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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Feb 2008
Location: Just west of the Cascade Mountains....couple miles from the pacific ocean puget sound
Gender: Male
Posts: 280
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Demon Trap...first 2300 words here. {Very graphic sex,violence, lang...}
First was only fear. A cold , clutching, icy fear. His hair was damp with sweat. His pulse reverberated in his
head, pounding his temples. Slowly….unbearably slow, his mind began to stir. His burning chest begging him to breathe. His eyes opened. Aware. Awake. He gulped in a deep fast breath, popping up on his elbows. Icy cold tendrils of sweat coursed down the back of his neck, merging into a small stream at his shoulder blades.
Understanding seeped in. The fear replaced by rage, foreboding. He vaguely knew himself. He collapsed back down on the bed. Eyes wide open. Slowly the sounds of the night reached him. The incessant buzzing of the neonlights outside his window, third floor. He stared blankly at the ceiling, the dancing hues of reds and violets from the shrieking neon casting surreal patterns across his sweat beaded face. Still his eyes remained fixed, unblinking, stoic. Upon closer observation, one would understand. He was no longer here. He was not aware of the room, the sounds. He was internal, rapt. A machine, computing.Thomas Zachary Cunningham was an addict. Physically his body kept him craving. Any means, heroin, cocaine, opiates, narcotics was used to alleviate the sickness to come. He was always consumed, torn, twisted. For Zac, each day was a living nightmare, but drugs were the least of his demons. Zac was 27 years old, slightly autistic, brilliant, a savant and irreparably insane. There was seemingly no end to the excesses to which he would submit his body. Along with the incredible highs, also came the unendurable and murderously painful lows. It was here in one of the sick,unbearable lows that all of him now resided. During this time in a trough, a landscape of hell, Zac was most
dangerous. Capable of any atrocity. This was why he had awakened trapped inside himself. The machines wheel turning, plotting, scheming.
For most of us fairly well-adjusted, normal people thrust into the emotional state Zac endured, we would go completely, uncontrollably mad. We would welcome death. Total defeat. For Zac, this was his life. An everyday existence of pain, decadence, foul and heinous events. Day after agonizing day. Amazing what a human being can become. Zac swung his legs from the bed. His whole body was sore and heavy. At 6’ 2”, 158 pounds, he looked gangly if not somewhat emaciated. If it had mattered to him at all, he would have wrinkled his nose at the odors rising from the bed covers and his boxers. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant action yet. His clothes hadn’t been washed for eleven days. But, Zac compulsively changed two to three times each day. Giving the fabrics a reprieve every eight hours or so. Zac was not maniacal, no there was always a purpose. Another time and place, a different upbringing, proper medications, Zac might have been a six-figure income executive. Life had different designs, as it so often does. Zac pulled on a pair of Levis. He was still wearing the tank top tee commonly known as “wife beater”. He knew without looking that a long, dark, rust-colored blood stain tainted the lower left of the “wife beater”. As an after
thought he quickly tucked it into the jeans. Reaching down to the floor, he grabbed a short sleeved dark blue silk shirt. He put the shirt on while walking to the bathroom. He gave himself a once over in the mirror, extremely careful not to make eye contact. The last time he’d made eye contact, he’d lost just over three hours…. not tonight. Tonight he had something to do.
First thing to hit Zac’s oblivious nostrils as he stepped out of the efficiency apartment into the hall, was the odor ofold dried urine, reminiscent of a poorly maintained nursing home. The kind where the sick, paralyzed, forgotten Alzheimer’s sufferers reside. The smell reached his brain, but his “give a damn” never noticed. Tiger time. The soreness was leaving. He moved steadily, his body did not betray the nagging tug of withdrawal just beneath the surface. Down the back stairs he went, taking them two at a time. He felt just capital now, but he knew all too well the feeling that would replace it. For him, tonight….that was not an option. The reason he chose the back stairs and exit was simple. A reflex action, a smart one. Zac was unsure how long he could remain undetected at his current domicile. He was uncertain because it was not his. The girl it had belonged to was dead. Just another unfortunate caught in Zacs’ wake, while he pursued survival. Zac was only mildly concerned. He believed she was most likely a weekly renter. She made it hard to be certain. She had been fresh, compared to the
usual suspects, the typical girl on the “track” – street. Most girls on the track were wasted within five , six months. The longer they made it the lower the life expectancy. Jail, death, geographical relocation all played their part in the life of the typical whore. At any rate he dared not venture out by way of the front desk. Zac had been here four days now, at best he figured two more nights before some pot-bellied oaf wearing a three-day-old beard and half his meals on his shirt came looking for the girl. No doubt he would be prepared to take either the rent or a sexual barter for one more night. Imagining the surprise on big bubbas’ face when confronted with Zac, caused a small sinister smile to crease his face. Zac stepped out the back exit. He was met by a sticky 83 degree September night. Nashville, Tennessee. Music City, U.S.A. His new jungle.
Dickerson Pike, past the Trinity Lane intersection went from four lanes down to two, this two and one half mile stretch was called the “track”, “Ho Stro”(whore stroll) by those who worked it, cons, pimps, dealers and of course the ever present prostitutes. A place where the song is sad, the flag torn and the flower is a small fake rose in a glass tube, a crack pipe. The local pastime on this stretch of road is vice. Adult book stores and peep shows. Flop houses, old antiquated car washes and laundry mats. On Dickerson Pike you had better pack some heat or become somebody’s meat.
The “track” was the ideal place for Zac. Most of the night people would never be missed, not by anyone who would complain. As is the case in most vice-ridden urban areas, the criminally inclined and morally challenged, post up and take over the blighted area. They live off the hypocrisy of the suburban low-lives. Usually the semi well-to-do, the sons of late or retired daddies who passed on their small businesses to these “prodigals”. Those on the Ho Stro call them marks, tricks, johns. The name changes with the hustle or con perpetrated on the universally street stupid. Probably one of Zacs’ most useful talents was the ability to discern a persons intentions, motives and what was really “going down”. His uncanny ability to “see” the truth, served him well in this environment where survival of the strongest was a daily fact of life. Zac was unrivaled. To those who wish to draw another bitter breath of the tracks stained existence, he was blessed with what may be the only virtue that mattered. Seeing evil for what it was. Few spectators came to the track. There was, of course, the cops and the “do-gooders”, missionaries with soup kitchens, beds for the displaced, prayer groups. The converted, deserted warehouses had a few occupants until the sting of winter came calling and lest we forget, the Vanderbilt University nursing students. Every semester a new curious group comes through with fresh needles, condoms and AIDs awareness literature. Some they help, but for the most part this was a jungle. A stark, crazy area. A predator and prey wildlife documentary. Watch as the addict approaches the dealer: “Wassup dog? Man, chew got some work?
Dealer, also known as twerker or slinger answers, “ What chew working with?”
“I got a three piece bout”. A three piece is thirty dollars. The dealer knows the ominous “bout” means the addict is short. He now has to clarify with more questions. “Whatchew trying to do man?”
“Shit, at least a half.”
“Where’s the paper?”
“You got it wit chew?”
“Mannn, puh-leeze niggar, why you wanna come at me like that, you already know..Awh-ite” (alright)
“Come on dog. I ain’t tryin to sweat chew. You already know.”
A typical small time sale out on the track.
Tonight, Zac was on a mission. He had to score some heroin, get some opiates in his blood, calm the fury. He had to bring some order to his madness. He had to find the little freak he had been shadowing since his arrival in Music City. He had become an expert at spotting her. He had trained his eyes to see her a half mile away. The way she moved, her silhouette was hard wired to his mind. Zac knew things, he always did, somehow. She was not all she seemed. There was a contradiction.
Regina Mary Gardener was quite a sight. Even now, in the throes of a four day binge, she was singularly beautiful. Gina, A.K.A. Precious, A.K.A. Lil P, was not ready to stop. Far from it. She had been providing her special kind of services the last seventy plus hours. Stealing was most lucrative for Lil P. Relieving the “mark” or “john” of
the currency in their wallets was her specialty. Lil P was an expert at multi-tasking. She would take over, coax thepants down around the ankles of her prey, maintain eye contact while providing blissful oral service all the while taking the contents of the wallet without ever removing it from the bunched up trousers. Seventy per cent of her talent resided in her distracting looks. Pure innocence. Curly, shoulder length, fiery red hair. Deep emerald eyes. Long thick lashes. A face splashed with freckles and dimpled cheeks all painted on pale white, flawless skin. But, this beauty continued, from her perfect neck and long slender limbs to ample breasts. Petite body, long legs ending in perfectly proportioned feet. All in all, in another world, a rare beautiful princess. Gina was pursued by every pimp and hustler on the track. Even more to her credit was her ability to remain a free agent. No attachments. All for good reason. Lil P would be a pimps greatest liability. She was, at the very least, untamable. Even more, Lil P was dangerous. Most pimps’ stables would be torn to pieces by the addition of LilP. She would steal the girls blind, create jealousy with her flirtatious antics and worst of all bring po po (the police)sniffing around with her prolific thievery. Still, Gina , Lil P, was desired instantly by all who cast an unfortunate eye on her.
The forbidden fruit. One taste meant dire consequences. That taste could leave a man or woman robbed, cut, or dead, but always, always heart broken.
Zac saw her immediately. Her seductive walk branded in his psyche. He knew her gait like he knew his own bloodlust, intimately. Zac had no desire to bed Lil P. The thought was repulsive to him. In fact, Zac had never even heard her voice. Always with eyes open and an ear to the ground, he knew things…somehow. He knew that every other Tuesday night between eleven and twelve-thirty , Lil P would meet an eighteen wheeler at the Circle T Truck Park The truck stop was enormous. Four restaurants, showers, high speed DSL hook ups, the works. Everything an
owner or driver would need. Each time the maroon Volvo Tractor displaying Davis Connelly Transport, Daphne, Alabama, came into Circle T so did Lil P.
Everything Zac saw went into his memory. He was brilliant, a savant and completely insane. The Circle T was not a place you would ever find Lil P. She wasn’t a “lot lizard”, a term coined by truckers to describe the prostitutes that frequented the truck stops. For the most part, these whores were burnouts, walking the track was no longer viable. They were threadbare and lazy. Lil P felt herself above that. She was not a prostitute in her mind. No, she was a binge addict with a sex drive born from her time spent in child pornography. She came from a wealthy family whose money was only rivaled by their perversity. Make no mistake, Gina was somebody’s daughter, somebody’s friend, somebody’s somebody. She would get her fill and vanish for eight or nine days. She would show up as mysteriously as she had left. This had become part of her allure, her legend. Another part of her mystery was her age. When she first hit the track, she looked all of fourteen and after four of five days without sleep she would age to a lovely eighteen to twenty year old. None of Lil P’s street creed or legend meant shit to Zac. He was a machine. Always out for himself. What
mattered to Zac was Lil P’s movements. When she left Davis, usually in the late wee hours, she would invariably go to the track. She would stop at a first floor room at the corner of Dickerson and Pike, the Metro Hotel. She would cop a half ounce of hard (crack cocaine), then indulge in her other pastime. She would pickup/seduce two to three of the younger new girls working the track. The pimps knew, finally, after a few of these special vacations had cut a nights income. They were understandably
angry. The pimps were still clueless as to where the girls went, but they knew Lil P was behind it. The most important thing to these men, like all business men, was the paper, the cheddar, the cheese, the fucking money! A fresh new face could command four hundred to six hundred on a week night, eight hundred to a thousand on a warm weekend night. No one knew where or what went on. Zac knew. He knew things….somehow.
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 " Imagine if all you ever did was kill for God. What kind of being would you be? An Angel sword dripping, your wings always dipped in blood.....Imagine."
Last edited by Gate : 04-21-2008 at 02:50 AM.
Reason: re-format....should read easier
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? Im not a good writer but I love it so much ..anyway your observations are exellent I wish I had your talent....but I'am learning.
