chapter 12

Los Angeles, California

The forensic team assigned to the case were

flown in by helicopter touching down in the middle of a

high school football field a mile south west of North

Stanley Street. At the request of Lieutenant Harrington,

Officers Silversmith and Carson were dispatched to transport

the three member team from the school to the crime scene.

The arrival of a police helicopter was a grateful distraction

for the facility and staff at Union High as the teenage children

held there for their protection were bored and impatient

complaining they now felt like hostages.

Normal bus transportation had been canceled and no child

was allowed to leave the school grounds with out a parent

or guardian personally picking them up.

The school had been designated a local emergency shelter

facility. Both F.E.M.A. and the Red Cross where currently on site

busy converting the multipurpose room into a receiving center.

More persons were arriving at the school then departing.

It was just after 4:00 PM and for many in Los Angeles this

Wednesday had already become a very long day.

Forensics scowered apartment 12 taking photos, gathering

evidence, examining the bodies, and searching for identifications.

Hal had found the third victim where Lieutenant De La Cruz

indicated he would, in the kitchen.

The third victim was not wedged behind a door, or hanging

face down from the ceiling. Victim number 3 was sitting on

a chair at the kitchen table with a half eaten bowl of

wheaties in front of him..Hal surmised the reason

the man hadn’t finished his breakfast of champions wasn’t

due to the fact he’d been a picky eater. His professional

opinion was the guy had been “fat dumb and happy”

moments before his demise.

Besides he still clutched a stainless steel table spoon in

his right hand..Not the little tea spoon size either..It was a

manly man’s size spoon.

Nope, the guy hadn’t scooped up the last few remaining bites

at the bottom of the stoneware cereal bowl simply because he

no longer had place to stick the spoon. His head was missing.

Mystery solved..

Hal looked for it though..Under the table, in the trash, behind the

couch, in the shower, generally peeking here and there. All the

while a little tune playing in the back of his mind..

“Come out, come out, where ever you are”..

Only so much he could do with no gloves, but now

that forensics had arrived even with the clear latex slapped

over his hands allowing a more thorough search without the

concern of disturbing fingerprints or evidence, the head was

not to be found.

He was in the single bedroom of the apartment now. The

only room in the place seemingly undisturbed by the violence

that had transpired.

It smelled of stale sweat and dirty laundry..Like soiled socks

left fermenting under a bed. He found personals in the dresser

and was busy categorizing evidence when something Samantha

said earlier struck him..”Like somebody painted the walls with

them.”..She’d been referring to the blood stains and gore smeared

over the walls of the living room..

Hal walked back to the living room staring at the walls confirming

what had sprung aware to him while still in the bedroom..

The opposite walls of the room some twelve feet apart had

identical patterns left there etched in blood..

Hand prints..

Not the impressions of human hands as one would expect.

These were distinctively of a creature previously unknown

to Hal. Four individual three foot appendages attached to a

hand the approximate palm size of the fourteen by twenty

shattered picture frame lying on the living room carpet.

He shuttered..”Impossible..It can’t be.”

The ends of the appendages were what can only be described

as talons. Two inch wide sickles rugged and serrated

the inside line of which appeared would tear like a rough

cut saw blade.

Hal realized these were the weapons used on the first

two victims. Victims now identified as Leroy Shepard and

Jason Blackwell..Both members of the band ‘MENACE’.

The third victim wasn’t carrying any identification.

Maybe it had been taken, or maybe he just didn’t carry

a wallet with him today.

It was concluded however the third victim’s body was

not that of one Herman Gilespie, the man the SWAT

operation was intended to apprehend.

Photos of Herman Gilespie proved him to be of far

slighter build than the two hundred fifty pound man

(not including his head) sitting at the breakfast table.

Process of elimination suggest the victim to be

Winston Mckeen the fourth member of the band.

Previous to Hal’s discovery of the strange prints left

over the living room walls, both he and Lieutenant

Harrington were leaning in the direction of a basic

prejudgment that Herman Gilespie committed the

murders in an attempt to silence loose ends.

Probably some time shortly after 10 AM when

results of the radio aired contaminated music began

hitting the news.

No murder weapons had been found however and

Lieutenant Harrington was somewhat hesitant to draw

concrete conclusions.

“It’s possible Gilespie wasn’t even present at the time

of the murders and his absence may have simply spared

him the same fate.”..

Hal had to admit looking at the 8×10 colored glossy promotion

photo of Gilespie it seemed improbable, perhaps even impossible

for the skinny framed speed freak to do this kind of damage

all by his lonesome.

He hadn’t ruled out the fact the three victims had been

converted to grinners however..Two smashed up Apple

Ipods with headphones were found and sealed in evidence

bags. The headless drummer might in fact still be wearing

his headphones with the Ipod neatly stuffed inside his mouth..

As with the kitchen butcher knives Hal kept having recurring

brain references to Thanksgiving Day turkeys.

If Gilespie had somehow managed to infect his companions

with the song and remain uninfected himself.

It could explain how he so conveniently got the drop on them.

Grinners were like cattle to the slaughter as long as pacified

by the continuous play of the music.

Hal’s theory didn’t explain how skinny little Herman could

have managed the enormous strength it would require to

crucify the one hundred seventy five pound Jason Blackwell

to the bathroom ceiling.

Standing in the living room trying to make some kind of

logic of his findings on the walls, he thought maybe

he was viewing evidence of what did.

Samantha De La Cruz was currently in communication with

division headquarters cooperating with the coordination

of another SWAT operation. A situation had developed

in the North Hollywood area and Lieutenant De La Cruz’s

team was ordered to conduct yet another mission.

She finished with headquarters and stepped through the

doorway of apartment 12 watching Hal as he stood

perplexed before the hand prints.

Her movement caught his attention and as he turned to

face her they both switched their radios to channel 5.

“Tell me your not considering this as an art form.”

She said pointing at the right wall.

He smiled..”No..But there is something here that

deserves contemplation.”

She considered this and raised her perfect brown

eyebrows.

“Are you leaving?” Hal asked.

She nodded..”North Hollywood..We’ve got another call.”

He felt a sense of panic tug at his gut and wondered if

the surface worry for her safety wasn’t a emotion rooted

deeper in his own self protection. An ingrained response

warning him that he was going to hurt bad if something

happened to her..

“What was it earlier about the guy in the bathroom you

wanted me to see?”

Her words brought his thoughts back to the present.

“Oh that..It was just a tattoo on his arm that spelt

MENACE..Linking him to the band is all.”

“How’s the investigation coming?”

“There are APB’s out on Gilespie now.” He said..

Samantha nodded and spoke.

” Probably not much chance he’s gotten far with the

airports closed and the freeways a mess.”

Hal shook his head..”That’s what worries me.”

The pretty eyebrows raised again.

Hal continued.” Two of the victims brought their own set

of wheels..The guy in the bathroom?..Name’s Blackwell.

We were able to contact Mister Blackwell’s girlfriend.

Turns out he’s a diehard biker..Got a fancy custom chopper

he takes everywhere he goes.

We found Mister Shepard’s keys on him and his firebird

it sitting outside on the street.”

Samantha finished for him..”So, where is Blackwell’s

fancy motorcycle?”

“That’s what worries me.” Hal nodded..”If I am Herman

Gilespie and I want to get out of town fast…

What better way through those freeways out there..”

“Then on a bike!”..She finished for him again..

Officer Silversmith appeared at the front door and Hal

held up three fingers..He and Samantha tuned to

Silversmith’s frequency.

“Lieutenant their looking for you outside.”

“Thanks Silversmith Samantha answered.” She switch

to 5 again and Hal followed..

“Got to go..I just wanted to wish you good

luck on the case.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Hal said..

She started to turn toward the door and Hal heard

himself speak..”Listen,..Sam…Would you do me

a favor?..I mean after the SWAT op is clear..

Could you patch over? Just let me know how

things went.”

She stopped and turned back to him.

“Why detective..Are you asking me to call you

and let you know I am ok?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes I am.”

She pushed the transmitter button.

“Tell you what..I’ll bet you dinner at my

place we both will be just fine at the

end of the day.”

Hal smiled..”That’s a bet I’d love to lose.”

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chapter 11

Brawley, California

3:00 PM

Nick took a frontage road off the 8 freeway as he

neared the city of El Centro. A farming community

serving the produce growers of California’s Imperial

Valley..He turned left and navigated a series of dirt

access roads working his way north to the cattle town

of Brawley where he’d pick up the head of highway

78 north. A two lane alternate route making it’s way

north east to Blythe where the 10 freeway intersected.

It was the town of Blythe where he planned to wait

for Michelle’s call.

Brawley appeared quiet as he rode through the

downtown sector. A combination of manure and

hay scent waft the air. The district maintained an old

school 1950’s atmosphere where one might still expect

department stores advertised as a five and dime.

The speed limit an excruciating twenty five miles per hour.

Cable strung stop lights with a red track mind left Nick

exposed and vulnerable.

After ten nerve racking minutes of stop and go he finally sat at the

head of 78 north waiting for the final light to turn green.

It was there, across the street, outside a rundown liquor store

he first saw the man.

Nick’s impulse was that of a solemn resolve.

A gut instinct unquestionably dictating to Nick’s soul the man

did not belong.

As if in direct defiance to Nick’s initial judgement the man

seemed as if he not only belonged, but ruled his surroundings.

The arms where stretched outward like the wings of a bird.

The wrists limp, the hands dangling.

In the left he held what appeared to be a bottle of Orange

Crush that swung against the rhythm of a dance.

A dance that reminded Nick of a waltz..

A waltz originating from a distant age created under

dark foreboding skies.

From an ancient time when Man was but a spice added to a

mixture of emerging concepts.

Light and Dark finding themselves inadvertently stirred

and mingled within the boundaries of a great cauldron.

Gasping and suffocating at the repulsive touch and stench

of the other with no escape.

Out of an intolerable disharmony the fabric of separation was born.

Lines drawn, sides chosen, legions formed, in symbolic denial

and rebellion against the truth of a great catastrophe.

Through the concept of elimination great weapons were

forged into the world.

Legions of the Dark awaited in bound cages their

rights of birth.

Unleashed upon the world by mechanism of a summons.

Enacted through the movements of a dance. Performed in

forbidden forests under dark reflected moonlight, to an

audience of yellow eyes.

And as he danced his surroundings grew.

Emanating from the ground he stood on.

Seeping low and outward in all directions like the shadow

of a cloud absorbing the streets and buildings

of the entire township and beyond.

Attached to the belt loop of a tan colored zoot suit

flashed a gold watch case suspended by a chain.

Nick couldn’t see the eyes.

A matching colored fedora was cocked and forward

leaving only a blissful smile to the imagination.

The light turned green and Nick crossed the intersection

drawing the attention of the man.

He dared not return the gaze but kept his eyes focused

down the road.

The blissful smile erupted into a gapping cheerful grin.

As if the sight of Nick brought to mind a sudden realization

of a deep dark secret known only to himself.

Nick felt the eyes bore deep into his back raising goose flesh

down his spine. The 78 mercifully bent itself around a swooping

left putting the man’s line of sight behind him.

Two miles down the road his heart rate slowed to normal.

To his left a dairy farm seemed to stretch for miles. Grazing

pastures lush with green mixed against plowed dirt fields

anticipating planting..

Like salt and pepper sprinkled across the land, black

and white Jerseys forged their way northward fronting

the roadway. It was a fun road to travel given to combinations

of short straightaways then left and right exchanges as the road

worked it’s way north then east then north again.

After navigating a particularly tight left Nick jammed down on

the breaks hard causing a slight fishtail from the rear end.

Cattle were in the roadway. A large break in the fencing exposed

their means of escape..Behind them a hundred Jerseys marched

in single file toward a common destination. To the north hundreds

more crowded the fence line their bodies rigid and alert as if

deciding where their rightful place stood in the ever growing

exit line.

Nick brought the bike to a standing halt. His jaw dropped,

eyes bulging in amazement and horror.

Dead cows were in the roadway..

Dropping stone dead as their hooves touched the black surface

of the tarmac. Piling on the shoulder ten feet wide…

The line of the dead slowly merging into the left lane as

those that came after staggered their way over fallen

brethren until they too became victims of the road.

The black and white barrier grew steady and thick reaching

the center yellow division strip of faded double lines

and spilling into the right lane.

Nick still had time to circumvent them on the right shoulder

but time was running out.

He leaned forward peering at the roadway seeking a device

crossing it that might explain the phenomenon..

He detected nothing but was gripped with fear of becoming a

victim himself once breaking the apparent invisible line.

The massacre continued relentless closing the gap.

He put the Harley in first and slipped the clutch crossing

the line at the extreme right shoulder.

As he did the cattle to the north stampeded the fence line.

Five hundred feet ahead of him they charged the fence

like a battering ram laying it to waste.

Gone were the docile brown eyes of submissive beasts

of burden. Replace instead by a malevolent rage of bloodlust.

They hurled through the mangled fence kicking and

screaming, snapping back their gum lines exposing perfect

rows of two inch square cap teeth.

Nick slammed the bike in second gear and the earth shook.

The rear tire bit and slipped against the bucking road bed.

A billowing curtain of cloudy dust rose up behind the stampede

catching the up draft of Santa Anna creating a wall of

storm..

Three hundred feet away he screamed “third!” catching

the upper gear gaining speed..

The road bucked again as inertia slammed the dead

against pavement sliding and building against the shoulder.

All eyes where trained on him now. Frenzied eyes that

glared determination.

The air filled with deafening thunder.

Charging hooves,breaking bones, snapping jaws, and

the barking exhaust of an accelerating Harley Softail.

Two hundred feet out the left lane was completely

covered. What had taken minutes for the cattle to

accomplish previously now had taken only a

few seconds.

He punched fourth gear as a cow plundered into the

right lane. A hundred feet to go and the gap was

there..So were the cows.

Charging over the fallen, it’s neck extended like a

race horse, the murderous right eye of the cow

knew it had him.

Nick slid against the gas tank and targeting the gap

then let go of the handle bars..

The cow launched it’s self into the air.

Nick laid his back down flat against the seat and

raised his left leg off the driving peg.

Turning it’s head in mid air the cow barred it’s teeth

to meet the on coming prey.

Locking his knee, raising his leg, like a lance his left boot crushed

through a mouth of gnashing teeth. It’s head

jerked left forcing the bike right.

Staring directly at the sky, Nick watched as the

massive head passed over him an inch above his

brow line crashing to the road a fraction behind the

rear fender.

Grabbing the bars he tore himself from the seat and leaned

left with all his might cutting diagonally across the lanes.

He shook his head up shifting to fifth cranking open the

throttle grip he burned down the roadway against a sand

storm sky.

4:00 PM

Michelle found conditions on the east 90 state highway only

slightly improved, but as the miles slowly gathered carrying her

farther from the center of Los Angeles air quality and visibility

began to improve.

She had just merged onto the 60 east in Riverside, a twenty

five mile stretch that would link her with Interstate 10 east

when she fell in behind a small group of motorcyclists ahead

of her. Mimicking their pathways through congestion and

accident scenes.

The ability to see obstructions farther ahead rewarded an

overall improvement in her state of mind. Now with the added

comfort knowing others such as her self were finding success

cautiously freeing themselves from the chaotic region.

She had been on the road for three and a half hours

covering a total distance of seventy five miles.

Fatigue had settled between her shoulder blades.She

needed water badly plus the slow progression had used

two thirds of the bike’s fuel.

Riverside was too dangerous to consider stopping. Soon

she would merge on the 10 east down the San Gorgonio

Pass to small desert towns where she would find a quiet

spot to fuel the bike and call her parents and Nick.

That goal still lay one hundred miles away.

The bikers ahead of her slowed abruptly swinging around

a bad accident. People were standing in the roadway and

as Michelle navigated a slow turn a man appeared clutching

and hurdling at her. His right leg was wounded and dragging

behind as he leapt trying to pull Michelle from the bike.

She ducked her head instinctively and the man’s out

stretched hands caught the dome of her helmet deflecting

his strength allowing her to speed passed.

It happened so fast she first thought a large bird had

mistakenly flown into her path. Not until she glanced in

the right side mirror seeing the man sprawled on the

roadway did she realize she’d been attacked.

In the moments following the incident she became

resolved. She wanted to be with Nick. She suddenly

realized getting to Nick was the driving force that had

given her the fierce determination to get through this

ordeal..She straightened her back releasing muscle

tensions and allowed her self the luxury of hope.

After all she’d been through this day and most certainly

the worst behind her she felt a new energy.

Even the ass hole on the hard tail custom chopper behind

her couldn’t intimidate her now..

He’d been dogging her tail for the last ten miles trying

to pass her. The close zigzag moves around traffic

and debris hadn’t allowed a passing opportunity and

with each mile the rider’s frustration was becoming

more aggressive.

Finally the road opened for a quarter mile and the

chopper blasted past. The rider’s left arm

extended flipping her the finger. The frame and

gas tank were a combination of air brushed

red and orange flames over a yellow base.

Raked forks, ape hanger handle bars, and bright

chrome engine casing. The rear tire wide

and thick like a hot rod roadster’s.

The extended appendage of the rider continued

waving like a flag as it barreled down the road

passing the other motorcyclists as well.

Michelle breathed relief as the fat oversized rear

tire disappeared from view..

“Nick” she whispered..”Soon I’ll be with Nick.”

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Chapter 10

Long Beach, California

Michelle calmed herself after the brief conversation with Nick

and prepared herself for the ride.

The medicine cabinet held a supply of cotton balls used

between her toes when applying nail polish.

She soaked two in water squeezing out the excess, and

applied the them as sound plugs putting extras in a plastic

baggy with water. They muffled noise considerably.

Selecting amber tinted riding glasses then packing dark

and clear also, she decided to wear a black spandex

head cover with the spectacle cutout usually employed

during cold weather conditions.

The nose and mouth protection would filter pollutants that

now lay thick in the air.

Lacing up her boots, zipping up her jacket, strapping down

her helmet, she left the condominium frightened, deaf,

and determined.

The 710 north out of Long Beach was grid lock.

Michelle wondered if she would be allowed to even

begin her journey.

A semi truck and trailer was overturned two miles up the

freeway spread across the traffic lanes.

She could hear the muffled sounds of music blaring as

she snaked up the right shoulder of the road, cutting

between lanes of stacked vehicles slowly working her

way along the blacktop.

The music seemed to be of the same song, seeping the

moist cotton balls.

The same song at different parts and volumes as she

slink by one vehicle after another.

Shifting her weight side to side working the throttle

slightly back and forth, up shifting for a moment then

down shifting, breaking, constantly slaloming, reminding

her of Aspen, pristine snow fall, down hill skiing, and the

day’s of her youth..

Days that now seemed as questionable as a dream. A

distance and time so removed from her current situation

as to make them illusions created by a terrified mind

desperately seeking escape from a copeless state.

Her eyes watered and stung adding additional elements to

the obstacles emerging out of twenty yard visibility.

Presenting each passing moment with split second decision.

The riding glasses quickly collecting sticky soot and grime

distorting her vision further.

There was no quarter save perfect response to each situation.

Metal debris, broken glass, vehicles tipped over, vehicles on

fire, screaming wounded, panicked pedestrians, congers of

malice, and the silence of death.

Rampant brawls between commuters sometimes taking place

inside cars, but more often outside between the lanes causing

Michelle to swing hard left or right avoiding them.

The semi crash site lay in chaos. Emergency flair tubes lined

the roadway forming a halo of wishful thinking against

smothering layers of atmosphere.

Michelle’s wits had found their end. Entombed and suffocating

in a world vaguely resembling her own. As if she’d passed

on and existed in a parallel purgatory of shadow land.

A place where all things manifest a half life of decay.

A military helicopter hovered fifty feet above the crash like

a giant bellowing mantas..It’s crew shouted warnings through

bell horns sounding like threats.

“Freeway is closed!…Freeway is closed!”..”Remain in your

vehicles!”..Freeway is closed!”

“Don’t stop..Don’t stop for anything!” Nick’s words filled her

head and she bore down..

With no more than three feet between the semi’s cab bumper

and a cement median guardrail on the right shoulder..

Lowering her body between the handle bars, squeezing her knees

against the gas tank, no vision beyond her current place and

time.. Michelle opened the throttle hearing her self scream as the

bike slipped the narrow gap.

The road opened on a stiff Santa Anna breeze.

She filled her lungs with the diluted mix, gripped the bars

and held on.

Imperial County, California

2:00 PM

Nick spread a paper map over the seat of his old

Harley Softail in the dirt parking area of the Desert

View Tower.

A landmark perched three thousand feet atop the

Jacumba Mountains resting at the San Diego/Imperial

County line. Built in the 1920’s using the area’s

abundant native rock, the seventy foot four floor

monument looks much like a displaced lighthouse. To

the east the I-8 highway tumbled and slithered it’s way

down the mountains coming to rest then stretching out

again over the Anza Borrego Desert below.

He thought of Michelle and felt a pang of quilt. The ride

out of San Diego had been uneventful. Once clearing the

major metropolis prevailing east to west winds brought

with them bright skies and fresh air.

The only hitch was a forty five minute wait at the U.S.

Border Patrol check point five miles east of the small

town of Jacumba.

Stationed first two miles, then one mile, a quarter mile

from it’s approach portables flashed warnings in bright red

LED display.

Turn of radios…Silent approach…Offenders subject to arrest.

Traffic was reduced to a crawl. Armed National Guard troops

with closed circuit radios scanned vehicles.

At the check point traffic was stopped, questioned and searched,

Nick included. He cringed at having to remove the ear plugs

but viewed the risk as minimal. The interfacing Border Patrol

Officers were not wearing sound protection. National Guard

troops were however and they framed the vehicles being processed.

Nick was ordered to produce license and registration, answer

questions regarding his citizenship, where he lived, where

he was traveling to.

“Spires of the Moon” Nick advised.

It is a remote area in Idaho where a meteorite touched down

a long time ago. Nick used it figuring the authorities would be

confronting commuters destined for populations such as

Los Vegas, Phoenix, or even El Centro a half hour east.

The Border Patrol Officer cocked his head looking at Nick

for a sign of sarcasm. He didn’t see any.

Handing back his identification the agent advised.

“Stay on the freeway. Do not attempt to transverse any

inner cities..There are patrolled fueling stations ahead..

You will see signs on the road pointing them out.”

Nick picked the man’s brain learning the west bound side

of the freeway was in the process of shutting down.

An effort to quarantine the greater San Diego area.

He asked the officer if he’d heard any new information

out of the L.A. area.

The officer shook his head. “You don’t want to go there.”

Nick pushed back. “I have a friend trying to get clear of

L.A. east bound on the 10.”

The Border Patrolmen smiled and jerked a thumb at his

own back. “Your friend has one of those jet packs, right?”

“Fuck it” Nick mumbled and slipped the sound plugs back in his ears.”

“Tell you one thing.” The agent yelled..”This gets any

worse I might see you out there at that Spires of the

Moon!”

Nick nodded not really hearing the man while strapping

on his helmet. He pulled the clutch pushing the

shift lever down with his left boot toe engaging first gear.

A single through lane merged with the double lane freeway.

On both sides of the road was a large graded lot containing

dozens of confiscated vehicles. Most all showing signs of violence.

Flattened tires, broken windows, bent and twisted bodies…

“Californians don’t like to give up their cars..” he thought

twisting open the throttle.

Los Angeles, California

Detective Pigg stood at the entry of apartment 12 gazing

at a thrashed living room..”Godzilla’s been here” he mumbled.

If he’d known then just how close to the truth his first inkling had

been he might have turned around, before it was too late,

and simply gone home.

Samantha waited quietly in the middle of the room arms folded

taking in Hal’s reaction.

The front entry was swung half open due to misalignment

of a new door stop.

The final resting place of victim number 1 wedged between

the door and the inner wall it normally flushed against.

The face was that of a young man in his early twenties.

The shredded back of his charcoal gray dress shirt matched the

harrowed flesh that lay beneath it like a tailored suit.

It appeared to Hal the wounds were the result of extreme

masochism or extreme sadism.

The only logical conclusion in favor of masochism would be

the man lay down directly in the path of a rotatiller.

Bloodied wood chips embedded under the fingernails of

his clutched hands seemed to match claw marks on the

inside of the door.

“This fellah wasn’t putting up a fight..Just trying get away

from whom ever killed him.”

“There’s another one in there.” Samantha pointed to the

bathroom.

Victim number 2 was an older man..Maybe forty. Long

silver hair and a goatee. Lean and muscular in a sinewy

way. Like victim number 1 he too was face down, however

uniquely suspended from the bathroom ceiling.

Staked at the wrists and feet. Anchored to the 2×4 studs

hidden above flimsy rotting wall board by sunk to the hilt

common kitchen knives.

The kind family and friends use to carve the Thanksgiving

turkey or Christmas ham.

Unlike festive individuals gorging themselves on tradional

trimmings such as mashed potatoes and gravy, whole cranberry

sauce, or pumpkin pie requiring a deliberate uncinching

and extension of belt sizes, victim number 2 was in the

process of losing weight.

His large intestine hung two feet below a gaping jagged

wound torn from scrotum to breast plate.

Stepping closer Hal made a mental note. The knives

employed were not the murder weapons. Even the

dullest edge couldn’t possibly have created the ripping

two inch wide channel the man’s inner’s spilled through.

The murder weapon was the same instrument used on

the first victim near the front door.

“Did you see this?” Hal said turning to Samantha.

She had remained with her back to the doorway.

“What?” Her voice was low and her eyes showed a

helplessness.

“Are you alright?”

“Maybe you were right Hal..Maybe I should have

waited outside.”

“Listen.” His voice quiet and soothing..”I’ve been

around you know?”..Her eyes brightened a bit

drawing Hal’s reference to her own words..

“I’ve seen it all, but this…..This is just plain

spooky.”

She nodded turning toward the bathroom.

“Did I see what?”

He reached and gently touched her arm.

“No. You don’t need to look at it..I can tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“First, where is the other victim?”

She whispered, “in the kitchen.”

“Thanks. Why don’t you step outside and get

some air?…I can handle this.”

She smiled..”You want me to go outside and

take a couple of deep breaths of that crap?”

“Well,..you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean..I was thinking

about ordering in some coffee, you want some?”

He nodded, “Actually coffee sounds great lieutenant.”

She nodded turning back to him. “Detective.”..

His eyebrows raised waiting for her.

“We’re still on channel 5…You can call me Sam.”

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Chapter 9

San Diego, California

Nick flipped closed the silver face plate of the tiny cell phone.

His emotions were mixed. Grateful he knew Michelle was alright.

Worried about her chances of getting free of the Los Angeles area..

Seventy five miles of bedlam lay between Long Beach and

Riverside.

Once there she could pick up the I-10 east leading her to what he

hoped would be safety.

Her bike worked in her favor. Although the 07′ Dyna Glide Custom

didn’t have the same advantage of Sportster agility.

The coil over rear suspension beat the hell out of Nicks 02′

Softail Heritage Classic which rolled fat like a buick in comparison.

Adding to the equation the additional power of the 96 cubic inch Evolution Big Twin,

Michelle’s bike gave her a better than average chance..

Buck had called him from the studio around 10am.Wondering where he was.

He apologized, saying he’d had a rough night..

They all had keys, they could start without him.

While speaking with Buck the residue of the dream still haunted him.

Leaving him shaken and washed out. Nagging. Refusing to leave.

He advised Buck he’d get up there by noon and apologized again.

After hanging up he decided to take some time..

He had showered before Buck’s call but also wanted to shave.

The apartment felt quiet and sober..

He decided to turn on the tv set and add some ambient noise..

That was approximately 10:30 am..

Now It was almost noon.

Police and fire engine sirens wailed consistently out side the apartment.

Helicopers thumped overhead accompanied by loud speaker warnings.

“This is the San Diego County Sheriff Department.

Police action in progress…Stay in your homes.”

The skyline was muddy and filled with the stench of fire.

Pillars of thick black smoke appeared in every direction Nick could see from

the balcony of the apartment.

Standing

 in the center of the apartment..Dressed, helmet in hand, ready to roll.

Checking the tv for any last minute updates..Shrewish thoughts surfaced.

What other choices did Michelle have?..L.A.X and a flight out? Not possible.The FAA had already temporarily grounded flights in and out of the entire Southern

California region.

Even if they hadn’t. How safe could she possibily be mixed within the masses

of a busy airport?

Stay home?

The official request of the Los Angeles police Department was exactly

that.

“If your at work stay at work. If your at home stay at home.”

Had his own advice added a fuel of panic tipping Michelle’s decision to flee the

area? Had his concern for her safety inadvertently put her in more jeopardy?

His own decision to leave the San Diego area was based on the logic that

in any given population the ratio of police officer to citizen was approximately

1 in 300…

Under normal conditions that ratio was sufficient to maintain society’s expectation

of law and order.

What Nick saw taking place here in San Diego. A hundred and fifty miles from

the center of Los Angeles. Was a huge shift against authority’s response time

if an individual was in peril.

How much greater the lag in response time would Michelle suffer at her Long Beach

location less than fifty miles from the epicenter?

Nick’s decision to advise Michelle as he had done was based on gut feeling and the

little known facts he had available to him at the time. In his heart and mind he firmly

believed t

here was no safety for her to be found in the L.A. region.But what if he was wrong?

After speaking with Michelle he had called the studio back.

He spoke with Toby, then Mac, and Buck..

Passing them the information he’d learned from the news casts.

The general consensus was the three men would stay hold up

there at the studio..

It seemed the safest alternative apposed to venturing back

into San Diego..Nick agreed..

He saved mentioning Michelle and his plans to meet her

until he spoke with Buck..

He knew the idea was risky, and his life was in danger.

He knew the boys would try to talk him down.

Advise him to join them and wait things out.

Buck didn’t try. He asked if Nick was bringing her back

with him to the studio.

Nick had no answers. His only concern was she get out

of the L.A. region..After that she would be deciding her own

course of action..

Once he was certain the men understood the danger

of listening to any music at this time he hung up..

He placed little foam ear plugs in both ears..

They were lying around the apartment and at the studio.

Used as a tool when recording vocals..

It was necessary to plug one ear when singing into pre recorded

playback.. A means to hear both the music and the vocalists

pitch at the same time.

He strapped on the helmet then opened the front door

scanning the immediate area..

It looked clear.

He locked the apartment and sprinted to the Softail.

Firing it up and rolling out cold.

Ashlee’s death had been an accident..

They had been in love and she was ripped from him in a moment.

Suddenly. No early warning. Gone.

She simply was in the act of driving a car..

Her make up bag had slipped off the the passenger seat..

Lying on the floor board.

It would only take a second..to retrieve it..

And she wanted to look nice for Nick when she met him.

Unbuckling the seat belt. Steering with her left.

Reaching with her right and down…

Pulling her head an instant below the dashboard.

When she looked up, clutching the make up bag, her

life was over.

Two years and one month had passed. Seven hundred and sixty days..

Until last night, when he first lay eyes on Michelle,

Nick had felt exactly the same as day one.

Los Angeles, California

1:pm

The sky rained black ash. The atmosphere thick and settling like hot fog. Close

and stifling as oil fires and smog collaborated changing oxygen to oxalic acid.

North Stanley Street in South Central Los Angeles looked much as it did on any given day.

Tan colored mock adobe homes with black rusting security bars.

Traditional wood sided structures, asphalt rolled or shingle roofed.

Intermixed with twelve unit apartments stuccoed in steel blue.

Laundry hung on back yard clothes lines, or drying over balcony

balustrades of rod iron fencing.

Scorched brown Bermuda braced another day of drought.

The littered curbs and vacant lots played host to blowing debris in the mild Santa Anna wind.

As if a overloaded sanitation truck had barreled past throwing it’s candy in a parade.

A mail man appeared out of the haze making his way down the block.C

lad in blue short sleeves and shorts. The kind with wide pinstripes on the sides.

Detective Hal Pigg rolled to a stop finding an open spot against a low curb of faded red

paint..

A yellow fire hydrant mounted to the weed infested sidewalk framed itself in the

cruiser’s passenger side window..

The location was acceptable.

Far enough south of the suspect’s address to remain unnoticed.

He removed an L.A. Dodgers cap adjusting the tight fitting wireless radio headset.

Reminding him of the first time his parents forced him to wear a tie.

The right side speaker on the headset was all but useless.

Along with the wireless issued to all field officers as of 11:am this morning was a package

of wax ear plugs for the right ear as an added precaution.

He slipped a flat black SWAT issue combat helmet off the passenger seat and strapped it on.

Pressing a tiny button embedded at the base of the stemmed microphone he checked in.

….”83…(officer I.D.#)…..10-97… (arrived at scene)…..10-4?” (copy)

Dispatch confirmed the officer’s I.D. by the last two digits of his badge number.

“83,..10-4.”

Officer Hal Pigg..The surname was not the mistaken type ‘O’ of a less than meticulous

fiction writer.

Nor the delusional trappings of a self inflated mistaken sense of humor

conceived in the dark passages of a cynical mind.

Hal Pigg was simply, Hal Pigg..He had been Hal Pigg since the day be was born..

There was nothing to be done..

He had no control over the derivatives of linguistics as they pertain to the English Language.

No say so in the philology of alphabetical concepts that were long ago pieced together

forming ideas and values handed down from generation to generation by the ancient

tradition of Grandfather to Father,..Father to Son.

He had been Hal Pigg since the pungent mixture of dirt playgrounds, bloody noses, skinned

knees, and swollen knuckles became a daily conditioning of his young life.

And he had remained true to his Father and his Father’s Father through out the years of

puberty and adulthood despite the giggling groups of high school girls and embarrassed

college professors caught snickering behind his back.

He turned his attention to the fire hydrant.

Seeing through the drip dried dog piss stains that coated it.

Beneath the human territorial markings expressed through ‘gangster red’ graffiti lingo.

Hal pulled a little back notebook from the glove box noting the street location of the

hydrant.

South Central had been his beat..Back a few years when he had still been a patrol officer.

It had been his commitment for over a year now.

During his time off duty.

Repainting defaced fire hydrants through out his old patrol area.

What he saw behind the ugliness of disrespect.

Below the chipped and tattered fading yellow paint.

Was something worth honoring.

Standing strong and at ready.

Created by man to help make the world a better place.

The mail carrier was infected. Hal punched the transmit button again watching

the habits of the grinner.

As he did another cruiser pulled over shimmering ’s like a mirage at the far north end of the

street.

It was lieutenant Harrington’s unmarked car.

” 83..Advise 10-66 (suspicious person)..One..White..Male..Postal carrier…2229 North

Stanley Street..10-4″

Dispatch paused them came back..” 83,..surveillance is in progress, 10-4?”

“10-4.”

Headquarters was aware of it..The post office was officially closed.

Surveillance choppers had been especially active overhead in this area.

A prelude to the code 11 (SWAT call up) about to be carried out.

They didn’t want to move on Mister short pants and blow the SWAT’s cover.

Hal gave lieutenant Harrington time to advise dispatch his position.

Then switch the radio channel to number 2..synchronizing the lieutenant’s

radio with his own..

The mail carrier’s persevering determination was commendable.

Pulling the correct order of rubber banded materials from his large tan leather pouch.

Sorting and double checking the address numbers posted on the exterior of the homes.

He simply laid the mail on the front lawns of the appropriate residences.

“That’s rich”..Hal murmured..”Close buddy but no cigar.”

Harrington’s voice cracked in Hal’s left ear.” 83, 74, 87, code 12..(swat in progress)..stand by.”

SWAT was positioned somewhere behind the perk’s apartment building

on the block directly east of Hal’s right side.

Hal, Lieutenant Harrington, and two other officers of L.A.’s Special Operations Bureau

were to converge at the front of the complex thwarting any frontal escape route.

Lieutenant Harrington was in command of platoon B. The platoon Hal and officers 74, and 87 were also teamed.

The Special Weapons And Tactics platoon D, currently storming the apartment complex,

was commanded by Lieutenant Samatha De La Cruz.

The radio hissed again..

” 74, and 87.. 10-88 (assume post)..83 stand by 10-4?”…

“83,..10-4.”

A moment later two silent black and whites sped passed Hal

with Christmas trees blazing..They wedged a Vee at the front of the apartment building..

“83, 10-88, 10-4?”

“83, 10-4.”

Hal hit the overhead light rack and floored it..

Harrington’s car duplicated Hal’s action..

They slid up taking outside positions of the first cars fatting the Vee formation.

The first two officers had already swung their doors and crouched behind them

leveling their Glock 17 sidearms at the front entry of the complex.

The familiar chop, chop, chop of an approaching police helicopter was faintly heard

by Hal and the other officers.

It broke into view seconds later making uninterrupted circles over the area.

Hal saw it propel the sky like stirred soup grabbing his Remington M870 12 gauge shotgun

while

exiting the cruiser.

Wedging the stock end to the street and the barrel against the arm rest

mounted to the driver door.

He flip the holster strap guard pulling his side arm.

Holding the weapon with both hands he extended his arms between the slopping

window frame and side body of the car.

The risk of contamination brought with it a unique protocol.

Working in a state of deafness Hal and platoon B were not able to

hear what was taking place inside the building as the operation proceeded..

The SWAT team themselves couldn’t hear what was going on inside

the building.

Losing the sense of sound put the police at a great disadvantage.

Making the operation considerably more dangerous than it would already

have been with all five senses working in their favor.

Hal kept track of the passage of time by noting the

approximate one minute lap cycle of the blue and white Jet Ranger police chopper.

It was on it’s sixth loop when Hal glimpsed three more police cars

arrive converging on the mail carrier down the block..

The SWAT operation was performed with a minimal of back up..

A indication of just how thin stretched the force had become amid

the pandemonium of the day.

As commander of platoon B, Harrington alone was instructed to flip

his radio receiver to channel 3..The channel the SWAT team was

using to communicate between themselves.

He needed to be kept informed in the event platoon D needed to

pass him quick updated information.

The copper looped around three more times before

Hal’s headset buzzed and Harrington’s voice punched through.

“83, 74, 87, Code.12…10-26..(clear)…10-4?”

Hal pushed the transmit..”83, 10-4.”

There was a short pause..Then the voice returned.

“They found three cold bodies up there.”

“Copy that Lieutenant”, Hal acknowledged.

“Detective…I am going to need you in with me on this one.”

“Yes sir.”

“I am putting you on point..Your to report directly to me.”

“Yes sir.”

Harrington then addressed officers 74 (Larry Carson), and 87 (Gilbert Silversmith)

both ranking Police Officers lll.

“Carson, Siversmith, good job guys..I’d like you both to assist across the street

if needed.” Harrington indicated the two officers who now had the mock mail man

spread eagle on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back..

They worked carefully duck taping the man’s headphone set like a silver sweat band

around his head, securing it.

Harrington continued, “Make sure that music player keeps working. They’re manageable

as long as that shit keeps pumping through their system.”

Officer Silversmith tapped his transmitter..”I think that’s Robertson and Wagner sir..

Out of Hollenbeck Division..Their radio’s aren’t going to sync up with Metro’s sir..”

Harrington frowned, then nodded in agreement..”Use sign language..Light a

fire and try smoke signals Silversmith..Do what you need to do..It’s just one of

those days.”

“Yes sir.”

Harrington added, “When your finished there, Carson…Silversmith? I want you back over

here assisting Detective Pigg..

The Detective will be assuming command of the investigation..

Keep residents clear of apartment 12, and civilians clear out front..Forensics, Coroner’s

office, meat wagon…Keep everyone out of their face.”

Platoon D was beginning to emerge through the front of the apartment building..

Lieutenant De La Cruz appeared like a shadow from the shaded front entry.

Black on black attire..She was deep in conversation with Metropolitan Division

Special Operations Bureau with step by step accounting of the operation and

its conclusions. Her MP5 submachine gun and fixed Surefire Flashlight strapped

over her right shoulder..

Harrington held up three fingers and both he and Hal switched radio signals to

channel 3.

SWAT officers were taking strategic perimeter points protecting the integrity

of the crime scene.

The two men approached Lieutenant De La Cruz at the same time providing

her a respectful distance as she spat codes into her microphone.

Her complexion was that of milk chocolate. Hal had decided she was a

Milky Way bar in disguise..Long wavy raven colored hair was drawn up

in a tight swirl hidden under her combat helmet.

He felt self conscious standing there waiting..Partly because he wanted to

get inside the apartment and begin his investigation, and partly because he

felt uncomfortable by the fact he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

He knew her of course and she him professionally.

They both worked in the Metropolitan Division and were both assigned

to the Bureau..

It was not unusual for them both to be in attendance at conferences

and department meetings. Sometimes with her sitting next to him.

He always when away from those meetings feeling the same way.

The way he felt right now.

Finished for the moment with headquarters she turned toward Harrington

and confirmed the channel with three fingers. Harrington nodded and she

switched over..

Harrington pushed his transmitter first. “Lieutenant De La Cruz I believe

you and Detective Pigg know each other, am I right?”

She smiled and touched her transmitter. “Yes, how are you Detective?”

Hal nodded, as Harrington spoke. “Detective Pigg is going to handle the

investigation Lieutenant..”

“Oh yes?” She nodded.

Harrington continued, “I am going to confirm it with the Bureau, but I wanted

to give you a heads up Lieutenant in case you noticed anything while you

were up there..Anything you’d like to pass on.”

She nodded..”Well, it’s a mess up there Lieutenant Harrington as I am

sure you will agree once you see it.”

She paused shaking her head. Then continued speaking directly to Hal.

“I’ve been around you know? I’ve seen it all, but this..There are three

dead men up there that look like somebody used them to paint the walls.”

Harrington punched in again. “Wow..Just what we need today..Crazy music

and now a mass murder..I am switching over to 1. I’ve got to touch base..

Lieutenant, good job today.”

“You also Lieutenant..I am afraid this day is just beginning however.”

Harrington nodded then turned his attention to Hal.

“Go ahead on up Hal..I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Yes sir.” Hal returned.

Harrington descended the front entry way and made his way to his car.

Hal turned and watched him out of respect for the man.

The cruisers across the street were just pulling out with the grinning mail man.

Carson and Silversmith were stopping sparse traffic and sternly advising

occupants to go home.

Hal turned back and Lieutenant De La Cruz was looking directly at him.

For a moment he lost himself in her dark eyes.

When he blinked he noticed she held up five fingers..

He started to push his transmitter to tell her he didn’t understand.

Before he could she motioned to her radio and then to his.

Slowly as if instructing she advanced her channel selection to 5.

He nodded and did the same.

“Are you ready for this?” she said indicating the apartments.

He nodded then realized the SWAT team wasn’t hearing this conversation.

“That was a neat trick.”

She smiled and the dark mysterious eyes smiled also.

“I have my moments…Some day huh?”

“Yeah”, he said…”This crazy headphone set is making my head itch!”

She laughed, “Your too?..I thought it was only me!”

He wanted to tell her he’d be happy to massage her scalp for her later, but

almost choked on the thought amazed how quickly it popped into his mind.

Instead he said something else that made him red in the face.W

ishing he could suck it back like a breath.

“Your very brave,…Lieutenant.”

“Yes I am Detective” She sounded professional..Matter of fact.

But Hal saw something hidden behind the tone of voice.

Something that softened in her eyes and a slight smile that produced a dimple

on the right corner of her mouth.

“Well Detective if your ready I’ll show you the apartment.”

“I don’t want you to have to go back in there.”..He felt like a teenager..

She looked at Hal thinking to herself that this man was different.

Despite the heat and horrific conditions of the world around him.

Knowing what lay wating for him in apartment 12.

His first concern was for her safety..

Not just from the possiblilty of a crazed apartment resident suddenly

snapping and lashing out in fear and rage. Or of a certain suspect that may

have evaded the teams inital passing..A suspect hidden in the shadows

with bulging eyes and breathing fear. Waiting..

But it was more the concern he was showing her for the safety of her mind.

An attempt to spare her another trip into the all too hellish reality of a

human being gone horribly wrong.

“You will be there” she said…”You will be there if I need you.”

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chapter 8

Atlanta, Georgia

Sal Fox crouched against the wall just outside the door of Julie Westgrove’s office.

Clutching the pink waste basket like a security blanket.

The unusual silence that had raised his curiosity earlier was now replaced.

A constant buzzing of office phones ringing unanswered.

The hall on the 23rd floor remained empty..

He had persisted leaning against the hallway for some time.

Holding back for the nausea to subside, and his strength to return..

The ceiling shook twice while he waited..The result of something

heavy finding the carpet on the floor immediately above him.

There were muffled cries and screams. Sal couldn’t pin point their exact location..

He checked his watch the time was 2:55 pm.

Fourteen minutes had passed since he first entered Julie Westgrove’s office..

Fourteen minutes and what felt like fifteen years.

He needed to stand up. Fight off the sickness and wobble in his legs.

He sensed that what had occurred in the office behind him had duplicated

in offices through out the 23rd floor..

Everyone except himself had been audio-intimate with the new single

“King of the World.”

Something unthinkable had gone wrong in the minds of those who’d listened to it..

“What have we done?”..

His eyes burned with the sweat of tears.

His mind bearing witness the events leading up to this moment..

The skyrocketing internet sales..”How many are infected now?”..

The scheduled radio broadcast release of the single in Los Angeles through a popular AM

rock station. Corporate owned and operated by Universal Music..

“That was 10 am Los Angeles time”…

Quickly computing the 3 hours time difference it would be almost Noon in Los Angeles now..

He set the waste pale on the carpet between his feet..

Forcing his palms against the wall he slid up using the strength in his

arms and legs..

“There still might be time.”..If he could get to his office and call the radio station.

Often the scheduled time of air play was postponed due to complications..

It could be any little glitch causing a scheduled format to change..

A technical problem with equipment..

A hung over radio producer simply behind in their work load for that day.

Or a missed cue..

An unnoticed new slot to be filled in the song rotation..

His head swung suddenly left..

An office door opened down the hall five doors from his own on the opposite side of the hallway.

Sal shook and sucked down a deep breath.

For a moment, nothing.

Then slowly, meticulously a man emerged walking backwards into the hall.

Stereo headphones framed the man’s pale balding skull.

A quarter harvest moon of fuzzy beard circled the lower jaw line.

Sal recognized the man immediately.

It was Carl Medford..

A senior account representative who’d been passed over for promotion.

Carl was of the opinion Sal now occupied his chair and his rightly deserved office space.

The grudge was fresh. Sitting on his shoulder spitting venom since Carl arrived at work

today learning of the news.

Sal watched as Carl methodically unrolled a 25 foot wire extension cable plugged into the

headset’s 3 foot original equipment.

Robotically dropping the cable a foot at a time increasing his distance from the office he

appeared from.

Carl’s intended destination lay directly across the hall.

A large brown door with a big blue plastic ‘men’s room’ identifier bolted to the face.

His expression was one of self accomplishment.

Like the triumph of a disability overcome.

He had ingeniously devised a method to an end.

Resolving a desire in meeting a dual purpose.

He needed to take a shit. And needed to hear ‘King of the world’ while doing it..

It wasn’t that listening to ‘King of the World’ made Carl a happier fella.

He simply could not live without it.

The throbbing bass lines and back beat of percussion did not fill his blood

with a rhythmic sense of celebration.

A closer definition might in fact be the combination of music and lyrics

pounding through his eardrums was in the process of…subtraction.

Sucking, and feeding..Taking what had been the totality of Carl Medford at

the beginning of the day, and drinking it down into a void.

A void of blackness that’s sole purpose was an attempt to fill a space

that could not be filled.

A boundless, fathomless space that held no properties established within a world of matter.

Even the cold dark forbidding aspects of the universe know as ‘black holes’ were

somehow tame in comparison.

For they at least were explainable..Knowable. Kin to the fabric of a logical place and time.

Gravity existed there.

Sal stood perfectly still.

Willing his body to meld with the hallway.

Hoping to escape unnoticed by way of Carl’s engrossment of deliberateness.

No such luck..

As Carl turned to confirm his distance from the men’s room doorway

his eyes spat a silver flash taking in Sal pinned against the wall.

He wore the same identical grin Sal had seen on Shari Galloway’s face.

“Maybe they should date,” his mind interjected in an effort to maintain a footing in sanity.

And in that moment his mind followed with a reflection of a semblance..

It suddenly occurred to Sal what the grinning jowls and vacant eyes of both Shari and Carl

had in common..

They were the faces of starving wolves.

For a moment that seemed an hour, the two men stared.

Then slowly, seductively, Carl’s grin widened..

Sal could not ascertain recognition in those eyes.

He was absolutely certain Carl had no idea who Sal was.

He was also absolutely certain Carl didn’t care.

The loping grin froze.

A single index finger protruded from Carl’s right fist.

A fist that slowly rose..

The finger kissed his lips then descended pointing directly at the cable snaked before him

on the floor.

Carl’s head began to swing side to side as did the index finger keeping time.

Sal got the message loud and clear.

It made him recall his 3rd grade elementary school teacher.

Miss Eagelman..An elderly spinster..Scrawny and lanky with short blue hair cut like a man’s.

Ichabod Crane in drag..

Her adam’s apple curtsied when she spoke and the skin around her neck reminded

Sal of a turkey.

“Do not touch!”…Her long index finger wagged like a dog inches from his face, attached to a

fist of lumpy red rolling knuckles.

Sal didn’t realize until Carl had finished his Miss Eagelman impersonation that

his own head was mimicking Carl’s robotic side to side motion..

Seeming satisfied, Carl returned his attention to the cable. Resuming his backward

trek pushing through the restroom door.

Sal inched along the wall closing the gap between himself and the door to his office.

Slipping inside he closed the door quietly behind him.

Damning the office door for no locking device, he slid the computer chair under the

door nob jamming it like he’d seen done in the movies.

The closed quarters helped muffle the constant ringing of phones in neighboring offices.

Squatting at the desk he moved the computer mouse disabling the screen saver.

Sales for ‘King of the World’ had continued to climb to over 700,000. but now the

screen seemed frozen..No new numbers were being posted.

Sal clicked the browser refresh thinking it to be the problem.

Instead of the page returning, a new page flashed up on the monitor.

‘Error 504..Gateway Timeout‘…Please contact the administrator..

It seemed the site was currently offline.

He picked up the desk phone and punched through five lit lines routed to his office.

There was no one holding on any of them.

He speed dialed the Los Angeles radio station in hopes of cancelling the release

of ‘King of the World’.

The number wasn’t busy..Like the office phones here at Universal the line rang, and rang.

He hung up and picked up again.

This time he dialed 911.

San Diego, California

Ed Hoffman had an advantage.

The 19 inch Zenith portable color television perched a top

two metal gray filing cabinets probably saved his life.

It was his custom to flick it on daily catching the mid morning news.

The Zenith was a trooper..It hadn’t failed him in over twelve years.

Sal Fox hadn’t mentioned the MENACE single promotion kicking off in Los Angeles.

Ed had to hear it for himself via a special news report breaking just as Fanny Sutherland

of Omaha was preparing to spin the wheel on ‘Price Is Right’.

The first initial report came over about 10:40 am. Preliminary reports were sketchy and

emotional.

It wasn’t until almost 11:45 am..After a series of live updates..The determining cause of the

chaos linked to a kind of hypnosis..An embedded subconscious suggestion contained in the

music of a band called MENACE.

It took another five minutes or so to dawn on Ed his secretary didn’t have the same

advantage.

By that time it was almost noon.

Lunch time..

Margie wasn’t hungry though.

She’d been listening to ‘King of the World’ for over an hour.

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chapter 7

 Long beach, California

11: am

Michelle putterer about her condo sipping on coffee and hand watering the indoor plants

that created a microcosm liking to a South American rain forest.

“Good morning Mister Fernster”…she said in a low soft voice..The big bushy Boston variety

graced the condo bay window..

Her stereo kept busy kicking

Nick’s vocals just over INTENT’s backdrop of drums, guitars, and bass.

She had put their first album on the cd player earlier and was listening to it for the second time today..

A soft smile accompanied her as she turned her attention to the acacia palms framing the Boston fern above them.

Her favorite piece of furniture, a big fluffy oversized lounging chair, still held her helmet and leather jacket where she’d laid them last night after returning home.

She giggled to herself, “He sounds like Bruce Springsteen.”…

“I like Bruce Springsteen” she told the glossy green palms watching them drink up their breakfast..

She frowned remembering Jackie hadn’t called and left a message as promised..

Jackie was suppose to confirm the wedding gig this Sunday. If it was a go.

Jackie Thornson had formed the all women rock band three years ago and Michelle was

currently the fifth keyboardist to join.

A high turn over was the nature of bands and a constant headache for band managers.

Finding 

work was difficult enough.

Worrying whether every member would show up or not was the other half of it.

Jackie had named the music group “Girls Night Out.”

They did covers of mainstream top 40 rock bands starting in the 80’s to present.

Jackie and Michelle shared lead vocals depending on the current song being performed.

Jackie’s voice covered the ranges for singers such as Pat Benetar, Grace Slick, Chrissy

Hynde, Reba Mc Entire.

Michelle’s suited voices such as Madonna, Stevei Nicks, Jewel, Cyndi Lauper.

They had built up a versatile repertoire of almost 200 songs, including dance, rock, country, and punk genders.

Michelle enjoyed it. It was a fun band. The fact it was an all woman group was a blessing.

She had almost given up her music ambition after a year of dealing with egos,

expectations, demands, promises, and ugly rage.

More often than not her music contribution was secondary agenda when

offered a position as a member of a predominately male band.

The memory of the last band she had associated, and her narrow escape caused her to pause.

She sat down on the eight foot couch, a matching component to the big easy chair..

Taking in her surroundings.

The condo, furnishings, her late model Toyota economy car, monthly monetary needs, all taken care of by her parents.

It was on one hand, a means to an end..Without their support she realized her life would be

like many in the pursuit of a career in art, very difficult..

All the traditional warnings were true..

Michelle also realized her acceptance of the parental gifts was love returned

in the form of her Mother and Father’s peace of mind.

It had been two years now since she’d been out here, on her own.

And true the music world with all it’s artistic expression, continued to draw her heart

in much the same way it did before her journey began..

However as she lived her life day to day, evening to evening, night to night, she felt

there was still much she wanted to obtain outside her occupational goals..

She longed for the right person to share her life with..

That special man whom she could feel not only free,

but compelled to communicate her victories, challenges, setbacks, joy and sorrows.

Sitting here now, rehashing the coarse memory of fear and humility she lived through during the dark days of her association with Herman Gilespie and his fledgling band MENACE.

She wondered if the kind of man she saw in her mind’s eye existed in the realm of musicians..

Men seemed so full of,…themselves.

She should have followed her initial instinct when she first heard the kind of music MENACE

created..

It wasn’t the heavy metal nature of the compositions that caused a red flag in her being.

It was instead the nature of the words attached to the songs..

Lyrics that promoted a religious fervor.

They were not the typical expression of a group conscience immersed in

the pursuit of fame and fortune, as was the case with most she had come to know.

Nor were they simply a reflection of an addiction to pleasure.

Herman Gilespie was a zealot in the religion of self gratification.

A kind of unholy priest in an order of theology who’s creed placed the pursuit of power most high.

She was at first infatuated with the music. It’s presence.

The atmosphere of excitement. The near hypnotic effect it had on fans.

It was weeks before she began to sense what was left after the clearing of the stage.

She never found Herman to be an attractive man..

His build is wispy, thin..His face too long and his shoulders slump.

He has an effeminate nature that is accented by his attempts to hide it.

Plus, he stinks..

Before she had any idea of his ‘religion’, she often thought to herself “it must be against

his religion to bathe.”

His advances toward her started almost immediately.

At first he masked charm..Or what he must have conceived to be charm.

Herman lacks the ability to comprehend what it means to touch a woman.

He only understands the concept of grope.

In the words of Paul Simon, “The man ain’t got no culture.”

No amount of civil communication dissuaded him..

He seemed not to hear words like, “I am not interested”, “I would prefer

to keep things professional”, or “Keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

Choosing instead to keep her backed in a corner, his glassy eyes reflecting it’s prey.

A

 frozen smirk pasted to his face.

She began to miss rehearsals, making excuses, feinting sickness..

That’s when he got mean..

The lust in his eyes turning to hate.

To this day she had not decided which was the more unnerving..

She shook her head and threw the memory off..It was over..Done with..

She had changed her address, changed her phone number, and disappeared.

Walking to the stereo now, she turned the music off..

The haunting memory of Herman Gilespie left a depression in her mood..

She thought of Nick then tried not to think of him..

“What have I been thinking?”..”I don’t even know the man.”…

She stepped in the kitchen and thoughtlessly began washing a few dishes laying in the sink.

“Honestly Michelle…You wanted to meet him you did..He was nice.

You had diner together..It was nice..That’s it…That’s all.”

…”He does have nice eyes though”…”Damn it!”..She tossed silverware in the strainer

like an afterthought..

“It was just one kiss!”…”Why do you always do this to yourself?”

“For Christ’s sake!”….”He probably won’t even call.”

The phone rang..

She turned to the sound amazed..Then realized it couldn’t be Nick calling.

It was her cell ringing..She’d given Nick her number for the house phone.

Relieved for the distraction, and disappointed at the same time, she found the

cell phone in the motorcycle jacket.

“Hello?”

“Michelle!..Thank God I got you!”

“Mom?” She recognized distraught in her Mothers voice. “Mom?..Are you alright?”

“Honey your Dad is standing right here next to me..Listen to me Michelle..You’ve

got to get in your car right now and come home.”

“Mom..What?..What do you mean?” She could hear her Father’s voice in the background.

“Give me the phone Laura.”..”Michelle!”..

“Dad?” Her Father’s voice cracked as if close to tears.

“Michelle honey…Turn on your television…Turn it on now while I am on the phone.”

Michelle held the phone to her ear crossing the living room..

“All hell is breaking loose out there Michelle!..You’ve got to get out of the city now while you still can!”

Her Mother screamed in the background..”Tell her not to listen to the radio!”

Michelle grabbed the T.V. remote and pushed the power button.

“Yes Laura I am telling her!…Honey?”

“Yeah Dad.” Her heart was pounding. Filling her veins with dread..

She had no idea why, but she was certain her parents feared for her life.

“Now listen to me Michelle!”..His voice was iron..

“When you leave the condominium you must make sure you cover your ears!..

When you get to the car keep the windows up and under no circumstance are you to turn on the radio!

Do you understand me?”

The television lit up to a local Los Angeles news station..

A speechless anchor woman stared back at Michelle.

Aerial footage rolled behind the woman of a scene playing out in downtown Los Angeles.

A scene of chaos and carnage..

Collisions of automobiles clogged the streets and sidewalks.

Hind quarters of vehicles extended out street facing entry doors and display windows.

Like births gone horribly wrong expelling backwards from a womb.

Doors hanging open and ajar.

Dead people, puppets with out strings falling out the sides.

And in each case a new owner standing near. Bloodied from a fight won.

Armed and grinning.. Protecting it’s claim.

Michelle watched in horror as vehicles on a nearby freeway over crossing launched themselves like stampeded cattle to macadam graves a hundred feet below.

Looters by the hundreds pillaged the store fronts.

There was a certain added diverseness to what one normally expects in an urban environment..

The pillagers, the innocent, and today, the zombies.

The zombies were newzies..Never seen around these parts before..

They were the grinning ones.

The ones guarding the wrecks with radio’s or cd players turned up full blast.

Some of the grinning zombies were content just standing around..

Plugged in.

Sporting portables..Cd players, mp3 players, cell phones with music players built in..

“It’s the music!” Her Father screamed…” Michelle!..It’s the music!”

The phone spat and cracked..”Dad?…Daddy?…She heard him faintly, fading, as the signal died.

“Get out!..Get out now!”

Her mind raced. She bolted to the bedroom grabbing her purse with the car keys all the while gripped by a single thought..

“What am I going to cover my ears with?”…She couldn’t think…

Not one single thing could she see or think to cover her ears with.

Tearing to the front door, “I’ll cover them with my palms..I’ll cover them with my palms!”…

G

rabbing the door nob she turned back remembering her jacket..

The black motorcycle jacket with the helmet sitting on top of it..

“The helmet!”..It was a half helmet size but with ear flaps for cold weather..

She banged it on, cinching down the chin strap while grabbing the jacket.

The house phone rang..

“It’s Nick.”…It could have been anyone, but she knew it was Nick.

Her mind cautioned….”No time, no time, no time!”

“Nick”…

“No time! No time! No time!”…

His eyes filled her and she stopped her raging mind.

She raced for the phone in the bedroom ripping off the helmet.

“Nick?”

“You’ve got to get out of there.” He sounded out of breath.

“I am leaving right now…Where are you?“..

“I am on the road heading east toward the desert….Meet me.”..

“My parents just called, I….Where do you want me to me you?”

“Take the 10 east toward Las Vegas. Call me when your clear of the city.

Here is my cell number..858..612..2429.”

She tore open her purse grabbing at a pen an scrap of paper..

He continued..”You have a cell phone?”

“Yep..I am bringing it with me…858 612 2429?”

“Right..You got a full tank on the bike?”

“The bike?..I am taking my car.”

“No!..Take your bike Michelle..You’ll never get through in a car!”

She turned her head taking in the scene on the television..

“Oh my God, your right Nick!”

“Can you get clear of the city with the fuel you’ve got honey?”

“Yes..Oh man, I am so glad I decided to fill it up last night!”

“Smart girl..Once you get on that bike don’t stop darlin’..Don’t stop for anything, ok?”

“Ok Nick..I am so glad you called.”

“Me too..I’ll be heading north after I hit the desert to find us a safe fueling station. I’ll

be waiting for your call Michelle.”

“Ride safe Nick.”

“Ride safe Michelle.”

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chapter 6

San Diego, California

“You don’t love me anymore.”

Ashlee’s unmistakable voice brought him back from a dreamless sleep.

Nick opened his eyes.

She floated above him. Stretched out.. Face down.. Four feet above his bed..

Somewhere separated from him, his mind stirred and whispered reassuring, “your only dreaming..”

It was not convincing enough, to free him from the dreadful grip of immobility, or the sound of his own strident breathing.

Her form was nude and glowing as a funnel of sunlight pouring through a split in stormy skies.

Behind her lay the black void of nothingness from which she came.

“You don’t love me anymore”.

He fought to turn away from the face, but could not move his head. “Must wake up now, must wake up!”

His thoughts caromed quickening his dread. He could not fathom her words to be formed from love or rage.

The intensity of her radiance emphasized her eyes..Hypnotic flickering candles that held no warmth.

“You don’t love me anymore.”..It was not the tearful wailing of a deserted heart..It was an accusation.

Disembodied limbs floated towards him..White claws reaching closing on his throat.

Her face sinking closer and closer.

He tried to scream but only a faint hiss escaped.

She shook at his throat, her illustrious hair tossed in it’s own wake.

Now his mind was fully awake and screaming “do or die, do or die,

do or die!”

Finally the scream came. A howling, carnal eruption of fear and pain.

He torn away from the claws and ran..

Fleeing into the darkness behind her..Away from the looming face, blooming hair and white clutching claws.

Once entering the darkness his legs could not support him..

Desperately they drudged some semblance of time with the pace of his fear..

Frantically they churned seeking friction..

But there was no floor in the vastness of nothing, and he fell, and floated, and fell again.

He woke up. Drenched in sweat.

Morning light pierced loose seaming in the bedroom curtains..

“Welcome to my nightmare” Alice Cooper offered in the back of his mind.

Atlanta, Georgia

Sal Fox and team members of the rock music division watched minute by minute updates of the MENACE

phenomena unfolding through out the day.

Periodic outbursts of cheers and applause echoed in neighboring offices through out the halls.

An uninformed bystander might easily mistake the mid week celebrating for Super Bowl Sunday and touchdown reaction from mesmerized fans.

The Universal Music Corporation’s Atlanta office was overwhelmed with phone calls from frantic distributors demanding huge shipments of the single “King of the World.”

Amazon and LALA were experiencing server melt downs from the huge worldwide response.

Since receiving the call back from Ed Hoffman a mere two hours ago sales had skyrocketed from Ed’s quoted 34,646 in new sales to over 500,000.

Computer sales projections estimated new sales of over 3.2 million in a twenty four hour period..

Sal sat back, his feet resting on the mahogany desk of his new office located on the 23rd floor of the exterior mirrored glass skyscraper.

Behind him construction workers busied themselves removing temporary plywood sheeting covering the ruptured glass section Ken Anderson had thrown himself through at approximately 3 am Atlanta time..

Less than 12 hours ago.

Sal was not resting on his heels however..

He did not rise to the executive position in Artist & Repertoire he now enjoyed by resting on his heels.

Behind the dark gray eyes, beneath a perfect manicure of wavy black hair, the wheels where turning..

There were questions..”Why this song?”

“Why only this song.?”..The sales for previous MENACE singles and albums were virtually non existent in the new sales figures.

And there was the note.

The mysterious handwritten note left in the top sliding drawer of his newly inherited

mahogany desk.

The police investigators hadn’t found it. And neither had Sal until a short time ago.

It had been purposely taped to the ceiling of the drawer..

Meant to loosen in time and become known to the current possessor of the desk.

The handwriting was unmistakably that of Kenneth Anderson..

The message consisted of a single sentence..Written shakily, hurriedly, or under stress.

It was a lyric from the legendary rock band Led Zeppelin.

From a song off their second album..

Sal slid open the drawer viewing the note once more.

It had been scribed in red flat tipped felt pen.

What

Sal slid the drawer closed once again entombing the note.

It occurred to him as he did so the consistent celebrating in the adjacent offices had

unexpectedly ceased.”What happened?”..He mumbled checking the computer screen.

Nothing wrong there. The sales for “King of the World” continued to climb in numbers

coinciding with the projected computer generated model.

He quickly check the face of his Rolex wrist watch..It read 2:40 pm..

He swung his feet off the desk and strolled out into the hall.

“Everybody leave early today?”..He mused..Not really believing it to be the truth.

The office next door was Julie Westgrove’s a junior account executive.

He knocked politely then opened the office door.

Shari Galloway, Julie’s secretary, sat motionless staring at her computer..

She was sporting headphones and as Sal approached he could see the virtual

music player on her screen in the process of streaming music..

He smiled noting the current title in progress was “King of the World.”

“What else?”..He thought making a mental note to himself he needed to listen to it

again just for knowledge base..

He hadn’t especially liked the song when he heard it for the first time Sunday afternoon.

But Sal had never been a big fan of hard metal rock himself..

Or of the popular Rap music so prevalent in the new millennium.

That information was carefully kept private between himself and himself..

It was his private skeleton in a closet..Secret.

Even to close friends outside the business.

He grinned at Shari now amused at her absorption.

She hadn’t even noticed his presence, or acknowledged him.

“They rock huh Shari?”..

No answer.

“How loud has she got that thing turned up?” He wondered..

“Hey Shari!”..He raised his voice to a level he believed would distract her.

There was still no response..

The song ended, and just as it did he noticed her right hand move the mouse slightly and

click the left button making the song replay itself..

Never taking her eyes off the computer screen.

“What, is she stoned?” He thought to himself..

He reached out gingerly to tap her shoulder half fearing he’d startle her..

As he did he leaned closer and noticed something that made him step back..

The headphone set Shari was wearing had a gooey red stain seeping down the frames.

A soft sticky red ooze that was collecting around the base of the padded speakers.

His eyes narrowed and the frown line at the bridge of his nose deepened.

The red ooze was overflowing at the base of the speakers and dripping in thick splats

onto the shoulder of her blouse.

It had been doing so for some time as the top of the blouse was now soaked through to the skin.

Unattended, unconcerned, unnoticed.

Sal felt a distinct shiver of goose flesh run up his spine..

He froze a moment then slowly turned his head in the direction of the back office door where Julie Westgroves’ work station was positioned.

The door was slightly ajar and through it he sensed only silence.

Sal didn’t conscientiously direct his body toward the back office..

Like a magnet it just seemed to be drawn there.

He pushed on the partly opened door and stepped inside..

Julie Westgrove sat in her high back satin fabric computer chair with her face down on the desk in front of her..

The back of her head had been caved in by repeated blows to it compliments of her desk top computer housing.

D

ead arms lay slack hanging at her sides..

The walls of the office were a collage of smeared and dripping blood.

The mangled computer housing was bend and wedged into a U around her skull like a hat.

Sal gagged and his mouth filled with partially digested lunch.

Pasta from Romero’s..An upscale Italian restaurant within walking distance of the corporate office building..

If your ever in Atlanta I am sure Sal would recommend it to you highly..

He bolted from the room almost tripping on a pair of broken headphones soaked in blood lying on the floor.

This time the commotion he made did disturb Shari’s concentration and her computer chair swiveled slowly in his direction..

He spat the mouthful of bile into a pretty pink trash pale next to Shari’s desk and vomited again.

“What?…He staggered hyper ventilating..”What, happened?”..

Her lips curled back in a grin that wasn’t a grin..

Her eyes took him in but there was nobody home behind those eyes..

Whom ever Shari was when she arrived at work today had already left town..

What remained was a thing..A thing that breathed in and breathed out with only one mission..

“I broke my headphones by accident and she wouldn’t let me borrow her’s.“

The grin suddenly disappeared..The eyes gleamed and communicated with out the need for words..

“You got a problem with that?”

The computer chair slowly swung back to its original position..

Her dainty blood stained palm grasped the computer mouse.

The left button was depressed ordering a repeat play of the song “King of the World.”

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Chapter 5

San Diego, California

Nick pulled between faded white parking strips outside his apartment shutting down the Harley.

Unstrapping the helmet his cheeks filled like balloons before exhaling fatigue.

He checked his watch under dreary carport lighting. It read 11:20.

The night air was sultry..It hadn’t rained. Cloud cover insulated warmth left from the day.

He yawned, walking across the lot then stopped and turned.

A sudden chill pushed at his back riding a cold breeze out of the north.

He shivered. The sudden change crept passed as if searching for a home.

The unnumberable recollection of Michelle’s warm body pressing close to his back returned.

After exploring the studio they decided they were hungry.

The local diner was open until ten giving them plenty of time.

Michelle insisted paying half, and Nick insisted she didn’t.

It was a frolic fight.

They compromised, each saving face. He paid for dinner, she left the tip.

Shop talk was deliberately left out of conversation.

He wanted to know her.

She the same about him.

Her surname was Mc Allister.

He learned she’d recently celebrated her thirtieth birthday in August.

Less than a month ago.

S

he was born and raised in Aspen Colorado where both her parents still reside.

Her formative years were spent in private schools..

Both Father and Mother supported Michelle’s early interest in music.S

he‘d learned piano before the age of puberty.

She spoke freely, openly, concerning her childhood, parents, and love for winter sports..

Figure skating, snow skiing, sledding, snowmobiling which led to her interest in motorcycles.

She was the product of the great American dream..Loved, educated, admittedly, a bit indulged.

Listening to Michelle’s life story was like the unfolding of a fairy tale.

Nick shook his head..’Down in the boon docks’ a pre British invasion pop song toyed with his self esteem.

Seeing himself as a poor boy in rags hopelessly pursuing the rich girl from across the tracks.

In romance novels those hurdles of culture and social status where often overcome by the power of love.

In Nick’s world, birds of a feather still flocked together.

His was a world where people started life at zero.

Anything added was done so by the laws of cause and effect.

The cause was survival.

The effect was survival.

What made Nick different from most people starting at zero was his definition of the term.

Survival simply meant creation.

Fulfillment was centered in the act of creation.

So much so that even as the development of a music composition came nearer to completion.

It’s initial non matter form shaped and honed, constructed and forged into the material world.

Nick’s interest would wane.The piece become something of less value than at it’s conception.

Until, by the end of the process, he would have already moved on.

Unlike others who kept adding space between themselves and zero in the form of ‘things’ gained.

Nick began everyday from the same initial starting point.

His family never understood it.

His friends never understood it.

The society he survived in didn’t understand it.

And Nick never quite understood himself for it.

Sitting across the table from this beautiful woman.

A woman fully enraptured by all that life offered.

Things and non things equally exciting, equally enriching.

He felt alone.

His difference separating him.

He saw in his mind’s eye how that difference would disappoint her, and fill her with sadness.

Not today. Not tonight, but soon..Very soon.

When she was finished with the Nick she thought she wanted to know.

When she finally realized, and shrank back in fear, the zero-ness of his life.

“Where are you?”..

He looked up.

Her eyes were searching him. Eyes that smiled saying, “I am proud I’ve found you.”

“Are you alright?”..

His body moved without thought.

He stood and slid next to her in the booth seat taking her hand.

“Right here..Right now..This time..This place..This second..I am definitely alright.”

He kissed her.

Hating himself for not protecting her. For not choosing to save her.

For falling in love with her.

La Mesa, California

Utopia Records exists as a sub label company under the parent Universal Music Group Corporation.

It’s single moderate office is located in a somewhat unique area of university avenue zoned for both residential and commercial use.

The north side of the street consists of 1960’s era two bedroom stucco track houses.

Today, practically every other structure has a business sign posted in it’s front yard.

Income tax services, chiropractics, palm readers, insurance companies, dental arts, florists, among others.

On the south side of the street, the general atmosphere of the business district is one of hard working independent business proprietors catering to middle class America.

Laundry mats, discount groceries, auto repair shops, thrift stores, liquor stores, strip malls with ‘for lease’ signs in over half the available offices.

Utopia Records is on the north side of the street.

Ed Hoffman’s littered office is located in a converted back bedroom..

The main reception area and front desk were at one time, someone else’s living room.

Mr. Hoffman’s office smells like the stubby cigars that burn consistently in the abalone shell ashtray sitting on his desk..

There seems to be a verifiable fascination with Venetian blinds through out the office.As with

most establishments gracing the north side business sector of university avenue..

Perhaps due to the Venetian blind cleaning service and discount factory outlet located at the end of the block.

Ed Hoffman is a big man.

Now in his early 50’s, a life well aquainted with the slings and arrows of

outrageous fortune.

Over sized posters of Green Bay Packers football teams adorn the walls and halls..

Bitter sweet reminders of what could and should have been.

Slated to be drafted into the National Football League as an offensive guard.

His left knee blew out in a time modern sports medicine techniques were yet unimagined.

The disappointment and suffering in his own life may have been the driving factor fueling his desire to help struggling musicians realize their chosen dreams.

His oversize face, now drooping with age, still retained large sympathetic brown eyes akin to a basset hound.

A voice moderately high pitched. Mismatched in comparison to his 300 lb. frame.

Clients were often mildly shocked when meeting Ed for the first time.

Especially after initially speaking with him on the phone…

The tenor quality left to the imagination a young twenty five year old executive with sleek black hair, Italian designer clothing, and turbo charged BMW’s.

Often was the case.B

lack and silver clad musicians would involuntarily seek beyond the 6 foot 6 inch man standing before them in shorts, scuffed running shoes, and faded Charger‘s jersey advising him, “I am here to see the ‘other’ Ed Hoffman.”

Currently he was on a phone conference with a Universal executive located in Atlanta Georgia concerning one of the acts Ed represented.

He leaned back in the oversized office chair blocking a third of the wall behind him.

A wall covered with 8×10 framed photos of bands and individual artists he’d handled over the years.

“Sure Sal, I can get in touch with them...

Well, they’ve been active mostly in the L.A. area..

Their sales?…Some..Mostly in the micro market..

They’ve got a decent fan base working for them off the LALA site..

This year?…To date?

Just a sec….I can give you that..”

He leaned forward wedging the phone receiver between his shoulder and right ear.

Bringing up account software on the computer as he spoke..

“Yep here it is right here..27,830 mp3’s off LALA…

With an additional 4,900 full album down loads. Mostly off the first album..

Ok, and here’s Amazon..They’ve got 6,100 on mp3 singles, and 1,443 album down loads.”

He paused, listening..Then responded hesitantly..

“Really…I am surprised actually..Pleasantly surprise of course.., just surprised.

Well, I mean Universal has been leaning heavily into rap the last few years.”

He paused listening again..

“What do you mean, have I heard the new single?..I was there when they mixed it down Sal.

I am not getting defensive Sal..I am just not quite sure what you getting at.

He suddenly felt he was being evaluated..He decided to choose his next words carefully..

I think the new song is fine..It’s just..Well, pretty much in the same vein they’ve been writing in..

What he heard next made him pause..

Oh, really?..Ken likes it that much?

What?…Your shittin’ me!…Last night?…Oh, shit man..Oh, shit..

Ken didn’t seem the type…I mean nobody loved the industry more than he did.

This Friday?…Sure..Yes, I’ll fly out..

Wow!..So, your taking over the rock division?..As of today..

I see…Congratulations are in order.

I’ll see you come Friday then..Right…Right, I’ll have Margie get the details…Ok Sal..”

He hung up.

The left knee strained as his weight pressed down walking to the reception area.

Margie was working for a change..On the phone.

A second line blinked holding..The receptionist’s pink dyed pixy hair danced as she spoke.

“Yeah girlfriend, this weekend..at Indio’s in the valley..”

Fair skin, black lipstick, blue fingernails, nose, ear, tongue piercings..

She could chew gum and talk at the same time..

In Ed’s eyes that made her a cut above her predecessors.

“Have I heard it?…Hello!..We are their record label, duh..”

She hung up looking at Ed.

“Wass up, bro?”

He pointed to the