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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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From the beginning......(untitled) w/brief storyline discription
This is a fantasy about a man (Zac) who while slightly autistic...is completely evil and criminally insane.....still zac retains his special gift as a savant...he can split his perceptions...and uses the ability to "go into" a fallen angel 'Diablophetes who has been commanded by lucifer to influence the Targets of Zacs wrath.....Add to the mix Regina...aka Lil P , and Ric Lay police Detective who seven years before fought Satans advocate here in the realm of man ...so the realms collide this spurns heavens warriors into action Namely the Archangels....... anyway hope you enjoy...
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 neon
lights outside his window, third floor. He stared blankly at the ceiling, the dancing hues of reds and violets from the
shrieking neons casting surreal lights 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 all were 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. Herein lies the reason for deadly purpose. 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 of
old 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 mars, 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 the
pants 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.
Last edited by Gate : 03-06-2008 at 09:13 PM.
Reason: clarification
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