Friday, October 20, 2006

A Shocking Development

I have to say I was utterly stunned yesterday by a few comments directed to me from one of my faithful few. She told me that my blog titled "The Calling" was appalling, gross and bizarre in a bad way. So, me being who I am asked her,"So you liked it, right?" Big mistake, folks!

No she didn't like it was her reply, and trust me, I'm making this as presentable as possible. I asked her what was wrong with what I had written, because frankly, I was pretty pleased with it and was going to add other installments to it. She told me it was graphic in a weird sexual way and that there was no way anyone would do the things I wrote about in that short blog. That was when I made my next mistake.

I laughed at her response.

Apparently this member of my faithful few, possibly a former member after our discussion, doesn't live in the same screwed up world that I do. She evidently never hears about people being murdered, slaughtered, raped, tortured, etc. Excuse me, but in the world I live in you hear about it all the time.

I remember back in the early to mid 60's of the brutal torture slaying of a young 16 year old girl in Indianapolis by a woman who had been given the job of watching her during the summer months while her parents toured a carnival circuit. She was beaten, burned, tatooed, sexually assaulted and made to perform degrading forms of sexual acts in front of guests in this mentally deranged woman's home. Also in her care was this young woman's sister, but she never received the mistreatment the older sister did. This went on for months and finally, after all those months of brutal and inhuman treatment, the poor girl finally succumbed, wearing a brand of the number "3" burned into her chest and the words "I'm a prostitute and proud of it" tatooed into her stomach.

That was over 40 years ago, folks, and I don't call that kind of treatment very normal, do you?

I remember the murders committed by Richard Speck, Charles Starkweather and others, and all of those senseless murders occurred back during the time frame I placed my story in.

I think the root of the matter is that I inferred in the blog that the perpetrator of the grisly murder committed the act to receive sexual gratification from it. Well, DUH! That unfortuantely is how many murders happen, and if one cannot see that, well, then I guess maybe they live in a far saner world than the one I do.

I guess a band of destitute hippies back in 1969 didn't live in a communal type setting at the Spawn Ranch out in California and didn't have a "leader" by the name of Charlie Manson and I guess they weren't driven to commit murder for Charlie to start the racial war of all wars that Charlie referred to as "Helter-Skelter." Funny, I thought I read a book about that happening by a man who was the proseucting attorney in that same case. I guess the unborn baby of Sharon Tate didn't die after his expectant mother was stabbed to death by the crazed group Charlie sent out to do his bidding. I guess those two movies I saw about that happening were the creations of some sick minded author.

Sorry, and I know this is probably going to lose me at least one of my readers, but if you truly believe sick events like the one I described in "The Calling" don't happen, you are so naive I can't begin to describe it.

We do live in a sick world, folks, and it's been sick for centuries.

The Roman times, the games in the Colosseum, those games that ended in execution style murders for the sake of sport? That isn't sick?

For those old enough to remember a movie from the late 60's or early 70's entitled "Soldier Blue", it is an eye opener. True, it's fictional, (yeah, I liked that, too!) but a similar event that the movie entailed was actually based on an actual incident that took place in Vietnam. The Calvary are the American troups in Vietnam and the Native Americans are the innocent Vietnamese. If you've never seen "Soldier Blue," you need to. Hell of a movie for its time and a fabulous performance by Candace Bergen as well.

Sometime back in the mid 70's I recall reading about a murder, a violent dismemberment murder, and it was a murder that was never solved. I can't seem to find anyone else who can remember it happening, but I always wondered why anyone would commit such an act as that.

"The Calling" was my theory for what might have happened. Yes, it's fictional, but it is based on the memory I have of that unsolved murder.

If that blog offended you, sorry about your luck.

An author can't write something to please you every time they write.

If you don't wish to read anymore because of one blog, then take your narrow minded eyes on to other pastures that treat you with all that is pretty and pleasant, because, quite honestly, you won't be reading that crap here.

I'm not trying to run my faithful few away. Trust me, there probably aren't that many of you anyhow. But I won't sugar coat my writing simply because someone finds my subject matter offensive.

And, I refuse to censor my own writings.

For those who stick with me, thanks.

For those of you who don't, thanks for the time you've given me up to this point.

For those of you who do stick around, I hope you're enjoying the ride and I hope the best parts of it are yet to come.


Saturday, October 14, 2006

The Calling

He looked down at his hands and was shocked at the amount of blood that was there. It was actually dripping from his fingertips and onto the concrete floor on which he was standing. Funny, he couldn't remember how it got there, but seeing it gave him that same feeling of excitement he always got whenever he saw the blood. It was like a reward to him for what he had just done. He concentrated harder, trying to remember again just how it was that the blood had gotten on his hands, and he felt that twinge of excitement again growing deep inside himself.

He pulled his hands up and held them right in front of his face and took in a deep breath of air, smelling the heavy coppery smell that came off his hands. He put his hands to his face, lightly rubbing them over his face, and looking down, he was instantly aware that he was standing on the concrete floor naked, nothing on, not even his shoes, and he wiped his hands down his chest and abdomen, rubbing the blood against his skin.

His hands continued down his body, leaving behind them a trail of blood, across his thighs, across his penis and scrotum, and down both legs. As he finished the trail down his body, he brought his hands back to the level of his face once again, and began licking what little bit of the blood that remained, enjoying the salty and acidic taste it left in his mouth.

As he continued to lick the blood from the back of his hands, he opened his eyes and looked around for the source of such a wondrous feast he was enjoying. Off to his left, over in the corner, hiding in the shadows from the moonlight outside that crept in through the windows since it was the only source of light in this place he was standing, he finally saw the body lying there and the dark liquid pool that surrounded it. Again, he felt that spark of excitement that lit within him, and not even aware of it, he was becoming erect from the thrill he was feeling.

He glanced around, not really sure why, because he knew there could be no one in here, otherwise he wouldn't be able to enjoy himself as he was without someone trying to stop him. He slowly walked over to the source of his feast lying in the corner, and as he began walking towards it, he felt that surge in him growing again. He knew that what was there in the corner was there for him to enjoy now, the fruits of his labors. He knew this was his reward for his adventure this evening, he was just having trouble remembering that adventure, but he wasn't concerned, because he knew when he looked at the body, he would begin to remember what he had done. It always happened this way, fragments of memories flashing in his mind, and slowly, over the course of an hour or so, he would remember the entire event, and when remembering it, he would again be rewarded with that rush of adrenaline as the memory of reliving what he had already done happened yet again.

He almost believed he enjoyed this part more than the actual event itself.

What layed on the floor before him nearly took his breath away. He had certainly been quite busy here, and what he had been doing had taken a considerable amount of time for sure. Nothing lying before him looked even remotely human other than the massive quantity of blood.

He knelt before the pile of pieces, his hands running thru them, much like he was sorting thru a culinary delicacy. His hands lightly made their way thru the pile, which amazingly was still lying pretty much together, though nothing seemed to be more than a few inches in diameter, if even that. Chunks of flesh, bone, and gristle were all that was left of whoever had been his target of the evening. It was impossible in this light to even determine what sex this person had been.

He carefully allowed himself the thrill of lying down on top of this pile, and lightly rolled around in the bloody pile of carnage. Little cries of passion escaped his throat, and it was all he could do to keep himself quiet, because the true height of his ecstacy was overwheming him. He rolled over onto his back and slid his hands again down the entire length of his body, rubbing the wet pieces of flesh deeply into his skin.

There wouldn't be much time for this enjoyment, however, because once the body parts and blood began to lose their heat, this erotic ritual would cease to be enjoyable. Even on a hot night such as this, because as his memory tended to remind him, this was mid-August, it wouldn't be long before the steamy heat of body temperature would start to drop, and the warm slickness he was both lying in and cavorting in would no longer feel acceptable to him.

During these frenzies, he no longer remembered who he was. He no longer remembered what he did to support himself, he no longer knew how old he was or even how long he had relished in this peculiar form of eroticism. Even after the kill, it took him several minutes to actually remember the kill itself and the dismemberment. And not long after this almost religious act he was embellishing in, his mind would close up and he would forget the kill, he would forget the dismemberment, and he would forget the celebration he revered in. He would forget it until the next time the urge came upon him and it all started again.

He wouldn't remember, for instance, that he had been doing this now for close to twelve years. He could not remember why he had ever started this in the beginning or what had driven him to it. He had no comprehension that he had committed thirty-seven other acts much like this one.

In his "other" life, the life he lived when he wasn't under the influence of the irresistable compulsion, he would hear the accounts on the radio, see the reports on the television and read about the occurances in the newspapers, and in that "other" life he would be appalled like the masses, hardly believing that a human being could be capable of such acts of horror.

But even the officers and agents that investigated these events would not know of their erotic nature or know that one could lie in warm human remains and become sexually aroused. They could never find evidence of any kind, other than the brutally desecrated bodies. They would find the semen that he left behind on occasion, but DNA testing wouldn't be performed, because the year these events started to occur was in the middle 1960's, and testing of this type was unheard of back then.

He was also privvy to acids, and after most of these heinous acts, he used acid to remove most traces of finger and footprints, and he always poured acid upon the bodies themselves, and although the acid never totally destroyed the bodies themselves, it made the work of law enforcement that much harder to perform.

During these acts he performed, he would be aware conciously of perfoming it until it was over, long past the killing and the dismemberment. He would remember it during his throes into ecstacy, but once the body began to lose its heat and its appeal to him, he would begin his act of cleaning up the scene, carefully packing away his tools of the trade in his gymbag he had been carrying around since graduation. Each time as his clean up was done, each time after the last of his acid had been poured and his last tool of torture was put away, his memory of the incident would begin to fade with each step he took away from whatever location he had performed it in.

He would never remember how he had met his victim or how they had gotten to where his act had occurred. He would only remember the act itself after it had been performed and he would forget about it as soon as he walked away.

Such was the gift God had blessed him with.

Such was his calling.

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Being Persistent Has Finally Paid Off!

I don't know if any of my faithful few that frequent this page are familiar with DJ Dick Bartley or not, although Kingfish should be, but I've been an avid fan of his for over twenty-five years.

Dick is the DJ for an oldies show that is broadcast live every Saturday evening. Back in the 80's when I first heard him, his program was called Solid Gold Saturday Night. Then later on in the 80's the name was changed to the Rock and Roll Oldies Show. I believe around 1991 his program was changed to Rock and Roll's Greatest Hits. That name has stuck for the past fifteen years and his program is still known by that name.

Dick is a fabulous DJ and his knowledge of rock and roll is next to none. I've been listening to him faithfully for so long I feel like I've known him personally, though I assure you, I have never met him. I've spoken with him a few times on the toll free hotline he has every Saturday night, and over those years I've listened to him, he has taken and played several of my requests.

He also has an hourly contest, playing just one second of music from an oldie and taking calls from a certain caller, say for instance, the 33rd caller, and asking them to name the song and the artist. Out of his five hour program, I'm usually right about 60 to 80 percent of the time. For years I have tried in vain to get thru, only to find out I'm too early a caller or I reach the ever persistent busy signal, and when that happens I know I'm too late.

That is, until tonight!

Tonight, on his very first hourly contest, I listened to the one second clue, which was a mere four notes. My wife and I were sitting outside enjoying a fire in our firepit and the cool fall air and listening to Dick Bartley and Rock and Roll's Greatest Hits. The moment I heard the clue, my mind began searching back thru eons of music I've listened to, and in less than ten seconds, I knew the song and the artist.

I stared at the cordless phone I had brought outside, but decided it was futile as usual to call. After all, I've tried countless times over the years, and never, never, have been the right caller. I've had Dick pick up my call and tell me I was like caller thirteen and to hang up and try again, only to never be able to get thru.

My wife headed into the house to take a few things back in from our supper we had cooked over the fire, and finally, after deliberating for thirty seconds or so, I decided to make the call. Of course, I heard the busy signal on my first try, but I thought, what the hell, let's try again. I put the cordless on speakerphone and hit redial at least six more times. I thought about laying the phone down and saying to hell with it, and decided to myself to try it just one more time.

As soon as I hit the redial button and heard the numbers dial out, I heard the phone ring on the other end. I thought to myself, okay, they've got a winner, I need to hang up. After three rings I heard Dick Bartley answer the phone and say, "Rock and Roll's Greatest Hits, hold please."

A few seconds later I heard him say, "What can I do for you?"

Just knowing I was too late to be the right caller I answered him. "Well, I wanted to make a guess on the mystery oldie."

"Okay, what do you think it is?" I heard him ask me.

Nervously, not sure why he was asking me, but hoping the reason was the one I had been hoping for I replied, "Thank The Lord For The Night Time."

"And what artist?" Dick asked me.

"Neil Diamond," I answered.

Dick asked me, "Have you ever been a winner on the show before?"

"No, sir, I haven't" I replied.

"Well, you can't say that anymore, man."

I couldn't believe what he had said, and all I could think of to say was, "Outstanding!"

Again, he told me to hold, and though I was never put on hold, it was strange to hear the music on the phone he was playing and him almost constantly clearing his throat.

Hell, after twenty-five years of trying to win I had finally done the impossible, and I didn't even know what the hell I had won!

He talked to me again while the song Louie, Louie, Louie was playing and told me he needed to get my name and address. Again, he put me on standby then after a short pause came back on, took my necessary info and told me that after this song he was going to put me on the air live with him and that he was going to play that one second clip again and for me to give him the answer once again as to what the song was and who the artist was singing it. He also told me to turn my radio all the way down.

Instead of doing that, I left the radio on, stepped inside the house and left Peggy outside to listen to me on the air. Again, after what seemed like an absolutely incredibly long time, he came back on, and told the nationwide audience who he had on the phone, where I was from, and played the clue once again and asked me what the song was and who the artist was who sang it.

Being inside the house, alone, I was amazingly calm and didn't get tongue-tied or suffered a brain fart or anything, and after my conversation that went out live over the air nationwide, I went outside and asked my wife how I sounded. She told me I sounded cool and calm and not nervous at all.

It was then that I asked her what the heck it was I had won, anyhow. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the fact that I had won a prize, it was simply that I had only wanted for one time to be able to tell the nation that I knew what the song and the artist were on Dick's mystery oldie. Hell, I had done so well and had guessed so many of them right over the years, I just wanted for one time to be recognized for my knowledge of music.

Peggy told me I had won a commemorative edition of a monorail train set from Disney World.

I know that's going to be an excellent prize when I receive it, but the prize itself wasn't as important to me as just knowing that people all over the US were listening and they heard this 54 year old dude from this little town in Indiana who knew what the first mystery oldie of the evening was.

And to think, it only took me twenty-five years to win it.....

Remembering Summer Heat, Part Seven

Practice makes perfect. I remember all my life hearing that famous quote, and while it does hold true, it can sometimes reveal changes in people as well as bring out the best in them.

Summer Heat did practice, and practice a lot. During the late 60's, there was a lot, and I do mean a veritable plethora of music out there that the band tried to keep up with and learn to play. Practices were usually very low keyed, very informal, but a lot got accomplished, that is, when everyone showed up.

Summer Heat was a very versatile band, not only playing all different kinds of current rock music, but the musicians were also quite versatile.

Denny played guitar, bass, and keyboards. He was damned good on all three.

Jay not only sang lead vocals, but he also played rhythm guitar and keyboards.

Mike played awesome lead guitar and bass. Matter of fact, Mike possessed a tremendous amount of talent on the guitar, playing what I always considered to be on a professional level.

Jim played drums, and while not the best drummer, because he had a habit of changing tempo in a song, he was still good at his craft. Unfortunately as time went by, he got to thinking he was much better than what he actually was, and it showed in his attitude. Sometimes he showed up for practices and sometimes he didn't. When he didn't, it really fouled up a lot of things. It was hard to practice without a drummer.

It was because of this that I started bringing along my friend Bill, who was not really an accomplished drummer, but he was learning, and if Jim didn't show, Bill was able to fill in and do a good job so the band could at least work on some new jams. Later on, Bill would get rewarded for his efforts to help the band out in a big way.

Jim brought his cocky attitude to the dances, too. He became beligerent at times, downright mean at others, and became aloof as to what he was supposed to be doing as the band's drummer.

I remember one night in particular, it didn't seem anyone could do anything right in Jim's eyes but Jim. He didn't want to play certain songs, he was later coming back at both breaks than the rest of the band, and he smarted off to all the guys in the band, and even told me to quit using the strobe light during certain songs because it was "throwing my timing off."

After that particular night, the band got together, drafted up an agreement detailing a policy for practice attendance and overall attitude during performances. Everyone signed the agreement, Jim quite reluctantly, and even going as far as to purposely change the spelling of both his first and last names when he signed it, but I think he got the overall picture. He knew that if he didn't comply, he would be let go from the band.

Things did get better and once again practices became fruitful and successful.

Here we were, a group of high school musicians, taking on covers by Blue Cheer, Steppenwolf, Cream, Vanilla Fudge, Edwin Starr, the Rascals, Wilson Pickett, Traffic, Jimi Hendrix Experience, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Chicago Transit Authority, The Doors, The Stones, The Beatles, The Spencer Davis Group and countless others.

We also had some original material that the band had written. One song, quite the long, drawn out yet quite heavy number entitled Quicksand Mother, which I always thought would have been a killer name for a band. Jay and I worked together to write a good rock and roller called Sounds From 46,000 BC. The tune just came out during practice one night and I improvved the words on the spot for Jay to sing, and the song became a part of every dance we played, and was always welcomed with applause or requests for "That BC Number." During the Woodstock Music and Art Festival, we would hear Country Joe and The Fish perform a number called "Rock and Soul Music," and the tune was almost note for note what we had created during a practice that we ended up calling Sounds From 46,000 BC. Talk about strange.

Rehearsals also brought about talking about what we could do next to "shock" the masses. Some of those things we did, most we didn't, but more and more everyone was giving imput as to what they wanted us to do. Denny gave me a couple of songs to play the bass on while he played keyboards, nothing complicated mind you, because I truly had no talent playing anything. Jay gave me a couple of songs to play keyboard chords on so we could provide that full sound we missed on a few songs, and of course, I also played the tambourine, the morraccas on several songs, and we introduced the sound of the cowbell on several songs including Steppenwolf's "Rock Me" and the Chamber Brothers' "The Time Has Come Today." I remember getting so into playing that cowbell that I broke more than one drumstick in the process.

Word continued to get around about that really good high school rock band from Rushville, too. We received word that a sorority from Franklin College wanted us to come play a dance they were going to have at a great location called the Lincoln Center in Columbus, Indiana. We gratefully accepted, being offered a substantial amount of money for the dance. I thought we were really going to have a great time playing for college age students.

I was going to end up being disappointed beyond words.

To be continued.....

Friday, October 06, 2006

Without Purpose

Out of the fire
The madman came
Blood on his hands
A man with no name.

A man with no purpose
'cept to reign over all
A man without conscience
His desire but to maul.

No mission to accomplish
No purpose to serve
His existence I question
Yet I dare not disturb.

He knows that I'm out here
I'm his enemy, his foe.
When he finds me, my defense,
Well, I really don't know.

The time of our meeting
Grows closer each day
And when we face each other
One of us shall pay.

But who?