accustomed to the darkness, I want to keep that advantage. There’s an odor in the house. It’s different from the one wafting from the yard. It smells of festered wounds, drifting down from upstairs. I reach for my 1911, a .45 automatic pistol, the same one I carried during my enlistment. This weapon’s been fired many times, but it’s been a while. Lately I dwell on pulling the trigger one last time. It’s strange how when your life may be unwelcomingly taken from you, determination for survival rouses rather than depleted submission. Death’s an unfamiliar fear. My concern is if I’m going to die, that it’s for a worthy cause. There’s a presence lingering here in the house. Mindful to avoid misplacement or touching of things, so my morning investigations aren’t botched, I gather a few provisions from the unlit kitchen.
With drink held in one hand and my gun gripped in the other, I step back out, into the night, resting in my chair on the porch. The Springfield .45 thumps heavily on the coffee table beside me. Ice, tasting of chlorinated tap water, crunches in my mouth as I study the dark setting beyond the black, rod-iron-gate. This could be the work of a spying neighbor jealous of my garden’s attraction, or bitter at the seemingly simple life I lead compared to their troubled survival. The shadowy, upper windows offer a view for prying eyes to stare into my life. A few houses up a car pulls out, the headlights off. I don’t recall hearing an engine start, a door slam, or seeing anyone get in. It’s a silver vehicle, its model indistinguishable, as so many are similar in appearance these days. Unfamiliar people constantly parking on this street makes it arduous to follow who doesn’t belong. It’s too dark to get a look at the driver, as he keeps his focus on the road and drives past.
One hour, then two counts down. The fumes of death churn a desire for vengeance.
My ultimate hope is to catch sight of the day’s first light. Dawn brings an opportunity to place a phone call, getting a professional here to help sort out this situation.
Daily routine has conditioned me to wake at 12:34:45am, anticipating the phone ringing. Dozing off I spring up startled, as if mentally seeing the culprit pushing pad numbers to my home phone. My ears pound from the dead silence, expecting the accustomed sound. And they ache in readiness, but the atmosphere keeps silent. The calm peace is lulling as I contemplate going inside to sleep on the couch under a warming blanket.
A car engine (starting-up out front) reawakens me. The sun’s light is barely showing. The air is crisp, fresh, rejuvenating, without the taint of heavy car emissions. The hands of my wristwatch read 06:15:35. Zero missed calls listed in the phone’s memory. What is the connection? Why would the calls stop at the time of the attack on my property?
I go inside to cook eggs and toast bread for breakfast, but always have trouble getting the bacon done properly. “It’s Russell Banner,” I greet Glendale, placing the call after my light meal. He agrees to come over immediately. We’re set up by 7:35am, to receive the second call.
As we wait Glendale offers, “I’ll check upstairs, to see what that smell is.” I’d been meaning to check it out, but got wrapped up in the downstairs setup. He too had been intently focused. My stomach sinks hearing his response, “Good God Banner!” from the top of the stairs.
Dragon Soul
As an infant I’m named Merab to reflect Mom’s contempt. Later I go by Shane.
Raised as an only child in a dilapidated environment, I’m bred a troublemaker. I’m left with strangers, living in neighborhood projects, indicative of where I grew up here on the east coast. These guardians are degenerates, the lowest of the low in society. Their residence has no utilities, with roach covered walls, feces littered carpets from domestic and wild animals, knocked out windows. Uninvestigated murders are not unusual within the complex.
When dropping me off Mom tells, “Win using smarts, not with words or fists.” Given a bad report from my sitter will result in inhumane punishment back home. With all my wit I analyze her words, as the sitter’s kids force me to do unmentionable acts. I want to scream and cry, to swing and kick, but Mom’s instruction insists there’s an alternate resolution. So I discover their weaknesses, and train these provokers early when I arrive, to not mess with me.
Mom teaches at a young age communication skills, outside of the daycare, on how to converse with people of higher intellect. She has an obsession with causing grief for those of religion. This craze steers our life while growing up. Mom finds a Christian school for me to attend, one offering financial aid. Her plot is so involved, that she scheduled my birth for September, so I could start school earlier than most kids. I report to her my teachings.
Placed into a public school the following year, I repeat the grade, sharing all I’ve learned.
I’m reinserted into private school at 3rd grade. Mom delegates assignments. On my first day of school, when introducing myself to the class, I’m to mislead that my dad died in the war, fighting for a cause which he believed in.
My teacher’s name is Mr. Doug Foreman. The ploy is for him to associate himself as a father figure to me. Later, sharing that my stepdad is never around, forms a closer bond. Doug gets involved in my life through a program called Big Brother. I discover his interests as background research. Mom’s motive is to create a scandal within the school’s community. She succeeds by seducing Mr. Foreman. The affair goes public, causing neighborhood chaos, and disruptively throws each townsfolk’s life off its simplistic and comfortable tracks. It’s the first time I experience such a raw form of energetic excitement as everyone behaves in a chaotic and hysteric manner. I become addicted, thriving on the live exhilaration of suspenseful energy.
Mom believes in the Bible, and is in touch with her placement on earth, saying that her calling is to challenge the lives of others. My dad is rarely around, because of his calling. He works for a branch of the church, a secret nationwide organization that eliminates targets.
I have no interest in getting involved in his line of work, as I take after Mom. But the call I receive from her on that one fateful night changes the limited view of my purpose in this world.
At age 27 I’m on my own, in a troubled life, with tough times thrown my way.
My day is about to go from bad to worse. Hurrying out the door I turn the corner to see my ride pulling away. The driver’s-side bus window’s open. “Hey…Hold Up!” I shout. Horrible feelings sicken me, hearing the diesel engine accelerate. Main street traffic flow prevents pursuit. Once I cross the street, my transportation is beyond the next stop.
This makes it twice I’ve been late this month. When I’m confronted the first time at work, I absentmindedly admit to my Floor Lead, “I must have forgotten to clock in.”
“The next time you forget to clock in, you’ll be written up” Tammy informs snidely.
Work consists of a cubical and a dialer, contacting people at their homes, to offer a cruise package, if they’ll attend a short seminar on time-shared vacation property.
Meeting early job expectations comes naturally, and I’m an instant star with the supervisors. Our quota is 5 confirmed appointments a night. I’m able to set up 10-15 each night of the week. In those days the company was lenient on our work ethic. Now they’ve organized a team of snitches to monitor each agent’s calls. They’re targeting me, nitpicking at every conversation I have over the phone. If I’m caught deviating from the script, they’ll cancel credit for “the show” (terminology for when an appointment arrives for the timeshare presentation).
In the proper situation, I can convince any individual to see things the way I tell them.
The new methods foul things up. I’m pressured for confirmations, while forbidden to use self- perfected skills and off-script charisma. Constrictive worry suffocates the spontaneity of exciteful anticipations, which come from the gradual process of winning over my listener.
Now when I arrive to work I’ll have to answer to Brenda. Sitting prim and proper she’ll issue a final warning for the month, adding anot
her week of walking on egg shells.
Why bother, knowing they’ll milk me for time, while compiling a bogus example for firing me at the month’s end, then postpone wages and withhold commissions. My mood declines, dreading having to go in. Determination insists I arrive, to confront my false-termination hypothesis. If my assumptions are true, revenge will be distributed with a guiltless conscience. I have something special in mind for Brenda. Oh how she idolizes her car…
“Do you know the reason why I called you into my office, Shane?”
I’m being put on the spot to feel guilty. It’s a routine to gain the upper hand. Detached from thought I shake my head and lift my brow, prompting continuance.
“It’s because of your attendance issues. Do you have an explanation for your tardiness? Why don’t you tell me why you can’t make it here on time?”
My temper’s slipping toward unrestraint. Her prying attitude is the flame that lights my fuse. A haughty glare gleams in her eyes, hinting to the arrogant mindset she’s cultured. Her seat of authority is an undeserved position. She only did a couple weeks on the phones. In that time she mostly ran errands. She carries a false sense of power and holds it over me. I want to flip her the finger and shout my thoughts in