Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-9584883-20150101142648

Well, here is my first story past 5,000 words. I hit 10,000 yesterday and the story has really just begun. I've made changes since mylast post and added a lot. This story is important to me, as I sort of see it as my Opus. Feedback, critique, advice welcome. Thanks!  Pasta Noir: Dames, Slugs and the Hatchetman 

The downtown night air was crisp and cool with the slight aroma of misery. He never thought that his life would turn out the way it did. The wife, the kid, the pride, all lost along the way, somewhere in the belly of the big, bad city, where they would never again age, remaining forever young, beautiful and full of grace. He still saw them in everything and everyone. A Homicide Investigators life is never something called happily ever after. Everyday Detective Chris Priest woke up, looked up and asked why the fuck was he still around to do it all over again. It was his punishment you see, his penance was waking up without them, still trying to make a dent of difference in this city on fire. Staring out his window, he poured a quarter glass of Jim Beam and asked himself in the famous words of The Clash: Should I stay, or should I Rock the Kasbah? The familiar metallic taste of the colt 45 made things real at that moment. It was fear that kept him from biting the bullet. Yet, it was also his lack of fear that kept him afloat another day, doing what he did best, the only thing he cared about anymore. Fear was for the enemy, fear and bullets. What little faith he had left hung on like a loose string. One would think Chris would have completely and utterly lost his essence, his humanity… all in a brilliant flash of ‘Fuck You’ dished out by fate. Much had occurred in his life since he swore in and began serving as a rookie Sherriff’s Deputy in Lytle Texas 17 years ago. However, in the midst of all the glory, the coolness and the climbing, Chris had his number 1 with a bullet, Abby. She was firecrackers on the 4th. They drank out of the same bottle, never pulling any punches, loving, laughing, living, fucking. It was February. The view from Chris’s downtown window was covered in white, a rarity. The last time it really snowed in San Antonio was back in 1985 when he was 10 years old. He recalled that day with a warm fuzzy feeling. He and his best friend were pulled out of school together so that they may go home and enjoy playing in the snow, where they would build snowmen and partake in the clichéd snowball fight with their parents. It would be one of the best days of his existence. He liked to go there often when life chewed him up and spit him out. He wished they were by his side now. They would all enjoy the day off and play just as he did so long ago. “Walk it the fuck off!” Chris murmured to himself as he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, opening his eyes as he exhaled. It wasn’t exactly prime conditions for crime fighting in the city today however if he spent another moment alone in that bottle of Jim Beam, he might actually choose to “Rock the Kasbah” this day. He abandoned his quarter glass of J.B. and thought “It will still be here when I get back. Let’s get into fucking character.” Chris locked his apartment door. Not that he had much to steal but it was better than coming home to an already near empty apartment. Worst case scenario, some scumbag would find all his booze and clean him out. That would be the icing on the chocolate cake. Booze kept him alive these days. It saved his soul. In this city, You can never lose that spark. As he locked his door, he eyeballed the hallway on the right to see if anyone was coming or going. The air was stagnant and ever ominous. Mrs. Bonner, an old broad wasting away from loneliness was slowly walking towards the stairs taking her morning walk as she did most mornings. Chris imagined her as the kind of woman expecting some special letter from a special someone that never arrived. He knew everybody had a story (and skeletons). He imagined her once a young beautiful dame, in love with a man, mother to two or three children. He knew he’d walk past her and she’d greet him, friendly as always and begin the chit-chat. Most of the lost souls here preferred ignoring her. She reminded them of their own mortality. All the other ghosts of the Comino Real Apartment building were stewing in their own misery and preferred to do so alone. Someday, they’ll have that void to fill too, the hesitation of the young with so much wasted life, walking right past them like they’re invisible, looking straight ahead, trying to avoid the simplicity of conversation, busy living (or not living). Too busy for an old ghost. Times sure have changed. “Good morning Chris. Going out in this mess?” She asked casually. “Good morning Mrs. Bonner. Bad guys don’t take the day off, neither can I.” He said with a smile. He figured the least he could do was take a minute or three to indulge her. He understood what it was to be all alone in this world and recognized that big empty within her. They were kindred spirits in sorrow. At some point, everybody hurts. Mrs. Bonner visibly brightened up. “Ha! You’re a comedian. Well, it hasn’t snowed here in about 30 years! Do you remember that?” She asked Chris. “Yes, I do. That was a really good day for me. Played in the snow all day with my best friend. And you? What were you doing that day?”   He asked with a reminiscing smile. She looked away from him for a moment down the hallway. “My Husband left me for some hussy that day. That was not a good day for me Chris.”   She recalled looking down at the floor, eyes slightly blue. “But, the asshole married her and she left him two years later… took him for everything he had!” she admitted with a big smile. Chris laughed and held up his hand for a high five. Mrs. Bonner laughed as she high-fived him back. “You have a good day Mrs. Bonner.” He called out as he walked away. “Please Chris, Mrs. Bonner was my Mother, call me Delia.” She answered. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hm… That’s the name of my favorite Johnny Cash song.” He smiled looking back. With that he made his way downstairs. Delia was beaming. Chris felt that warm, fuzzy feeling again he hadn’t felt in so long. It was good to feel something again, even if for just a brief moment. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris opened the door to the ancient apartment building. The cold punched him in the eyes as he let out a loud “Fuck!!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">His cell phone chimed, a text message from Michael Rodriguez, his partner (or his Goddamn babysitter as he referred to Michael after the Captain partnered them up). Michael was alright though. He just reminded Chris a little too much of his former self. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael: 11651 Alamo Lane, King William District. Already here. Not pretty. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Cold enough for you? On my way Sunshine. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">He placed his phone back into his pocket. He looked around at the mean streets of this cruel city, she was all covered in white. His gaze found his own car parked along the curb, a 1987 Camaro, black paint chipping away; His black sunshine. Chris bought the car from his Aunt when her Son died of a heroin overdose. While his family was still alive, Chris put time and money into her. He hoped his Son, Connor would one day be proud to drive her around town, driving around the dames, living the good life of a teenage boy coming into his prime. Connor would help his Dad with minor repairs and modifications on the Camaro from time to time. She was their special project. The only time they had anymore, usually on the weekends. However, a detective is always on call. He kept Miss Sunshine because she reminded him of the happy times with his Son. Connor was only 13 when he departed from this world. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The Camaro was Chris’s only baby now. He walked over and brushed off some of Mother Nature’s blow only to find most of the car was covered in ice. He would need to let her warm up for a while.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> Lemon Man  <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris walked up to the beautiful Victorian home nestled in the cozy well-to-do Historical King William District. The scene was taped off. C.S.I. was in & out of the home. He made his way to a large, covered wooden porch. The outside stucco walls were covered in thick green vine, dormant, snow-covered   Boughganvillia vines surrounded the outside property line. The lot in general was immaculate. Someone put a lot of love and money into its overall look and upkeep. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris carefully walked up the steps and under the yellow tape and met with Michael at the door. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey Good morning, old man!” Michael commented upon seeing Chris make his way carefully up the steps. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Good morning, young Padiwan.” Chris responded to Michael who was 10 years his Jr. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">   Chris was a mess but Michael thought the sun shined out of his ass, though he’d never admit it. He’d rather bust Chris’s balls. He learned a few things from his mentor over the past 2 years. Things that have saved his skin more than once. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael smirked at Chris began with the run down. “The medical examiner is inside. We got a one Max Von Drack, Caucasian male, age 68. His throat was slashed, his eyes gouged out and placed into his mouth. It appears it was done while he was still alive. He uh… bit down on them. The vic was also clenching a lemon his right hand. He squeezed the shit out of it too. “ <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris being the smartass he was, couldn’t resist “You don’t think he was making lemonade do you Detective?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Really? That’s just wrong man .” Michael said with his eyebrows raised. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Anyway, he also has something carved into his left arm, a link to a website. I took a pic and already checked it out. It’s a link to a horror fiction website called Scarypasta.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Scarypasta?! What in the fuck is that?” Chris asked with an expression like he just smelled something rotten. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael raised his eyebrows “Yeeeah… Scarypasta.com. It’s a horror fiction website where writers post all kinds of short horror stories. It has quite the cult following apparently. The link is to a story called “A Tale of Him Holding a Lemon.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris laughed “Are you fuckin’ for real?”   He shook his head and looked Michael right in the eye. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well, take me to the stiff.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The S.A.P.D. Detectives made their way inside the lovely home, which would likely sell fast on the market regardless of the crime. The hallway led to a large living room, finished in a nice oak. Dark polished wooden floors, bookcases and a china cabinet rested against the old walls. On a large blood-soaked Persian rug, lay a man in a blood covered yellow sweater vest, white dress shirt underneath and black slacks. His shoes had been removed. He had a grey moustache and wavy hair. He looked to be small in stature, about 5 foot 6. His eye sockets were empty and bloody. Blood covered the areas of his mouth and neck. The long cut on his throat was apparent. His left shirt sleeve had been rolled up and the link to the story was indeed carved into his forearm. The wounds on his arm had begun to dry and scab over making the carvings even more visible. What kind of monster would do this to an old man? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“This city and it’s fucking sickos… always on duty. Doesn’t look like the work of a button man or a bindle punk, Looks personal. Anything taken” Chris asked. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No. It appears that the killer or Killers wanted the attention to be focused on the killing“ Michael replied. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Do you think there was more than one killer?” Chris asked over his shoulder. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Not sure. We got C.S.I. running tests. He hasn’t been dead too long. Liver Mortis is set in.”. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Next of kin? Someone has to pay for his burial.” Chris asked. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“None yet. By the looks of things it doesn’t seem like he had any kids if you know what I mean.” Michael pointed at a framed picture on a bookshelf of Mr. Von Drack kissing another older man. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, a daisy alright. Ok, let’s get the patrols interviewing neighbors, Michael, take this photo and make your way around the Gay bars tonight.”   Chris ordered. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Ah shit!!” Michael protested. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris looked at Michael and smiled “Hey, grunts do the legwork… you know this sonny-boy! Besides, the Daisy in the photo is our prime suspect at this point.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris located Mr. Von Drack’s cell phone and did a search. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Ok, I’ll start looking for next of kin.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> Murder, Breakfast of Champions  <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey Priest, it’s been 3 hours…. I’m hungry. Let’s go to Dennys, I’m buying “ Michael offered. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yes you are. I bought last time.” Chris patted Michael on the arm. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I had a cup of coffee! That was all!”   Michael shook his head in disbelief. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey, the system works. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it..” Chris placed his hand on Michael’s back leading him toward the front door. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris looked around at the C.S.I. and beat cops and said loudly “Carry on my wayward Sons!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The hash house was cheap, dirty and nearly empty due to the snow. The stereotypical retired guy was   there sipping coffee and reading the newspaper,   loitering. It had all the charm of a funeral home. The air was so thick, you could cut it with a machete. Although Chris was depressed in general since the loss of Abby & Connor, he still had a good appetite and the metabolism of a 15 year old. He wolfed down a Grand slam with scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes, with a glass of orange juice. He was on his second glass while Michael worked on his coffee and a ham & cheese omelette. It was warm inside the joint and the staff liked having the coppers around since the sheer number of daily crazies was something to take note of. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“So whoever killed poor Mr. Von Drack (cool name by the way), wanted us to find this story… uh scarypasta?” Chris asked. Michael nodded his head. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Have you read any of this story yet?”   Chris asked before gulping down some o.j. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No, not yet. I figured I’d do that at the station or at home. It looked pretty long. The guy who wrote it, Andrei Borislava lives in Detroit and is originally from Bulgaria. He’s here on a student visa.” Michael informed Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well, let’s read it and give him a call. I’ll leave the tip” Said Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey, how’s Misty & the kids?” he asked as he reached into his wallet and pulled out a 5 dollar bill. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael sat up from the booth and put on his beige trench coat “They’re good. Mickey started crawling yesterday and Eva loves Kindergarten. Misty is good.” He nodded. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“That’s good. Hey, you spend as much time as you can with those little rug rats! They grow up fast “ Chris said as he placed the open 5 under his glass. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey uh, why don’t you go home at lunch and spend it with Misty. I’ll go back to the station and read the story. Just text me the link. I’ll fill you in on the cliff notes later.” Chris insisted. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, ok. Thanks man.” Michael thanked Chris’s kind gesture. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">He felt pity for Chris. Everybody did. Every day they saw every form of violence under the sun: Shootings, stabbings, suicides, strangulations, decapitations, rape. Yet, other cops couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine losing their families to the darkness of the streets. Chris Priest had been that cop who had the big prize. Then in a brilliant flash, he lost what was most important. The spark, the fire, that which kept him from losing his marbles after seeing all of the ugly that he had seen, his saving Grace.

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> Can-Opener  <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris sat in front of the dinosaur of a computer monitor, curiosity peaked. He shared a dark, damp office with Michael towards the back of the station. It was out of the way, just perfect for Chris. The door was closed. He didn’t want any interruptions. The time was now 1:49pm. Looking at the text message from Michael, he typed in the link. It took him to the Scarypasta website. A black background appeared with the title’ A Tale of Him Holding a Lemon’ in white letters. He began to read, he was captivated from the start. Every word, every sentence pulled him in. This story was in par up there with Stephen King’s work. An hour had passed into the story when Chris received a text from Michael. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael: Calling it a day. At the Hospital. Eva had an asthma flare up. Talk later or tomorrow. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Ok buddy. Do what you need to do. Von Drack ain’t going anywhere. Catch you on the flip. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael: Thanks <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">With that, Chris resumed the story with all the intrigue of a child. It told of the writer’s horrifying experience of a creepy cheshire catlike smiling man who appeared throughout his life holding up and offering him a lemon. He never said a word, just held a once brilliant yellow lemon, now rotting with the years. It was the same lemon every time. Upon each encounter, the author manages to get away. He traces this man throughout his family history and after a visit, finds the same man appeared to his Grandmother. The pattern continued throughout his life growing up in Bulgaria until he moved abroad to study in the U.S., which is where he is now. Before he knew it, Chris had finished the story highly entertained and completely oblivious to the time. It was now 5:04pm. Only then did he realize how hungry and how full his bladder was. After reading the entire story and all of the comments turning up no solid leads, he came to the conclusion that the killer or killers bumped off poor old Mr. Von Drack to re-create the ending of this story…   but why? He would start with the scribbler. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey Mary. How’s it going Dear? I’m fine, just burnin’ the midnight oil. Listen, I have a lead I want to contact but need a trace. He’s a Bulgarian national living in Detroit on a student visa. His name is Andrei   Borislava. Right That’s Andrei A-N-D-R-E-I, Borislava like it sounds B-O-R-I-S-L-A-V-A. Yeah. How soon can you have it? Yeah? Good. Thanks Sweetheart. You’re a doll. I’ll be waiting in my office.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael wiped away the dream dust from his eyes. All he wanted was just a few more hours sleep but knew that if Chris could manage to wake up every day and pull himself up out of his stupor, so could he. At least he still had his spark, his reason for it all. In the Mexican culture, family is everything. He turned his head to his right side where his Wife Misty was sleeping in peaceful, gracefully. The way the light hit her face and shined off her hair was poetry. He was dizzy with this dame. He turned toward her and kissed her on the forehead, placing his left hand on her hair caressing the wavy black locks. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">He turned back and reached over, picking up his cell from the nightstand to check the time. 7:24am. He unlocked the screen and began to text Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael: Good Morning. Breakfast? You’re buying. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Sure. IHOP. 8:30. I’ll be the dapper one in the leather jacket. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael: You mean the leather mini skirt right? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Nice comeback. I got intel on the Von Drack case. Catch you on the flip side amigo. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael opened the glass door of the hash house and walked through. It looked like a retirement home dining room. He was greeted by the hostess, a smiling kitten. Young, cute, full of life. She was hitting on all eight. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Good morning Sir, welcome to IHOP. Just one?” she asked as she reached for a menu and pre-rolled silver wear under the podium. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No M’am. I’m meeting my buddy. Over there, the gentleman in the cheap leather jacket.” Michael motioned in Chris’s direction. Chris gave a confirming wave and nod to the hostess. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yessir, right this way.” She invited with a giggle. Michael followed her to the booth where Chris had just started on his Nutella crepes and scrambled eggs with a side of ham. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well, well. The Sundance kid rides again.” Chris greeted Michael while working diligently on his crepes. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Good morning, Ole’ Man River.” Michael shot back. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Your server will be right over to take your order sir.” The hostess interrupted before taking her leave. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Thank you dear.” said Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris looked up at Michael and asked “How’s Eva?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael looked at Chris “She’s doing better today, gave us quite the scare.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, glad to hear she’s doing better. Listen, don’t feel bad but I took over for you last night. I tracked down and spoke to Borislava. Read the story too. It was good.” Chris explained. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“He had an alibi. He’s in Detroit. He seemed horrified that somebody would have linked his pasta and use his…” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Wait, what? his PASTA?!?” Michael interrupted as he gave Chris his full attention. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, that’s how they refer to the stories…. What? Don’t give me any grief, they’re good. I liked them.” Chris said as he looked Michael in the eye before taking another bite of his ham. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Anyway, he wanted to take the story down and I told him to leave it up. It may draw the killer out again and we might be able to track his I.P. address. I also took Von Drack’s photo around the fairy clubs after I spoke to Borislava.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael began to laugh. “You actually went to a gay bar? So, did you get lucky?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 6pt;">Chris now had an annoyed look on his face “If you mean did I I.D. the Nancy-boy kissing Von Drack, then yes I did Watson. Several people confirmed his identity and current whereabouts.” Chris retorted. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No shit! Who is he?” Michael was intrigued. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“He is a one Johnny Aguilar, 54, a retired U.S. Air Force Staff Sergeant and recently deceased. 8 months ago. Heart attack”   Chris answered. He was now halfway finished with his breakfast. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Just then a tall, wirery man wearing glasses approached the table to take Michael’s order “Good morning Sir, my name is Abel. I’ll be taking care of you today. What can I get you to drink?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yes. Coffee. Black. And I’ll have the oatmeal with mixed fruit.” Michael replied. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The waitor repeated Michael’s order and disappeared into the kitchen. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“So, the autopsy results won’t be in for 72 hours. I our only lead now is going back to the station and researching the Scarypasta website. See if the killer has posted anything new on there, bragging or whatever.” Chris suggested before gulping down the rest of his tall glass of orange juice. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, sounds like a plan man. So, how did it go at the gay bars? Anyone try picking you up?”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">                                                                                  End Act 1 <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">                                                                                 ACT 2

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> Old Wounds Run Deep <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The lousy old office was cold and reeked of sorrow. It was always so Goddamn dark. Even with a light on. It had been 4 hours since Chris introduced Michael to the world of Scarypasta. They read a few stories, trying to become better aquainted with the subject matter and its scribblers. Most of which seemed to be young, creative people who just wanted the world to catch a glimpse into their souls. Slowly but surely, Michael was becoming a fan. Chris was already familiar with the main characters from the most popular stories. He played narrated scarypastas on youtube for Michael and they went that route for a while in order to allow their eyes to rest. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Connor would have loved this stuff.” Chris said with a slight smile, recalling how Connor loved horror movies and writing short stories. Chris enjoyed reading his stories. He wondered for a moment if his Son had indeed discovered the world of Scarypasta at some point. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael looked up at Chris for moment, ready to listen, like a good friend. He didn’t quite know what to say. He couldn’t imagine the pain Chris felt. He had experienced the worst pain a person can feel. Yet, here he was still fighting crime, catching criminals of the worst kind: murderers, rapists, child killers. Each scumbag he took off the streets was like a fix, just enough to get him through another few days. Like a junkie and their heroine. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Criminals were everywhere. Throw a rock into a room and you’d likely hit more than a few. No doubt this city was going to hell in a hand basket. That’s why you needed family <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">(if you had them), your own personal Jesus. Chris lost his to this cruel city 2 years ago. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">They searched for anything new posted in the hours since Mr. Von Drack’s death. All they needed was a clue, something, any thing to go on. Their search turned up empty. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris searched for one more story. He typed in Satanists. A title popped up, Summer in Texas written by SarahMetalMassacre. He felt something stir inside. He began to read the story. 10 minutes into the story, it hit him like a kick in the nuts. “Son of a Bitch…” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“What? Find something?” Michael looked up from his computer screen. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah…. This story I’m reading. It’s called “Summer in Texas”. It’s written by someone from my old days in Lytle when I was with the Sheriff’s department.” Chris explained. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael was now intrigued. “No shit!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris began to explain “Yeah, about 15 years ago I had been a deputy for about 2 years. It was right before Abby & me were married.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah that’s right... What was his name? Allen…” Michael interrupted. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, Bobby Allen.” Chris answered. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Is he still around?” Michael asked. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yes, he still lives in Lytle. He retired after a heart attack. It’s a wonder he didn’t go too when Abby and Connor passed.”   Michael said, staring at the wall. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“You ever go and see him?” Michael began to pry. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No, I haven’t been back since the funeral. He calls once in a while to check in on me. He invites me out but…. Look let’s get back to the story. You’re raising my Irish here Mikey!” Chris was now clearly annoyed. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael smiled and nodded apologizing “Sorry man. Go on.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“As I was saying, 15 years ago we get a report from two local kids, Joey Maher and Jason Pruitt. They were just kids, 12 or 13. A new family had moved into an old abandoned house up on East Prarie Street. Everyone called it Deadman’s curve due to the high number of automobile fatalities over the years. It lead up to a large hill where the family in question moved. They had this Daughter 12 years old, from the get go there was something off about them. They dressed in raggedy old clothes that looked strait from the turn of the century. The boys came to the station one day claiming that they had made friends with the girl and that morning, she had bruises all over her arms. They asked us to check it out. Well, after heading up there, we questioned them. Asked if we could see their Daughter. They claimed they had no Daughter, just an infant Son who died shortly after birth. We asked to search the perimesis. They refused without a warrant. When we went back to inform the boys, they said that the girl…. Sarah claimed she had a older Brother named uh….. Jimmy Lee that lived there with them. That’s the name the couple gave for the deceased infant. We went for the warrant immediately. Meanwhile, one of the boys had developed some sort of romantic relationship with Sarah. Joey I think it was, the chubby one. They had taken it upon themselves to try and rescue her. Their plan was simple. One hid behind the trash cans while the other threw rocks at the window and shout from the driveway. As the couple went outside to confront and give chase, the one hiding (Joey) would go in and rescue Sarah. It didn’t quite pan out that way. We got there just in the nick. They were chasing the boys down the driveway, butcher knives in hand. We told them to stop…. When they refused, we shot them dead then and there. I went inside to check on Sarah. She had been hogtied and gagged, laying on a black tarp. The parents had dug up a corpse from the cemetery and sat it in a chair. A Satanic Bible was on the sofa. They parents had belonged to some backwoods Satanic cult in Travis County and had fled after some trouble there. They were planning to sacrifice the girl. Turned out, after an investigation, they had kidnapped her as a baby and murdered her birth parents and raised her. She got treatment, adjusted, was introduced into society. And now, apparently writing. And from what I’ve read, she’s quite good at it too. She is one of the most popular writers on Scarypasta.com. All of her stories are narrated on youtube. Small world huh?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Wow man! Small world indeed. “ Michael responded with a surprised look. He thought for a moment then looked up at Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey! Do you know if she’s local now? Maybe she can give some insight on finding the killer. Like a consultant.” He suggested. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris stared at Michael for a moment then looked off to the right. “I don’t know. But that’s a damn good idea! Glad I thought of it!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well, what are we waiting for?” Michael asked with the excitement of a child. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I think she goes by another name now. I can’t remember what though. Dammit! My Father In-Law would know. She moved back a little while after that. Lived with a foster family who eventually adopted her. We were gone by then. We got married and I got the job with S.A.P.D. Guess I’ll call him up. Here, why don’t you get familiar with it while I call Bobby. ” Chris said hesitantly not wanting to face the ghosts of the past. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby Allen was the one person Chris couldn’t face. He was more than ashamed. Chris wasn’t worthy of facing his mentor. He gave her away at their wedding. He trusted Chris with his Daughters life and he failed him. Now he was minus a Daughter and Grandson. He knew Bobby was hurting. He looked up to the ceiling and shook his head saying “You’re killing me softly here…”. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael took the hint and stood up from his chair “I’m gonna go to the can, grab some coffee. You want anything? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris searched through his address book on his cell and briefly looked up at Michael “No thanks, I’m good.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">With that, Michael took his leave and closed the office door behind him. It was the courteous thing to do and Michael was raised right. He thought for a moment about how difficult this call would be for his partner and friend. Chris was damaged but still a good friend and a good cop. He knew that Chris has his demons to chase. It was likely a chase that would never end. Not until somebody popped him and stopped him in his tracks or unless he offed himself. He would likely feel the same way if he were in his shoes but who knows right? It was Mike Tyson that said “Everyone has a plan until they get hit”. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Hello? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: ……. Hello Bobby. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Chris? Is that you Son? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Yeah, it’s me. Been a while I know. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby:   Yes Sir, it sure has. How are ya kid? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: eh, I’m getting’ by. Still fighting the good fight you know? And you? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Well, I’m doing ok. Just trying to keep busy around here. Mona always has something for me to do. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris (laughs): That’s good. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Now Chris, is this a social call? You coming out to Lytle? Mona would be real glad to see you Son. So would I. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: I’d like that Bobby. But uh, Listen uh, you remember   Sarah Cambell? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Sarah.. Yeah. I do. She goes by the name Chloe Marx now. The Marx’s adopted her. Lives downtown San Antonio last I heard. Why? What’s going on?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: It’s a long story. I’m trying to locate her. I’m thinking I can use her as a consultant in a case I’m working on. So far, no real leads in the case. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Huh, well, she visits her folks from time to time. Haven’t seen her in a while though. Last I heard, she was writing. I must say, you got my curiosity peaked now. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: No kidding. Well, it’s a homicide done it a ritualistic manor. The vic had a web address carved into his forearm. It’s to a horror fiction website where writers post their stories. The killer recreated a popular story from the site when he murdered the vic. Funny thing about it is, in researching various stories on the website for any leads, I came across a story written by a Sarahmetalmassacre, a story that tells of her case. Written in the third-person. She even has us in it. Names slightly altered of course. But it’s us Bobby. It has to be her. You said she’s a writer? Well there you go. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Well I’ll be damned. I think I’d like to take a look for myself. What website is this? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Scarypasta.com <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: What?! Hehe. Scary…Pasta dot com? What’s the name of the story? <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Summer in Texas <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: I’m writin’ it down. Summer…. in…Texas. Scary….Pasta….dot…com. O..k. Thanks. And hey Chris, I mean it when I said We’d love to see you. You’re our family. Open invitation. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Thanks Bobby. I just might take you up on that. It’s real good to talk to you again. Thanks again for your help. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: Anytime Kid. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris: Take care. Bye <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Bobby: We’ll see ya Son. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael opened the office after a nice long break. Chris greeted him as he opened the door with “Ok, got it. The name she goes by now is Chloe Marx. She lives here in San Antonio, downtown of all places.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael looked at Chris and nodded his head “Well, that’s a start. Let’s check it out.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Already did the background check on her. She lives a few blocks away from me on South Flores. That old building that’s supposed to really haunted” Said Chris. He now showed a glimpse of that old spark, just for a second. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Every building in downtown San Antonio is haunted! You ever been on one of those Ghost tours? They’re actually pretty fun.” Michael said, remembering how much he and Misty and the kids enjoyed it when they went. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, once. When Connor was 11. He liked all that stuff.” Chris answered, trying his best to not go to that dark place. That was private, he did that shit alone, with a bottle and a 45. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael stared at him, regretting his question. He broke through the awkwardness with “Yeah well, no time like the present right? Who’s car we taking?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris quickly snapped out of his stupor and smirked at Michael saying “Miss Sunshine my friend. Miss Black Mothafuckin’ Sunshine.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">With that, the storm was calm for the moment and all was well again. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The snow was making a comeback all around San Antonio. The darkened downtown streets were near empty. The whole city acted like it was armageddon outside every time there was the slightest sign of a freeze, much less snow. Miss Sunshine’s roar echoed throughout every block she passed. Chris used to treat her with kindness and respect. Now, he liked to take chances with her. Sometimes, he actually raced some of the street punks with their Hondas and Mitsubishis. It was all for the thrill. He liked feeling something again, something other than the constant pain that resided within his soul. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">As they turned onto South Flores, the street was illuminated by old rustic street lamps. Down a dark alleyway, a fire glowed from an old oil drum, warming a band of the city’s lost children. Chris slowed the Camaro to a stop at the alleyway. The group of transients looked up and recognized Detective Priest’s car. Chris was a softy at heart, especially when it came to the homeless. He and his Mother were homeless for a very short time when he was 9 years old. It was only for 5 nights but he would never forget what it felt like. He remembers his Mother trying to beg for change in order to get Chris something to eat for the day. During that time and the time afterward, they were like gypsies, moving from place to place. They had left Chris’s Grandparents house in Arkansas and had finally settled in the city of San Antonio. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael motioned to the group to come to the car. The group of four (three older men and one maybe around 30) walked over to Miss Sunshine with their hands in their pockets. Michael rolled down the window manually. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Evening   fellas.” Chris leaned in and addressed them. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey Chris. What are you doing out here on this cold-ass night man?” asked one of the older men. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Workin’. Hey, have you tried the shelters around here? It’s gonna be too damn cold to sleep out here.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">One of the other older men spoke up “Yessir. But they’re all full up. No more room.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“That’s a shame” Said Chris. “If you want, I can call a unit to come pick you up, let you stay in the tank for the night. Leave first thing tomorrow at 6am. Just to get out of the cold guys… it’s snowing.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The first older man spoke up saying “Nah man. Thanks. We’ll be ok. We got the fire there” as he motioned to the glowing oil drum down the dark alley. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris asked Michael “Hey man, would you reach behind my seat, grab that bottle back there for me?” Michael fished around for the mystery bottle behind Chris’s seat, pulling out a purple suede bag with an unopened bottle of Crown Royal within…. The good stuff. He presented it and looked at Chris with a questioning nod. Chris nodded back confirming the gift to the four men. Michael handed it to them carefully. The youngest man accepted it with gratitude. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Thanks guys!” he said with a smile full of rotten teeth and presented the bottle to his buddies. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The third older man reached out and said “Why don’t you let me hold onto that… keep it safe.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The young man complied. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael laughed, while Chris added “Treat her right fellas. Stay warm!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, thanks Chris!” they waved good bye as they made their way back to the warmth of the fire. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Take care detectives.” One of the men shouted out. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael looked at Chris shaking his head. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris looked back and asked him, half expecting a smart-ass answer “What?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Got anything for me back there?” Michael playfully asked. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No, there ain’t nothing back there for you… that stuff’s for people like me, like those guys. You still have too much to lose.”

<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> Old Ghosts  <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The ancient apartment building was somehow still standing after about one-hundred years. Though it was mainly preserved for its historical value. The Rent was high but it was definitely worth it to those who preferred to live in such a lovely building. The Apartments were large, roofs high, all the hardware such as wall lights, chandeliers wooden floors were mostly original or at least updated in the 40’s or 50’s. It had all the turn-of-the –century charm you would expect for two grand a month. Artists, retirees, young professionals with a flair for the dramatic… everyone who resided here had style and a certain coolness. It was a young artisan’s dream to live in downtown San Antonio in a well-kept one-hundred plus year old building. It had a certain energy to it. You could almost see the old spirits walking around, standing in doorways, on stairs watching you, curious, envious of you and your years ahead. The energy was strong, there was no denying it, cop or not. All of downtown San Antonio had the same energy everywhere you went. The best time to see it all up close, to walk the streets was at night. There’s just something magical about it all, despite the darkness everywhere. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris opened the entrance door and was greeted by the warm glow of dim, soft lit light wall lanterns and a rustic stair case just ahead on the right. The manager’s office and apartment were on the first floor. The resident apartments began on the second floor. The place was old like Chris’s building yet it all seemed happier than the riff-raff where he lived. His place housed many who were near the end of their rope. Chris expected the cast of ‘Cats’ to come waltzing out in feather boas, prancing around. Michael looked around, admiring all the classic, mostly original aspects of the building. Even a couple of strait cops could appreciate the aesthetic value of the place. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“What apartment number again?” Michael asked looking at Chris who was standing at his right. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“402” Chris answered as he stepped onto the elegant staircase. A loud squeak echoed throughout the building, alerting all tenants that they had visitors on the perimisis. If you were a resident, you knew the silent spot on the first stair near the railing. Otherwise, it acted as the communal doorbell. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“This is gotta be weird for you, just a little right?” Michael asked Chris as they walked up the sqeaky stairs. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah maybe a little. But think of how she’ll react when she finds out who I am. Talk about old ghosts.” Chris said as he cleared the first stair case. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael imagined what Chloe Marx looked like. He tried to picture in that house and Chris as a young deputy walking in pistol drawn, rescuing her. He wondered if she would remember Chris. He probably looked a lot different now, older, worn, torn rode hard and put away. Tragedy adds a few years to your looks. Chris was barely 40 but looked 45. He didn’t want to worry about combing his hair anymore, so he used a #1 setting   on his clippers when he buzzed his own hair every other week. Short but stylish, like Tyler Durdan or Beckham, but darker. Chris always had stubble or a light beard. The wrinkles around the corners of his eyes indicated that he was once a happy man, when he still had that spark. The softer wrinkles in between his eyes on his forehead indicated his sadness in recent years. He was still considered attractive. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael on the other hand was always dressed to the nines. Short perfect hair, clean shaven, handsome, suit and tie, polished dress shoes, size 10.5. Michael stood 5 foot 9, while Chris was much taller. They were quite the odd couple when out and about. Regardless, they somehow clicked. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“You know, I’m actually a bit nervous for you man. This is kind of exciting. Like those reunion shows. Too bad there’s not a camera crew here to film this.” Michael said with a slight laugh. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris nodded his head as he continued to walk up the second flight of stairs leading up to the third floor “He’s here all week folks.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael laughed. “Almost there old man!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Old? I’ll show you old.” Michael said as he began to run up the last flight of stairs leading up to the fourth floor. Michael tried to catch up but Chris being taller, took longer strides, skipping a few steps in between. Michael’s laughter echoed through the building. A few tenants on the 4th floor poked their heads out to see what the ruckus was about. Chris called out reassuring them <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Don’t worry, police.” He said trying to keep his laugh inside. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael finally caught up with him on the fourth floor. The tenants returned to their apartments. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“You ok?” asked Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah. I’m fine.” Said Michael panting lightly. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Catch your breath and get into character. We don’t want her answering the door to a guy panting like a pervert.” Chris told Michael. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael catching his breath looked up laughing “Fuck you dude.”   Chris laughed at his comeback. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris nodded his head to the first door on the right “402. That’s her. Let’s get into character.” He said as he lightly backhanded Michael’s shoulder and took a few steps over to the old door. Michael followed. They looked at each other trying not to laugh and trying really hard to get into cop mode. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“You gonna do the honors?” Michael asked. Chris knocked on the door with a loud “Police” knock. They both held their hands clasped in front of them, listening for movement within. The tiny light in the peephole went dark for a few seconds. Upon seeing this, they reached for their badges and Chris spoke up in his cop voice <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Mam, San Antonio Police Department. I’m Detective Priest and this is Detective Rodriguez. We’d like a moment of your time.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Regarding?”   a young woman’s voice asked from behind the door. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Mam, are you Cloe Marx? Who goes by the screenname Sarahmetalmassacre on Scarypasta dot com?” Chris asked. She didn’t answer. The sound of the chain lock unhinging from the door followed. The other two locks unlocked as Chris and Michael looked at each other again, ready for anything. A young attractive blonde haired woman opened the door. She was wearing a Queen t-shirt and maroon sweatpants. She was pretty but looked like she could handle herself if push came to shove. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah. That’s me. What’s this about?”   She questioned not recognizing Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Ms. Marx, we’re currently working a case that has something to do with the website Scarypasta.com. We think you may be of some assistance.” Chris answered. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chloe strained one eye, focusing on Chris “I know you from somewhere!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris looked at Michael who was now trying to hide his smile. Turning back at Chloe he said “Yes you do. From Lytle. I was the much younger deputy at the time who assisted in your… rescue.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chloe’s eyes widened with a look of shock “Oh my God. I knew it!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Michael broke the ice “Ms. Marx, may we come in and discuss this in private?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chloe snapped out of it, looking at Michael “Sure, come in.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">She opened the door fully ajar and stood against the wall clearing the way for the detectives. Suddenly recalling she had a few clothes laying around, she said “Sorry for the mess! The maid has the day off.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Oh, don’t even worry about it. You should see my place!” Chris said helping her save face. They made their way into the living room and waited for Chloe to invite them to sit down. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Have a seat guys. Can I get you anything?” she asked trying to play the good hostess. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No thanks. We’re good.” Michael answered as he and Michael sat down on the brown leather sofa. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Wow! You have to forgive me for my reaction Detective, it’s just that…. Well, it’s strange seeing you again. I mean, you obviously know who I am and have read my story?” she asked Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yes we have” he replied. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I’m not in trouble for writing it am I? I mean I changed the names of everyone involved.” Chloe was apprehensive. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael answered before Chris could open his mouth “No not at all. Like he said earlier, we are working on a case that’s related to Scarypasta.com. “ <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“what does this have to do with me?” Chloe asked them. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“The reason why we’re here, re-hashing old memories is because there was a murder a few days ago in the King William District. It’s been on the news. Male, age 68 murdered in his living room?” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chloe now with a suspicious look said “Yeaahhhh… “ <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Well what we didn’t release to the public is that the victims eyes were removed, placed into his mouth. His throat was slashed and he was holding a lemon. And, a link to Scarypasta dot com was carved into his forearm. It was to “The Story of Him Holding a Lemon”. Chris explained. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Wow! That’s crazy! You don’t think I had something to do with it do you?” Chloe asked with a concernedlook. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“No… we need assistance from someone local who knows this Scarypasta world. A consultant if you will. You will get paid for your time. We can get a court order excusing you from work. It’s your chance to use your expertise to help catch a killer” Chris made an attempt at sweetening the deal and appealing to her pride. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“What do you say? Will you help us?” Michael asked. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chloe thought for a moment, staring at the wall behind them. “It’s kinda funny you know? I wanted to try my hand at writing. I recounted my life with those two psychos and typed it out for the world to see. Now…. A ghost from the past comes back into my life asking for my help… the very one who untied me all those years ago. It’s like I’m always meant to be connected to certain people, you know? I can’t seem to escape the past.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael and Chris looked at each other once again. At that moment, Chris’s cell phone rang. It was dispatch. Patrol unit responded to a 911 call. It was another possible homicide. The victim had a web link carved into his forearm. Looks like it might be a second murder, which could make it the work of a serial killer. Since the discovery of the web link mutilation, they were asked to report to the scene. The Medical examiner and photographers were already on-scene. C.S.I. was in route. Chris filled them in on the findings and the fact that it was likely connected to their case. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Chloe, I know it’s strange. You and I meeting again like this, all these years later. But there’s a killer out there and you can help stop him. Innocent people are getting hurt because of this guy. C’mon, please help us.” Chris pleaded with Chloe one last time before they had to leave. Chloe was still unsure. The chance to work with the police, the chance to catch a serial killer. That would make a great story. Besides that, this man had once saved her life. She knew it was the right thing to do. She owed him. Still, she was hesitant to get involved. She felt like she was put on the spot. Her life was simple, write, go to work, come home, write some more. She wanted to keep her simple, boring life. Her days of excitement and partying and drama were behind her. She couldn’t make a decision now. She needed time to think about it. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I can’t decide this right now! I mean this is big! I’m not qualified to catch a serial killer!” she said trying to convince her self she wasn’t right for the job. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Ok. Sorry to have inconvenienced you in anyway. Stay warm. Here is my card. Call me if you change your mind. Have a good night Sarah.” Chris called her by the name she went by so many years ago when he saved her life. He was laying on the guilt something thick. Michael opened the door and waited for Chris to follow. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Chris, we gotta go man! She’s not gonna help us. This was just a big waste of time.” Michael said, shaking his head. “Chris turned around and made his way towards the door, disappointed. As he exited the door, Michael gave one final look of disappointment to Chloe before following Chris. He didn’t even have to speak. His look said “Shame on you. You ungrateful little shit”. Chloe shut the door behind them slowly. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael spoke a few comforting words to Chris “Sorry man. You tried”. No chick flick moments for them. Chloe’s help could have been tremendous. She could have provided them with some great insight on the killer’s methods, his reasoning, his way of thinking. Together, maybe they could have even predicted his next move. Maybe even stopped him from taking another life. Now there’s been another needless death. This city was going to hell in a hand basket. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I tried. Some people are just born victims I guess. Oh well, fuck it.” Chris said “We got shit to do.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris and Michael made their way back down the stairs walking the whole way down, one floor at a time. This time there would be no race to the finish. The dead weren’t going anywhere. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Don’t know about you Mikey, but at the end of the night, I’m getting good and drunk.” Chris said as they neared the first floor, side by side. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I don’t know, maybe after we leave the crime scene that may not be a bad idea. Been a while.” Michael said as they walked to the main door. Chris opened the door to a freezing arctic blast of snowy wind. He squinted his eyes as it stung his face. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Goddamn!!!” Chris shouted as he looked back to see Michael squinting as well. Michael closed the door to the warmth of the first floor. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Why do we have to work on a hellish night like this?” Michael shouted. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“For the free coffee and donuts.” Chris joked. They both began to laugh as they walked, hands in pockets headed towards Miss Sunshine, whom they parked curbside in front of the apartment building. Michael waited at the passenger side for Chris who was walking to the driver side. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Cold enough for you Broheme?” Chris asked Michael, as he prolonged unlocking the car doors. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Chris! Unlock the fucking doors man! I’m freezing my nut’s off here!” Michael yelled at Chris. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“You know, I remember the winter of 85’, it snowed that day too. I was….” Chris said with a smirk, prolonging even further. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Come on Man!” Michael yelled. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">The sound of the car doors unlocking echoed and Michael took his hands out of his pockets and quickly opened the door and entering the Camaro. He slammed the door and put on his seat belt. Chris followed suit, laughing. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Sorry buddy. Just had to lighten the mood a little” Chris explained his actions. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael looked at him and said “You asshole.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris laughed a hearty laugh again. “I can always count on you for a laugh.” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris fit the key into the ignition and started her up. He always let her warm up in the winter. Chris looked out of the driver’s side window and stared for a moment. Michael stared out of the passenger side. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey, you wanna grab some coffee first?” Chris asked Michael, trying to get back on his good side. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“yeah sure. But I wanna go to Starbucks. I want one of those Mint-Mocha latte’s.” he accepted Chris’s subtle apology. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Yeah, guess I could go for one of those pumkin-spice coffees. I won’t call it a fuckin’ Latte though.” Chris said with a slight laugh. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Hey!! Wait!! I’ll help you! Wait up guys!!” Chloe yelled as she opened the apartment door and waved at them. They both stared at her. She was wearing a black hooded parka and brown uggs. She closed the door behind her and tried to carefully run down the steps while holding onto the railing. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I’ll be damned. Guess she couldn’t stay away.” Chris said arrogantly, smiling. As Chloe made her way over to the Camaro, Michael opened the door and exited, standing up behind the car door. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Are you sure you want to get involved? It won’t be pretty.” Michael warned her one last time. No turning back now. It was do or die. She would never get this chance again and she knew it. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I’m sure!” she yelled. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael stepped out of the way and opened the door, pulling foreward his seat so she could climb in the back. “Get in, we gotta go!” <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chloe climbed her way to the back seat behind Michael. It was cramped. If you have ever been in the back of a Camaro, you know what it’s like. “I wanna help.” She told Chris as got settled in and Michael sat back down in the car and slammed the heavy door. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris was glad. With Chloe’s help, this investigation will likely be a bit easier now “Ok. You stay with us, don’t speak unless spoken to and don’t touch anything. If we find something of significance, we’ll tell you.” He explained. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Shut up and stay out of the way. But with you guys. Got it.” Chloe assured them. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Get it. Got it. Good! Let’s go.” Said Michael, eager to get to the crime scene. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">With that, they departed for the crime scene at the edge of downtown. This time, on the poor side of the tracks. It wasn’t that far from Chloe’s elegant abode. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“So Chloe, what do you do for a living nowadays? I mean, you gotta have a day job. Hard to make a living as a writer.” Chris made small talk with Chloe to calm her nerves. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I work in mortgage fulfillment. I help people trying to get a home loan. Nothing to write home about. It pays well. But as you may know by now, writing is my true passion now. I never knew I’d be good at it. It’s actually pretty easy for me.”   She said, finally relaxing in the backseat. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“That’s good. Never had the patience for writing myself. We have to write a lot of reports. They have to be perfect for the D.A. when they’re used in a trial. A lot of editing, descriptive details. I do enough of that.” Chris said, trying to justify why he never got around to writing. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“But you see, that’s precisely what you are doing… you are writing. I mean, with all that you’ve seen, you could write several novels. Just take bits and pieces from cases and jumble it altogether. Boom! You have the makings of a novel. You should try it sometime. I’m sure it could also be therapeutic for one who’s seen what you have.” Chloe went on about writing, trying to convince Chris he had everything he needed to write. Even going a step further by telling him how writing could actually help him. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“How about you? I heard you married Sheriff Allen’s daughter” Chloe asked, shifting the focus on Chris. Chris was silent as he drove slowly through the snow. He looked in the rearview mirror at her. Michael looked at Chris, unsure of what was going to be said next. Unsure if he should say anything. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chris took a deep breath and exhaled. “Yeah, we got married. We even had a Son.” Chris answered Chloe, looking ahead at the road. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Oh, sorry. You guys divorced?” Chloe asked, sensing some sort of underlining issue there, Unaware of the awful truth. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Something   like that.” Chris answered her, still keeping his focus on the road. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Michael looked out the window, biting his tongue. He knew Chris could handle it. <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Sorry.” Chloe said in a hushed tone as she looked away from Chris and looked out of her window at the snow and the warm glowing street lights.

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<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"> <ac_metadata title="Novel length Pasta. 10,000 words in, barely scratching the surface. How is it going so far?"> </ac_metadata>