me.” 
“But why? I just will never understand why you can't watch a normal 
program like everyone else.” “I can't listen to it. The voices get all 
mixed up with Joe and Guy and the others. It gets all mixed up then 
like... people are saying mean things to me, or telling me what to do 
and stuff. I just can't control it then, I can't turn the voices off.” 
“But the picture is nothing but snow. The sound alone is enough to 
drive you crazy.” “It's peaceful to me, Vicky. It relaxes me... and 
then my friends can tell me whatever and I don't get so nervous. To me, 
it's more like the sound of a flowing stream and there's nobody saying 
mean things. I suppose you could say... I have demons.” “You're fine... 
go to sleep.” 

“Jesus,” remarked Ari, astonished to see Bill's eyes staring back at him
in such a way as he'd never seen, even though he'd witnessed death many 
times over. The difference was that he'd never been this close to it 
before... having dispatched people from many yards away with the finely 
tuned skills of a well trained, army sniper - never requiring him to 
observe the achieved results, or become a morbid part of the death 
after life. “How in the world... what's going on here?” “Oh my God... 
It was that nut back at the hotel, that's what it was. The one with the 
paintings in his room... I just know it.” “What do we do now?” asked 
Ari, having relied on his wife to get him through difficult situations 
in the past, but unfortunately, she was no longer available to help get 
him through these troubled times. But in Ari's mind, she had gone to a 
better place where life's struggles and the temptations of the enemies 
of God no longer posed a threat. “We could bury it and no one would be 
the wiser. What do you think? I passed up an old Yaqui burial ground 
back there. He'd just be another lost soul, but at least he'd be in the 
company of others like him. They never knew God either.” “No, I've got 
a better idea,” expressed Bette, who had a talent for extemporaneous 
decision, at least when it involved her own self-preservation. “Let's 
give it back to him. Let's just give it right back. It was his sick 
joke all along, wasn't it? So what's to stop us?” 

“I don't like holding it,” said Ari, with some dismay. “Especially
because, I knew him... It's gruesome.” “Oh, I'll take it,” replied 
Bette, who may have been a brave warrior were it not for her inability 
to control herself at crucial times. “Where do you think we should put 
it?” asked Ari. “How about... under the bed?” “No way, that defeats the 
whole purpose. You want to give that nut a taste of his own medicine, 
don't you? You can't just go around putting heads in peoples cars can 
you? Normal people just don't do things like that, right?” “I suppose 
so. I mean, I guess you're right. At least, I can't recall any similar 
things in the newspaper, but then... there was this one guy who made 
ash trays out of people's hands, and then there was another who....” 
“Not now,” exclaimed Bette, who was not in the mood for a history 
lesson on the serial killers Ari had read about. Having found herself 
fussing so over the head she did not want to put down, that is, at 
least until she found a proper spot for it. “I'll show that crazy ass,” 
she admonished. “You've got to get up pretty early in the morning to 
put one over on Bette Cook. Now lets see...” she thought aloud, to 
include Ari in her decision and to therefore make the results that much 
more firm in her mind. “I know,” she added, more resolute now then 
before. “I'll put it right up here in the corner on that shelf,” she 
stated, in regard to a bookshelf Raymond had installed, in order to add 
an appeal of hominess to the hotel room, or to give the place a ‘lived 
in' look that some people seem to admire. “There,” she said, like any 
proud lady who had at last found the right spot for the right display 
piece or article of furniture. “What do you think? Doesn't it add that 
certain something?” “There is a certain air about it,” implied Ari, as 
the smell of rotting flesh became more apparent as time went on, which 
made the comment at least as literal as it was figurative. “I'm not 
finished with him yet,” she warned, unable to quell her anger. “You 
mean, you're not finished with Bill? I thought we had that worked out.” 
“No, I mean I'm not finished with that nut, ‘what's his name'? Raymond. 
That's his name. He brought this down on himself. Help me with these 
paintings, we're taking them with.” “But, we didn't come here to steal 
anything. I don't see why. Besides, they don't have any value, they're 
just copies.” Which seemed a logical argument at the time, considering 
Ari had no idea that four of the paintings in question were not copies 
at all, but stolen originals from the Art Institute of Chicago. “Look 
at what he did to us with that awful head of Bill's. Why would you just 
stand there and take it? C'mon,” she insisted. “Help me take these 
down.” And as Ari and Bette worked diligently to remove Raymond's 
paintings, along with the other priceless and genuine works of 
impressionism, Vicky and Raymond had not an inkling or glimmer of a 
clue as to what was going on behind their backs as they sat together 
sipping margaritas at the bar where they worked. About to enjoy the 
festivities of Christmas Eve, it was almost time to break open the 
piñata and watch the assortment of presents and candy fall gleefully to 
the floor. “I don't have a good feeling about this,” muttered Raymond, 
as he took a sip from the generously tall margarita glass. “What now 
Raymond? We were just about to have some fun here. Why are you so 
uptight now? The party's just started.” “There's something going on... 
I just know it.” “You mean, you have one of those odd feelings, like 
Déjà vu? What's wrong? I get those sometimes. Don't you think a lot of 
people are clairvoyant? It's strange isn't it? It's almost like knowing 
what's going to happen before it happens... and then, bam! Like, you 
knew it but, you had no way of really knowing. Does that sound weird?” 
“Yeah, weird,” replied Raymond, cautiously sipping away at his drink 
until he'd finished it. “Do you feel like leaving?” he suddenly asked, 
as if his feeling of Déjà vu had done more then cause a mild concern in 
him. “We can't leave now Raymond, you know that. I have two more sets 
to do. They'll fire me... they'll fire you too.” “Well then... don't 
say I didn't tell you so,” he mumbled into his glass, just as a young 
lady began swinging with a long wooden stick, doing her best to break 
open the huge, stuffed toy. But just as nearly everyone in the room had 
begun to raise their glasses in celebration of the holiday, a great 
fissure in the piñata had opened and great expectations of candy and 
treats filled the minds and hearts of every patron in the merry 
cantina, except for Raymond, who had begun to notice something else. 
“What's going on?” asked Vicky, as the shower of candy she anticipated 
never appeared. “What is that?” she again questioned, as a human arm 
fell suddenly from the opening in the piñata, causing the toy to rip 
even more and fail very suddenly, like an under designed beam in a 
building might fail given too much vertical load to support. But the 
contents of the piñata were especially open to doubt, as it split 
completely into two parts, allowing what filled it to drop to the floor 
with a very firm ‘thud', and astonishing everyone who watched. It was a 
body, and to make matters worse, it was the body of a policeman who'd 
been a frequent customer of the bar for some time. But Raymond – as 
frail as his nature was – had decided it best that he become a ‘friend' 
and relieved the officer of his head - giving him the benefit of the 
intimate relationship Raymond so desired. It also put an end to any 
questions the officer might have had, concerning Raymond's colorful 
past. “Tell me you had nothing to do with this Raymond,” said Vicky, as 
full of anger as one might expect, but never quite able to detach 
herself from the one she so adored. Even so, the whole event caused her 
to finally realize what had to be done, and she gathered her cigarettes 
along with her purse and gloves and got up from her chair. “You better 
come with me, if you know what's good for you,” she warned. But a calm, 
“I tried to tell you,” was all that Raymond could say. But for Vicky, 
the situation was far from over, especially because she knew all about 
Raymond's strange habits and odd ways of befriending some of the people 
he couldn't bear to say good-bye to. “Okay Raymond,” she began, once 
they had safely started the car and begun their journey down the open, 
Mexican highway. “Where is it?” “Where's what?” “His head Raymond... 
where's his head? Just tell me now so when I find it, I won't have a 
heart attack.” “I'll tell you, I promise. Just give me time to adjust. 
I never had a policeman for a friend before... they're usually so full 
of authority and all. But this guy's different; I know you'll like him. 
Hey,” he added, feeling the warmth of the holiday spirit as he hadn't 
in a very long while. Then turning to make eye contact with his 
beloved, he remarked... “Enjoy the holidays. They only come once a year 
you know.” 


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