Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-9584883-20141225133052

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.”

An Old Dish 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 also knew that 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 responded 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 momentarily, 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 high-fived him back, laughing.

“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.

“Hm… That’s the name of my favorite Johnny Cash song.” He smiled looking back. With that he took his leave down the stairs. 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. Chris opened the door to the ancient apartment building. The cold punched him in the eyes as he let out a loud “Fuck!!”

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.

Michael: 11651 Alamo Lane, King William District. Already here. Not pretty.

Chris: Some weather we got here huh? On my way Sunshine.

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, Chris was 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.

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.

Lemon Man 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, Boughganvillias surrounded the outside property line. The grass was St. Augustine and the lot in general was immaculate. Someone put a lot of love and money into its overall look and upkeep.

Chris carefully walked up the steps and under the yellow tape and met with Michael at the door.

“Hey Good morning, old man!” Michael commented upon seeing Chris make his way carefully up the steps.

“Good morning, young Padiwan.” Chris responded to Michael who was 10 years his Jr.

Although Chris was a mess, Michael thought the sun shined out of his ass, though he’d never admit it. He preferred to give Chris a hard time. He learned a few things from his mentor over the past 2 years. Things that have saved his skin more than once.

Michael smirked at Chris’s response and 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. “

Chris being the smartass he was, couldn’t resist “You don’t think he was making lemonade do you Detective?”

“Really? That’s just wrong man .” Michael said with his eyebrows raised. “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.”

“Scarypasta?! What in the fuck is that?” Chris asked with an expression like he just smelled something rotten.

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.”

Chris laughed “Are you fuckin’ for real?” He shook his head and looked Michael right in the eye. “Well, take me to the stiff.”

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 the living room which was 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 visible. 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. “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. It was not his first rodeo.

“No. It appears that the killer or Killers wanted the attention to be focused on the killing. “ Michael replied.

“Do you think there was more than one killer?” Chris asked over his shoulder. “Not sure. We got C.S.I. running tests. He hasn’t been dead too long. Liver Mortis is set in.”.

“Next of kin? Someone has to pay for his burial.” Chris asked.

“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.

“Yeah, a daisy alright. Ok, let’s get the buttons interviewing neighbors, Michael, take this photo and make your way around the Gay bars tonight.”  Chris ordered.

“Ah shit!!” Michael protested.

Chris looked at Michael and smiled “Hey, grunts do the legwork… you know this sonny-boy! Besides, the Daisy in the photo is your meat.” Chris located Mr. Von Drack’s cell phone and did a search. “Ok, I’ll start calling for next of kin.”

Murder, Breakfast of Champions

“Hey Priest, it’s been 3 hours…. I’m hungry. Let’s go to Dennys, I’m buying. “ Michael offered.

“Yes you are. I bought last time.” Chris patted Michael on the arm. “I had a cup of coffee! That was all!” Michael shook his head in disbelief. “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. Chris looked around at the C.S.I. and beat cops and said loudly “Carry on my wayward Sons!”

The hash house was cheap, dirty and nearly empty due to the snow. Like all Denny’s or Lubys eatery’s, there was the stereotypical retired guy 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.

“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. “Have you read any of this story yet?” Chris asked before gulping down some o.j.

“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.

“Well, let’s read it and give him a call. I’ll leave the tip.” Said Chris. “Hey, how’s Misty & the kids?” he asked as he reached into his wallet and pulled out a 5 dollar bill.

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.

“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.

“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.

“Yeah, ok. Thanks man.” Michael thanked Chris’s kind gesture. 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 loosing his marbles after seeing all of the ugly that he had seen, his saving Grace.

Can-Opener 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. With the door shut, he didn’t want to be interrupted during his inquiry. 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 Kings work. An hour had passed into the story when Chris received a text from Michael.

Michael: Calling it a day. At the Hospital. Eva had an asthma flare up. Talk later or tomorrow.

Chris: Ok buddy. Do what you need to do. Von Drack ain’t going anywhere. Catch you on the flip.

Michael: Thanks

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.

“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.”

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 lying peaceful, gracefully sleeping. The way the light his 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.

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. Michael: Good Morning. Breakfast? You’re buying.

Chris: Sure. IHOP. 8:30. I’ll be the dapper one in the leather jacket.

Michael: You mean the leather mini skirt right?

Chris: Nice comeback. I got intel on the Von Drack case. Catch you on the flip side amigo.

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. “Good morning Sir, welcome to IHOP. Just one?” she asked as she reached for a menu and pre-rolled silver wear under the podium. “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. “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.

“Well, well. The Sundance kid rides again.” Chris greeted Michael while working diligently on his crepes.

“Good morning, Ole’ Man River.” Michael shot back.

“I’ll send your server over to take your order sir.” The hostess interrupted before taking her leave.

“Thank you M’am.” said Chris.

Chris looked up at Michael and asked “How’s Eva?”

Michael looked up at Chris “She’s doing better today. Gave us quite the scare.”

“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.

“He had an alibi. He’s in Detroit. He seemed horrified that somebody would have linked his pasta and use his…”

“Wait, his PASTA?!?” Michael interrupted as he gave Chris his full attention. “Yeah, that’s how they refer to the stories…. What? Don’t give me any grief, they’re good. I liked them.”Chris saidas he looked Michael in the eye before taking another bite of his ham.

“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. adress. I also took Von Drack’s photo around the fairy clubs after I spoke to Borislava.”

Michael began to laugh. “You actually went to a gay bar? So, did you get lucky?”

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.

“No shit! Who is he?” Michael was intrigued.

“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.

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?”

“Yes. Coffee. Black. And I’ll have the oatmeal with mixed fruit.” Michael replied.

The waitor repeated Michael’s order and disappeared to the kitchen. “So, the autopsy results won’t be in for 72 hours. I think right now our only lead 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.

“Yeah, sounds like a plan man. So, how did it go at the gay bars? Anyone try picking you up?” End Act 1 